The Cookie Knows
I am a bad girl. I know.
I have not done one single thing that I was meant to do. No rules, no instructions. Not. A. Damn. Thing. And every day I tell myself that I will start again tomorrow. But then tomorrow rolls around and I don't want to behave.
We seem to be in this limbo somehow, and up is down and black is white because everything is changing for me. Everything. Who I am, what I've done, how I think, how I prioritize, how I feel -- strong and lonely at the same time. I'm the circus master and I will not be told what to do, just now. I have barely scratched the surface of this and I want to be be free of it. Perhaps paradoxically.
They say, who says? They. They say that it is stifling, it's heavy and burdensome, but somehow conversely, it freeing and liberating. And I don't know what it is, really. If it is Johnny, or the ending of something old and painful, or the shedding of an identity, the embracing of something that has always been real underneath. Is it the multiple truths that are unpeeling now that I don't need them? Is it the way I feel like I have aready stepped off the ledge and the rest is a ride? But then, it is careless. I am no longer concerned.
And so it's maybe this lack of concern. And I am falling fast and there is this infinity in it. It's that for once in my life I just don't care that other people exist. And it's spilling over into this. He wants it, but fuck it. I want. I WANT!! And so fuck you, and fuck your rules in spite of myself. But it's not personal.
So, yeah. Last night I might have let my hand linger on the slit cut in my panties; might have traced my pouting puss with bold fingers. And yeah, I may have worn what I wanted when I wanted, I might have drank and watched what I wanted, I might have pissed how and when I wanted, might have washed under scalding hot water, soaping my arrogant clit as long and hard as I wanted.
I want. And I wanted to play, wanted to cum. I wanted to push, and I wanted to win. Play with me, talk to me, fuck me, spank me. I want, I want. You should have felt my cunt the third time, juicy wet and aching for more even when I was grinding your name between my teeth. I want to cum. I want. Sweating, furious and hard against my palm, my skin dripping, my hair hot and damp and curling. My cunt so wet that I had to wipe my hand on the inside of my thigh. Silky, slicky. Tell me anything, call me your little whore. I came over and over, punishing orgasms contracting my tight hot muscles, my fists wrapped around cold metal chair legs.
I want. And so maybe I break the rules. I'm afraid this is going to get me into trouble. I want, but I do not earn. I got this the other day in my fortune cookie:
Perhaps I should consider, yeah? Save myself some time and humiliation.
I have not done one single thing that I was meant to do. No rules, no instructions. Not. A. Damn. Thing. And every day I tell myself that I will start again tomorrow. But then tomorrow rolls around and I don't want to behave.
We seem to be in this limbo somehow, and up is down and black is white because everything is changing for me. Everything. Who I am, what I've done, how I think, how I prioritize, how I feel -- strong and lonely at the same time. I'm the circus master and I will not be told what to do, just now. I have barely scratched the surface of this and I want to be be free of it. Perhaps paradoxically.
They say, who says? They. They say that it is stifling, it's heavy and burdensome, but somehow conversely, it freeing and liberating. And I don't know what it is, really. If it is Johnny, or the ending of something old and painful, or the shedding of an identity, the embracing of something that has always been real underneath. Is it the multiple truths that are unpeeling now that I don't need them? Is it the way I feel like I have aready stepped off the ledge and the rest is a ride? But then, it is careless. I am no longer concerned.
And so it's maybe this lack of concern. And I am falling fast and there is this infinity in it. It's that for once in my life I just don't care that other people exist. And it's spilling over into this. He wants it, but fuck it. I want. I WANT!! And so fuck you, and fuck your rules in spite of myself. But it's not personal.
So, yeah. Last night I might have let my hand linger on the slit cut in my panties; might have traced my pouting puss with bold fingers. And yeah, I may have worn what I wanted when I wanted, I might have drank and watched what I wanted, I might have pissed how and when I wanted, might have washed under scalding hot water, soaping my arrogant clit as long and hard as I wanted.
I want. And I wanted to play, wanted to cum. I wanted to push, and I wanted to win. Play with me, talk to me, fuck me, spank me. I want, I want. You should have felt my cunt the third time, juicy wet and aching for more even when I was grinding your name between my teeth. I want to cum. I want. Sweating, furious and hard against my palm, my skin dripping, my hair hot and damp and curling. My cunt so wet that I had to wipe my hand on the inside of my thigh. Silky, slicky. Tell me anything, call me your little whore. I came over and over, punishing orgasms contracting my tight hot muscles, my fists wrapped around cold metal chair legs.
I want. And so maybe I break the rules. I'm afraid this is going to get me into trouble. I want, but I do not earn. I got this the other day in my fortune cookie:
Perhaps I should consider, yeah? Save myself some time and humiliation.
posted by macaroon at 4:25 PM
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