Kink in exile

Notes from a kinky nomad

Longing

I’ve been talking about bottoming a lot lately, and of course thinking about bottoming as a result. What follows is a mostly true, largely composite piece. It speaks to my experience with several of my past partners but is by no means a complete survey there of.

I can’t describe longing except by association. You know this, you have felt it, you have tried to describe it and failed as I am now failing. It is in that moment when I run my fingers over the braided leather and I am terrified and wet. It is that fondness I carry for you despite the fact that I have not seen you in three years and I still have the very last hint of that scar. It is the tears I shed not when you gave me those marks but when they faded. It is swallowing the shame that first time I called you “daddy” because you made me do it and in making me you gave permission.

It’s that need I never quite believe in my bottoms but beg my tops to fulfill in me. That moment when I am naked, and waiting to be beaten, and terrified not of being hit but of not being hit hard enough. It’s wanting to let go, to have the brat beaten out of me, to give up, to cry and knowing that you will hold that space for me. Wanting to take it for you before I find out what it is. It’s that moment when you look at me and we have an entire conversation across a crowded room in the span of a heartbeat. That slight half nod no one else notices. It’s the little things that matter; the difference between the knife you hold against my unflinching body and the surgical scalpel that sends shivers down my spine for example.

It is the flame I carry for my tops — those snapshots: the sting of your hand on my cheek, the rose petals covering the floor after you beat me with the rose, the weight of you over me in the pouring rain and the slippery wet brick behind me. It is moving forward, claiming, owning and answering you truthfully when you ask if I want you to stop. No. I want you to hit harder.

So yes, it is that sudden crash of want when I run my fingers along your belt on our way to dinner, and the little gasp when I pull my jeans over my bruised ass in the morning that I long for.

Written by kinkinexile

May 2, 2009 at 7:20 pm

One Response

Subscribe to comments with RSS.

  1. Yes. This. Hot.

    ironrose

    May 4, 2009 at 8:31 pm


Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: