Afterwards
Reminders at the most mundane moments.
The edge of a drinks bottle on kiss and bite plumped lips.
Bag strap across breast bruises,
bag banging on deeply sore butt.
Sitting becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
Public transport vibrations hitting the spot.
The sore, used aching spot.
Finding new bruises in the mirror.
Prodding them and remembering your fingers, your lips, your teeth
on me.
Sunk into me.
Clamped down tight.
Wrapped in a web of continued pain
reminding me
How you entwined me in your rope.
Consumed by masochistic delight,
like when you fingered me hard
And chomped into my throat all the harder.
Sliding into submission,
not unlike the way I slid on the floor
as you poked, prodded and kicked me
For your pleasure.
Every movement
a memento
of your meanness
an echo
of our play
on repeat.
I feel your phantom, sadistic touch
Afterwards
If you’ve not read about the events before that prompted this blog, check out Lunch and Lust:
Great prose – tells your story so well with an urgency that is not only to do with the words but is also the fab way you set it out too ;-)
Why thank you, the words set them out of their own accord as I write them. I don’t realise how they sit, til I read it out loud. :)
“The sore, used aching spot” that lingers and crops up again, while on public transport!
I love all the layered implications there and practically feel that rumbling ache myself…
Excellent. I’m glad. The vibrations of a bus can be tortuous indeed!
Love that picture and how you describe “afterwards”
Thanks, my new earrings are pretty damn cool.