Melancholic Musings
Sometimes it feels like I'm inside a small glass dome at the bottom of a deep, dark ocean. I see the cracks gathering in the glass and I know that eventually I'm either going to drown, alone and helpless under the weight of it all or I will struggle and struggle until I breach the surface only to find no land in sight.
Sometimes I feel that spiteful, stubborn spark within me yelling at me, spurring me to just keep moving. But sometimes that darkness leaks into the dome and I'm surrounded by a miasma of all of that pain and self loathing, and it gets so much harder to kindle that spark in me.
I guess I'm just intelligent enough to see not only myself trapped in this cycle, but everyone else as well. A part of me knows that to break the cycle, if such a thing is even possible, that I would have to break that dome that surrounds each and every one of us. And that it may just cut us down to nothing in the process. Besides who am I to be capable of anything like that. Just another drowning man.
I try to wave to the others through the darkness in between our respective prisons, hoping that they see me, even though I can't see them. But I hardly see any evidence that they even know that I'm here. Perhaps the miasma grips them deep as well. I don't know.
But eventually something has to give, even if that something is me. Until then, I search for the light where I can, and hope that others do the same. Maybe one day we can cast these dark waters in warm light and finally truly see each other. Finally help each other without the pain and paranoia and greed poisoning us all.
I hope so, more than anything.
Chapter Thirty-Eight – Self Reflection
“Listen to me, you will never be happy.” Gina tells the young man, “The great one doesn’t know everything.”
“I don’t know what to think.” The young man answers.
Gina thinks for a moment. Then she grabs the hand of the great one and they both disappear. They reappear in a small dimly lit hut. An older great one is trying to light a fire. Back when he had his magic, he could use that to light the fire but that was a long time ago. The great one looks at the older version of himself, who is still unaware that he has guests.
“Go on” Gina coaxes the young version, “He cold. You can help him.”
“Why can’t he help himself.” The younger great one asks.
“He lost the ability to use magic a long time ago.” Gina says, “Have some compassion.”
The younger great one looks at his older self-struggle. He waits for several more minutes. The older version is so wrapped up in trying to start a fire that he is completely oblivious to the fact he is not alone. The younger great one makes a gesture with his hands and the fire lights.
This event startles the older version. He turns around and is faced with himself and a woman he doesn’t recognize.
“Who are you?” The older version asks.
“I’m you” The younger version declares.
“You can perform magic?” The older version asks.
“Yes.” The younger version replies.
“How is this possible?” The older version continues.
“How did you lose your magic?” The younger version asks.
“My apprentice and I didn’t see eye to eye, and he took my magic from me.” The older version answers.
“How did he do that?” The younger version inquires.
“I don’t know but you must not train him.” The older version warns.
“Why?” The younger version asks.
“Because he starts a war that will consume the entire world.” The older man answers.
“This woman wants to take your apprentices magic away.” The younger man offers.
“Let her do it!” The older man says, “Don’t oppose her. She is the one from the dream that stops the war.” The old man sits down in a chair near the fire to warm himself. Gina grabs the younger man’s hands and they disappear again.
They appear on the plain where Mark had his battle. The field is strewn with dead bodies. The great one is repulsed by the sight.
“This is where a great battle took place. Your apprentice is responsible for all these lives lost.” Gina explains.
“I failed.” The great one said, “This apprentice that I take on, I fail him.”
“He is happy the way he is now, he is part of a community that cares about him. You take him away from all that. If you allow me to take his ability to use magic away. This war never happens, and he lives a happy life.” Gina explains.
“I want to see him, the way he is now.” The great one requests. Gina takes his hand, and they disappear again. They reappear in a chamber in her own castle. The leader, who used to be the great one’s apprentice, the sleeping.
“Time to wake up” the great one says, as he finishes speaking, the leader awakens. He sees his old master and the girl.
“What kind of trick is this?” The leader asks Gina.
“I wanted your old master to see what has become of you.” Gina answers.
“You are the woman from my dreams. The one who opposes me.” The leader acknowledges, “Why bring him here?”
“Because he has not decided to train you yet.” Gina answers, “Before he does, I wanted him to see what happens to you.” Gina grabs the hand of the leader and the great one’s hand and they all disappear. They reappear in front of the young man.
“This is what you become if you don’t let me take away your magic.” Gina declares.
“What?!” the leader says, “You can’t take away my magic, I won’t let you.”
“Go ahead,” Gina tells the young man,” Ask him what he’s done.”
“What is she talking about?” The young man asks the leader.
“The dreams” The leader says,” The dreams where you see an army sweeping over the world, that is your army. You hear the people of the world calling out for help and you use this army to free them. When the whole world is under our control. There will be peace, and everyone will be happier. This woman is the one who you see in the dream who takes it all away.”
“I don’t know what happens because I always wake up before the dream ends.” The young man claims.
“When you should all see the end of the dream.” Gina declares. She touches all three of them and they all fall asleep.
They all had a dream.
They all saw the wonders of the kingdoms of the world. As these kingdom’s glory passed before them, their glory was swallowed up by a large army that swept over the earth. The army destroyed everything in its path. A madman led this army. The young man saw for the first time, that the madman was himself. As the army was approaching victory, a woman appeared to oppose him. A great sorceress. The two engaged in battle. As the dust settled, the woman who opposed him was bound in chains and cast down.
Run..RUn..RUN!!!!!!
Running through a dark and creepy forest at night
no light in sight, nothing to brighten up the dark abyss
that's alright..everything is fine.. you're gonna be fine..
is what I would've never said if I knew what was coming next
a pack of wolves on the prowl.. they saw me.. and started to howl.
Now I'm on the run which isn't much fun.. when you're running from wild animals that want to eat you or rip you apart whichever comes first. it's hard not to overthink when I could die in a blink of an eye.. oh God I don't wanna die... God please save my life I say knowing I never pray but this time is as good as any to ask the man of many for some help in this dangerous and scary situation.
I run into a cave, I will say I was feeling pretty brave going into this cave not knowing what would be in there, anything would be good except for a bear.. my heart was pounding as fast as it could go.. I needed to get home but I'm stuck in this cave in the woods..I can try to lay down and rest now..
Morning Lecture
I knew her like the back of my hand—perhaps even better. Our morning routine was nearly choreographed: she showered while I shaved in our small bathroom. I swear I could read her mind with all the rambling she did in there. Sometimes I’d say something, sometimes I’d just smile and nod, but she wanted me there, listening, until she was finished and gave over the restroom. And let me tell you, with that bathroom heat, it was like a sauna inside!
Ah, her quirks. Oh yes, she wanted me right there, in the heat of hell, hated even a crack in the door in case a gust of cold air snuck in. Said it gave her chills. You know what I call it? Quirks. What was she talking about in there? What wasn’t she talking about, really? Planning her day, pondering what to eat, even mumbling crazy ideas for her stories, all in this perfectly chaotic symphony that, I guess, she understood.
Singing? I would have liked that, but no, she talked and talked, in a monologue of mental notes, oh yes, I have to do this before that, ah, I almost forgot what I left unfinished yesterday. And don’t you dare touch her towels, all neatly arranged in their designated spot and the bathrobe ready to slip into upon exiting. Of course, more quirks, an inch further and she couldn’t reach it from the shower, as if extending her hand a bit more bothered her.
As she left, I entered. Any affectionate words? Nah, her mental notes continued, occasionally extending towards me; remember to do this or that. A “yes, dear” or a nod would suffice, assuming her attention casually drifted towards me at some point. She’d take a good twenty minutes, insisting that washing her hair was a process, but I’d argue that shampooing and rinsing couldn’t possibly take that long. But hey, that’s just another one of her quirks. That time in the shower was her way of mentally prepping for the day ahead, even if it meant sacrificing a chunk of my time.
Meanwhile, as I bathed, she’d methodically dry herself off with her perfectly organized towels, all while listening to some online tech news or AI updates. And let me tell you, those themes always heated her up; whether it was about job security or the future of humanity, she’d express her dissatisfaction loud and clear, even above the sound of flowing water. Despite all of the criticisms, she’d be the first to join the bandwagon and replace me with the first intelligent android robot to be released.
When I stepped out of the shower, she was nowhere to be found. If I had asked her to wait for me while I showered, she would’ve probably rolled her eyes. Yes, folks, when I finally emerged, she had already devoured breakfast and was eagerly waiting for me to finish so she could brush her teeth. “Sorry for taking five minutes, darling,” I said sheepishly. But that day, when I emerged, there she was, waiting for me with a mischievous grin. It was my birthday, yes, that must have been it, she remembered. “No milk left, hun. Did you drink it all yesterday?” she quipped sarcastically. “Yes, guilty as charged. I chugged it all down, all the way, just like you drain my patience every morning.” But I love it. She treats me so candidly, showing all her quirky stuff and vulnerabilities. And that, my friends, that’s love. Or so I hope.
Prone To It
"I wonder how many passwords I may be able to guess with personal answers," I wondered aloud.
"...Now why even say that? I'm paranoid about anything I've ever posted online whenever you talk like that." Her unnecessary reply cut me.
"No, no, no - not like that. In the... I wonder how much of people, are people, online. You know?" I waved my hand in dismissal at the miscommunication.
[You always switch styles so fast. How did we go from hacking to how comfortable people are to be themselves in spaces you know relatively little about?]
Her blank face, like many, mirrors my confusion - or, highlights the difference between dismay at missed connections and dismissal of miscommunications. Let me try again.
"I'm not being... I mean, I'm not trying to be confusing. What I'm saying is, I just wonder which places and who feel comfortable enough, in today's day and age, to be really vulnerable. Like, in a safe way. When I say safe, I mean they won't become like, dangerously viral or have to join one of those support groups for people who have become viral. I mean, everyone we know in real life is naturally so interesting. I can't imagine they're hard to find online." Over animatedly, I wave my hands along with my speech in hopes I bridge the gap better with more body language. Layering!
[You love layers in fashion. Is that manly? Is that masculine, or feminine, or do you, 'not care'? I know you don't care, but others do. I would pay that some thought.]
"Yeahhh, I still feel like you hit the blunt and it hit you way too hard back." She smiles at me and leans in to me. "It's nice to be with a himbo sometimes, I love the way you look when you talk like that. I just wish it wasn't on such bizarre things sometimes. But that's what makes you, you, and I love you for it, too." Wrapping her arms around me, she squeezes me tight.
"I am not a himbo - I am a lady," I retort, in my black beater tank, farm-grade men's jeans, name brand (discount store) boxers... and sports bra, and ladies' socks, and women's glasses. Rule of three, babes. "I just performed a mental check. I am wearing at least three articles of women's clothing. I do not understand how that does not translate to you."
[You are so artistic!]
"Oh. Can a lady only describe herself in extremely convoluted, irritating, nonsensical, illogical, 'all looks like a scene from her life exactly', 'always comes off like a stream of conscious attempt at being deep', way, and come off Patrick Bateman in real life?" Her tone shifts to harsh from the previous soothing lilt.
"Yeah, babes. Prone to it. I also do not know if that aspect of me is changeable. I do not enjoy it myself, remember that." Mean tone, flat voiced reply.
"Like if I interviewed the American Psycho, you'd hit every mark except for you're like..." She gestures strangely with her hands. Not one to be gesticulative, I pay closer attention to what she says next. It will matter, I know that much. "...like... kind've - well, not in a rude way? But also like, the stereotypical snowflake. I have never met someone so sensitive yet so insensitive to how sensitive they are as you, while also being so vain the main way you chose to convey yourself was in a sort've interview structure. With two of yourselves."
[You are ill with many things.]
"...Okay. Anyways, want to take guesses on when the world figures out it needs an AI-backed translator for different communication styles? I really do feel that would be the single greatest shift in communications globally."
"No. Wanna hit this?" She leans up with the blunt.
"We'll do both," Is this the part of my personality that people tell me is 'steam rolling'? "Or - no, you're right. Lemme hit that. Fuck, I love a good legal state."
[You'll love feeling anxious afterwards. You wish it was lavender so bad.]
"Wait - no, I'll just get anxious." I pass the blunt back to her, unhit. "I've had enough already,"
"You had a puff that I don't know you even held long enough to get anything from." She stares at me deadpan.
"Okay - sure. Okay, yeah, you're right." Getting my gumption up, I grab the blunt back, and puff away at it.
[Too wishy-washy to not annoy her, too cowardly to admit I just don't want to. Malleable. Is sloth not a sin?]
"Does this count as sloth, babes?"
"Now how are we talking about sloths?" She caresses my face.
"Oooh... I don't know, now I see I'd rather speak about the beautiful woman in front of me." Tender Aphrodite... release me...
[What was your first thought, again? Where did we start?]
(Oh shit, haha, I stone you too when I get stoned?)
[Shister, shpace, please.]
(Are we not irritating?)
[We is only spoken as misery loves company. I am not irritating. I can see you irritating most of the world, though, sonny girl.]
(Sonny girl? Did you mean sunny girl?)
[Girl. Look how you are dressed. I said sonny instead of sunny for a reason. You also can't hear the difference when those words are spoken - you always make your own joke openings without realizing how they fall back on you. Given that, I still said what I said.]
(Alright. So. Back to reality. Let's work on making me less paranoid, right?)
[ ]
(Et tu, Brutus?)
[ ]
"Want to watch that one space time movie? Or, any move about time and space? Any sci-fi movies you like?" I ask her in a daze, her sweet, sweet arms around me sedating me.
"Um, not really."
Busy
Everywhere, people walking, some running. Others checking their watch like the rabbit from Wonderland. Other people casually walking and watching their phones, some people walking with friends or their kids and being obnoxious. Everybody going somewhere, holding something. Barely having time to look around. No, they have enough time even though they're busy. If only they'd lift they're heads up and actually look.
The bees are so busy making honey and defending their homes from wasps. But they see the colors of summer, flowers, and watch the small animals with curiosity. They watch everything, see everybody, they see more than any other person ever would in five years than in the humans ninety years.
Look, smell. Just remember that time can go fast or slow. Just make it memorable.
The Value Menu and Sharpie Areolas
He should've known better. Now, after a couple of hours on the road he realizes that Taco Bell wasn't the best choice for dinner before starting an eighteen hour road trip. He feels his stomach twist, the pain so intense that his foot involuntarily lifts from the accelerator. His gut announces its displeasure with a noise that is reminiscent of a grey whale's mating song with a buzzing chainsaw with a fouled spark plug serving as backup vocals.
"Fuck," he groans, frantically checking the off-ramps that pass by with increasing infrequency, looking for an exit that would lead him to anything still open at midnight that would have a restroom.
Unfortunately for him, this particular stretch of Interstate 5 is almost exclusively farmland with no offramp gas stations or truck stops to be found. All he can see for miles and miles is barely visible crops in the headlights just beyond the asphalt's lightless shoulder. Accelerating to a speed that'd guarantee a ticket for reckless driving, he barrels down the freeway praying to find a sign advertising a place with a restroom. His stomach gurgles menacingly, sending a shockwave through his intestines. The increasing pressure feels like a tiny bulldozer covered in battery acid is pushing the contents of his bowels to their only south bound exit, threatening to overwhelm his normally stout sphincter.
Sweating, he tries to maintain a fine balance between the muscles he needs to drive and the tensing muscles he's using to hold back that Burrito Supreme and Nachos Bell Grande he'd eaten just hours ago. Now, if he'd have been wise, he would've asked a Taco Bell employee what food wouldn't cause his gastrointestinal system to declare mutiny against the underwear that served as a demilitarized zone between his anal blow hole and his Levi's. If he had, the Taco Bellian would've warned him that his particular choice in dinner was known as, "The Seat Blaster," guaranteed to obliterate any remaining new car smell a car still has while also doing enough damage to require new upholstery wherever the foolish eater sits.
Twenty, then thirty miles pass. Each grueling second forces him to strain trying to avoid the imminent ass eruption. His butt cheek clench causes him to sweat, the beads of perspiration that form on his forehead smell like red sauce and nacho cheese. Still it goes unnoticed as his fight with rebellious refried beans consumes his senses. Finally, a faded green sign proclaims that there is a rest stop at the next exit just four miles ahead.
"I'm gonna make it!" He thinks, pounding the steering wheel in victory. Oops! He let his attention slip and nearly experienced a rectal jailbreak. "Concentrate!" He admonishes himself because he hadn't packed any extra underwear for this trip. A blow out now would have him going commando until he got home tomorrow late afternoon.
FINALLY, he hits the offramp leading to the rest area. This late at night the remote oasis is deserted, so he parks in the spot closest to the men's room. He can only hope his muscles can take the transition from sitting to standing because getting to a toilet will require a new level of strain to keep the flotsam and jetsam of digested beef, beans, nacho cheese, and sour cream from chumming the sidewalk that leads into the restroom.
Somehow, he makes it into men's room and into the nearest stall. So intense is his journey that he doesn't even smell the stale urine or the scent of a million phantasmic turds that will forever haunt the cinder block restroom. Now, if the sound barrier could be broken by removing clothing, he would've caused a sonic boom as he yanked down his pants just in time to hit the toilet seat. Oh, the pain is exquisite! He forgot that he'd asked for jalapenos on the nachos and their burning exit makes him squirm on the toilet's cracked seat. The torturous expulsion of waste feels like liquid magma pouring out of his body. His eyes squeezed in catharsis inducing pain, he muses that Taco Bell has to be the Liquid Plumr of foods. The pseudo-Mexican cuisine is likely capable of cleansing the colon while simultaneously burning any cancerous or benign polyps lining the poop shoot to anal ashes.
FINALLY, after ten minutes, the fiery bullet train of waste that roared through his intestines has disappeared into the porcelain tunnel. He sighs and reaches for the toilet paper. It's single ply, of course, but he doesn't care. What is a problem is that there appears to be just the terminating four inch long strip of glued toilet paper left on the stall's only economy sized roll. Thinking of what he'd just left in the toilet bowl, there is little doubt that he'd need a full yard of single-ply TP for cleanup. Trying to use just four inches of single ply toilet paper in this situation would be like trying to clean up the Exxon Valdez oil spill with a cocktail napkin!
"Yo Quiero some fucking Charmin!" He cries, his frustrated wail echoing mournfully in the empty restroom.
His next thought is one of desperation, and he knows that he isn't going to enjoy the paper cuts his anus will likely receive from wiping with ass gaskets. In fact, he's pretty sure wiping with the questionably hygienic paper commode covers will make his ass burn worse than the first morning after a prison cell honey moon. Unfortunately, this idea gets scratched immediately because one look at the toilet seat cover dispenser tells him he'll need a Plan B. It's empty.
So, he sits, defeated. "What the fuck am I gonna do?" He asks the graffiti covered door of the restroom stall.
Unfortunately, he has only one option. Check the other stalls for toilet paper. His problem, he doesn't dare pull his pants all the way up because of the very real possibility of walking out of the restroom with the seat of his jeans so soiled that they resemble mud flaps after a mud bogging competition. He pauses, listening for any new arrivals to the rest area. Thankfully, he hears nothing, but he'll have to move fast because he doesn't want to get caught literally with his pants down. With his luck, a highway patrolman could walk in at any moment. Being arrested for indecent exposure and placed on the sex offender registry because someone didn't stock the fucking toilet paper dispenser was not how he wanted to remember this trip.
Gathering up his jeans and holding them just below the fleshy canyon of his ass, he sticks his head out of the stall. All clear. So, he steps out and opens the first empty stall. One look at the stall and he realizes that there's no way he would go in there. The interior of the stall looks like someone strapped a lit stick of dynamite to a box of wet king sized Baby Ruths and threw it in the stall's toilet.
"Jeebus Christo!" He exclaims. "How did I not smell that!" Without a doubt, any toilet paper in excrement splattered, open sewer of a stall would likely be unusable. Besides, he didn't have the hazmat suit he'd need to escape the stall without contracting hepatis, anal warts, a tape worm, and a yeast infection capable of making a lifetime supply of Wonder Bread. So, holding his breath, he moves on.
Thankfully, the next stall appears to be clean, well as clean as a rest area bathroom stall can be. Unfortunately, this stall is also lacking toilet paper and razor-blade ass gaskets. However, the graffiti gracing the back wall catches his eye. Written in bold, black, words, "Hell's Angels Sacramento Chapter Was Here" are menacingly written above the commode. To his surprise, just beneath the outlaw biker gang calling card is a surprisingly good sketch of a naked woman done in the artistic medium of Sharpie. With pants dangling below his bum, he doesn't have time to spend admiring the artwork, but later he'd marvel at the sketch's intricate detail. Who knew that an outlaw biker could also be a Picasso of the potty, or a Rembrandt of the restroom? Everything from the moisture on the pornographic doodle's pouty lips to the little bumps that pebble the areolas that sit like islands on the drawings impossibly large breasts are recreated with shocking precision. Later, during his freeway musings he would theorize that the biker must've honed his artistic skill (along with the occasional shiv) in a penitentiary art class, which to his thinking was tax dollars well spent.
To his relief, the final stall provides him with a new roll of single-ply salvation. He's so elated he doesn't even mind that the toilet paper is so rough and of such low quality that he'll likely walk away with splinters in his ass. Disaster and what would've been the mother of all skid marks averted, he wipes with no less than two yards of TP and with a sigh of pleasure, washes his hands while singing happy birthday to himself twice. After grabbing a Coke at the rest area's vending machine, he gets behind the wheel and makes his way back to the freeway.
Flying down the freeway at 70 mph and no longer afraid that he'll blow his anal o-ring, he tries to calculate where he'll need to stop for gas and something to eat. He figures he should be in Redding by 7 am to top off the gas tank. Now what for breakfast? He only has to think for a second.
"Oh yeah!' He remembers. "Taco Bell now has a breakfast menu!"
Shall We Play a Game?
‘Today, we’re going to play a little game.’ I could hear the laughter in his voice.
‘A game, Sir? What will we play and who else is playing?’ I ask knowing that it is only us two at the moment.
‘Ahhhh…a game of my own creation, but you do mistake me. I should have said that you are going to play a game, while I get to watch.If you please me, then I’ll reward you. If you don’t please me, then you won’t. Quite straightforward, really? Are you ready, slave?’
‘I’m not sure, Sir, what if I’m not up to it?’ He just keeps looking at me with that gentle smile on his lips. I know, I’m stalling. ‘Yes, Sir, I’m ready.’
’Shall we call it Noah’s Ark?’ I gape at him. What in the world have I agreed to? Are animals soon to be paraded around and if so, what in the world am I meant to do with them? My mind tries to scan through the possibilities but nothing seems to quite compute in my head. I look at him a bit panicky. He laughs, the deep, rich sound that always reassures me. ‘I apologise for my little joke. Maybe it would be better called 2 by 2.’ I still look at him as baffled as before, though I can imagine a lot of ways a game named 2 by 2 could play out. Speculating will only drive me crazy. I try my best to look calm, cool and collected, while hiding my twitching hands behind me.
‘You have been learning. I can see how hard it is for you to hold back, to wait, but you’ve come such a long way. I’m proud of you. This is how it’s going to work. First, you’re going to remove your, I have no doubt, already wet, pants. Just throw them to the side.’ I watch him following my every move with his eyes. I take my time, tease it out. I want to see how much his restraint costs him. Unfortunately, he is much better at this than I am. I finally throw my pants across the room for emphasis. And stand there in my dress with nothing on underneath. ‘Oh yes, you’re quite the dissident.’ Okay, so it’s hard to play the rebel when all you really want to do is submit.
’Now, please have a seat there on the chair. Perfect. I have set a timer for you on my phone to run for two minutes. During those two minutes, you must play with your clit, but you must not come. When the timer goes off, you must cease all contact For the next two minutes. Again, when the timer goes off, you will touch yourself again for two minutes, likewise, you are not to come during that time. Now, do you have any questions, pet?’
‘Will I be allowed to come at the end? Or during the game, Sir?’ I hate hearing the desire in my voice, the raw need.
‘We will have to wait and see just how well you do. Now, lean back in the chair, place your feet up on the footstool. Excellent. Now, please pull your dress up over your hips so I can see just what a hungry little cunt you have. Your time starts…now.’
i reach down and find my clit. I take it between my two fingers and slowly stroke it back and forth. I feel my juices start to flow and I feel my arousal peeping out from under the surface. I roll my head back on the cushions as I feel my hunger start to grow. I can feel that all too familiar desire to start snaking over me. It feels so good and my world narrows to a very small awareness. It’s just me, there, pleasing myself and hopefully him. Two minutes, I can do that. That’d be easy. Even as I think it, I can feel my fingers speed up of their own volition. I can feel my lips starting to undulate under the attention of my fingers. As I’m distracted, I almost don’t hear the timer go off. ‘Hands away, slave,’ he lightly reprimands. I hadn’t actually realised I’d not removed them. Looking like a kid who had their hand caught in the cookie jar, I quickly whipped my hand away with my most innocent look on my face. Though I’ve removed my fingers, I can feel that gentle tug of desire, the call for my hand to return and continue to raise my arousal. I try counting the seconds remaining, but fail horribly. How long can two minutes take for crying out loud? Just as I begin to wonder if he has reset the timer, the little alarm goes off. I don’t have to be told twice. My hand moves quick as a flash to return to its gentle thrumming of my clit. I take only a moment to try to catch his eye, gauge his mood, but it’s no use. All I really want to do is masturbate until I have a full release and fall asleep satiated.
My hand whips back and I warn myself to be careful. Go slow. Pace yourself. However, I ignore all of these helpful nuggets of advice and rapidly lose myself to the sensations running through me. I can hear my breathing speed up. My feet start to brace against the footstool and my hips rise just a little bit into the air. Oh yes, that is definitely how I like it. My fingers speed up and my desire starts to fill my mind. I push up harder. I can feel my body responding to my own hand. ‘Oh yes,’ I mutter under my breath ad my hips start lifting higher and my head falls back further. Just as I’m getting into the groove, I hear the tinkle of that damnable timer. I roll my eyes, make a concerted effort to pull my hand away from my clit. I try to press my legs together, thinking that might help, but it actually only makes it worse. I look around, trying to find a clock. Surely, it’s been two minutes. I can’t wait to dive back in. i count in my head, but when I get to the full two minutes, the timer still hasn’t beeped. Is he messing with me? Did he turn on the timer? Just then, I hear the tinny little sound of the alarm.
I slide my fingers immediately into my folds, seeking out the solid nugget in the core of it all. Just as I start strumming myself, I hear him clear his throat. ‘I find it difficult to see just exactly what you’re doing, slut. Spread your knees open please. All the way down now. There we go. That wasn’t so bad was it?’ he calmly states. It’s not like it’s his body being tormented. I pull my knees wide open feeling the air against my sensitive and aroused flesh. ‘Higher now,’ he commands and my hips push up even farther away from chair. I can feel myself pumping, wishing for anything to fill me up, to fill that hole. My hips are picking up a rhythm now, shoving upward, each thrust more abandoned than the one before. ‘Oh, now that’s looking much better, whore,’ he goads me on. Then, I hear it, but I don’t register it until the resounding smack lands across my most sensitive skin. I jerk towards the leather belt that has just left its own contribution to my arousal. I can’t help it as I moan in pleasure. Swish, the belt cuts through the air again as it lands again. I can feel a whimper about to emerge when the time goes off. I can’t pull my hand away. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know I need to but I’m not quite convinced that I can. I feel a warm hand wrap over mine and pull it away. ’Do you remember the rules? he asks, ‘if you please me, you will be rewarded. Now, do you really think that disobeying me is a way to earn my approval?’ I don’t need to look, I know he will be wearing that smirk across his face. I mutter under my breath and force my fingers away.
I try to lower my hips, but they have a mind of their own. Sitting in the chair like this, everything is bared. I thrust harder and harder upward, desperately wanting something to fuck me and fuck me hard. I can hear you approach the chair, you kneel down. Could it be? Will you take care of my hunger? I hold my breath in anticipatio, just as I try to get a reign on my desire, I feel the light breeze as you blow lightly, the wind caressing my burning heat. I can’t take it anymore. ‘Fuck me, please! Just fuck me! Anything at all! Just do It!’ I hear the order and command in my own voice and know instantly, I’ve doomed myself for longer. i squeeze my legs together, but soon pull them apart as it just causes more friction of which I very much wish.
The belt comes down on me three times in rapid succession each lick a reminder that I am not the Master. I close my eyes. Some might think I close them to hide my pain, but I’m actually trying to hide my arousal to not show just what a little pain slut I am. Blissfully, the timer dinags and I am allowed once again to touch myself. ‘You dirty, hungry, little whore. You like that, don’t you? Let me see just how bad you want it. Fuck the air! Let me see your cunt muscles clenching, trying so hard to wrap themselves around anything that might fill your hunger!’ I cry out and just start thrusting my hips in a frenzied desperate dance to be filled up. I lose myself momentarily and SMACK! The belt slaps against the tender flesh of my breasts, first one then the other. I cry out and I beg and plead. ‘Anything, anything, Sir, whatever you want, just please let me cum. May I cum now, please sir? Please?’ I whimper like a little puppy. I try to reach up higher, shoving my hips towards anything near, then I hear it. It seems a million miles away, but I can still hear it.
5 - 4 - 3 - 2 -1 Cum bitch!
I scream and lights explode behind my eyes. My ears are ringing and I feel like my inside is being riI tr
I try to pull away from my hand, unaware that it is my own hand that is tormenting me. I keep stroking, bringing myself to the edge time and again. I scream over and over. Each orgasm shaking me and make me aware that I am becoming overly sensitive and if I keep playing with myself, I might be out of commission for the next few days, but I can’t bring myself to stop. Stroke and scream, stroke and scream, over and over agin until I collapse against the cushions. Replete.
STRESS MESS
The stress that is enveloping me is the fear of not knowing when these stress attackers will come to visit me again. They can surprise you at any moment - uninvited guests that have no boundaries and have unlimited brazenness. Their name is widespread amongst those who have been stricken in the past by this enemy, a gang known as'The Stressors.' They usually attack without any warning and take no heed of your pleadings to "go away, not now." They are a powerful gang and have complete control over their victims. They barge in unannounced and spread paralyzing fear to those who are most susceptible to their war- like attacks. They can break the strongest of men and take no heed of your status in life - whether you're rich or poor, strong or weak, young or old, male or female, college-educated, or a high school dropout. They can visit you for several seconds, countless hours, or remain for years and years. The damage they impart can be temporary or permanent.
You may receive some subtle warning that they are on their way to get you. Your breathing accelerates, your palms feel moist and you try to utilize resources that have helped you in the past. Some people have the strength and the luck to be successful and the enemy is forced to go into hiding/remission. But others, like me, have failed in the past and know that this time, 'The Stressors,' will win this war and that I will be powerless to confront or stop them. The full-fledged panic attack begins. My heart rate increases and rapidly goes out of control. I have tried counting the beats of my heart but I become so stressed out that I cannot concentrate and am unable to count past one hundred. Next, they climb into my chest and turn the volume of my beating heart up so loud that I can't hear myself think. Can you hear it from across the room?
The gang makes my now fragile heart pound so strongly that it pushes against the fabric of my shirt and I am positive that at any second it will rip apart, exposing my bare skin to the chilliness that has suddenly swept through the room and that all eyes will be upon me. I am now so cold that I can't stop shaking; my knees are knocking together and my teeth are chattering. What magic have they used to make my palms so wet? Palms so slicked with sweat that the papers I was holding have disintegrated into a messy mass of pulp. My limbs start to quiver and I am afraid that I will fall down and you will laugh at me.
The worst is the breathlessness - I know I am dying, but if I call 911 again they will most likely bring that psychologist in to talk with me and pretend that I am not nuts, but only need 'to rest a bit' in that brick structure down the road. My stomach is wound up so tight that it feels like a spring that is ready to release itself and tear my insides apart. I wrap my arms around myself and try not to cry. I feel a little sense of relief when I realize that my mouth is so dry that I couldn't cry or speak a word if I wanted to. My teeth ache from clenching them so tightly together and my nails have dug into my palms and have caused drops of blood to fall. Help! Am I going to bleed to death?
This mess of stress is trying to control my life and the nasty gang of Stressors is attacking me more frequently. I've spoken to doctors and have taken their pills. I've attended those 'mindfulness' and 'meditation' classes and have read hundreds of self-help books. I've tried so many breathing techniques that I've lost my breath. Nothing has worked to beat this relentless gang.
I want to go online and look up 'Stress-Busters' but I get so stressed that I might tap the wrong key that I can't make myself do it. But, I will somehow find the strength to click on the 'send' button and send this to you. Please let me know if you receive this - if not, I will be awake all night, wondering if you received this.
Thank You.
Chapter Two
Beck could not believe what he was seeing. There was a woman, alone in the hotel hot tub with her back to him. She was on her knees, facing one of the jets, writhing rhythmically. How did she not hear the gate latch as I entered? He wondered as he stood in awe of the erotic spectacle before him.
Instantly he felt torn as to what to do. Should be make some kind of noise and let her know she was no longer alone? Be a gentleman and just leave quietly? The problem with those two options was that they both required he stop watching. He simply could not. A woman experiencing pleasure was a beautiful thing to behold. He was mesmerized. However, his guilt grew in tandem with his arousal and he knew it was wrong to watch without her knowledge.
From her body language, Beck could easily tell she was nearing orgasm. She was irresistibly gorgeous in this uninhibited state. He sighed. Almost regretfully he loudly cleared his throat to alert her to his presence. She startled in such a dramatic fashion, a laugh involuntarily erupted from him. However, she did not hear it because she was briefly underwater after falling from her “position”.
As she surfaced, her wet hair plastered against her face. She hurriedly tried to push her hair out of her eyes and simultaneously struggled to adjust her bikini. Beck thought she looked like a sexy, frustrated octopus. He also thought it was just about the cutest damned thing he’d ever seen. She refused to look at him and was blushing furiously. Beck wondered if she may say something to him, but she remained silent, suddenly still and looking pensively at the water.
Recognition suddenly clicked for Beck. Ava. Her name tag read ‘Ava’. She was at the conference mixer earlier. He did not get the chance to personally meet her, but he certainly did notice her. He was sure that every male there had noticed her.
“Ava, right?” Beck asked as he eased himself into the hot tub.
She froze and stared at him.
”I’m Beck. Nice to meet you.” He winked at her.
After a few awkward moments, Ava rose and made her way out of the hot tub. Beck did not look as she wrapped her towel around her and gathered her belongings nearby. He heard her quietly swearing as the gate swung shut behind her. Beck could not stop grinning as Ava left. Her flip-flops slapping as quickly as possible through the breezeway.
Chapter One:
https://www.theprose.com/post/814695/chapter-one