Soliloquy

Chronicles of a Switch
2021-03-21 09:35:46 (UTC)

desperate and ravenous

*~~~ Desperate and ravenous
I'm so weak and powerless
Over you ~~*

I’ve always been astounded at the chemistry between Kit and myself, all the way back to day one. In the decade (holy shit, a decade) since then, we’ve only blurred the lines between our wants until the boundaries are indecipherable. Kit knows the precise way to bring the Sadist rushing to the surface, or how to leave my inner sub a pleading mess in our bed, shaking apart while she toys with me. And we’re so rarely out of sync; it seems that one of us can flip that equal-but-opposite switch within the other with some well-placed kisses and a few murmured words. We tumble down the rabbit hole together, willingly, needing only our coexisting demons to cushion the fall.

Speaking of, Kit’s mouth is high on the list of things that drive me insane. Teasing nips to my neck (which, really, is a truly unfair advantage) until my knees buckle, the passion in her gaze when we have to part for breath and her lips are swollen and curled in that evil smile, and oh, the SOUNDS she makes. Her bedroom voice has talked me into more things than I can remember, possibly more than I’d be willing to admit.

Except here I am, extolling Kit’s feminine wiles in order to give a backdrop to this particular evening. If I haven’t been clear in any of my other entries I guess now is the time—I am utterly besotted with this woman and have absolutely nothing in the way of defense when she gives me that Look.

And therein lies our dilemma: I’ll refuse myself anything if it feels like I’m asking too much from her. My poor kitten has been in so much pain lately, worse with every day. Somehow my need had snuck up on me, until even the most innocuous little touches made me shiver in her arms. Despite my pussy constantly throbbing, despite my mind going straight to the bedroom whenever I wasn’t paying attention, despite a shortened temper and lessened control, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—ask Kit to suffer more just because I was needy. That would be incredibly unfair to her, considering the other things she does, and with so little help.

Or, so my reasoning went.

My girl, as brilliant as she is beautiful, decided a few nights back that that reasoning was bullshit.

It started off innocently enough; holding one another in bed, enjoying the warmth and comfort and idle chatter as we unwound from the day. Then suddenly, every erogenous zone in my body sent up sparks as Kit’s fingers continued their path across my back, over my sides, up into my hair. Close as we were, I couldn’t hide my reaction while she traced little circles under my shirt. I tried to just let the sensation wash over and through me. It wouldn’t be the first time one of us had gotten the other riled and not been able to follow through, and Kit wasn’t doing it intentionally.

The next pass of her hand was definitely VERY MUCH intentional, nails digging into that spot in my neck that makes me go weak. Which, okay, if that was the game, I could give in, just a little. Enough to take the edge off of this horribly choking need with an orgasm or two ripped out of me with my kitten’s claws. I let the pleasure crawl down my spine, muted but still so, so good.

As I might have mentioned previously, my girl is amazing. She knows exactly how to slam every button I have, until my entire body is sensitive and shaking. Kit’s scratches didn’t relent until I was panting against her, fists clenched tight in her shirt and eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught. She was still digging furrows in my back when my Lady appeared, voice low and sultry, to ask, “If you’re so horny, why aren’t we having sex?”

Excellent question, and one that I was quickly losing an answer for. I tried to explain, before my brain shorted out and all higher cognitive function got replaced by white noise, but got cut off with a hard pull on my hair, exposing my throat, and a demand to know why I thought that wasn’t HER decision.

Who was I to refute that logic?

I don’t remember all of what happened that night. I do know that I have never—NEVER—been so desperate in my life. Capturing that feeling is half the point of this journal. The intensity between us still makes me wet days later, the soreness of the following day a reminder that Kit had picked up on what I needed without me knowing myself. And the memory of those too-sharp spikes of pleasure that lanced into every nerve… I thought the whole “hitting that spot *just right* on every thrust” trope only happened in stories, but lo and behold, there I was, my Lady three fingers deep and lighting me up from the inside. Even the too much of it was scorching hot.

But the hard part to write, the part that I don’t want to put out into the world, but am making myself anyway, is a lingering, creeping embarrassment. I don’t usually talk in bed, not unless I’m responding to my partner. Some of the things aren’t so bad—*give it to me slow* or *do you know what you do to me* are fine, worthy additions, but I went way beyond my norm. I can’t recall it all, but the bits and pieces that I do make me cringe a little. I’m absolutely sure that Kit didn’t mind, yet there’s this heat that creeps up the back of my neck when I think about it. Ten years I still have trouble asking for what I want, what I need, and the one time that it just comes all spilling out, it’s a torrent that I’ve never so much as thought too loud.

Apparently all it takes is my need to bottom paired a few weeks without Kit’s attention to make me frantic, fevered and vocal, and I don’t know how I feel about that.




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