Corruption

I miss you, so I came to your house, and here I sit, in your office, in your house, without you here.  I put my heels on as soon as I came in, because it wouldn’t have felt right being here otherwise.  I poured myself an inch of Jack on the rocks because the taste reminds me of you–then added a splash of water because I couldn’t quite drink it straight.  You’re right, that’s nasty stuff.  But it’s the closest I can get to the taste of your mouth on mine.
The house is still and quiet. There’s a cliche tripping around in my head, “the buck stops here,” though in my world it is “the kink stops here.”  Or starts here. Stops and starts, I guess, because though I may play with others, really, kink for me is you.  There’s been no kink without you here, and sometimes I think there is no kink for me without you.  I came here tonight because I wanted to feel this thing we have between us, wanted to feel you.
And I do.  You may not be here physically, but you are here nonetheless, haunting me.  I wander the house, feeling you, feeling us, in it. So many things you have done to me here. Depraved, sexy, wrong, hot, vicious, mind-blowing, nasty, dirty, loving, scary, painful, delicious things. How you have tortured and tormented and held and soothed and fucked and made me scream in pain and in pleasure. Nine months!  And all I can think of is what you will do to me next, when will I see you next…you have made me yours in a way that no one else ever has.
I see the chain on the floor where you first chained me like a dog in the corner.  I go down to the basement and look at the post you tied me to–I still can’t believe I went down those stairs in heels with a hood over my head. But maybe, like leading a horse out of a burning barn, it’s easier when they can’t see.  Blindfolded, I have only your hand and voice and my trust in you to keep me safe; it is enough.
I think about you fucking me over your desk, my hands and legs tied below it, and many months later, you sitting in your office chair with me prone on the desk, sucking your cock like the greedy cock-whore I am. I remember you playacting a rape scene and the pictures of me subdued, hooded with your shirt over my head, an anonymous body tied and helpless on your living room floor.
I was stunned the other day when we looked through some of the picture files of our scenes…so many!  Did you ever imagine it would end up this way, that first time in the parking lot, when you pushed me back into my car and mauled me?
I go upstairs. I see the ropes and the chains, the bench where you learned that I can count to 212–but no further, the wall where you made me living art, the implements of torture and pain and inexplicable pleasure you have used on me.
I am innocent without you here to pervert me…or so I like to think.  The reality is that you are here, and I am willing and waiting to be perverted by the ghost you.  I put on my filmy white robe, enjoying the feeling of innocence about to be corrupted.  I put my iPod in the player and turn it to the playlist we have scened to, feeling you close in on me as I do.  I let my mind drift to how you hurt me last time with the cane, but also to how you took me down from the bondage, scooped me up in your arms and carried me to your bed so gently, so sweetly…only to tie an arm and a leg to the ropes above the bed and fuck me silly, calling me your cunt, telling me I was yours, telling me that every cock that ever fucks me is your cock, that I fuck for you.
I lay down on your bed and begin to touch myself. I feel the wetness gathering there between my legs, the ache building as I gently stroke myself.

Making myself come...

It doesn’t take long, this buildup–I have been aching for you since I turned the key in the lock.  There may be no cock in me this time, but I am fucking myself for you, coming for you.  And I am–coming–that easily, that quickly, rising to the edge and throwing myself over as Toni Braxton moans in the background and images of you above me, the feel of your cock inside me, crowd into my head unbidden.  And as I come, I reach up and grab the rope above my head, and I swear I feel your hands on mine, tying the rope around my wrists.  Because anything else would just not be right, here in your house.

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