Lipstick II

Lipstick: Pt.I

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I tore my eyes from his and reluctantly turned my head, looking down and away, dreading his intentions. I gazed absently at the laser-show of colorful lights being played out on the floor, in sync with the interim music, and wondered if it was my semi-muted hearing that caused it to seem less voluminous. I let the thought pass and held the position, as I wanted to take no notice of who may be watching. I felt dizzy and my eyes were still unfocused and glazed, which only served to provoke him further.

The energy and anger pouring from him made my body tremble, and my heart pound.

He tilted my head up to face him, but when I opened my mouth again, to explain – again, he shut me down, by placing his cold fingers against my quivering lips. There was no evading this. He wasn’t allowing me any such luxuries. No excuses would be accepted, or even explanations, evidently.

He stood back and with the same two fingers he’d just silenced me with, pointed toward his eyes, and warned, ‘You will look me in the eye, understand? Do not break contact.’ He quickly reached down and released the last, lower buttons on his 3/4 length overcoat and stepped in close, straddling my legs. It was in that moment, before raising my line of sight to meet his again, that I noticed the rapid pulsing of the large vein at the side of his neck, and a desperate need to lick him there overcame me.

He must have sensed it, because he leaned in, placed his forearm against the wall above my head, and lifted my chin with a curled index finger, effectively en-forcing eye contact – paralyzing me. In a hushed tone, he said, ‘A little farther – now, Open,’ with a calm ferocity I wasn’t quite expecting. He nudged my outer thigh with his knee, took his hand away from my face and lifted the front of my skirt just enough to gain access. In one fluid motion, he placed his hand between my legs, sweeping my panties aside effortlessly and pushed two fingers into my pussy, up to his knuckles.

I drew in a sharp, hissing breath over clenched teeth, with a gasp. My breath released with a whimper, and I reached for his coat in a feeble attempt to cover us. He simply shook his head no … NO, and gave me ‘the look.’ ‘Place your hands back where they were, and don’t move them again,’ he demanded, and removed his fingers. He lifted them next to our faces, and began rubbing my arousal between his fingers and thumb. His inky eyes bore into me, searching. When he got no discernible reaction, he placed his middle finger on my bottom lip, and slowly painted it with my own moisture.

With a cold, rather detached smile, he placed his hand on the side of my flushed and reddened face, and under pressure of his thumb, smeared the oxblood-colored lipstick up the left side of my cheek.

When he took what was left of whatever wetness remained on his fingers and wiped them against my neck, I maintained eye-contact, but could not prevent the spilling of my emotions. I groaned from someplace deep in my chest, and tears fell, unabated, down my mascara-blackened, pitifully tear-streaked face. ‘Bastard, he’s just a friend,’ escaped in a sob, from somewhere in the back of my constricted throat.

He ‘Shhh-shd me,’ chuckled an evil little sound and sniffed my mouth, inhaling my breath. With a prolonged intake, while making an up-and-down, round-and-round movement with his head, he then stopped and spoke gingerly against my lips, taunting, ‘Your mouth smells like cherries, and your lips,’ and he hesitated … ‘like a whores,’ cruelly slithered out, and I winced.

His eerie calm was disquieting and alarming, when combined with the vibes emanating from him.

I felt marked; branded – with scarlet lipstick streaked up my face, and my own scent spread over my lips and neck. He had marked me with my own desire; with some obscene new perfume: Eau de Parfum – La Pusse Naturel!

I felt ashamed and embarrassed, and wanted to melt into the floor. It was everything I could do just to remain standing, but I couldn’t move, and was grateful for the wall at my back.

He pushed away, straightened himself, smoothed and buttoned his long coat and simmered, ‘When I get home, you’d better be there,’ in a tone that sent shivers racing. He tensely ran his fingers through his hair, and paused – as if to say something more, then decided against it.

Just as the band began to play their next set, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

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Peter Green – ‘Just For You’

Hellbound Train

He asked me, “Where are you going?”

I said, “To Hell, If i don’t change my ways.”

Then, He extended His Hand.

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Yes, another music video – one that takes me back … waaay back. I even liked this shit as a girl; a very young girl, i might add – Lookin’ In was one of my favorite; even drew all the album art. *I* think the song is enhanced by the videographer’s effort to punctuate the story with pictures. I like it. It’s freaky groovy, in a good way – well, in a hipster-stoner kinda way. ~smile~ But, then again, like me; it could be an acquired taste. You like it, or don’t.

Savoy Brown – Hellbound Train

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Relics

*

Long, dark hair falls
in a twisted cascade,
sweeping and brushing;
licking her lower back,
tickling her buttocks …
She lifts her head forward,
and sighs; He loved her hair.

*

The scent of it, earth-y;
A hint of vanilla and patchouli,
and clove is locked into her skin …
Aromas, bringing a serene comfort
with their familiarity;
A grounding effect …
Reminding her of him.

*

She has a powerful urge to cut,
and let it fall to the floor;
Carrying the power and strength,
of memory and desire away.
She lifts a single tress to her nose,
Inhaling his dead words and,
absorbs her tears – with the lock.

*

Locks – rusted; became ashen,
underneath: All that grief;
Like a silvered and tarnished halo.
She glimpses the reflection before her,
and sees all that remains – the remains,
of her former self … and,
she wants to slice into the ruins.

*

This isn’t about pleasure …

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Sometimes it is only about pain, and the exorcism of whatever that entails. Sometimes, it is all about the need for the pain to be placed, or focused somewhere else.

There is pain, and then there is ‘pain.’

So, undoubtedly, if you didn’t understand me before, you’re really going to be confused by this posting, because this writing is EXACTLY how i feel – right now. I didn’t write ‘HIS Hand’, personally, but i most certainly could have – especially now. (I want to give this kindred soul credit for this writing, so if anyone knows who the author is, please – please, let me know.) [osmosisofaffliction@gmail(dot)com]

In this place, there is no room for kindness, weakness, empathy, or withholding. It is about the ripping and tearing into a soul – and having the skill to do that – it is about the rape and emptying of what lies there, in those hidden recesses, that elicits these needs. It runs deep, it is real and for some – this level of masochism is frightening, but it is still there, and it is a real need, no matter how disturbing.

That is a lot to ask of a man, any man – and there is only one type of man who understands these needs.

Sometimes we just simply need to have the layers peeled away, and our chest layed open until we are drained, purged and emptied.

Sometimes the pain is about just that – pain: ONLY.

Never make the mistake of thinking i don’t understand the difference.

Here, the pain could never be mistaken for pleasure – or want, desire or anything even remotely resembling it. It is a need, and darling, i understand the extremes of the poles. This isn’t about some game of orgasm denial, because quite frankly – that is the last thing that i want, or need when i am in this headspace – when my hunger is this black, and as dark as it is – no, this is about having parts of me stripped away, until i can breathe again.

The only thing more frightening than not having a Loving Sadist available to meet these needs, is how it will manifest as a self-fulfilling act of – well, let’s just say that we find ways. Whether it be smoking, sleep-deprivation, chemicals, alcohol, risky behavior – you name it … those like me – we find a way. I’m just painfully aware of how i get it done, and to me – that (awareness) is one of the first steps of progress – to healing.

I didn’t ask to be this way. It is simply a part of me.

That is my reason for writing here. My writing will not suit everyone, but it is much better than the unhealthy alternatives. Thank You for reading.

Sorry folks – comments are OFF.

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There is something about
Being pushed up against a wall, face first
Cheek resting on rough wallboard
Breath caught in your throat
Listening to the growling in your ear
And trying to remember your own name

*

There’s something about being
Pushed up against a wall
Your back flat up against it
Staring straight into eyes that see through you
Swallowing hard
Waiting for your heart to start beating again

*

There’s something about
Being made to crawl across the floor
To a seated Man, staring into your eyes
Not letting you not look at Him
Not letting you stumble
Drawing you to Him without a word
Trembling, a whimper caught in your throat

*

There’s something about
Being pulled up by your hair
Feeling that hand slink up your neck
Into your tresses, close to the scalp
Grabbing, gripping it, guttural sounds emitting from His lips
The pain not nearly as strong as the urge
To cry or bite a hole through your bottom lip

*

There’s something about
Being bitten
Especially on the back of the neck or nipple
Feeling His teeth so close to piercing you
Wondering, as you cry out, if He will, this time
Wondering, if you’re going to bleed for your Submission

*

There’s something about
Being bent over the back of a chair, without warning
Without pretense, without question
Having your skirt flipped up, cool air hitting hot skin
Your cheeks blushing, with the same color of your ass
As He warms it with the striking of the palm of His hand
The tears you cry not cooling you
The tears you cry because He has found you

*

There’s something about
Being slapped across the face
Not backhanded in anger, but smacked to bring about
A change in behavior
A change in attitude
To make that lovely wail come from deep in your chest
You long to make it, as He longs to hear it

*

There’s something about
Those words He uses
Those names He calls you
Those phrases meant to elicit a response
And you do respond
All of you responds
And your body betrays you, always

*

There’s something about
Being thrown down and taken
Not against your will
For your will is to be there
To please, to submit, to offer, to relinquish
And you cry out for breath, for more, for Him
And you know you are home

*

There’s something about
Being drug in the shower
Forced to your knees
Hissed at for silence
Growled at to be still
And awaiting the flow
That you know
Marks You as HIS

*

There’s something about
Kneeling quietly beside Him
Your body bruised, reddened, coated, tired
Your mind silent, for once – for a time
Your head bowed, your eyes closed
Your lips quivering as His fingers touch you
Your submission, unquestioned
Your Peace at Hand

“HIS Hand”

She Wants Revenge

Red Flags and Long Nights:

Diggin’ up Bones

2:59 PM 11/22/2009

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I dug her grave with a hammer: a claw hammer. It was a slow fix for the pain: A self-indulgent punishment. While pounding into the earth, it felt like an inverted representation of the sludge sloshing around in my chest. The tightening came alive and screamed with pain-filled rage – piercing the night, like some creature yet unmade; unleashed.

I didn’t care who heard. Let them …

… Listen, then cover your ears.

Try to forget that sound, as I drain and bury more sorrow.

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In anger and pain, memories are exhumed; unearthed to bury grace and resurrection. Claws digging into the womb. Bludgeoned apart and flayed open … The clay made mud, nourished with the tears of a thousand ages. The deluge falls, on a starless night, and all is washed away like leaves drowning in the gutters. Prayers try to escape and i hold them back while cursing you. I fight for breath, before the final blow – the slow descent – of one more, one more time, no more.

I raise my swollen and blood-shot eyes – And I kill you, again – with splinters and thorns and needles, daggers and claws – and curses. And with this sword, I slay you with silent words, spoken under my breath, communing with the dead and dying prayers. The slaughter of Absolution: For I kill you every day – over and over and over – to murder any possibility of redemption. Forgiveness is for the wicked.

Hours turn into years – it is done; finished.

‘Hold fast to Faith,’ – comes an echo, sounding like a twisted whisper. A reminder, spoken with a forked and tangled tongue.

This will only hurt until you surrender.

In a frenzied, blood-thirsty ecstasy, the sharpened edges plunge deeper; becoming more than death. I am here to save you – save you from yourself, my child – as teeth gnash, and water salts the earth. EAT IT! – feast on my body, until your cries are deafening … and you choke. Can you feel me there, inside? Now, drink of me, of My salvation. Take me inside of you, while bloodying your knees at my feet, and drink this muddied offering. It is called Life, and Death.

This is Salvation … ?

It is all for you, He warned with a promise.

To live, one must first die, to be re-born; to live and die again – Never mind the spinning wheels and walking with your head on backwards. The future dies there, in the past, when you’re stuck in the mud. So, we arrive, still stumbling; falling into the unknown, forward – alive and searching – with eyes plucked and devoured, with blood dripping from our hands.

Virgil is screaming in Dante’s voice, the cantos of a dead age. If you listen with your eyes turned outside in, you can see him; hear his wails. He to, was a man of wavering Faith. Accursed with mental torments and prophecies, of our own devolution and yesterdays tomorrows – An era in flames, preparing to burn and rise like the phoenix, into a new dawn: a cold and black Involution.

The future is passed. Love, Hope and Faith fades; dies a slow, lingering death.

Premonition is a mighty strength … breaking apart. Eardrums blown; broken by the shrieks and warnings – of something not of this earth, coming. I cover my ears to – and bury you – Upside down and screaming. Out of the muddy pit, we implore – Reaching for the Saviours hand. Only to descend into the light – bound and blindfolded, and alone.

Bury your senses here. They are useless.

But I died for you! (and you, and you) – He cries, with the ace tucked into his sleeve. It is the spectral energy of the devotee; merged with the wind, carrying the screams of Mary, burning. Joan chides from the flames; mocking – raise ‘it’ high, while I become ash, and in Visions – know that it is the washing away of her immortals’ Achilles heel.

I place the first handful of dirt into your gulping mouth and strike a match. Pricking, bearing down into the rubble: Sin and Salvation – Consumed by fire.

Flesh and Blood is all that is real, here.

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It just never ends …

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Another lovely, pain-inspired fucking post.

I swear to fucking god, it never ends. Ever!!!

My baby girl died, my kitty: Baby, or MissTache – I call, called her Baby Tache (she had a white mustache, and when she meowed, she sounded like a baby, and had the flattest little face of any persian i’ve ever seen – she was so adorable.) She was fine one day, and gone the next. Just fucking dead. She’s gone – no warning, no indicators, no symptoms of anything – Nothing! … just gone. I love my Baby Tache. My fucking heart hurts.

I went to bed crying, woke this morning without her lying next to me, and have started all over again. She wasn’t just a -cat- or just an animal, or pet – she was my friend, and she deserves a place here, in my online ‘House of Misery.’ I’m so sick of crying – It’s all i do anymore. I am so, so, so very tired of this. Tired of losing everything i love.

Everything goes away, given time.

I have to go. I can’t write anymore right now.

I want to break something.

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