Erotic

i’ve been thinking of something the Marine said for awhile.  She has said it several times and then immediately chastises herself out loud, for attaching a label to me that i don’t claim for myself.

That label is Queer.

And also: Stone Femme.

i object, in my own head (since there is no reason to voice it), to the first word.  But i have asked why this word, why Queer, rather than Lesbian.  

The Marine makes a laundry list of my qualities which she feels certain would make me a separatist among my Lesbian sisters.

i’m not offended in any manner by penetration, by being objectified sexually, by owning my sex, by not counting sex acts in some patriarchy-free manner that includes equality of orgasms.  I’m not offended by my body being objectified in bed, by being nothing more than a vessel for someone else’s pleasure  i don’t even have to enjoy being fucked to enjoy it.  i need force and pain and ugliness.  A hand around my throat means a hell of a lot more to me than a soft caress.  i have no compunction to give what can’t be taken and i don’t care what that means.  There is an exhilaration, to me, in literally being taken.  i won’t apologize for this.  Not to myself, nor anyone else.  It is what i’m built for.

i don’t “make love.”  I fuck.   

On the Stone Femme front:

Yes.  i enjoy the control.  Indeed, i enjoy the fuck (pardon the pun) out of it that Sir Raven’s list of no-no’s for the boy included something she wants the most.  It’s a source of great pleasure for me that she can’t have it.  i swear i can feel her dick get hard at just the slightest brush of my ass against her  And it’s delicious.  

It’s delicious that she can’t do a damn thing about that.  Nothing.  i’m not above taunting her a little bit or a lot.  My face is entirely composed while i do it and i pretend to not notice, not smell how badly she wants what she can’t have.  Poor boy.

i’m not above taking my pleasure.  Something else i won’t apologize for.  

Last night, i dreamt about the boy in a female form, which has never happened before.  i had her by the throat, Sir Raven had me by the hair and it was pretty spectacular.  The ugly of all of us, the coldness, the heat, the deliberation.  What i was watching for was the glint in the Marine’s eyes.  Oh, yes, the gleam.  Wanting to flip the tables and being unable to.  Being slammed into the wall in the dream woke me up, giddy with joy and with lust.

The predator and prey instinct happens here.  We are all three animalistic and it is because of this that i have no shame.  i won’t go down without the fight of my life.  It will happen, perhaps, one day and i’d enjoy it in a way only a person who knows the are both predator and prey can.  

Interestingly, being aware of the predator Stone Femme part of me, the cold and calculating bitch who is happy to take, makes me feel even more interested in being Sir Raven’s prey.  Like the scales must be balanced carefully and always be in Sir Raven’s favor.  Has it only been a week that her hand was last around my throat, rope around my ankle, my pleading filling the room?  i’m lusting and longing for all of that and more.  i’m also shrinking back, shrinking away because while i need her to take and the after-effects of knowing she had me as she wanted me, i don’t necessarily love the getting there part.

Sir Raven mused that i “wasn’t really begging” when she uses me.  i’ve heard this comment before and let it go, thinking that perhaps this is what she wants to believe.  My wanton desire made me speak up the other day and point out that this was a flawed concept.  That indeed, i was begging and pleading for real for the pain to end.  That often, it is pure pain without endorphins for me.  She seemed to consider this for a moment and then sounded quite pleased as she announced that this only made it better for her.

We are wolves here, bare, and growling, real.  

And i love that.

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