Mentally A Living Corpse

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Want

I want to be housed inside a large bird cage that is as golden as the sun. One that is decorated by an elaborate design made of brass—displaying the intricate craftsmanship of peacocks and lotuses. I want floral bouquets to accompany my lonesome presence inside it—surrounding me with vibrant colors that compliments my natural shades.

I want to look clean and pretty.

I want nothing but pearls and delicate gold chains to adorn my naked body. I want to playfully sit on the swing as I peacefully hum a tune to his favorite song while I wait for him.

I want to wear those pretty flowers in my hair with a velvet rose decorating my choker—one that matches the color of my red stained lips. I want to glow like the moon in the night sky and be as soft as the petals of a peony in full bloom. I want to remain in solace behind rows of imperishable bars and only be rewarded with release when deserving of it.

When I see him walking in, I want to run up to those bars, press my skin against the cool brass, and gleefully address him. I want to gasp out ‘daddy!’ in excitement as he smirks and holds up a gold key. I want to hear the depth of his vocal pitch when he asks if I had been a good girl during his absence. I want to watch in delight as he stands tall and pristine in his suit, permitting me freedom at last. I want to jump up and hug him as he simultaneously kisses my forehead and pats my head.

I want to look him in the eye and flare a playful smile. I want to slowly drag my breasts against his abdomen, nuzzle my nose against his groin, and leave a trail of kisses along the length of his legs as I kneel before him. I want him to cup my cheek and swipe his thumb over my parted lips before inserting it. I want to lavish his calloused digit with the warmth and moisture through the smoothness of my tongue.

I want him to respond with a chuckle and call me his little ‘kitten’.

I want him to sit on the sofa and light up a blunt. I want him to take the first puff and signal me to approach with two of his fingers. I want him to gently cradle my chin as he blows the smoke into my mouth. I want him to present the blunt to my lips and guide me through every step in reaching my high. I want to hear his commands…

“Inhale. Hold. Now, exhale. Good girl.”

I want my mind to grow hazy as I watch him stare me down and place the blunt back inside his mouth.

I want him to hook his finger through my chains and pull me in between his legs. I want him to twirl the strands of my hair between his fingers as the exhale of smoke escapes his lips. I want to look up at him with wide eyes and appeal to his dominance…

“Can I have it?”

I want to watch him nod firmly with a stern but amused expression on his handsome face.

I want to make love to the part of him that not only destroys me, but puts me at ease. The part of him that lets me settle into my most natural state of mind and comfort. It is the part of him that makes me forget that the world exists—that Heaven and Hell are the only features of paradise and reality. I want him to give me pleasure and pain. Light and darkness. Beauty and destruction. I want him to to make me feel the unthinkable and yearn for the unreachable.

I want to worship that part of him with my tongue and lip. I want to coat it through various momentum’s until it is glistening like Orions Belt. I want to trace the veins with the tip of my nose and flutter my lashes against the base. I want to appreciate it and pray to it. I want my body to be its monumental tribute so that I may continue to honor him until I am no longer connected to life and Earth.

I want him to use it on me. I want him to shatter the softness of my lips. I thirst for it’s potent nectar and yearn to please it so that it will satisfy my hunger. I want to be both, fearful and thrilled by its appearance alone. I want it to make me cry. I want it to make me smile. I want it to bring me down and raise me back up.

I want his hand to grab my neck and pull me up. I want him to simply say “open” and become fiercely proud as I portray instant will and obedience. I want him to spit on my tongue and command me to “swallow.” I want to combine the essence of my docile spirit and his dominating energy.

I want him to guide me onto his lap. I want him to take his belt and strap my wrists behind my lower back. I want him to take one final puff before he puts the damp end of the blunt in between my lips, and orders me to inhale deeply.

I want him to order me to hold it in as he grabs on to my hips, and slowly pushes himself inside me—forcing my walls to segregate. I want to struggle for air as he firmly warns me to obey. I want my mind to spiral out of control. I want war and chaos to break loose between the sensational, physical, and psychoactive stimulation that rages inside me. I want him to take my breath away as he surpasses through every bit of friction and tension— until the very last inch of him is nestled deep within me.

Finally, when the regions of our bodies connect and he is reaching the deepest parts of me, I want to receive and obey his order when he tells me to exhale.

I want him to massage my throat as I gasp and cough. I want to choke and become desperate not only for him, but for the air he breathes. I not only want him to control my happiness, pain, and pleasure—I want him to control the way I live.

I want him to grow sadistically wild and break into me. I want him to make me salivate on both ends. I want him to punch that soft spot until I scream and beg. I want to pulsate around the mighty circumference of his godly shaft, and tremble ferociously until I can’t take it anymore. I want to receive the one thing that only he can give me—to be tickled by the feathers of an angels wings, yet burned by the fires of Hell. To be embraced by God and kissed by the Devil.

He is made of flesh and bone but his creativity is out of this world.

I want him to take me away and do everything to me. I want him to put my body through torment and rage like only he can. Once he’s done, I want him to piece me back together so that I am stronger, smarter, and better than before. I want him to teach me how to heal from pain—not to take it away. I want him to teach me to smile for each time I cry. I want him to warn me of the acts of betrayal, yet reassure me of his trust and confidence in us. I want him to teach me loyalty, commitment, love, and respect. I want him to make me feel reborn. I want him to transform me—to bring out my wings so that I may soar below him, yet remain his equal.

I want him. I need him. I crave him like the forbidden fruit. I want to please him.

…but I’ll never find him again.

"match my freak!" match my sweetness. match my benevolence. match my empathy. match my ability to feel emotions so deeply it tears me apart from the inside out