The metamorphosis of skin

I dressed up like a high class whore. He slapped me across the face. It was sharp and sudden and my instincts flew to the surface in defense. I became the unfearful. I became the girl who can stomach the pain without a flinch. I became the defiant one who glares her prosecutor in the eye, refusing to react with weakness.

I did not plan on becoming that girl. I did not suspect he could yank her out so immediately. I did not think she would manifest as such as I hinged my corset together, as I slinked into high heels. I did not think I would ever see her again.

He resurrected her. But she dissolved fast. Because then soundless tears fell, turning my face into a ramshackle charcoal sketch. There were tears like inky punctuation marks. I’ve reached a point in my life where I am more alive than numb. Alive with tears, alive with contrast. Alive and bleeding mascara on the floor.

My kink-tastes are evolving. Pain has been such an integral part of the exploration; the impetus, actually, of the exploration. But the pain has started to shift its hues, started vibrating in a pitch that is hard to hear. How this evolution impacts our playdates after dinner, I’m not sure. I suspected yesterday that he needed a stomping ground, an arena that could mirror back his prowess. His tastes are violent, cruel and real, when he feels like that. And so often I love him like that. But the pain has started to change its definition in my skin. It’s started to be a thing that dwarfs needs I cannot seem to every directly address.

In the end, it seemed a loving thing to do: to sacrifice flesh to his wishes. To let him leave his mark even it burned and left my face and figure distressed. 

A letter to my lover, on the 1 year anniversary of our sex

My love,

The mysterious has always intrigued me. If there is depth beyond the obvious, I want to keep staring deeply into it, dumbfounded with its complexity. To feel stupid, I think, is the quintessential situation in which I feel most vibrantly alive. It’s an experience that humbles and simultaneously terrifies me.

That’s what happens, I think, when you make me cum the way you do. I become beautifully and frighteningly stupid.

I’ve never cried from orgasm before. But I think that experience is really just a concise example of what happens almost all the time when we have sex: I’ve never before felt what I feel when we have sex. Crying is just one manifestation of your unique effect on me.

You overwhelm me.

Mentally, emotionally, physically when we do the sexual things that we do. It is so much sensation that you overwhelm me spiritually too. I used to play around with this idea of “overwhelmed-ness” in a lot of my past sexual shenanigans. That sense of overwhelmed-ness is probably what compelled me to explore D/s in the first place, although in the initial stages I didn’t have the language or experiences to corroborate that hunch. The idea of a dominant completely trumping my rationality and my body in sexual acts seemed to encapsulate something that every part of my being desires.

But rough sex and power exchange are only small dimensions of this ethereal yearning of “overwhelmed-ness”. Those experiences were both enjoyable and worthwhile but they never seemed to penetrate as deeply as my experiences with you. What’s interesting is that I never even knew I was missing such a critical understanding of sex until we started having it. Kink and BDSM infused so much joy and profundity to my life that I couldn’t imagine there being “more”.

Our sex is “more” and when it’s happening I’m almost always rendered inarticulate while simultaneously being flooded with intense intuitions and sensations. It’s as if all the secrets of the universe course through your body into mine but I literally have no tools to convey any of it.

It’s in this way that our sex brings me to the pinnacles and pains of mortality. To be able to feel the immense pleasure you give me, I have to have a body. I have to accept there are parts of this body that I can’t activate the way that you can (such as hitting my gspot just so), so I have to accept that pleasure is partially dependent on a partner. When you make me cum, it literally feels like energy is surging through all of me, in my cunt and out my mouth, in my ass and through my scalp. It feels like I’m drowning in too much of everything. It feels like your hands and cock and kisses are portals to things I can’t understand—the catalysis that start a trans-dimensional revolution that I didn’t see coming.

But after all that pleasure, you overwhelm me to the fringe of my mortality. And what I mean by that is that I become acutely aware that our sex is a bodily act that represents something “beyond the body”, something spiritual and electric, something bigger than being human. To reach this understanding immediately post-orgasm, just makes me shake with unease: we have fatal conditions called humanity. That’s why I cry: the sheer magnitude of that realization cripples me. There is so much I don’t understand in this universe and even something as mundane and essential as sex has depths that I know nothing about. Post-glow, sometimes, I feel acutely how insignificant I am within the larger picture, probably because while orgasming I am so totally swept up into pleasure that I feel like all of me has merged with the environment. That is not to say I don’t feel necessary in this universe, just so insignificant my smallness becomes terrifying.

These ideas seem so far away from sex. Who thinks of death and the excruciating meaning of life nanoseconds after cumming? I guess I do, even if I don’t do it deliberately. I think this is the primary reason why I cried yesterday. It was this feeling of “it’s over” and the ultimate “it’s over” is death and somehow this sense of hopeless momentum dragged up the awareness of fatality.

You had mentioned something about being vulnerable yesterday and maybe that’s a secondary part. The feeling of vulnerability is most concentrated on the realization that my experience of our sex is not the same as your experience as our sex. Of course, this is a phenomenon that happens in every context and happens to everyone. For me though, the depths of feelings, ideals, ideas, and symbolisms that our sex conjures in me make me feel nearly hysterical: the depth makes me feel achingly alone and desperate to try to explain it afterwards.

You experience the sex differently, of course.  And I know on an intellectual level that this difference in experiences doesn’t mean you don’t highly value our sex in a similar fashion to the way that I do.

It’s just sometimes when I am gripped with tears, riddled with intangible syllables, overpowered by the limited precision of my perceptions, I feel very much like a crazy bat-shit-insane freak for crying when it’s something as simple as friction between your parts and mine.

I realize now that I guess I have always had an inherent desire to digest and symbolize my experiences after they’ve occurred. In a way, it is not enough to just experience them. I want to unpack them, explain them and transcribe them.

Even if it hurts or proves to be impossible.

Explaining what our sex does to me is kind of a vanity venture: it’s a subjective experience that even with the most sophisticated of metaphors will always just be my experience. I have a hard time deciphering if this is a neurotic impulse or a creative one. Perhaps it’s both.

This is also where I feel vulnerable: my impulse to share and pick apart all the layers of moods that happen in our sex is something that makes me worry that you’ll get annoyed with it. Sex is sensation and a lot of it is immediate. I wonder what it’s like for you to fuck ever inquisitive, listless me: "why does it feel so good? How is this happening? I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand!"[1]

Those are statements that float in and out of our rhythms and they are exactly the kinds of ideas that I try to tease apart when we’re away from each other. I don’t understand how our sex does what it does. I don’t understand how the sexual acts I’ve employed my whole adult life never manifested the kind of spiritual portal your body and my body create together. I’m so deeply affected by the caliber of our time together that it always extends for days and hours after the climax. I honestly have never experienced anything as profoundly awe-inspiring as this.

And part of my vulnerability and hence worry is that my pre-occupation with HOW THE FUCK DOES THIS FEEL SO GOOD is going to be spoil the pleasure for you, that my constant inquiries have left the realm of quaint for pestering.
I don’t think that’s the case, but sometimes, because I often feel capitulated into so many directions at once during our sex, I worry that you’ve peeved I can’t just accept being within the just the immediacy of the moment.

I’ve never experienced physical intimacy like our sex, K. I’ve always thought of intimacy as “closeness”. And I still think closeness is the foundation of that word. But something so unexpected has happened. In the closeness of our sex, there is such a colossal expansiveness. Our sex constellates every aspect of my self—mind, body, spirit—and it’s in this constellation that I realize that intimacy is not just about the duality of you and I. Intimacy is also an submerging into things that extend beyond sense perception and it’s in that immersion that everything is connected to everything. Everything melds in vibrations of pleasure, everything breathes.

It’s not just me and you. And it’s not just one moment on my couch. Our sex transcends so much of what I understand to be existence. It connects me to something higher. And sometimes I am so overwhelmed by it, so overwhelmed by you, that all I can manage to do is embrace how I feel and cry.

I love you, so, so, so, so, much. I don’t understand how you do what you do to me but I don’t ever want you to stop.

-C

[1] I just realized: I love it when you answer/respond to these statements while we’re fucking. I LOVE it when you say things like “Because you love me”, “Because I’m fucking your brain”, etc. One time you whispered in my ear “Because this is the meaning of life” and every nerve on my body washed over with your words. Seriously one of the sexiest moments ever. Can we play around with this idea more? When I start crooning that I don’t understand how it feels so good, tell me something like “It’s because I’m the sexiest man you’ve ever seen” and I swear to god, I might instantly cum!

A Letter To My Lover

Will you, please, give me a very, very hard spanking?

…actually hard is perhaps not the right word. I want you to spank me for a very, very long time. Bare bottomed. Over your knees. Languid. Teasingly.

Menacing.

Building.

Cruel.

I want you to keep going at a steady pace, making both of my ass cheeks flame up into crimson. I want you to keep going until your hand prints are slightly raise off my skin, radiating a warmth like a phantom outline of viciousness. I want you to take your time, savoring each smack, each whimper, each time I gasp like you’ve beaten the air out of my lungs.

I want you to keep going until I linger in that threshold of subspace. I want you to keep going until the quietude of overstimulation takes over my body and my responses become muted and yielding. I want you to keep going until I fall out the other end of subspace…

…I want you to keep going until I cry.

I want you to spank me until hot tears spill down my face and I am utterly overwhelmed with the sounds, sights, and smacks of you. I want you to going until I am leaking from both sides of my body.

And it’s in this place of utter vulnerability, in this place where my psyche and heart are most impressionable, in tears, in shambles, with a burning ass that pulsates with violence: I want you to feed me your cock. I want your cock to pacify my sobs. I want you to do it sweetly, gently, kindly, deeply.

Lovingly.

Feed me your cock to make it better.

And when your cock is throbbing and ready and when you can no longer stand waiting to ravish me, I want you to have your way with me. I want your cock so deep inside my pussy—not my ass, not this time—in my very wet and trembling pussy.  I want to feel the weight of you on top of my body, your hips thrusting up against mine. I want you to kiss me deeply. Urgently, genuinely, intensely. I want your hands to hold my body tightly, my legs wrapped round your back to aid the depth of your thrusts. I want your exhalations to be my next inhalation. I want to get overwhelmed by your scent, your movements, by how your make me feel so coveted and so safe and so scared and so alive all at the same time. I want to feel whatever feelings are meant in this moment; to laugh, to cry, to scream, to moan, to melt.

I want to drown in the pleasure and pain of it all.

I want you to cum so deep inside my pussy. After you’ve beaten me until I burst into tears. And after you’ve made it better. And after you’ve made me surrender to the fact that you make me feel profound emotions…

…and for that, I love you.

….So will you, please, spank me very, very hard?