epiphanies daily

A Life without surrender is a life without commitment.

Life is too sharp and hard for me lately. Every cross word feels like a slap in my face… the type of slap that leaves me touching my cheek for a few days, opening my mouth wide to see if the muscle still remember the assault.But the floating, mist-like feeling steals me when he pushes me down and claims me. I tell the arguing voices in my head to fuck off, and they do. Those voices that tell me I’m so fucked, so fucked beyond belief for wanting his cock forced down my throat, his teeth closing hard enough to make me grit my own… those voices finally go silent, shaking their heads in dismay when he starts the Ferris Wheel and I start to climb. And I ache, I ache for him to hurt me, push me, use me; until I lose all sense of self, and shame, and the self-hatred that has taken up the main floor in my head.It hurts.. it hurts.. oh yes, it hurts.. and I always forget how much. But when I cry, the weeks of fear, emotional isolation and self-hatred slip away.. and his voice, his hands, his eyes, his smell, his taste posses me.Lost in pain, in hunger for him, I’m happy. When he’s the one that’s still, and firm, words measured carefully I can forget.When I’m at the point where I’ll do anything he asks, that’s the only time I feel free… when I’m  not ashamed to admit I want him to leave marks on me… to tell me when I’m allowed air… to manipulate the ache in between my legs until I’m sure I’ll die… that’s when I feel alright. That’s when I can sleep. That’s when I can think thoughts that wouldn’t scare the me of ten years back. I miss the aftermath of us.

Life is too sharp and hard for me lately. Every cross word feels like a slap in my face… the type of slap that leaves me touching my cheek for a few days, opening my mouth wide to see if the muscle still remember the assault.

But the floating, mist-like feeling steals me when he pushes me down and claims me. I tell the arguing voices in my head to fuck off, and they do. Those voices that tell me I’m so fucked, so fucked beyond belief for wanting his cock forced down my throat, his teeth closing hard enough to make me grit my own… those voices finally go silent, shaking their heads in dismay when he starts the Ferris Wheel and I start to climb. And I ache, I ache for him to hurt me, push me, use me; until I lose all sense of self, and shame, and the self-hatred that has taken up the main floor in my head.

It hurts.. it hurts.. oh yes, it hurts.. and I always forget how much. But when I cry, the weeks of fear, emotional isolation and self-hatred slip away.. and his voice, his hands, his eyes, his smell, his taste posses me.

Lost in pain, in hunger for him, I’m happy. When he’s the one that’s still, and firm, words measured carefully I can forget.

When I’m at the point where I’ll do anything he asks, that’s the only time I feel free… when I’m  not ashamed to admit I want him to leave marks on me… to tell me when I’m allowed air… to manipulate the ache in between my legs until I’m sure I’ll die… that’s when I feel alright. That’s when I can sleep. That’s when I can think thoughts that wouldn’t scare the me of ten years back. 

I miss the aftermath of us.

(Source: iamnotpanda, via jigmegyatso)

rolledtrousers:

Flinch
I always smile at the little gasp you make when my hand settles around your throat. Like you know what’s coming, and you just want to grab that one last little top of up air, to let you last a few more seconds, maybe even impress me. It’s your body preparing for what your mind is only half aware of. 
You arch your back just before I spank, too. You squirm a little before I tie the knot, and you lick your lips before I slip the gag between them. a dozen tells for a dozen kinks, each one an inherent reflex, something you’re both aware and unaware of. 
I’d like to think it’s because you know what’s coming, and you’re flinching in anticipation. That somewhere, in the back of your mind, there’s a girl doing somersaults as she bounces off the walls with excitement, while another is hiding behind the sofa, only to peek over the top occasionally. I’d like to think that the two of them jostling to manifest themselves in your actions causes a little friction in your behaviour, that slight jitter that could be the licking of your lips, the gasp of breath. 
But then you always were going to enjoy this. You always were going to find it unpleasant, beautiful, uncomfortable, intoxicating. You always were in two minds, but the tension between them is where I’m going to strum you until my fingers bleed. 

rolledtrousers:

Flinch

I always smile at the little gasp you make when my hand settles around your throat. Like you know what’s coming, and you just want to grab that one last little top of up air, to let you last a few more seconds, maybe even impress me. It’s your body preparing for what your mind is only half aware of. 

You arch your back just before I spank, too. You squirm a little before I tie the knot, and you lick your lips before I slip the gag between them. a dozen tells for a dozen kinks, each one an inherent reflex, something you’re both aware and unaware of. 

I’d like to think it’s because you know what’s coming, and you’re flinching in anticipation. That somewhere, in the back of your mind, there’s a girl doing somersaults as she bounces off the walls with excitement, while another is hiding behind the sofa, only to peek over the top occasionally. I’d like to think that the two of them jostling to manifest themselves in your actions causes a little friction in your behaviour, that slight jitter that could be the licking of your lips, the gasp of breath. 

But then you always were going to enjoy this. You always were going to find it unpleasant, beautiful, uncomfortable, intoxicating. You always were in two minds, but the tension between them is where I’m going to strum you until my fingers bleed. 

(Source: shootingpigeons)

(Source: relationshipquote, via icaptivate)

rolledtrousers:

Title
He crossed the T. Popping the cap back on the pen, he admired his handiwork. The word was scrawled across the topside of her breast, and he could see the ink diffusing through her pores, so that the crispnes of each letter was stolen by her skin. He caught the back of his lip with his teeth and plucked at it.
“Pretty.” He all but grunted the word, to himself, but it broke the spell she’d been under, her attention suddenly back with his face, rather than his hand.
“Hmm?” She was smiling, bemused but content.
“It’s pretty.” 
She looked down at the word. She frowned and smiled some more.
“Since when was hte word ‘slut’ a pretty one?” 
He arched an eyebrow.
“Since it was on you. Don’t you like it?” He was mocking her, but even still she couldn’t help but blush, looking down at the way it marked her, marred her skin as if it was an accusation rather than a declaration. Either way, the idea of it sitting there on her chest, emblazoned for all the world to see if she didn’t cover it up was equal parts terrifying and exciting.
“I do.. it’s just..” She shrugged. “It’s embarrassing.”
He reached over, taking her chin in his hand so that she had no choice but to look him in the face.
“No, it’s not. It’s not embarrassing because no one but you and me are going to see it. It’s not there to make you fret and squirm, to think about all the times someone could just reach over and pull down your shirt, rip away your bra and see what you have written there, someone else’s hand, and someone else’s word.”
He paused, running his tongue between his teeth, narrowing his eyes at her.
“It’s not meant to unsettle you, pretty girl. Quite the opposite. I want you to take a moment, whenever you feel stranded or alone, and pop into the bathrooms. I want you to pull down your shirt and see that word there, and I want you to feel my control over you, unbroken despite the distance between us, or the time since we last spoke. I want it to center you, and let you continue your day with a smile on your lips and a wiggle in your step.”
She chewed her lip for a moment, looking from his face down to her chest, then back up to his face again. She struggled to read it upside down, and the letters looked meaningless, her brain not quite wanting to decipher the lettering. Perhaps it was in denial.
But when she thought about what he said, and the way he had put it, they suddenly coalesced into meaning. 
Only it wasn’t ‘Slut’ she saw there, that was just a phrase on the periphery. Instead she only felt the weight of his power residing in those four little words, casual capitals acting as a heavy hand on her shoulder, an intimate palm against her throat. 
She didn’t feel embarrassed. All of a sudden,she just felt right.

rolledtrousers:

Title

He crossed the T. Popping the cap back on the pen, he admired his handiwork. The word was scrawled across the topside of her breast, and he could see the ink diffusing through her pores, so that the crispnes of each letter was stolen by her skin. He caught the back of his lip with his teeth and plucked at it.

“Pretty.” He all but grunted the word, to himself, but it broke the spell she’d been under, her attention suddenly back with his face, rather than his hand.

“Hmm?” She was smiling, bemused but content.

“It’s pretty.” 

She looked down at the word. She frowned and smiled some more.

“Since when was hte word ‘slut’ a pretty one?” 

He arched an eyebrow.

“Since it was on you. Don’t you like it?” He was mocking her, but even still she couldn’t help but blush, looking down at the way it marked her, marred her skin as if it was an accusation rather than a declaration. Either way, the idea of it sitting there on her chest, emblazoned for all the world to see if she didn’t cover it up was equal parts terrifying and exciting.

“I do.. it’s just..” She shrugged. “It’s embarrassing.”

He reached over, taking her chin in his hand so that she had no choice but to look him in the face.

“No, it’s not. It’s not embarrassing because no one but you and me are going to see it. It’s not there to make you fret and squirm, to think about all the times someone could just reach over and pull down your shirt, rip away your bra and see what you have written there, someone else’s hand, and someone else’s word.”

He paused, running his tongue between his teeth, narrowing his eyes at her.

“It’s not meant to unsettle you, pretty girl. Quite the opposite. I want you to take a moment, whenever you feel stranded or alone, and pop into the bathrooms. I want you to pull down your shirt and see that word there, and I want you to feel my control over you, unbroken despite the distance between us, or the time since we last spoke. I want it to center you, and let you continue your day with a smile on your lips and a wiggle in your step.”

She chewed her lip for a moment, looking from his face down to her chest, then back up to his face again. She struggled to read it upside down, and the letters looked meaningless, her brain not quite wanting to decipher the lettering. Perhaps it was in denial.

But when she thought about what he said, and the way he had put it, they suddenly coalesced into meaning. 

Only it wasn’t ‘Slut’ she saw there, that was just a phrase on the periphery. Instead she only felt the weight of his power residing in those four little words, casual capitals acting as a heavy hand on her shoulder, an intimate palm against her throat. 

She didn’t feel embarrassed. All of a sudden,she just felt right.


more relatable posts 📖
victoriousvocabulary:

MOIROLOGIST
[noun]
a hired mourner.
[Laurie Lipton]

victoriousvocabulary:

MOIROLOGIST

[noun]

a hired mourner.

[Laurie Lipton]