In Tatters

I knelt at His feet in the utter mess I’d made. My struggle to succeed was stark. No one had ever seen me so disheveled…in such embarrassing circumstances. As He cleaned me up for the second time two minutes, I looked up to meet His steady gaze and tried to gauge his reaction. Disgust at another disastrous, completely unimpressive act of service? Frustrated at my inability to get it together? Sadistically amused at another ridiculous unglamorous predicament I’d once again found myself in? I knew he was taking in every fucking minute detail of the wreck before Him and squirreling it away in the vault of His mind, but what did He feel? His stoic expression offered me no hint. Without comment He stood firm in front of me. Fuckin unwavering. He hadn’t walked away. He hadn’t stepped back. I swear He may have even leaned in. As soon as I’d semi-collected myself, I began my third attempt even as I tried in vain to push the remaining proof of my ineptitude out of view, hoping it would simply

Flesh Privileges

Sometimes a bitch just needs to be snatched up. 
A slow harmless caress that gently eases into thought-shattering pain. 
In a heartbeat nothing mattered in my world but where His hand touched me.

No passersbys on their way home from their Manhattan commute.
No dog walkers following their four-legged companions along crowded sidewalks.
No city bike riders feet from His driver's side door.

All that mattered was my surrender to Him and the pain that echoed throughout my body.
I needed His touch and bruising acts of methodical violence more than I needed my next breath.
My world simply felt better suffering under Him.

My masochist woke from her slumber and wept in relief.
My Lioness stirred for the first time in weeks, listening in case He called.
My whore longed for Him to spread her legs and take everything and anything He wanted from her.

My dress crept up my thighs even as slickness drenched them.
My hands clenched and teeth dug into my bottom lip.
I lost count of my quiet whimpers.

No words were necessary.
Though I wonder now what He thought.
As His fingertips stained my flesh and nails raked my soft smooth skin.

This woman?  This bitch?
This pain slut?  This piece of property?
Mine? 

What does this Man thinks when I shamelessly embrace His cruel touch damn near in public without hesitation?
I don't know.
I may never know.

But my body knows and welcomes His every touch.
Soaks it up like rain falling on the desert sand.
And on that Brooklyn street tonight, His pain felt like thunder warning of a coming storm.
~DominaKat

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