Lust and Permission

A confession: I have always wanted to be with a partner, and have them know when I want them, the subtle little ways that I do it. I am so quiet and anxious with my lust, no one would know it lives inside me, prowling like a beast. I need permission to be the person I am meant to be.

I'm not very forthcoming, despite my willingness to write about the desires that I have. I'm still tremendously, painfully shy about actually asking for what I want. Telling someone that I have desire. Telling someone that I need them to satisfy me. To ask someone to please give me the filthy things that I want but can never seem to bring myself to ask for.

I mean, humiliation has never really been my thing. Humiliation is simply feeling myself get wet and being forced to admit it. The tiniest things that would spill from a braver woman's lips, with insouciance for days, leaves me stammering, flushed red and hot, if I'm able to speak at all.

I've always wanted a person who knows that I am a filthy girl underneath all the strident self-control, and I just need the chance to let her out.

Give me permission. Give me space for desire. Encourage me to not be so closed.

That someone would know what I want, how I need to be treated. Kindly, sweetly, tenderly, with a firm hand to push me out of my areas of unsatisfied comfort into a more vulnerable, but safe, satisfaction.

The vulnerability is so sweet and fragile, like a sun-ripened peach, and I can allow myself to embrace my lust. Oh, to be genuine in my lust and desire and eagerness to please, and to know nothing would make them happier than that. Somewhere that I can just say "yes, please" or leave the words behind and replace them with sated moans.

This is a place in my fantasies that allows for having someone walk in the door and the routine is for me to be on my knees waiting to say hello, I missed you so much. Everything is taken care of for you, don't worry. Are you pleased with what I have done? And they say yes, darling, you're a good girl. They feed me morsels of dinner while I sit at their knees at the table. I nuzzle their leg, happily, a kept pet.

Such a simple want.

Perhaps I am sleeping, naked. It is late. They come to bed and start touching me, caressing between my legs, rubbing the juncture between my thighs and pussy lips insistently. A tease that gets all of my nerves screaming and my shaved parts swollen. Half asleep, I moan and press my ass back against them, not realizing what I'm doing. I have a slight glimmer of awake recognition when I feel their hard cock against my ass. If I'm lucky, it's slippery with warm precum. They push inside me, fill me, thrust away while I'm barely awake. In spite of my sleepy state, in spite of myself, I'm wet, eager to be taken, to be the vessel for his pleasure. His cum leaks out of me while I'm still laying on my side and I fall back asleep with his arm draped possessively over me.

I had a fantasy when I was younger about being kept. In my mind, it was a cozy home in the north (where it snows and fireplaces have purpose) with a large library. I was left to my books, and the gentleman of the house would pay a visit, on occasion. I wouldn't be allowed clothes. Sweet, darling pets do not need clothes. Plus, my body was to always be accessible to him, and only him. Cliché, maybe, but racy and oh, so titillating to my impressionable young mind.

He would come to me, ravenous. I pictured sparkling eyes, lit with need. His cock would strain against whatever clothes he was wearing and I would smile so happily when I noticed. He would hold my face in his hands and kiss me chastely. Once on the forehead, nose, then lips. I imagined he could tell that I wanted him, even from those small, gentle kisses, by the way I would whimper and follow his lips as he pulled them away from mine, wordlessly asking for more. He'd chuckle affectionately, and caress my face.

Here is often where the fantasy would take different paths.

Some days, he would unzip his pants and I would be allowed to worship his beautiful cock. My pussy aches when I imagine my lips running over each of those delicate ridges, the taste of that smooth skin, the saltiness of his spunk. (It is required to swallow it all.)

He coos, calling me his good girl, petting my hair.

On other days, he would he would fill my cunt with toys, or if I was very lucky, his cock. I would always be wet for him. I would be the kind of wet that is almost uncomfortable, overstimulating. The kind of wetness that makes underthings damp and skin slippery, increasing the sensation between my legs.

Ultimately, he would not be satisfied until my throat was hoarse from screaming his name, and my ass was sore from spankings.

Later, my fantasies would devolve into floggings and paddlings instead of mere spankings from him, and I would try to squirm away. Tame, maybe, but to be fair to me, and let's always be fair to me, I didn't know flogging was A Thing at that point in my life as a budding pervert.

Ultimately, my fantasy partner is always sweet, kind, and gentle, even when hurting me the way I want to be hurt. (Masochists do have feelings, you know.)

He was, as all fantasies are, perfect. He knew my secret.

All I want is to be his. I want to be the conduit for his pleasure. I want to revel in my filthy behavior. I want it to consume me, leaving nothing left but hunger to be sated.

He knows when I'm like an animal in heat, when I want to be bent over and stuffed full of cum. He knows when I am in a tizzy, knows when I am getting frustrated or overwhelmed and is benevolent, giving me the sugar-sweet pain that breaks me down, puts me back in my quiet place. I am bruised, wet and obedient, like I should be.

He gives me permission to be weak. To accept help in standing after I've been bent over the kitchen table and flogged. He kisses me, touching the welts gently as I wince and sniffle. It's catharsis, and he claims me, fucking me while I am wordless and fragile. We fall asleep and he is still inside me.

He cares for me, taking care of his precious gift, who wants nothing more than to be his proud submissive.

I keep daydreaming of finding someone to let me. If only I could get permission.