Scattered Remembrance

It’s funny how the mind works.  W tells me, “If there aren’t any pictures, it didn’t happen.”  Maybe that’s true.  Or maybe not.  I have my word pictures, and sometimes they serve me just fine.  Tonight I am sitting in my front room, watching the snow out my window and working on a new piece of erotica.  Or maybe erotica is too sweet a term for this piece.  It’s not sweet at all, but it’s not meant for an anthology, it’s not even meant for this space, but for a series of photos he took of me a while ago that he will post over on Bondage Demons. I love the pictures, but the story I am writing is raw, and “not appropriate subject matter” for most of the places I submit to.  In any case, in it I am describing the rope he wound around my throat and tied me to the floor with.  And as I write it, I realize I am not remembering that rope, that time, which was actually some weeks ago.  I am remembering…Sunday.
I am remembering the feel of his hands as he pulled my face into his crotch, as I opened my mouth and took him inside–and he wound that rope around my throat, slowly, inexorably, tightening it, loosening it, making my head swim and then allowing me breath, forcing me to choke myself as I struggled to take him as deeply into my throat as I could.
I had forgotten that part.  I wish I did have a picture now.

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