Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

I’m on my knees.

That’s always how it starts. Head bowed, striving for stillness, impatient with longing from only the touch of your eyes.

I shiver when you don’t touch me. Hands behind my back, spine straight, breasts thrust forward,  legs apart, your patience makes me mad.

I’m torturing myself.

If I move, you’ll touch me, but stillness is a point of pride. I will not purposely fail when I have been requested to succeed.

I hear you moving, gathering objects, gathering yourself, who can tell. It’s a game to you, I know. Which of us can control our desire longer.

Sadist.

I feel you step up close before me. The heat of your body is too much temptation. In trying not to lean forward, I pull back instead.

The crack of your hand across my face feels so right. I want you to do it again, and grabbing my hair in your fist to pull my head back you oblige me. Twice. Three times. Make me cry. Please. Just one more.

You step away.

You say if I want you to touch me, I have to crawl.

I do.

You say that if I want your attention, I will hold my legs open wide, wider, so that you can put alligator clips on my labia.

I beg, please.

You tie them to my thighs. Pain, control, and exposure, all at once.

What, I wonder, would it be like to be fucked like this: raw, exposed, and unbearably open.

I wonder if it would hurt beautifully or awfully.

I wonder if I’m going to find out.

Later. Both spent. Thoroughly fucked, violently used, sore of jaw and hip and places deeper, touched and violated, I ask.

Will you beat me now?

Please?