I have set a few ramblings to auto-post this week, so know that I have not suddenly started ignoring comments, I'll just likely have to catch with everyone on the weekend.
I did something that I never voluntarily of my own accord done--I talked. And I begged.
I whispered my dreams and my fears, my musings and the feeling of him. I scratched and bit and begged him to hurt me. I whispered about the puzzle piece we always held so dear, perhaps now the missing link to that click we are striving for outside of us. I whispered about how we are better living M/s and why I run, about how I can feel the beast and sense his need.
He used me. Chewed me up and spit me out. Not so silent in the night we met in our passionate rage, a physical fight I lost with pained grace.
And when I could go no further, he pushed me more.
I whispered my fears and desires, for the first time ever offering verbal acknowledgement of the flickering in his eyes, the starving beast nipping at the edges of control.
I begged for pain and it came. I begged for it to stop and it did not.
Say what you will, masochist or not, pain makes everything else go away. For the first night in a very long time, I did not dream of work. In fact, I did not dream at all.