Object of Desire: Does Sex Equal Affection For Me?
By Cara Sutra
I would normally blog coherently and intelligently at this juncture, however I seem to have lost all capability for coherent thought due to feeling like an object of desire, and wondering does sex equal affection for me?
Tumbling, falling, freewheeling deeper than ever into the never-ending spiral of lust and wanton desire, whorish sluttiness and depraved kink that is this filthy love nest that I enjoy languishing in. He holds me in a clenched fist, tight enough so that I can struggle at times but can never fall completely into the abyss. It may appear that I am millimetres from being entirely crushed but the constricting tightness and consensual forced sex is a freedom and security never afforded before this.
I feel happy just near him, it doesn’t matter whether I orgasm or not during the sexual liaisons, not always. Obviously there are times I want to be able to have that release but I have so often gone without, this feels like home – making him happy and enjoying vicarious climaxes.
My head is hurting with everything – emotions flying and irrational feelings that I, uncharacteristically, cannot articulate properly. Perhaps I cannot communicate them as they in themselves make no sense. Not jealousy exactly – more – this is my territory I don’t want it trodden on. I have been through so much pain, hurt, suffering – I am genuinely worried that if it happened again I would shatter into a million tiny fragments and be cast into an endless ocean, eroding into nothing, perhaps merely sand that slips through fingers to be lost in the wind.
Along with the high emotions, my nature is to balance with extreme lows and therefore thoughts of hurt surface and ride along the top of my consciousness most of the time.
I simply don’t seem to be able to allow myself to be happy without there being that searing edge of pain blended with madness.
Can’t fix the inside – try to fix the outside – inside hurts too much – I try to turn away from the flaws but instead find ever more – and must punish them, stripping myself away at my core until it hurts so much it must be right.
I feel good when he is inside me, thoughts taken over by his wanton lusts and insatiable desire for me, passionate fires roaring and breath hot and ragged, whispering my own wants back into my ear, directly into my brain, forcing me to see even though I squeeze my eyes closed I see blazingly clear and white the abused and broken doll I am. At the same time I feel calm and peace, tranquil even in these moments of pain, fleeting fear and consumption, that I can at least be what he wants.
Sex is affection for me, if I am not desired, I am nothing. Shallow? Perhaps at first glance. ~shrugs~
It’s the way it is.