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My dad believes in the idea of mosaic in life. Sometimes unrelated events coalesce to form the big picture that ends up driving our lives, sometimes the future is not as unpredictable as we think if only we know the meaning of the pieces that casually fall into place.

When there is something on my mind, I notice the reminders of it everywhere around me, with little bits of wisdom pushing me in one direction or other, or sometimes pulling me back from the brink of a decision because I manage to learn something new.

I have been thinking about asking. Asking for something, asking about something, asking for what I want, asking for what I need. Asking without expectations, but with purpose. The expectations part is easy, I have a problem with being entitled to anything, which is probably not the healthiest of attitudes, but the purpose part is hard for me. It’s about feeling guilty for even having the audacity to ask, and guilt is something I know all too well and something I tend to bury so deep I can’t always decipher where it ends and reality begins. It gets heavy, I get down, and the hundreds of conversations I have in my mind turn into thousands, all of them not quite that positive.

I ask, and then pull back. “I want” turns into an apology. I don’t want it to be so – I admire those who simply ask, and damn the world. But I end up being so wrapped up in the other side, in thinking for the person I am asking, that I can’t demand what may be an unwanted hassle. Which is beyond silly sometimes.

So last night, I asked. I first tried to work through my mood in my usual way, by sending a picture into the wind of internet, trying to give away an image of my body and a piece of sadness. It didn’t help all that much. I [sort of, awkwardly and half-heartedly] exchanged messages with a poor man who lost the lottery by messaging me at exactly the right (or wrong) time. I am not interested, he made an unfortunate joke, but I sent him a pretty picture, so he can just enjoy that. And then I sent a message to D, as the last resort and a half-assed attempt at a call out for care, to tell him I wanted him there, that I was cold and I wanted him there.

He came. He put on pants (not a small feat, and the guilt for making him do that once he was home and comfortable and blissfully naked reared its head, but he ignored my other half-assed attempt as dismissing my own need), and walked over, for me. I opened the door naked (I was going to bed, after all), and he took off his clothes and made my head spin. I was cold before he got there, but I forgot everything but the way he tastes within seconds. He fucked me, he touched me, he covered my face in spit, he left a perfect bite mark on my stomach, he fucked me more, he made me gasp and gag on his cock, he made me scream, he made me laugh, he made me writhe and lose all air, he pinned me down and breathed down my neck until I was just a tangle of sensations and fireworks. He made me put on a tutu I impulsively bought at a sex shop with friends, and I came so hard I soaked the black mesh and the white couch and the floor (and my bed). He told me to put on something that makes me feel sexy, and when I came out with stockings, garter belt and that bra that doesn’t cover my nipples, he reminded me to my mock horror that I forgot panties. He made me put my hair in pigtails while he put on my tutu, posed for me and then took a picture of me sucking his dick under the tulle. He laid me bare, spent all my nervous energy and brought me back to myself. And then we talked.

He listened to me and was calm and patient. He did not dismiss my feelings of being unwanted, and apologized (though unnecessarily) for being callous last weekend when just minutes after me telling him I was having trouble processing him talking about fucking other girls when we haven’t had sex in so long, he went on to say that he thinks Strawberry is almost at the point of taking off her panties for him. I felt petty and wrong, but he comforted me anyway and reassured me about where we stand. Not that I don’t know that already, and love is not something I doubt, not in the least, but it’s the lack of desire that has been so difficult for me to deal with. We’re good, we’re amazing, and I’m learning how to let him care for me. I was afraid that somehow that part would be lost, or that perhaps those internet crazies are right, and I can’t have love and tenderness and a certain delicious edge of violence at the same time, but I was wrong. I got exactly what I asked for, and exactly what I needed, and as I woke up after just 4 hours of twisted dreams with a sore pussy and hoarse throat and remnants of make up he asked me to put on to go with those pigtails, I was satiated and blissful the way being properly fucked makes me. The deep contentment of a night well had has been like a blanket I’ve wrapped around myself all day today.



I am getting mugs that say “Congratulations, Slut” for myself and my girlfriends. I will pick them up later today, wrap the other ones as gifts, and fill mine up with something delectable and satisfying. I will take off all my clothes, light the candles and sip joy in near dark as I remember the way his hands feel around my throat.


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