let it go
Guarded, controlled and yes– my body betrays with abandonment. And yes, I think you may be right, I do get some perverse pleasure in battling against the dichotomy of my mind and body. I am into dichotomy and my pussy is definitely into it.
When I got to Chicago for round two I felt prepared. Although, I am never sure one can be fully prepared to be fucked in the ass and controlled by a dom lovin’ man. This is part of my experiment, the exploration into one of the many sides of my sexuality. I have a dominate persona myself, I have dominated men in and out of the bedroom. Ahh, but the other side, maybe the stronger side– is soft, a giver, generous and nurturing. Submissive? I truly do long to take care of you, to feed you, comfort you, listen to you, love you and more than anything to be your sweet dirty nasty slut. Life becomes contorted though. Values, ideals, hopes and dreams get diluted and we are left with shards of theories of love and sex, which we stitch together to make up our particular proclivities for getting off.
The gangster used to control me in unhealthy ways, and in some misconstrued seductive way, I liked it. We fought and fucked. I would often purposely make him mad to see his anger, to feel his control. A rather fucked up cyclical situation. There was fire to every aspect of our relationship, not just sexually. When the sex died all that was left was the anger. My anger, his rage, my mouth of fire and poison would flow until he could no longer react with anything else other than his angry hand. The burning sting left across my face, the hand that wrapped and tangled around my hair pulling me to the floor, it connected to our sex–even though it was some twisted form of what our sex had become.
So this brings me back to my the investigation into my sexual dichotomy. While the gangster and I had deeper problems, I always recognized that his power and control turned me on, more so than my husband ever did or could, but that I was never without my control, it may have gotten lost, amalgamated–high on the mix of cock and love, but it was still there, just being an antagonist.
What is it about pain and control that makes so insatiably wet. I am not really a pain slut–I like good solid ride and nice pounding, just as much as the next girl, but why the rougher you became, the harder you bite my nipples, and clamp your hands around my tits, the wetter I get, despite my pleas for you to stop, despite my anger. I did not enjoy the pain, plus I absolutely hate being told what to do as you command in various ways, it pisses me off, but you like that. Don’t you? You like that fire that anger and pain give, that blaze that it sets to my cunt, the way it makes me saturate between my thighs. You like feeding me your cock, until I choke and gag, saliva spilling out the corner of my lips around your shaft and on to the hotel room floor, as my head hangs over the side of the bed being so completely filled and fucked.
What I am into is the way your strong hands wrap around my throat, tightening, while your cock fill me up. It is the closest experience to being high that I have experienced since being high. My cunts throbs, as my mind fades, and my brain turns to static, and tiny stars fill my eyes, and if I could see my face I know there would be a sick sick smile on it. Your hand gripped tightly around my throat, mine buried between my legs, grinding atop your rock, I am amazed at how wet I am.
“do feel that? Can you even feel your cock in all that wet mess?”
My pussy overflows, the mouth of my river meets the ocean, and I ride and grind with all I can, I use your cock. The fire and the anger is focused into my pussy and ride it out, while your hands lock, continuing to restrain my thought process, I don’t need a thought process at this moment. I come many times this way, using your solid beam, my pussy in control of both of us. You make me cum in ways I have not cum in long long time, for the pain may have been worth it. But, is it really the pain that made me cum?
The dichotomy continues. If was with the right man, would I not cum just as much, of not more? Wouldn’t I let my guard down for him and let go of my ocean without the connotation of pain? The search for what makes me cum, let go, fall in love, soar–in all those deliciously perverse ways continues. Will I see Chicago again? Probably. Is he the one? No.
© Copyright 2009Library Vixen, All rights Reserved. Written For: Library Vixen