Thirst

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I live in a temperate climate. By the sea, in fact. It rains. It’s windy. It’s April and the weather is cruelest-month-typical, with sun turningabout into rain and squall quicker than my moods.

But some nights in my bed, in my head it’s wetter even than April showers. And wettest of all when my mind of full of dry, dry heat.

Thirst: I like to think about his mouth. Lips glass-shiny. Cracking. Blistered. Tongue thick and slow, moving like velvet. He’s so thirsty – so dry - he can’t speak. No words. The endless pleading mantra ‘Water‘ is just a shape without a sound.

Thirst: When I press some hard plastic vibrating thing between by legs and push close to Jack so my fingers can twist the silver-fox hair on his chest and he tells me a story about pirates and plunder and cruelty on the high seas – he always talks about thirst. He knows to talk about men tied to the mast, taunted as their mouths grow drier and drier. He knows to talk about salt spray and cages dipped into viciously undrinkable water.

Thirst. Salt. Heat. Desert dryness.

Thirst: Men staked out in the sun and left behind to bake as their jubilant captors ride away. Cowboys tied to trees in the heartless heat. I saw this in some TV show once where they could see the river they couldn’t reach even as their faces seemed to crack with sores.

Thirst: All my thoughts of cruel toil, of men digging great dirty holes in chains, involve water being held back until the job is done and dirt and dust and thirst are more of a prison than the clanking, rusting metal bondage.

And you know that bit in Willow where Val Kilmer is shut in that cage at a crossroads begging for water. In the cage, in Willow, Val Kilmer begs for water from anyone. Everyone who passes him has that power. That runs deep for me too. Like bolts on cages instead of locks. I like that anyone could help. That bolts-not -locks thing might be part of his imprisonment in the film too – it certainly is in my head.

God, and I couldn’t tell you a single other thing that happens in Willow.

Thirst: Just a sadists oral fixation taken to extremes. Just another part of the part of me that loves of kissing and dirty talk and gags and drool and piss and vinegar and soap and dog bowls.

Thirst: It’s about frustration. After pain and humiliation, frustration is the middle way – a little from column A, a little from column B. Frustration is where bondage often falls when bondage isn’t about pain or humiliation.

So for all I love hurting and humiliating him with his mouth. I adore frustrating him with his mouth. And I love denial.

Water. Food. Freedom. Light. Air. Heat.

That thwarted desire. That ache. The same ache as when he edges so close he can feel the tip of the orgasm he isn’t going to get.

Or better yet when he’s inside me trying to meet each gutter-stutter moan of mine for it to be harder, faster, harder still and not come. Not come, because today is not the day. Or it is, but not, not yet.

Because his pleasure is the end of pleasure and for all that can be like a curse, sometimes I wish it had been my own idea.

For as often as that scene from Willow plays in my head as wallpaper to my masturbation, a scene of a guy tied to a bed – a half remembered X Tube find – taken to his edge and then no further as he squirmed and wanted and begged…, well, that plays just as often.

X was a smoker. Hooked on his cancer sticks the way he never would be on me. But that was such a perfect tease. Unlike thirst – which scares me and never steps out of my fantasies - there I could deny and deny and never feel like I might be damaging him.

Oh but, maybe, really, that is why thirst is better. The fear. The dark shadow. The valley. Abandonment. The oubliette.

Course frustrated denial is rampant in femdom. Except that usually the thing that Goddess Marvelous (or, as I saw the other day Madame von Bitch – I am not lying, and, oh, but how this stuff is beyond my parodic skills) is denying is herself. You don’t get to touch me. That crap. Like dominant women have evolved beyond that lame human weak spot where being touched is nice. That we are so empowermented now that we cover our weak woman-skin with rubber and climb up safe on a pedestal. Untouchable, unfuckable… what misery – no wonder they never crack a painted smile.

That – The Untouchable Madame von Bitch - is just a lazy version of frustration based on mansub’s dumb misogynistic pro-and-porn fuelled ideas of what dominant women ever are. (Just like forced feminisation is such a lazy version of humiliation based on so much useless double think it falls apart with one little poke)

I like to be touched. I never really deny men water – that’s scary shit. I never really do a lot of the stuff that’s in my head. But I like to think about not him hot and sweaty. Dry mouthed and thirsty. Even as he’s fucking me.

In my head he’s staked to the sandy ground in a cruelly white-hot dazzling desert, sweat in his eyes and cracks in his lips. I climb on top of him and reach for his scrape of a mouth, but all I have for him in my hands is salt.

Oh but and he’s brave. He looks me in the eye, quirky still. And he’s loving and defiant even though I bring him the last thing he wants.

Because, oh and here is my beating broken heart, for all that I want to be liked. For all my needy. For all that there are parts of me that need my jokes laughed at and my ego stroked and my ideas praised and my sins absolved and hair petted and clit enervated and my love reflected back a hundred fold…

I will always want to be the very last thing he wants in the world.

And want him to love me for it. (For the ingenuity if nothing else.)

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