Incarnations of Lust

We exhume our past selves on occasion, exorcise unresolved issues without even realising we’re doing it.  Somehow, role play together simply evolves.  We draw things to the surface of one another that may well have lain dormant for decades, and these remnants of memory and experience, once given flesh, complete some kind of emotional circuit, truly bringing a sense of peace and completion that I, for one, had no idea I even needed.  He is a tonic to my soul.

The character manifested recently, interrogated me with a vigor and rawness that brought real tears not to my eyes, but to my psyche.  My cunt was laid as bare as my emotions, a slick and supple target for the strap he applied.  The true self of me was shocked and thrilled, titillated beyond belief by this brutal turn of events.  The self which played out its drama with the evil DI cried out and objected.

His teeth left blue marks around my nipple, a temporary tattoo I quietly savoured, hoping to show Him the evidence of His harsh alter ego; but today I am unmarked, my flesh pristine.  I am again the blank canvas upon which we write our lust.  For lust bubbles to our conjoined surface much as the spunk which spurts in heated jets of warmth into my open mouth, or the sweet almond stickiness of my juices flowing at His tender touch.

My own fierce inner demon was gentled when He stopped our wild cavorting charade to hold me to His chest and remind me that He, Himself, His real self loves me without limit.  He doesn’t like to hurt me.  I flinched and moaned when that thick black strap struck my breast.  When His hands roughly tugged the lead attached to the collar I wore, my incarnate slut self yelped with pain.  His eyes and hands and lips were soft as He caressed my tear stained face, crooning soft words into my straining ear.

How do I tell Him that He did what I needed Him to do.  I didn’t know that I needed that crass coarse session with my own corrupt DI, but I did.  My whole being responded to His words and actions as though it all had been preordained and orchestrated and choreographed long before we were born.  He naturally is all that I could ever hope a man would be to me and more.  My only concern is that I, similarly, am all He could ever want or need in a woman.  More.  Always more.

I slept that night, replete, sated, whole.  A damaged layer of self had been brought into His Dark Light once more, and the subsequent healing had left me far more whole and satisfied than I could ever have dreamed.  He is my dream, my waking answer to whispered hopes in the dead of night.  For Him, I will do all things with utter abandon, knowing He is the Master of my soul.