My aunt died very recently. I have very strong memories of her. She was often present in my childhood, and, apart from my mum, she(read more…)
I find that I am much happier and able to communicate better when I feel that I’m writing as Ina than I am when writing under my ‘other name’. It’s a weird piece of mindset that I feel stronger as a writer as Ina, less likely to care if I have a bad review (although don’t get me wrong, that’s still pretty horrible), and, most importantly, I feel more able to write as my authentic self using a name I wasn’t born with, married into, or adopted in any other way. What do I mean by that? I simply mean that, as Ina, I feel free to just… create. And to create my way.
“I’m absolutely terrified of being tied up.”
“The thought of a blindfold can make me physically sick.”
There: two things that only a very limited number of people know about me, and even less of them understand, or try to understand. Very few have watched the change in my demeanour and behaviour if I come into contact with items specifically designed to restrain, or the way I burn up and my eyes fill with tears at even the mention of a blindfold coming anywhere near me or, by extension, the very mention that it might.
She felt the Devil, long before he asked her to dance. Vivid dreams left her writhing, waking and finding herself on her stomach, breasts rubbing against the sheet, fingers already straying between her thighs. He took her in these night-time visions, claiming her, from her burning lips to her fiery cunt, growling against her flesh she would always be his, her desire the flames that licked his feet in supplication. She always awoke as he penetrated her – with his cock, his eyes, his dominance – and it left her dripping with molten need.
What do you need to learn but won’t admit to?
I think, probably, that I don’t have to do everything for everyone and be there for everyone all the time. And that I shouldn’t feel guilty for putting my needs first sometimes, especially when not doing so adversely affects my mental health.
Um… and probably that masturbating in the shower right before needing to go to a meeting has a high probability that I will miss my bus. I really should learnt that. Doesn’t seem to stick in my head, though! Don’t know why…
The silk trails up the side of my neck and I offer myself up to its motion. Over my throat, and up against the side of my face, fluttering over my forehead until I hear my own moans at its touch. The aroma of his shower gel fills me as his hand brushes my face, and my eyes close as his skin brushes my lips. They chase the touch, not recognising that the silk has covered my eyelids until it pulls tight round the back of my head.
I don’t want to make an idiot of myself, but my chest is lurching. I don’t know if I can cope with it; not knowing, not seeing. His chest presses up against my shoulder blades; his cock is hardening inside his jeans, pressing against the top of my backside. The thought of it makes my heart bang. The movement of his cock is so mesmerising to me that it takes a moment to notice he has my arms up above my head.
I keep meaning to contribute to more memes, and I’m determined to attempt as many as I can, as often as I can, from now on. As I hardly ever write about myself (in a non-fiction manner) on my blog, this is one of the more challenging memes for me. This is my first TMI Tuesday; I’m hoping to be broken in gently!
I lay on the bed, half wet, half dry, still trying to calm my breath. I couldn’t manage to make myself come in the shower, so I’d played with every vibrator near to hand the moment I’d got out. And now, here I am, phone in hand, wet hair that he loves splayed out all over the duvet, as I click the camera and take a picture of my flushed face, neck and chest, together with my fingers having a cheeky pinch at my left nipple.
It was starting to become excruciating. The clock in the corner of the arrivals board told me I’d been sitting here for almost three hours – that was four minutes longer than the last time I checked. I just couldn’t stay in that room, waiting any longer. I wriggled on my chair and smiled. The love egg was nestled nicely inside. He promised to let me know he’d landed in his own special way.