Unblemished

For You ...


I fall for pain and the force that marks me. I thrill in being tugged sharply, harshly to my senses, but I'm no submissive: I relish the fight, the struggle not to be broken, taking each lash or bite or pinch with a sharp intake of breath and a hot rush of blood through my veins. I like those who are certain they can break me; they try so hard, for so long, leaving scratch upon bruise for my pleasure. My purpled souvenir from last Thursday is virtually faded now, sunk into my skin. No one else can likely see it, but I can hear the hushed vespers of its ghost haunting my skin and sinew. For days afterwards, I fingered your impression. I didn't cover it. I watch it fade slowly, hoping that by the time it had gone, you'd be back around to allow me another. You watch me ... I'll make a point of ruffling my hair off my shoulders, inviting you with the blank canvas of my smooth, long neck, my juicy ass or my soft, tanned back.

Nothing is blemished in my blemishes: I find no flaws in a flaw. Bruises, welts, lashes, burns, scars, stains, teeth marks, pinpricks, cuts: I crave and delight in them all.

The other night your eager thumb left a half-moon bruise on my mons, red and tender from holding tight to it while your fingers pumped in and out of my pussy. I stroked my fingers across it during the next day to feel the lingering soreness and remember where I'd been the night before. The marks you left on my neck that time were deepened by your other hand, pressing on my windpipe just enough to make me dizzy, leaving five indents of yourself in my skin. I remember this with the same stuttering breaths you caused then. They are the wardrobe door to my private Narnia. I look at them in the mirror, touch them, caress them. Someone else sees them, gasps, asks if I'm OK and I am straight back inside that fevered place you left me in. My body floats, I feel flushed and heady. My sexual memories are visceral and sensate; I am ever-willing prey to a swift assault of images, sounds and scents. Just one glance in the mirror and the room smells of you, of fresh perspiration on your velvet skin, musk and worn cotton. The slightest touch of this sore spot or that bruise and you're here: your eyes softly shut, full lips flushed, the coarse down of your carefully shorn face tickling my nipples and thighs.

So now you know why, next time I'm talking with friends, I'll pull my hair back on purpose, and make it look incidental. When someone asks who gave it to me, I won't voice your name. I'll smile suave and smug and coy, and shrug my shoulders -- knowing full well they'll know just who from my smirk alone, leaving them to imagine how or where or when I earned my colours.