Happy Valentine’s Day to my fantastic Tumblr girlfriend, the lovely and eloquent Ivy.
(I’m trying to make her blush, of course.)
And you’ve succeeded, my dear. <3
(Followers, she’s seen me blush before realtime. And made me blush before realtime. It’s a talent.)
Sometimes, I just want to be pushed around. No real rhythm to it, no finesse at all. I want to be afraid of you. I want to fear that you’ve completely lost control.
Of course, the reality is that you haven’t. But, there’s such a freedom in feeling as if you’ve just totally tapped into something primal, something completely sub-human that the Rubicon is fading fast on the horizon.
I want you to drag me around by the hair, shove me into things, make me doubt that we’ll ever return to normalcy again. And once you’ve pushed me that far, I want to show me how well you can restrain yourself. Because pure self-control is dull and pure carnality is dangerous.
Rollercoasters need agonizing rises and uncontrollable falls. Show me you know how to ride.
“Why are you so cruel?”
It’s something that she asks from time to time, though the circumstances often vary. Sometimes, it’s in a vaguely smug sort of way. Sometimes it’s a whine. Or through tears. Or under a moan.
His answer, however, is always the same.
“Because you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Fear is an incredibly powerful aphrodisiac.
That means you don’t have to approach every encounter with genuine excitement and assuredness. Sometimes it’s good to be reticent, afraid. So long as you’ve consented and you trust anyone involved, being frightened of what is to come can be just fine. In fact, you might even enjoy it.
With a lot of the female libido being dependent on anticipation, build-up, words, foreplay, preludes to the main event than the actual finalized actions, naturally fear is a great tool when wielded correctly. It’s just another suspension of time, another little subplot on the way to the climax.
This is the story of the thief and the girl he took home to his partner-in-crime.
It’s such a shame. I have a horrible tendency to root for the villain.
There’s something about the word bitch.
Slut, whore, words like that, they all tend to have a lot more accountability. A lot more agency. They seem to be a direct result of the things you choose to do and you sort of own them. My reactions to being called these words during play usually have a degree of smugness to them. It’s an accusation of being the sort of person who enjoys this stuff. And I’m confirming it.
But, bitch, I don’t know. It’s rougher. It screams ownership, subjugation. It reduces you to something animal-like, primal, something that relies on just instinct and physical cues. Simpler thoughts and more visceral reactions usually accompany being called this or having to call myself this.
I guess I should clarify that I kind of love/hate/love the word bitch.
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
– Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit.
Okay, I admit it, I’ve done this a few times.
But sometimes a little prod in the right direction is just fine. And sometimes the blanket just falls that way on its own. And I don’t always like sleeping with that much clothing on. And I really can’t be blamed if I’m more comfortable sleeping in a position that makes me kind of available.
So, maybe I’m not totally asleep. And maybe it’s a little bit deliberate. And maybe I’m overstepping my role a little bit.
But who doesn’t love a brat sometimes?
I like buckles. They’re considerably neater. They even feel a little bit institutional. That rubs me the right way.
Psst. Dacry. Come play.