|
Previous - this entry written on September 08, 2002 at 1:13 am - Next Quiet. Music sweet, soothing. I can feel hands on my body, touching, caressing, and slowly my vision is fading. Such sweet music... well I've been up to paris and I slept in the car went down to barcelona someone broke in my car and i'll search the world over for my angel in black yeah, i'll search the world over for a Eurotrash Girl... ...took the train down to athens and i slept in a fountain some swiss junkie in berlin ripped me off for my cash yeah, i'll search the world over for my angel in black yeah, i'll search the world over for a Eurotrash Girl... tonight is the last night I get to... enjoy... the drugs I've got. Tonight is my last celebration, as it were. Once again, I find myself staring at bills, wondering how I'll pull through this time. So many things change... when I was racking up these particular debts I thought that I didn't have as much to worry about, I thought that I knew how they would be paid, that for once I chould get medical treatment When I Needed It, instead of waiting until I could actually afford it. ...so dizzy now... I wonder what my boys are doing right now... I wonder what Elru and Rhett and SnowTygrrr are off doing... I wonder, tired, eyes barely able to stay open, if maybe I'll be able to sleep despite the cuffs and collar and just-out-of-reach leash. Damn this... I can't even finish one sentence without my fingers slowing, lost on some other train of thought. They took my ticket but got me on the wrong damn train in the wrong damn station headed the wrong direction entirely. Waiting, now... half-hoping I do hear back from Angel... half-hoping I don't. Being confused by the things in my head. It's not even 2:00 am yet but I am up, awake, my body pulsing to the white-hot rhythms spun about my favorite songs, hands clenched when not tying - struggling - to type. I can't feel, can't see... I think that the one cut Raven's been allowed will be... used... tonight. Inner thigh, upper arm, another place. Drowning. Dreams, drowning in dreams. I want someone here right now, someone who can guide my dreamwalking, show me which paths to follow... it IS intense, and hard to find my way. Guide, I need a guide, not just a part-time helping hand. I can see someone, a reflection of the dream-voices that struggle to help me. Itching. Another reason to take shelter in a blade-kiss - sharp burn, the sting of steel biting into flesh, that sudden sweet focus of pain and sensation into one brilliant red line... it helps ME focus. The best I've slept recently was when I rolled over, catching my breast on the sheet, waking up just enough to feel the ache... then sleeping so sound, so content, that I am amazed I woke up at all. If they offered THAT sort of a meal, at the more ritzy restaraunts, they'd get quite a bit more business. Memory fragments - "I drew this, I sketched that, see here, it's MINE"... imagination is the fire lit within myself, my soul. I want to show the world this flame, warm them, burn them, mark them all. I think I'm envious. ...please could you stay a while to share my grief it's such a lovely day to have to always feel this way... Strange. Mad. Twisted. Insanity, and then my boy slides into existance beside me, words and text but pure enough, real enough, that I can cling to the lightning-flash of his shou... ...doubled up inside take a while to share my grief always doubled up inside taunted cruel... Drinking, not alochol, but grapefruit juice - I've gone through so much of this stuff over the last few days. Don't know why. Don't know why at all. Salt-sweetened and cold, ice cubes clinking against the plastic sides of the cup I use, my voice husky after the third or fourth glass... the oils and pungent scents seem to scald my throat, burning tiny fruit-flavored scars into my voice. ...growing in numbers growing in need can't fight the future can't fight what i see people they come together and people they fall apart no one can stop us now 'cause we are all made of stars... Counting scars, just on my breasts, from the past month or so... or at least, scars and marks that I think will form scars once they've healed...: 33 Thirty-three marks, ranging from tiny 1cm lines to a long line that's at least 2.5 inches to several almost-round circles that started as little more than a pinprick. Started small... but then, slowly, I drew them further. Fingernails pinching away a bit of skin here, teeth biting up a shred of flesh there, squeezing out a drop more blood or talking myself into taking a knifepoint to an uneven edge, smoothing it out until the circle is near-perfect, filling so slow with crimson tears... An image forming in my mind now, one perfect simple image, brought about by my cat's presence, his musings, my own... always, he colors my dreamings when I speak with him. He's given me this picture now, a dark room... ...floors covered with furs, each skin taken from an animal stalked in a fair fight, one small gun, one large knife, a blowgun with its darts full of sleep drugs. You could lay against each fur and almost taste the struggle it took... here a damaged paw, there a few slits in the flank where the knife bet in the first time... Only a few furs would be left with their heads, that honor reserved for the animals who put up a fight worth bragging about and who still looked good, sprawled there on top of their kin, the leaders of their pack... ...dreaming, briefly, of hands against my skin, of a tanned figure crouched, kneeling... it would be priceless, seeing her wrapped in one of those furs, stalking closer on all fours as I lay back, legs spread, my own hands busy teasing myself into full arousal, my head thrown back abruptly as I watch dark hair descend, sightless wildcat head observing me as I use my slave's mouth, my hand in the slave's hair, guiding, instructing... ...skilled tongue licking along my slit, mouth drawing each of those so-different lips in, sucking gently, nipping, teeth sending waves of pleasure through my hypersensative flesh... I can imagine the rush of heat and mion I would feel, lying there... the air nearly solid, glowing gold in the evening light, dust motes dancing in time to the frantic pace that sweet head moves at... ...a collar, not tight, but locked in place around the slave's throat... three chains. One chain leading from each side, connecting to a wide leather thigh cuff I'd fastened around each of my thighs... a sturdy bondage belt around my waist, a long chain leading from a metal loop at my stomach, down between my legs, to a metal loop at the small of my back... and the collar fastened along this chain as well, allowing up and down movement, allowing a certain amount of freedom of movement... up, down, a hint of side-to-side... but still helpless, the slave unable to pull back, unable to escape the scent, unable to do anything really, but obey... locked there. So delicious, tasting some helpless little slave's fear as he realizes taht there's no way he can escape this... even if it's a task he would normally beg to do, this forced obedience makes it hurt. After all, how can a slave take pride in how willingly he licks and sucks and strokes his Mistress to orgasm when, instead of being a proper, obedient, compliant slave... he is not allowed to be anything, really... forced into existance as nothing beyond a mouth to be used. Not touched anywhere but his mouth and head. Not fed or allowed water for a while beforehand, making the juices he licks at seem sweeter, far more satisfying... ...he'd beg to be used like that, but when it happened... ...tears. Little boy tears. Some of the best. I am a bit distracted now, it seems... and, amazingly enough, not just by painkillers or wriring. I am speaking with someone who really should get a journal so I could link to it. ...and I closed my eyes, for only a second I swear, but five minutes later I opened them, wondered why I was sitting here in front of the computer, not drawing on anything, and not being licked. Is it any wonder I like my dreams? I'll be your protector, babay... damn bondage faries... damned conversations... damned conversions... I keep blanking out for split seconds and coming back to find out I've had one key held down long enough to have a good 20-30 of that letter on the screen. Odd and strange. ...oh, gods. I'm SO going to jail someday. Bad Jax. No looking at underage boys, particularly when they aren't anyone's boy toy and will never be YOUR boy toy... hm. Frustration. Maybe I'll just go masturbate. That sounds almost satisfying. At least if I manage to cum, then sleep, I won't be worrying about bills. ...grr. My own fault, I suppose. Damn it! I just want to relax... is that so hard? Hosted by Diaryland - All Rights Reserved - Image, Layout, and Content copyright Jax Raven - - Do Not Feed The Moose - |
