Gone but not

Not sure what to say, but I want to say something…

I miss her. She’s not here. But her control still is. All I can do is run my fingers over the hard plastic shell she’s placed over this piece of meat that I gave her. I want to touch it. Badly. I want it out. I want to make it hard and I want to stroke it. And yes, I want to make it come. Oh god, I want to make it come. But I can’t. I feel her control clamp over me and I know it’ll never happen. All I’m left with is an aching desire. An aching, burning desire gnawing away at me. Look inside, though, and it’s all glittery. Like an abalone. Hard, rough, difficult on the outside. Smooth, iridescent, beautiful on the inside. Totally worth it.

I am the outside. My animal lust clawing at the plastic. She is the inside. Smooth, cool. The reward.

8 thoughts on “Gone but not

  1. I often wonder if they have the slightest idea how much we churn up inside, how much we adore them, and how hard is the heavenly torment we go through. I dont think they know, and isn’t that part of the torment. They don’t even know the depth of what they put us through!

    1. I think she gets it on a superficial level (i.e., I’m grabbing her more, kissing her more deeply, hard whenever I’m next to her in bed) but I don’t think she fully appreciates how it affects me all the rest of the time. Like how sudden surges of sexual energy will actually wake me up or how her slightest, most incidental touch sets my skin on fire or how I lose track of what’s going on around me because I’m lost in some fevered sexual fantasy that plays through my head at the drop of a hat. This denial stuff is very, very potent. Emotional dynamite.

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