I was a very broken girl when you knew me. I wanted you because I didn’t have you. There really wasn’t ever anything special about you. You weren’t my soulmate or my true love. All of that was just empty words and bullshit to earn your trust.
What you were was unattainable. You could remain a fantasy, a what if. Safe from ever failing to live up to my expectations of what it would be like to fuck you. I genuinely think there are very few people who can actually handle me sexually at my heights, you’d have a better shot at keeping up during my lows.
You were not one of those that could get his hand in my hair and make me bend to your will fully. The kind of guy that could get his hand on my throat and pin me to the wall where my body was at his full mercy. But I liked to think about what if you could have been that man.
You had a need for controlling me and I hate being controlled just as much as I need to be controlled. You wanted me to play dumb and naive, and I would have, quite happily, but only ever in a sexual way. I don’t back down from my beliefs and my sense of morality. I don’t budge on my rights and what I will and will not accept from a partner. Not anymore, anyway.
That control remains with me even if I allow the illusion of it to be yours through acts of violence and lust. I directed you. I manipulated you. I used you repeatedly, but you didn’t mind because you always got off thinking I was getting off to you. I was lost in my own mind, fantasies of depravity where I’m used the way I’ve always been told I deserved.
They didn’t know that while they spat it at me like an insult to my very core, two men were bringing me to the brink of whoredom for their pleasure. I was just a warm body with holes they could use while their wives looked the other way and whispered their disgust at my willingness to seek out whatever scrap of love I could find.
It didn’t help that the only love I’d ever known through that point was soaked in violence. They hurt me because they love me, right? At least, that’s what everyone always told me. I had no examples to show me otherwise so why wouldn’t I believe it?
You wanted me to see more to love than violence.
I’ve committed the words and images you’ve sent me over the years to memory and I know you still have some of mine. A sound file of me saying how big you are, or whispering that I need your big thick cock to coat my face and tits in your cum. A video showing you just how difficult it’s going to be to get your cock in me, perhaps? Maybe a photo of me crying, eyes red, makeup smeared, wrists bound above my head in the cold dark basement with my panties on ripped on one side, leaving just a hint of the waxed treasure beneath, and my bra in scraps on the floor, just like you asked of me.
I gave you the parts of me already destroyed by the people who came before you.
You wanted my body, but you also wanted me. I was only willing to give you half of what you wanted. Heart and soul are too precious to bargain with, so my well used body would have to do. I’m sorry that you believed I was open to showing you my vulnerabilities. But why would I ever give someone access to what could truly hurt me?
I’ve never touched you. You’ve never touched me. But I’ve imagined the mundane ways you’ve wanted control over me. I entertained the idea and allowed you to believe I dripped at the notion. While it was just the same old faux Dom fantasy every other man whispered in my ear when they heard I liked it rough. Maybe one day I’ll find the one that doesn’t hide his darkest thoughts out of fear of society’s glaring eye and tells me the real fantasies that come to mind when he watches my body stretch and arch in genuine pleasure.
I complimented your dick as the nicest I’d ever seen, and it was nice. Honestly, it’s genuinely still among the largest I’ve personally seen outside of porn, but it’s just a dick that’s wasted if you don’t know how to get me gasping and writhing while you pleasure yourself deeper than surface friction to get off.
I praised your features and demeanor. I lied so much to you, you’re a bit of an asshole, but I didn’t mind cause I’m a bitch, as you’ve said. I wish I could say I regret it, but I don’t. You made me feel wanted and desired and I craved it. It was like a drug, of which I couldn’t get enough and you overflowed with supply.
Most of my life was spent staying out of the way. I knew how to be useful for sex, how to bring money into the family with so little effort on my part, and, as my mother so eloquently stated, how to be a disgusting whore. She always made sure I feared the unknown more than the pain and fear I was already in the midst of, she didn’t want to get in trouble, after all.
That’s not how we started though. We started out of a mutual love of words, darkness, and the macabre. There was a time when we could talk for hours. About nothing in particular or things as stupid as what we were wearing at that particular moment. I made jeans and a t-shirt sound alluring, you’d said while teasing you thought I could also make them look alluring by pulling off my bra and taking a picture of the tight cotton showing the delicate shape of my tits.
Another photo I’d happily taken for you, showing you my tits and how my nipples sat atop a gentle swell along the lower half of my breast, firm flesh nestled in a smoothing layer of softness for you to grasp and hold. My nipples held the perfect shape for a man to suckle, you’d said. But you could tell better if I just took my top off and sent you another photo. Yeah, another photo I obliged.
My head was in the clouds.
I thought I could actually love you at one point. I loved broken things and you were almost my equal in that department. You wanted me to open up, to let you in and I couldn’t. You wanted to know how to hurt me beyond the physical, that’s my secret and one I’ll take to the grave. Sexuality and desire could get past the locks I’d put in place, they had a fucking slide built in for easy access to my core, but emotions couldn’t.
Emotions were prime ammo to hurt me and I worked too hard protecting myself from getting attached to mindless fucks to let some sexual fantasy slip past such carefully devised obstacles to my devotion. But you tried anyways and you ruined the fucking fantasy.
There was a time when I would have done anything to make you smile and your dick drool.
That time is past.
Now I’m over the fantasy and feigned romance. Now? I want to go back to my roots and revisit what I’m best at. I want to be wanted again. I want to feel desired and lusted after. I want to have someone say my name in a growl in my ear, and I want to draw that from them with my physical contact.
I want carnal desire and raw passion.
I want you to know that I don’t think I’m capable of the kind of love and affection and understanding you’re hoping for. I tried to be capable of it, but I’m just not cut out for that kind of attachment. I was a pretty convincing actress considering you cried when I left. However, I still want to know what your body feels like beneath mine. I don’t really give a shit if you fall for me or if you’re just in it for the carnal pleasure as well. In the end, I just want to fuck.
I just don’t believe you’re capable of what I need. I don’t believe you could actually hurt me or scare me. I want that rush of adrenaline that comes from the unknown. I can read your every move. I can feel the change in the air and know exactly what to expect.
You.
Bore.
Me.
I’m open to giving you one chance to prove me wrong. One chance to make me afraid of you. Do you have it in you to push your own morality and boundaries past the point I don’t think you’ll cross but I need? I want a challenge. I’d love a challenge actually, something to feel alive instead of just floating through existence.
You know my pleasures.
I’m a masochist, an often regressed mind perfectly capable of feeling great fear, a fighter in need of restraint. I am a brat that will challenge your authority over me and I can take it to that maximum level where you back down with a sore hand and hurt pride long before I give you the release of a tear on my cheek.
The question remains though, could I make you? Could I be defiant enough, cruel enough to make you cross that line out of anger or frustration? Could I drive you past your breaking point so you find mine?
I don’t know. But I’d like to try. Tell me where your line in the sand is drawn. Would you be capable of making me cry? Maybe you’d enjoy that. I’m often told I’m at my prettiest when I cry. How about leaving marks? Bruises and bites in my pale flesh, would it bother you to hurt me in that way? Could you hold a blade to my neck and make me believe it wasn’t just for show? Would you be able to make me fear for my life under your control?
I think when push comes to shove, you couldn’t do it. I think you’d falter. I think you’re not capable of being the man I need in my life. I think you could put your hand on my throat and feign control. I think you could even spank me or slap me to get my attention. But I don’t think you could bring me to life in the way that I want, in the way that drops me to my knees and begs you to ignore my pleas.
I don’t think anyone can, really, because it teeters so close to death.
I live on this line of what I know is what I’m supposed to want in life and what I actually want. On one side is the loving home and family, the 2.5 kids and a dog behind a white picket fence with fresh baked cookies and nightly family dinners. On the other side is my ideal life. No kids, no roots, no anchors holding me down, no expectations or pressure to present myself as perfection. Tattoos and piercings and multi-colored hair, purple leather and pale freckled skin with a blood red lip, my green eyes wide in wonder and ecstatic pleasures. Ropes and lingerie, caged anger and lust poured over my body in waves. Masks, whips, alcohol, and drugs. That side is basically an orgy of excess and it’s one I don’t get to have because I was rescued and told to leave that life behind and be good and safe now.
I want experiences and I want to really live and feel the exhilaration of living. But laws and fear keep me docile. Chained up and afraid to explore the way I really want to. So I married the first guy that seemed willing to take that step with me. Safety. I opted for safety over really living. I opted for a guy that thinks doggystyle is risqué and it is destroying me from the inside.
You have pictures of me, videos, my voice, my wants all available to you. You could have hurt me, you could have been cruel, ruined the marriage I didn’t really want to be in, but you chose not to and I don’t know why.
Maybe you felt the same as me. Maybe you wanted to keep me at that same distance I kept you. Close enough to feel the burn of passion, but far enough away that I just stayed an unsullied fantasy of your ideal fuck. I know you weren’t comfortable letting me see your walls crumbling. You tried so hard to get mine to follow suit, but mine didn’t crumble, I just helped you over them when I needed a fix and showed you the rubble that’s always been there to make you feel safer.
Yours though, they crumbled the longer we tried to pretend we could be a thing. You’d never admit it of course. But I saw the way you looked at me. I heard the way you said my name, the way your voice softened just slightly when you were with me. All things that happen when you start letting someone in to that zone of cherished love and devotion.
Then I just left. I didn’t even say goodbye. I couldn’t. Goodbye was final and I wanted you just out of reach. I had gotten to a point where I wanted more than the fantasy. I wanted to touch you, to look into your eyes while you fucked me. I wanted to ruin the illusion of perfection and bring everything crashing back down around me in reality, where you would undoubtedly disappoint me just like the fantasies before you.
Mostly, though, I walked away because I started thinking that I might actually be able to get you to cross that line I had been so certain you couldn’t even fathom. I wasn’t so certain, anymore, that you wouldn’t outright kill me instead of letting me leave after the disappointment was over.
And I was okay with that.