No reprieve

Sunday night. And no reprieve from this bubbling undercurrent of sexual desire that has been threatening to pull me under since “Running high“. I’ve tried reading erotica, writing erotica, looking at sensual paintings, running, masturbating (many, many times). Nothing works. I am conscious of my heart beat with every breath. I feel the tension in my shoulders and neck. There is that place just between my shoulder blades that tingles at the merest thought of touch. I catch myself looking longingly at men passing by. I have to stop myself from accidentally touching the man at the next table as I reach for the sugar (I don’t even use it in my coffee!).

I drink a glass of wine at night, in the hope it will help me fall asleep. Anything to take the edge off this rawness, this heat. And in the midst of this fever, hidden desires seem to bubble to the surface. What would it be like to be out of control, to let someone else take control? Be controlled, titillated, teased, pleasured by someone, a stranger? I crave so much. But there is no reprieve.

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5 Comments

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5 responses to “No reprieve

  1. Hi. I don’t know your name, but I heard you calling, so I come again to visit again.

    You are married, and yet you are a serial adulterer. I am jealous. I am jealous of the men with whom you go. I wonder how my jealousy makes you feel. Does it thrill you? Are you pleased that I want you so much that I am jealous of others to whom you give yourself? Or does my jealousy make you sad—you don’t want me to hurt, do you?

    You write:

    What would it be like to be out of control, to let someone else take control? Be controlled, titillated, teased, pleasured by someone, a stranger? I crave it so much.

    I have always been turned on most by touching a woman. It’s not that I don’t want her to touch me, but when it comes time to really make love, I want to take control, be in control, control her. I want her to lie passively as I do things to her, but don’t misunderstand. It’s not that I want her, want you, to not be affected by what I do. I do want you to be affected, to be overcome with feelings and desire. I want you to enter a realm in which my touch drives you to insanity, to unknowingness, to unknowingness that there is a real world out there, out beyond what I give you.

    I want to give to you. I do not need you to give in return. If I could I would undress you, carry you to a bath and watch you as you sink into the hot water. And I would light candles and bring you brandy as you luxuriated, knowing I was going to take care of all your needs. And I would help you out and dry you and carry you again to your bed, or my bed, whichever you wish, and I would lay you down and spread oil over your back. And I would undress and sit on your buttocks as I rubbed warm oil into your skin, all over your back from your neck to the base of your spine. And then up and down your arms and between each finger, and then along the sides of your breasts.

    I would rub warm oil between the hills of your buttocks, and I would lift you and place my hands under your breasts and lay you back down, and I would lie the length of my body on yours and stimulate myself in the valley of your buttocks as I touched you with my hands.

    I would whisper to you, endearments or perhaps conversation—a refreshment—a break before travelling on.

    And then I would turn you over and study your breasts in all their glory, and I would touch them, teasingly, approaching and retreating from your nipples until I could resist no more, and I would hold them, tease them, squeeze, tightening my grip, twist and pull them outward, enjoy playing with your nipples for my pleasure, hurting them, a little, perhaps, but not so much that you would begrudge me my fun, my thrill, at using you in whatever ways I wish.

    No, I don’t wish to hurt you, at least not much, but I absolutely love this that you wrote:

    And then that briefest of flashes to his tightened grip around my throat, the pounding of his cock into my pussy and the rising excitement, almost elation at the thought of dying there and then. Of letting his fingers press against my jugular notch, watching the room turn from shadowy outlines to complete blackness. Letting someone else take that decision for me. To live or to die.

    That is such a wonderful piece of writing, a focus on a instant of threat, of fear, and the sexual thrill of it.

    Yes, I do like to control you, to play with you, to use you as I wish, to rape you, in fantasy, if that is what you like, but ultimately it is pleasure I wish to give you. For to give you pleasure, prolonged pleasure before entering you, is the only thing that will give me release.

    Your friend,
    Matthew

  2. Hello Matthew,
    I am glad to see you have returned. Your comments are so personal, so touching. I wonder how you could be jealous, when I share everything here. You are with me when you read my words.

    Your comment is both a soothing ointment and a razor’s edge. I close my eyes and imagine the scene you describe. A short relief ensues. However, the rawness of previous days’ cravings resurfaces and my mind begins to race.
    I’ll raise a glass of wine to the sweetest of dreams tonight.
    SA

  3. I am jealous, because they make love to you, and I can only read about it.

    My questions were serious. If you can verbalize your feelings, how does my jealousy make you feel? Do you like it? Do you not?

    The reason I ask is, because I once had an Internet friend who told me about making love to men, and I told her I was jealous. I thought she would be pleased that I desired her so much that thinking of her with other men would make me sad. It surprised me when she said she wasn’t thrilled by my jealousy, because she didn’t want me to feel hurt. So I just wondered how other women might feel if I told them I am jealous, and I am.

  4. Fair enough. I’ll keep an eye on your blog. M

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