SpicyBean99
Word Slut
- Joined
- Oct 14, 2024
- Posts
- 3,715
https://postimg.cc/t1mdJ4gf
Good Girl - A Submissiveās Confession
(For adding atmosphere play: I Feel Like Iām Drowing - Two Feet)
Sitting at the edge of my bed, I lean back on my hands and let my head fall gently behind me, releasing a slow breath of relief. I needed this, an evening to myself, to be alone with my thoughts, to let myself fully feel. I am so full of desire I feel it spilling from my every pore, coursing through my veins and filling my body with a desperate temptation. I need this.
Time alone, where no one expects anything of me. Only here, in my room, can I sit still long enough to feel the ache I usually push aside and ignore until it becomes all too much. It makes me restless in ways that are difficult to explain; the feeling can be so overwhelming it often makes me feel almost melancholy.
This awareness of a lack of intimacy, of the empty space in the bed, the lack of a warm body to comfort those parts of me that are otherwise untouched. The awareness of the time I have spent waiting for someone to touch me with nothing but pure intention.
I press my hands into the soft sheets below me, the fabric gathering in my fists as I grip it subconsciously, closing my eyes and letting my shoulders rise and fall with the slight quickening of my breath. It is strange, isnāt it, how the body remembers when it has been without touch for too long. Each seemingly insignificant place, the inside of my wrists, the hollow at the base of my throat, the delicate skin along my collarbone, where fingers or lips might pause their travels, craves touch.
I loosen my grip on the sheets and slide my hands slowly across them, smoothing the silken fabric as though preparing a place beside me, and I find my fingers lingering on the space at my side.
This is where someone could sit.
Close enough that our knees would brush if either of us moved, and close enough that I might notice the warmth and readiness of their body before they even touched me.
But what I crave is not simply closeness. No. I crave the comfort that comes from the safety of feeling both worthless and worthy all at once. I want to be allowed the permission to be submissive.
To fully submit.
Submission, to me, is not weakness. It is the surrender that comes with trusting someone enough to let them see you, really see you. To see you without the armour you carry through the world, despite all the things you despise about yourself, the darkest parts of you. It is the rare comfort of placing your lonely, restless thoughts into steadier hands and allowing someone else to decide where their touch should fall.
In my mind I can almost feel hands closing around my wrists, firm enough that I could not pull away even if I tried. My own wrists shift slightly where they rest agaisnt the bed, and I lift them for a moment, imagining how easily another pair of hands might guide them, keeping them exactly where they should be.
I stand, slowly and turn around, my eyes resting on the items I have laid out at the foot of the bed. A flogger, a candle, a stock whip. My breath deepens as I get down on my knees, leaning forward.
In my mind I can feel it again: one hand tying leather around my wrists, drawing them together, and another hand tightening around my throat, restricting my desperate, needy breaths. The weight of a hand around my throat alone would be enough to remind me that I am exactly where I am meant to be. The thought makes my shoulders lower, my body responding to phantom guidance as naturally as though someone were truly standing there. I tilt my head forward slightly, instinctively yielding to the touch and a small moan escapes my lips and I reach for the whip.
My fingers brush the handle of the whip before closing around it. the leather is smooth and cool in my hand as I bring it forward, the length of it sliding softly across the sheets. My head lowers again, hair falling forward as I lean over the bed, my free hand gripping the sheets once more. I draw the whip back slowly, imagining a steady voice, leading me, telling me that I deserve to feel this. The first strike lands across my back with a sharp snap that cuts through the silence in the room and my breath catches in my throat, a sudden rush of sensation spreading through me. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs already and I close my eyes again as I repeat the action two, three, four times until I am out of breath. The sensation in my lower tummy is too much to bear, and for a moment I remain there, leaning over the bed with my eyes still closed.
My hand releases the whi,p which falls quietly onto the sheets beside me, and I shift slightly on my knees, my breathing still deep and uneven. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame and desire; the room feels warmer now, the air around me almost thick with my arousal.
My hand drifts downward almost absentmindedly, sliding between my legs. The touch is gentle at first, hesitant, as though I am rediscovering the warmth of my own body after having given myself over to the moment. I am oh so wet, my fingers coated in want and desire. I let my finger swipe gently across my clitoris, still imagining those unseen hands there, guiding me, allowing me this moment as though it were something earned rather than taken.
Good girl.
The words are not spoken aloud, yet it truly feels as though someone were whispering those words in my ear, assuring and approving. Still on my knees, I slide forward, my arm under my body, knees splayed as I push a finger in deep, feeling for the sensitive ridge that almost inevitably makes me explode. Pressing my forehead into the bed, I take the bedsheets between my teeth, biting down as the tension inside me rises. My hand moves with growing urgency, my breathing uneven, moans now suffocated by the material filling my mouth, letting the sensation build.
My orgasm breaks through me all at once and I fall against the bed, body shuddering, goosebumps breaking across my skin. For a small moment the room disappears entirely, blackness fills my vision as I feel the desire slowly leaving my system. I release the sheets, now damp from my mouth, and rest my cheek against the mattress, breathing deeply as the quietness of my room returns around me.
Behind me, there is no one.
No hands.
No gentle, domineering voice.
And yet the ache that had been building inside me has finally loosened its grip an for tonight, at least, it feels enough.
Good Girl - A Submissiveās Confession
(For adding atmosphere play: I Feel Like Iām Drowing - Two Feet)
Sitting at the edge of my bed, I lean back on my hands and let my head fall gently behind me, releasing a slow breath of relief. I needed this, an evening to myself, to be alone with my thoughts, to let myself fully feel. I am so full of desire I feel it spilling from my every pore, coursing through my veins and filling my body with a desperate temptation. I need this.
Time alone, where no one expects anything of me. Only here, in my room, can I sit still long enough to feel the ache I usually push aside and ignore until it becomes all too much. It makes me restless in ways that are difficult to explain; the feeling can be so overwhelming it often makes me feel almost melancholy.
This awareness of a lack of intimacy, of the empty space in the bed, the lack of a warm body to comfort those parts of me that are otherwise untouched. The awareness of the time I have spent waiting for someone to touch me with nothing but pure intention.
I press my hands into the soft sheets below me, the fabric gathering in my fists as I grip it subconsciously, closing my eyes and letting my shoulders rise and fall with the slight quickening of my breath. It is strange, isnāt it, how the body remembers when it has been without touch for too long. Each seemingly insignificant place, the inside of my wrists, the hollow at the base of my throat, the delicate skin along my collarbone, where fingers or lips might pause their travels, craves touch.
I loosen my grip on the sheets and slide my hands slowly across them, smoothing the silken fabric as though preparing a place beside me, and I find my fingers lingering on the space at my side.
This is where someone could sit.
Close enough that our knees would brush if either of us moved, and close enough that I might notice the warmth and readiness of their body before they even touched me.
But what I crave is not simply closeness. No. I crave the comfort that comes from the safety of feeling both worthless and worthy all at once. I want to be allowed the permission to be submissive.
To fully submit.
Submission, to me, is not weakness. It is the surrender that comes with trusting someone enough to let them see you, really see you. To see you without the armour you carry through the world, despite all the things you despise about yourself, the darkest parts of you. It is the rare comfort of placing your lonely, restless thoughts into steadier hands and allowing someone else to decide where their touch should fall.
In my mind I can almost feel hands closing around my wrists, firm enough that I could not pull away even if I tried. My own wrists shift slightly where they rest agaisnt the bed, and I lift them for a moment, imagining how easily another pair of hands might guide them, keeping them exactly where they should be.
I stand, slowly and turn around, my eyes resting on the items I have laid out at the foot of the bed. A flogger, a candle, a stock whip. My breath deepens as I get down on my knees, leaning forward.
In my mind I can feel it again: one hand tying leather around my wrists, drawing them together, and another hand tightening around my throat, restricting my desperate, needy breaths. The weight of a hand around my throat alone would be enough to remind me that I am exactly where I am meant to be. The thought makes my shoulders lower, my body responding to phantom guidance as naturally as though someone were truly standing there. I tilt my head forward slightly, instinctively yielding to the touch and a small moan escapes my lips and I reach for the whip.
My fingers brush the handle of the whip before closing around it. the leather is smooth and cool in my hand as I bring it forward, the length of it sliding softly across the sheets. My head lowers again, hair falling forward as I lean over the bed, my free hand gripping the sheets once more. I draw the whip back slowly, imagining a steady voice, leading me, telling me that I deserve to feel this. The first strike lands across my back with a sharp snap that cuts through the silence in the room and my breath catches in my throat, a sudden rush of sensation spreading through me. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs already and I close my eyes again as I repeat the action two, three, four times until I am out of breath. The sensation in my lower tummy is too much to bear, and for a moment I remain there, leaning over the bed with my eyes still closed.
My hand releases the whi,p which falls quietly onto the sheets beside me, and I shift slightly on my knees, my breathing still deep and uneven. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame and desire; the room feels warmer now, the air around me almost thick with my arousal.
My hand drifts downward almost absentmindedly, sliding between my legs. The touch is gentle at first, hesitant, as though I am rediscovering the warmth of my own body after having given myself over to the moment. I am oh so wet, my fingers coated in want and desire. I let my finger swipe gently across my clitoris, still imagining those unseen hands there, guiding me, allowing me this moment as though it were something earned rather than taken.
Good girl.
The words are not spoken aloud, yet it truly feels as though someone were whispering those words in my ear, assuring and approving. Still on my knees, I slide forward, my arm under my body, knees splayed as I push a finger in deep, feeling for the sensitive ridge that almost inevitably makes me explode. Pressing my forehead into the bed, I take the bedsheets between my teeth, biting down as the tension inside me rises. My hand moves with growing urgency, my breathing uneven, moans now suffocated by the material filling my mouth, letting the sensation build.
My orgasm breaks through me all at once and I fall against the bed, body shuddering, goosebumps breaking across my skin. For a small moment the room disappears entirely, blackness fills my vision as I feel the desire slowly leaving my system. I release the sheets, now damp from my mouth, and rest my cheek against the mattress, breathing deeply as the quietness of my room returns around me.
Behind me, there is no one.
No hands.
No gentle, domineering voice.
And yet the ache that had been building inside me has finally loosened its grip an for tonight, at least, it feels enough.
.
) 
.
...he is hot and sweaty from reading your story and imagining the irl behind it. thank you for sharing that very spicy brain with all of us. 
