Come here, sweet darling, and lay your head on my chest. Leave your clothes; I need them out of my way. I am having a rough day, and I want to make you understand everything that I am feeling. I want you to do everything I tell you to do, and I don't want you to think about anything except understanding me. You lay right here and relax because the first thing I want you to understand is the crushing pressure of my hand on your neck, the panic as your body struggles to gasp through my grip, and the gentle way my mouth presses against you, because, whatever else I may be feeling, I want you to understand it because I love you, and you are mine. Right now, until I am done, all you are is mine.
I need you to think about the hot, soft pressure of my breasts against your face, and how they, too, will not let you pull in a proper breath. You are a good, sweet darling, and I am going to let go of your neck, leaving you with bruises to remember the sensation, so you can breathe and let me take some more gentle comfort from my mouth on yours to remind me that this is a conversation, and everything is going to be ok because you are here, and you are listening, and you want to understand. I want to feel you against my face and breathe you in and know fully that this is my body right now.
Before I let go of your mouth, I am going to grab you roughly by the groin, gently bruisingly, and I hope that you can yelp and whimper and whine, because then I will know that you are understanding me, the love and the tenderness, the ache and the pain in every movement and every thought, how I hunger for someone to know what is happening inside me. I want to hear you howl in shock and a moment of terror when I shove you away from me, releasing you to shove your leg in a sudden fit of muscle and rage that I do not want to control. I want you to shriek and whimper with the sting and ache of the loud snap of my relaxed hand making sharp contact with your groin. I want your eyes streaming hot tears down your face with me when I slap it again and again. I don't want you to resist your urge to writhe a bit in the strain to stay where I put you with the sharp contact. Look at me. I am bare and anguished, and raw. Look at me. Blink away the tears and look at me. There is something wrong and twisted and hot and angry and I do not want it to be inside of me. I want it out and on your skin where I can see it, where you can feel it.
I want to rub olive oil over your chest, and smell the way it mingles with your flesh, and the smell of me that has already gotten onto you. I take your lighter out of your discarded clothes and light a candle, and let the heat of the flame fuck with the oil on my hands. It burns, and it feels right. I shove you down roughly into my mattress; I don't care whether you are resistant. I need you to feel the force of my hand pushing down into your chest in a screaming kind of desperation, a scream that won't come out of my mouth, that won't work its way into my lungs. I want to hear you whimper as my left hand drips the candle wax onto the oil on your chest. I want you to feel the serpentine shape searing into your skin as the oil takes the heat of the wax. I want to feel you shudder and whimper when you feel the weight of me shift, hear the second candle scrape gently on the wood surface of the bedside table, hear your lighter scrape the wood as well. I want you to take in the haunting bruises around my eyes, take in how deep and unhealthy they look in the fire light as you watch the lighter click into action, lighting the second flame. I want you to wonder what I did with the butt of the other one, wonder if it's scorching my sheets next to you. I want you to feel a moment of panic, wondering if I could just lower the candle to the sheets and set us both ablaze, feel an obsessive anxiety creep through you as you realize that you did not see any safety equipment when you came in. It could be there, to hand, but you didn't see it. What if I didn't bother with it when I let this raging mania sweep through me and pressed it onto you? I want that anxiety to consume you right up to the moment I drizzle my second batch of hot wax onto the oil on your chest and the pain of the burning sensation overwrites the previous thoughts of your brain in a washing madness, and I want the scream lodged somewhere I can't reach it inside of me to come out of you, and I want it to remind you that I could never bring myself to cause lasting damage to you on purpose. I need you to grab onto me, hold fast to my ankles with the need and desperation I cannot possibly contain all inside of me.
Don't let go. Please don't let go, but I need to put down the butt of my candle, and let you feel the wax harden into a second serpent, one on each side of your chest, marking you in burns that tell me, and tell you, that you gave me your body because I needed it; because I wanted it and wanted you. Can you start to understand how everything is aching and needing and hurting and screaming just out of my reach, and how I can't say it with words that can explain anything the way I feel it? Can you hold fast when I grab my cane from the bedside and rap it against your calves with a violence you'll feel in bruises for a week after? Can you give me a hard cock under me when I swing the cane around and press the length of it hard into your collar bone, my hands leaning my weight onto the wooden rod of it above your shoulders. Want me because I am too much for myself. Want to be inside of me where you can drive out more of the things that are too much. Want me more when you feel my claws tearing the wax off your chest, when you feel them dig into the burnt skin underneath, when I tell you that it isn't an accident that they are digging into you tender flesh. I made it tender because I needed it to hurt more. I need to hear your pained grunting when I bite into my burns, my tender flesh. It's mine, and I need it, and I need my tender flesh bruised by my mouth, and I need my sweet darling to hold on, so you slide your hands up my body so that I know you are not letting go, so I know that you are feeling everything. Dig my sweet darling's blunt fingers into my ribs until they leave bruises. Pull the pain up to my surface, pull it out of me. Make me whimper under the focused pressure of your fingers. When I drive your cock inside of me, let it be rough, let it hurt and bruise us both. This should feel tender, it should ache.
Sweet darling, when you understand, when you feel it, toss my cane out of the way, and then you flip us over. Press me down under the weight of you, until I I can let the sobbing ache out of me, and my fingers wrap all around your hair, dragging your face into mine, and my teeth pressed into your lips hurts. You fuck me like you don't care if my insides or your cock, survive the process. When I let go of your hair, you drop your mouth down and you bite down on my nipple until you can make me scream. No whimpering will be enough today. You make me scream. You have to make me scream.
If you can make me scream, then you can cum right where you are, but if you can't, you cum in my mouth, so I can at least taste how hard you tried. So I can smell your hot desperation and feel the restriction of your weight on my chest, pressing your desire to understand into me, and letting my fists beat against your ribs in the frustration of the stifling agony that still will not come out of me.
When we're done with that, I want to gently clean the remnants of wax and oil off of your precious flesh. I want to clean your wounds, and rub your flesh with cold cream and aloe and make sure that you can heal well from what I have done to you. I spent a lot of this thinking about how soothing it would feel to have gentle healing cream rubbed into your tender flesh.
