Storm

Photo by Flickr DavidHR

Sitting here on this strange train, high up (who even knew there were double-decker trains) so I can have a view (if there is one), butt plug wedged tightly into my ass, I’m aware, painfully aware of my throbbing sex, of how much I’ve missed you and how glad I’ll be to watch your face go through its familiar transitions. There’s the smile, a wicked happy grin that stretches your mouth wide and thins your full lips so that your teeth gleam white and feral in the sun. Then your coffee-colored eyes cloud over as if a bit of milk, a mere droplet was added, and yet somehow, miraculously they seem to grow darker. An internal storm is brewing and I watch, transfixed, as the calm slips away and the winds rise tossing branches haphazardly along a malevolent path , brewing eddies of dust and detritus that signal the rise of the dark forces that haunt you.

You keep them locked away as you work, during your time home with your family, and even around your friends and co-workers at the bar late at night after yet another grueling day at the office. But those forces can’t be suppressed for long, though sometimes I know it is your fervent desire that they would just vanish. All it takes is the thought of me, gazing up at you, apprehensive, waiting and wanting, desperately wanting to feel the tenderness of your lips, poised full and soft as they meet mine. I know it will only be gentle between us for a moment. The moment our tongues lash together and dance around each other like cobras entwined makes the winds blew even more fiercely. I sometimes worry you’ll get lost in that gale, the grime will be stirred up so thick you’ll lose your vision and lose sight of me in your frenzy to release all that fury and need.

Don’t think for a moment you don’t need it. You’d like to believe that but it’s dishonest. A lie you tell yourself when you want to pretend you can make it go away by doing things the way you should. I am intimately acquainted with that falseness; I recognize the deceit. I see it in the mirror of my own soul when I want to pretend some elemental part of me doesn’t need to be taken violently and without my permission.

Of course, consent is there. Would I make the trip with my ass full of steel, rocking my hips gently, as much as I dare, if it weren’t? My bag, usually filled with clothes and shoes, is instead crammed with skeins of rope, sleek crimson restraints, nipple clips, a gag, a cold metal dildo, condoms and lube. My thighs tremble and my cunt twitches as I ponder whether I have enough lube for you to facilitate sliding your fist inside me. I want to open for you, to have my body spread and unfold for you in ways I dare not let my mind or more crucially, my heart.

The train jostles along the tracks making me contract my cunt and ass. My seatmates have their eyes closed, iPods playing and I wish I had the nerve to slide my hand under my dress and abuse my swollen clit. But soon enough I’ll be with you. Then you’ll be the one abusing me until we’re both spent, slick and glistening with a thick coat of sweat and smelling of each others pungent sex. Your come will have spared no part of my body; it will have streaked my hair, dripped down my chin cooling my flushed breasts, thickly coated my cunt mingling with my juices to glue my thighs together and scattered like heated raindrops on my ass already bruised by your ever-present belt.

Thoughts of you when the shadows have swallowed you fill my head; brutal fingers, harsh words, sharp teeth. You, with those dark eyes I drown in, you, so thoroughly unrelenting that I repeat my safe word over and over in my head.

But only minutes away from my station, I try to stop thinking. I try to put all expectations out of my head and exist with you in the moments we create together. I search for passion and I find it for a short time in the storm of your wicked embrace.