Four writers for the price of one blog
I swore I wouldn’t go to bed tonight until I finished something completely new. I don’t know what, really, but here it is. –M
You weren’t supposed to see me. Not then. Not like that. Your job was over. The job of being broken. Of being my thing. You were, as always, exquisite. Delicious. Strong enough to bear, fragile enough to snap. You were scared, excited, resisting, and, ultimately, mine. My toy, my slut, my slave. I took you, marked you, filled you, fucked you, made you. Your sobs and whimpers made me harder. Your straining arms and legs drove me mad with want. And your scream, it called the monster out to do what I needed it to do.
And after, my tender touches made things right. I turned my strength to comfort. Held you, loved you as you deserve. Doted, held, and healed you, as long as you needed. And you forgave me, as you always do. Until our mutual needs will call out our darker natures again.
But it was too much to ask. You’d already given me everything. You need my strength and solace, and dedication after I’ve finished with you. You are owed it, and I give it gladly. So you shouldn’t have seen me doubled over, near weeping at what I’ve done to you, awed by your submission. Your forgiveness scorches, humbles, angers me, because I don’t deserve it. Part of me doesn’t want it. The part that uses it against you next time; that waits for you to curse my name. This thing that eats at me, I couldn’t expect you to give more. To soothe and answer yet another demand.
I didn’t expect you to understand. Didn’t ask you to do anything more. But you did, and you did, and in your own way, you broke me as completely as I ever have you, and then built me back up.
And I am, in my own way, as utterly yours as you are mine.