The morning had started fairly awesome; my mouth around your cock, choking and gasping but still sucking, eyes watering, out of breath but not out of touch. I can feel you, the whole of you in my mouth, every twitch, every movement. The tip of the condom tickles the back of my throat, teasing the gag reflex but I don’t care. I just want you, the whole of you in me, filling empty orifices, causing breathlessness, dizziness. It is still morning and it feels like my mind is only slowly catching up with what my body does, what it feels. This is something I had been thinking about doing, we had even spoken about our mutual love of the activity, but as my mouth moves over your cock I’m not thinking. There is only a doing. Soft sheets are sliding against my skin, your hand finds its way to my neck, gripping and pushing, and I listen and follow, delaying every breath according to the tempo of movement you seem to prefer. Sometimes I think I smile, as much as it is possible to smile with the mouth full of cock.
At some point you ask me to stand up, and while looking into my eyes you close your hands around my throat and ask me if you think I’ll make it. I understand what you mean, try to wank you without loosing the grip and trying to not pay any attention to the buzz and the fuzz making it hard to focus, try to wank you off to the point of you coming before your hands tighten even more around my throat. And I look into your eyes as I wank you until you come and I feel your come over me.
I feel again, I feel myself, I feel desired, I feel desire, I feel something waking up again. I feel you, feel those sharp nails that you dig into my flesh, millimeter for millimeter, I’m finding myself responding to every single touch with a sense of electricity, that your hand will strike or hold me down at any given moment. And still, central to all of this: trust. The trust which makes it possible for me to lose myself into the scenarios you are talking about, to fall in to whatever concoction of fantasy mixed with reality with a hint of sordid filth and depravity.
That became very clear when you held the gun in your hand and suddenly shouted at me, something about staying still or lying down on the floor; I cannot remember very clearly. I sat in the chair at the desk and I only remember how my whole body went heavy. I wanted to obey, but in the discord between sitting in someone’s’ bedroom on a swivel-chair and the shift or your movement made it impossible for me to act, the boundaries of fantasy, reality and fear muddled. But still, everything stopped then and there, like I was nothing more than that which you hunt. And you do scare me; push me out from where I am the keeper of my own safety, in control and within the comfort zone of my own mind. That place, the place of fear, is not really dark at all, people tend to speak of it as such, but I can only see it so bright, as bright as that searchlight on your gun. A sense of an enlarged ribcage, it is easier to breathe and easier to focus on the exact moment of now. That is the place of fear; a enlarged room within my ribcage; bright and brutal.
Then there was another time, another place, and your persona was the Apollo which I had dared to try to seduce. The blood of Apollo’s victims, tasting sweet, feeling sticky, your chains covered in red, your face very still, eyes focused. Pushing myself against you I knew probably of the consequences which I were willing to face and quite frankly longed for. I just craved it, just craved for you to tear into my flesh as if there was nothing stopping you. And afterwards, my back looked like an abstract painting.
Your claws are writing
a completion of scratched surfaces
I can hardly speak two languages- a fast disintegration
of everything I think I know
but the writing of abstract patters
red and sore
that is a language I understand