Her arms are crossed, she talks, her head is tilted upwards, her gaze directed at the ceiling, occasionally returning to my eyes to enquire and reflect, then she talks some more. Momentarily, I wonder, is she wanting me to desire her to a point where I move, where I reach out and touch, where I show my hand? Then, despite the yearning, the deep want to be with her, close to her, my mind returns to its vice; the insecurity that manifests as fear of rejection.
Is there some pleasure in this, the femme fatale, the girl on the pedestal, who knows, who sees what I want and remains aloof?
As a masochist, I am drawn to those who will cause me pain. Denial, for me is more painful than the scourge of a whip, the crushing of my genitals or the raking of my skin.
Denial, courting denial, damages me and the scars take time to heal.
“Whip me, harder, my queen, pick up your whip, fix me fast in your gaze and make me cry with your lips against my neck.”