The marks you leave on me

1 min read

When you have gone from me, even for a few moments, what drives such excitement when I look down at the marks you have left?

You leave my skin with furrows, softly patterned where rope held me tight under your control. Why did I resist those bonds? Why did I writhe and squirm against my helplessness, knowing that my struggles would tighten every knot and make your ropes bring fire to my suffering as they cut deep in me where I need it most.

You held me as your helpless prisoner, but one with no desire to be free of you, only to have you hold me tighter still. I fight against you when you tie me, but it is a fight I do not want to win. I need to lose myself in your passioned imprisonment.

I run a finger down each line left by my captivity, the sensation of being bound still holding me in a state of high arousal; I explore myself, to find the well of flowing need that only you can arouse with your studied cruelties.

My fingers find myself, the thoughts that force them into me focused on the pleasures that you bring to the torture garden that is our love story. As one hand brings a new dimension to my insanity, the other lightly ripples itself over each deep line of ecstasy that you inflicted on me.

My free hand reaches back to trace the neat lines of each raised weal left by your merciless lash, the thought of it bringing a new frenzy to the fingers probing deep in me. The memory of each cut seared into my raging mind, knowing that I raised my bottom each time to make you know my desires and count the next one in advance and know the terror of the pain to come.

I bury my face in the pillow, wanting your gag that held in the screams at the suffering you inflicted, and which I so badly needed. I want the return of your exquisite hurt in me, to force me to do that which you know I need to do. The need to be owned by you, to belong to you, to have that belonging made real by cruel bondage and endless suffering.

Consumed now by submissive need, I am not the woman I used to be. Before I knew the caresses of your rope and whip I was free to be myself, not craving every nuance of your sadism to make me whole. How can it be, that when you come back, I will beg to be used again, bound again, made to suffer yet again to get what I need from you.

Do not let my marks fade, my love; I need you to return and give me more.

I like to share my love of kink in all its forms, things I have learned from my lovers who have invariably been caring and courteous as well as sadistic. on Amazon on Kindle or paperback

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