Instead

“Is that enough or do you need more, cunt?”

She looks at his chest, face very close to his, chewing her swollen lip lightly, “It's not...it's not up to me, S-sir.”

She winces, praying that it's been enough.

“It's not, cunt, but I was giving you a chance to convince me.”

“Then, yes Sir. Please Sir. It's enough. It's enough.”

“What are you?”

“Your cunt, Sir.”

She opens and closes her hands, fingers stiff from clenching, and palms sore.

“Good girl.”

The punishment was fierce, but it wasn't real enough. I don't know how to feel about play. I used to think it was this fun outlet, an excercise in head fucking. The better my opponent was, the deeper he could burrow into my brain; and those that were the best were twisted down to the core, like a wine opener spiraling into my darkest, most guarded thoughts. They would pull out feelings that would dry my throat, flip my stomach, flood my cunt. It was realer than real, and not real at all. It was safe.

But I don't want safe anymore. I want something that hurts; I am a masochist. I invite pain because I like it, I crave it. A specific pain, a specific manner. I want it...from him. And it is impossible -- but not. I cannot say this to him; I have tried and it has been repeatedly fruitless. Asking has never been a strength of mine, nor needing.

My fear is a fantasy. If only I were clever enough to tell him.

And so, I don't. And instead, my irritation channels away from me, cascades onto him. It's unfair, I know, and I have gotten too comfortable relying upon him to guess my feelings. He gets close. Frighteningly close, but just a little off. The interpretation, or maybe the source; he knows that I want, but he doesn't. It's my fault.

Instead of saying, "I need you to show me the boundaries, to forget my insecurities and to reaffirm the connection over and over if required. Build up fences, build up a fortress so that I can take down my walls. Lock us in together for as long as it takes. Don't close, because when you shut down, I can't be open. Don't be frustrated; know that commitment means time and patience. Believe that in the end, I will be the girl you had hoped I would be. Don't be lazy. Don't fear upsetting the balance. Know that my commitment is genuine. Accept it. Be constant in your expectations. Know that I will lie: I will omit: I will resist and I will remain stubbornly defiant. Believe that you can dismantle all of this and then do it. If it doesn't work, try again, try differently. Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me. Know that your most valuable weapons are my desire to please you, my disdain for conflict, and my relentless loyalty. I will tell you. I will tell you anything, everything if you ask me to; so, ask me to."

I say nothing. I am choking on my doubts.

And so I am alone tonight. I couldn't tell him, and so I am alone. I prickle too easily; it agitates him. And he mirrors me:

I say, "Are you mad?"
Pause. He says, "No."
I say, "What are you?"
He says, "Nothing."
I say, "Okay."
He says, "Okay."

And it is done...but I feel like shit. Out of sync. I have a lot of things going on right now, stuff that has me on a knife edge between insanity and eternal numbness, and I cannot percieve a difference anymore. I need connection -- right now; I need balance and endurance. I hate needing and so I push him away.

But I am alone tonight.

I hate alone too.