Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.
AN: This story deals with delicate issues. Read at your own discretion.
Betaed by the lovely Laurie Whitlock.
... a good game ...
The ancient wooden floor feels raw against the too sensitive skin of my forehead. My knees are throbbing and my legs are burning with the strain of maintaining such an unnatural position. My arms are numbed from the effort of defying gravity. Muscles are cramping and bones are hurting. My ego is bruised and my mind rebels against the indignity of the situation. Logics dictate that I should get up and leave. Yet, I stay.
Anticipation and fear. I want her to come. Will she come? I fear what she will inflict on my body, in my soul. Will she hurt me too badly? I need to be inside her body. Will she let me? I crave the pleasure that only she can give me. Will I be allowed to feel it? No, it doesn't matter. I don't matter, not anymore. It's all for her. Her pleasure, her needs, her wants ... pleasuring her is my only purpose.
I feel it creeping on me, that dark place of non-existence where I'm consumed by the embers of desire until there are only ashes of my former self. It's strangely liberating, being relieved from the burden of choice, stripped from any trace of pride or self-worth. I'm a thing, an object ... nothing but a writhing mass of longing.
A smile finds its way to my lips. I used to fight the strangeness of compliance, but not anymore. A long time ago I learned to accept that this is the penance for the sin of wanting her as I do. Surrender is sweeter, for it means that she will come to me. Yes, she only comes when I'm completely depersonalized – no longer a man, merely a pleasure object.
As my soul makes peace with the predicament of my body, pain turns into pleasure, discomfort into excitement. Certain parts of my anatomy respond in kind, hardening, lengthening, aching, weeping ... It's her, it's all for her. I'm not anxious, I don't feel the need to find relief. I'm calm, collected. I'll wait as long as she wants me to, because it's what pleases her: me, at her mercy.
It's bizarre how much I yearn for this submission to something, someone greater than myself. I want to be crushed under the weight of a will stronger than my own, to be forced into situations beyond my control, to be pushed outside of my comfort zone. On the restless nights when sleep eludes me, I'm repulsed by these feelings, appalled by own weakness, nauseated by the things she demands.
Many times I made promises, but they were impossible to keep – I can't stay away from her. I turn myself inside out, defy my own nature, stretch my boundaries to accommodate her tastes because of this unholy force compelling me to be with her. I hate how much power she has over me and how much she relishes reminding me of it.
But none of these things matter, not now. Not when I hear the door opening and the click of her heels approaching me.
Don't be shy! Let me know what you think.
See you tomorrow.