When I Hate My slaveheart

(WIP?)

I shouldn't be allowed to write in Top drop.  I'll admit things that are better left ignored by my consciousness.  Fuck...my /s-side is no longer sheltered under the thick blanket of community service I use to appease her.  Apparently my Service Top stole her covers and is off snoring in the shadows leaving her to fend for herself.  I'm all out of coping mechanisms.  What the fuck ever...it is what it is.

The ache to surrender leaves me breathless and dizzy.  The problem is there's nothing to surrender to except the want I can not fill.

...For the word "Sir" to fall from my lips as acceptance, acquiescence, obedience, agreement, a request, a reverent plea, a deep understanding.

...That clarity of fucking purpose.  To begin and end with Him.

...To underdress Him in reverence.  His sigh of pleasure my greatest reward.

...The comfort and security of Belonging to Him.

...To stand/kneel under a hot shower and bathe His body.  No words.  Simply service before His dick slips through my hungry lips in the clearest of commands.

...Protocols that reinforce His Ownership of His property.  Permissions sought for basic existence and function.  His structure that frames my life.

...To be known.  Seen.  For all that I am and all that I become with Him.  Through His eyes, I'm reborn.

...His hand at the small of my back guiding my direction.

...Punishment that rip emotions from me no one has ever seen.

...His grip around the nape of my neck promising His Dominance.

...The instinctive act of arranging His plate, drink, silverware, napkin and waiting for Him to begin before I even consider myself.

...A hand in my hair as praise or desire...that smallest of act but a feast of connection.

...Meals created for His comfort.

...Chores completed for His needs.

...Feeding Him my intellect to play with and harness for His will.

...A whore ruthlessly used to sate His desire until the tears fall from my eyes and the broken pieces of me lay at His feet.

...To drown in His needs, wants, and desires.

...To curl at His feet in HIs shadow with a bone deep contentment I find nowhere else.

Figments of imaginations, intellectual begging, and scraps of vague memories blend together for a wish with no name or face or presence, yet every moment awake grates on my last nerve today because He has yet to find me.  The Chianti is bitter.  The jazz flat.  The very air around me like sandpaper when only His touch will do.

It's moments like these when I hate my slaveheart.  When her fucking overwhelming need ruins all my hopes of contentment and a fulfilling life.  As that single tear I'll allow myself burns in vain down my cheek, a reminder that I control nothing.

~sigh~  My Service Top needs to recover fucking soon.  This bitch needs her blanket, so she can slip back below the surface and sleep once more.  This is not her time nor her place, but until then her whimpers echo in my soul.
~DominaKat

P.S.  Stream of consciousness.  I don't give a fuck if there's errors or misunderstandings or if you lap at my discomfort like a hungry dog.  Fuck you.  Fuck this.  Fuck it all.  Even in pain my life likely holds more joy than yours.  Jesus...I miss my Mustang.