I have all these new bruises and marks that I want to show off. I know they’re not your thing, especially if you haven’t made them, but still.
I want to feel your fingers on them.
I want to watch your eyes as they travel over my skin, assessing. I want to see you visualizing what was done to me by hands other than yours. (I know you won’t, but it’s my fantasy, I can make you if I want to.)
I want to watch as you imagine me in front of the mirror, his hand around my mouth, the strop in his hand, a fierce glint in his eye. And my body, convulsing, the unbidden jump, the yelp smothered in his hand.
I want to feel your fingers graze skin made delicate and tender by that paddle, by the belt, by the cane. I want you to feel the quick intake of my breath, hear the whimper in my throat, as your hand brings those bruises to life once again.
I want my body to be a landscape that you travel with your eyes and hands, claiming once again.
