Lucifer-InTheFlesh

"People say that writers are the best lovers. Did you know that? I think that that statement is bullshit. I simply know how to place words together to make people wet between their thighs."

I could perhaps say that my writing skills are decent, and my sex skills are more so. That's simply because I've read enough and done enough that I have the time to spend to pleasure someone sexually. I'm not sure why I'm writing about sex, and it feels like that's all that I write about - however, I do not feel that I am that great in bed, to be fully honest. I know enough to get by, just like anything in life. I'm not the best, not the worst (though some might say that I am the worst - when I get bored, I do my best to displease the person that I'm having intercourse with).

Why am I thinking of this? Because I wrote a bit of erotica today.

I want capitalized pronouns, my name carved into your skin with nails. I want your tongue on the sides of my leather boots, your lips spread around my penis as I force it into you. I want tears on your cheeks and piss in stainless steel bowls, cages suspended from ceilings and your wrists colored with the bruises from rope and leather. I want your bottom covered in ruffles and lace, liquid dripping down your thighs and wetting your feet on the floor. I want your mouth sewn shut figuratively, without thread or rivets, no needles needed to silence you. I want your mind, my possession, I want your body used and spread open by me, I want you aching for weeks, forever, every time that it stops hurting I impale you again. I want doll eyes and ringlets in your hair, soft skin and rosy nipples perked and flushed against pale skin. I want red lipstick smeared on your face, my fingers wrapped tightly around your neck and your hair wrapped around my hands every time you try to run from me.

Can I dream of you, slave, dream of what you could be and what you could become? Could you hate me enough but love me enough to make me give into you enough and make me not give up on you? Can you be worth my time and so not worth it at all, give me you and everything of you, everything that you are, that you have, all of your belongings and all of your movements, your thoughts, your wants, desires? The very breath of you in the palm of my hand, dangling on a string, dependent that your heels do not break and that your ankles do not slip. Every dip and rise of you, curve into me, dive into you. I want your cheek pressed against the cold cement of wall, your wrist pressed to the small of your back and my voice, deep in your ear, all the way into your brain, like hisses and growls.

I'm not human anymore, I don't want to be human. I'm an animal, just an animal, and I will have you, pet, I will have you, prey, I will make you everything and break you down to nothing. The dripping of sweat on tile of your body or mine, I don't know anymore because my entire body is covered in you and you're covered in me. We'll make pools of our fluid, make lakes of your tears, I'll press so hard into you that you can't feel anything but me and you won't be able to focus on anything but my fingers, my tongue, my lips, my cock, my voice. I want your screams to fill the room, the street, the planet, I want everyone to hear your cries and I want animals to run in terror from me, your alpha, your dog, your Master. I want my seal branded into the flesh on your ass, I want your body unmarked and clean save for the marks that I bestow unto you. I'll press your breasts into the pavement with my boot on your back, I'll murder your spirit and make you doubt my love for you. That's when I will make you mine. I will plunge into you and taste the tears from your eyes and the snot from your nose, I will spread your thighs with my palms and leave red marks on your skin.

I want to claim you, tame you, and I want my body worshiped and adored. I'll take you, my pet, I'll take you until you cannot stand it any longer. I will make you mine, sweet everything. I will not accept rejection. I will have you. Come to me. I'm waiting.

Maybe there's something wrong with me,
But when I think of the future,
It's only you that I want to see walking down that isle.
You're the only one that I need,
You're the only one that I want,
And I can hide it for as long as I need to,
Until it rips me apart,
Tears me skin from bone,
Kills me and stomps me into the dirt.
Your face,
Pale,
Unmoving,
Is all that I think of.
And it's you that I want to hold in my arms,
You that I want to have in my bed when I sleep at night,
You that I want to spend the rest of my life inside.
Because you are my home,
And I do not want to be homeless.

Well, it is raining where I live at... *Looks at the time.* Two PM.  We are but strangers to many.  One out of six-billion people.  That is all that I am, you know.  That is all that everyone is.  Love: an emotion, yes, but is there anything more to it than, 'definition?'  What is real love?  Is it possible that some of us take emotions for granted?

Can a person be in love with someone that they've met over the internet?  That they cannot feel, touch, hold?  Feelings are diminished when people make mistakes time and time again.  Feelings die, like people, bodies, souls.  Everything dies eventually; one cannot live forever.  Will humanity reach that point?  Will space end, will we live past the end, when does the end come?

When.  Why.  Why?

True love is not being jealous of anyone who touches your love, speaks to them, talks to them- it is letting them go, allowing them to grow and live life; real life.

It does not mean that you've given up, that you are a failure, that you are weak.  It only means that you are the one who was smart enough to end things when they don't work out.

Why beat a dead horse?  It is already dead, it will never wake up, breathe, live.  Why... beat a dead horse?

Until next time.

I wonder how one tells a person the truth... about everything.  It is hard, I must say, to deal with internal feelings when some were conjured up from the deepest parts of your mind.  A fake, or something real?  When I need to choose, it is truly hard- when I need to lie about what I am feeling, it is even harder.  I want to be real and I want to walk away for good.  I have to have something that I can feel, want, need.  Something that I am not aching for, but longing for because I have had it in times past.  It is hard.. to be real.


What if I told you a secret?  Would you still love me?