Leaving a Mark: Rope Journaling 6-22
I love leaving the bed smelling like my lover. Knowing the essence of him remains on my skin when I re-enter the real world. That contrast from an afternoon of bodies tangled in a private show of primal debauchery in his large, soft, safe, bed only to walk into the bright heat of the sun where I imagine everyone that passes me knows my smile is to remember him.
His bites marking my neck and ribs where he held me still with teeth and throaty growls. Our sweat mingling to a wetness under my clothes I don’t want to wash away so soon, a memory of his skin on mine. So warm and close, we almost feel like one creature. Other times like animals fighting, penetrating with cock, tongue, nails to see who will win. Though I don’t know what we compete for aside from this endless pleasure.
His spit in my hair where he marked me as his while grunting, “Take it, whore.” And I did. Arched my back in the air as best I could while bound and spread on his bed, to angle in such a way to take him deeper. To offer myself to be taken harder, roughly, and without regret. We wasted too many years not talking, now I want to make up for lost time, have him inside me whenever possible. Nothing is ever deep enough, hard enough, our afternoons together never long enough. I always want more of him. Always did, difference is now I can admit it.
His come on my back where he exploded hot and filthy across me. Moaning, I long to watch rather than be face down forced into pillows. Or to have him in my mouth, to taste this dirty prize in our wrestling match where we both always win. As he groans, cock coming to rest on my ass I lay quivering into his sheets, moaning in delight and the sweet agony of no longer having him inside me where my cunt still clenches wishing for any part of him to stroke and spank me longer. I would lie there open and willing to him forever.
His cock creates a needy monster. One that leaves me panting and smiling but needing further release as soon as I collapse in my own bed, fingers tracing between my legs to where he was hours before and where I ache for him again already. I strike myself, punishing this hungry need between my legs. This cunt that can never be satisfied. Smacking my clit until it’s an engorged lust, all nerve endings, wetness and desire, before I vibrate it to many orgasms, face down in the bed again. This time mine, grunting out his name.
The bruises he left will pull me back to our afternoon together each time I catch glimpse of them in the mirror or cross my legs in a way that betrays their lingering tenderness. This purpled flesh where frustrated passion became sharp points of pain. Each time his hand or crop made contact with my ass and thighs, the pain in my heart dissipated a bit, physical agony taking over for the sadness living inside me. He steals my heartbreak, transmutes it into lust and a wetness between my thighs that I can’t control. My body longing for more of his touch, even, especially, if it’s to cause pain. The thwacks across my ass where the impact travels through my cunt causing me to arch into his hand.
I cry out into his bed, wrists bound together trapped to the head board, pulled out taunt across the points of his mattress, so exposed and vulnerable, at his mercy. The simplicity of the rope making it that much more effective. My wordless moans beckon him not to stop, wanting to be hurt out of affection, to be beat and demeaned. Longing to be told by someone I trust that I’m dirty, terrible, worthless. All the words playing through my head out of sadness, as yet another relationship comes to an end. This lover taking that all from me, stripping from me the pathetic love sickness I have for that other man, my so-called partner, the one that’s been taking me on a roller coaster of highs and lows for over a year, distracting me from everything else important in my life. My lover pulls me away from that toxic co-dependence, dragging me it into a filthy adventure instead.
His words and punishment come to a climax when in quick succession he hits me with hand, then crop, in the same sweet spot. Over and over in a rhythm so overpowering I melt into the ropes and pillows, unable to fight back. I whimper like a broken animal, no longer able to look over my shoulder, no longer daring him with my eyes to hurt me harder. Without a break between strikes there’s no time to process, he’s overwhelming me, inundating me with sensation. Physical pain a contrast to the way my noisy brain has been overpowering me with ceaseless commentary. If he carries on I’ll moisten his bed with my tears, giving into his strength.
Instead he stops, sensing a change and unsure it’s a place he wants to go this sunny sexy afternoon. He replaces the crop with his cock, resting it on the abused and reddened area like a salve. I couldn’t close my legs to him if I tried, left here panting, naked and at his mercy. Briefly my mind spins back to the man who violated me once upon a time and I worry about that cock so close to my cunt at the possibilities for taking what I’m not willing to give.
We breathe in this moment, his hands running down my quivering back, the sweet hardness of him still on my ass a promise and a threat. I’m so unsure what happens next, this lover so unpredictable, I can’t read his mind or body language. I’m fully at his mercy and breathe a sigh of relief when he reaches for a condom only to realize I was never in real danger of him taking what isn’t his. But the tease was expertly crafted, so that when he slides inside me in that safer way we’ve negotiated it’s that much sexier.
He says “worthless slut” but plunges in with a groan and sigh that means “you are precious.”