It's 3:15 in the morning. My body... gods. Arousal doesn't begin to describe it. Every time I breathe, my nipples rub against the dress I threw on so I would be covered enough to go upstairs and grab a soda. When I shift on the chair, I can feel how wet I've gotten... my thighs are damp, my ass is damp, and I know that if I were to run a finger over myself, that it would come back dripping. I can hear my heartbeat. I can feel my pulse in my clit.

Why does this happen to me? This bliss... it feels so good, to ache like this. So wonderful. But so unsatisfying too... I know from long experience that masturbation doesn't solve the problem. Yeah, orgasms are good and wonderful... but I am the amazing hair-trigger girl, having orgasms isn't THAT hard to do, most of the time. He was one of the first people to learn a rather odd secret... if I'm in the right frame of mind, I can get off on words alone... on simply being told to cum. The bard has learned this as well, I think, and I know that Rhett briefly discovered it, as did Slash... no one else. I don't WANT anyone else here to know, no one who could use it against me.

See, for so many men, they assume that once you've had an orgasm, their job is finished, that's all that is required to satisfy. And yes, some days, days when it's NOT that easy, days when I am horney and tingling and not... dark... like tonight, some days it's enough.

Not tonight.

I want to feel alive. I want the rush of endorphins and sheer heavenly arousal that I can feel at the touch of a strong hand. I don't want to try to comfort myself with memories of rain-soaked grass in a park in northeast Portland, the way my cheek felt when he slapped it... or with my memories of lying face down in a small apartment just off Powell, my ass bright red, listening to a low, gentle voice teach me how to turn the pain into a pleasure I'd never quite reached before... or with my memories of the way my body quivered when I was counting, rising and falling slowly, rhythmically, my 'push-ups' leaving me desperate and no longer craving the painrush, sated, needing only that one final touch, that word, to drift into contented pleasure...

Tonight, the world seems dark indeed. It often does, this late at night... Caleb is upstairs, watching movies and getting wasted with his family and friends. I can't... the movie is one that I REALLY don't want to see, and the smoke from the greenery and from the cigarettes was enough to leave me hacking and struggling for breath after just a few minutes up there. Kitten is goddess-knows-where, asleep I hope... I can picture him curled up as I've seen him, eyes closed, one hand resting under his cheek, the other arm flung up over his head, looking as if he is trying to protect himself from some dream, some nightmare... even being able to protect him would help, it would be a distraction.

Elru is asleep as well, and he has his own problems. I don't want to foist my mental mess onto him... he'll have to deal with it more than enough already. It's kinda amusing... Scott suggested that there should be a User's Manual about me that everyone should have to read cover-to-cover before getting involved with me, just so they understood what they were getting into and so they could avoid at least a few of the pit traps. I wish I had such a book to give the bard... he doesn't understand yet. He's seen parts... he's seen a LOT, actually. I don't think he realizes yet that I will hurt him.

See, when I crave pain this deeply, it stops mattering if it's my pain or someone else's. It stops being important who holds the whip, who is marked, or who is left in tears... I just want to feel. I want to experience emotion... and I am more than willing to do so vicariously. Yes, I would usually prefer that it was my body that was left in shambles... I care too much about my mates to want to tear them up as completely as I am willing to be torn.

Which leads to the catch-22. See, much as I want it, much as I need it, much as I crave it... I know that 24 hours later, a week later, I might not be so happy about the bruises and the harsh words. It's a fine line to walk... and it's one that is almost impossible to hold without falling. I know this. I recognize it. I see the lure I hold out, I want to scream at them, to point at myself and shout that it's all bait, all the love and the comfort and the soft words and softer touches are just bait, that it's all going to fail...

...but I keep hoping that I'm wrong, that someday I won't need it or I will find a way to get it that won't leave me angry at the giver... this is why slaves are so perfect... although part of me is also aware that if they are that willing to suffer for me, that perhaps they have buttons as deep or deeper than mine... it makes me wonder when it is that my slaves will snap, when it will hurt them too much. It always, eventually, hurts too much.

*sigh* I need to get some sleep. Caleb just came downstairs... snuggles are good. I will have snuggles, and pretend to be normal... and in the morning, I will have almost forgotten that this horrible, wonderful, terrible ache even exists.