I Want Him.

The man I mentioned in this post, the man I want to strap me into his homemade bondage contraption: red painted metal, leather restraints, & leopard print pads.    This man, I’m craving him a lot lately.  But I’ve done whatever it is I’ve done to keep him away from me.  After that post, we’ve talked.  As a matter of fact as I was writing that post, we were talking.  But since then, I’ve told him I hate him.  I’ve told him I wish he never would have said “hi” to me.  I’ve asked him to tell me why I like him.   We’ve only really had one discussion since those statements and question, then he vanished.  But since reading someone else’s blog, I’ve kind of got him in mind. 

And I’ve only got him in mind because of what he said the one and only night I spent in his presence.  “Next time, I’ll bring rope.”  

When I met him face to face it was awkward at first.  For me.   I was meeting a man I’ve been lusting after for quite a few years, years that I didn’t even talk to him.  I was scared to meet him.  I’m still scared of him now that I’ve met him.

[God, I hate that I can't put into words what I 'm thinking.  When I'm lying in bed at night trying to get to sleep, it's so easy for me to form words and put those words into sentences.  I think about getting up and writing them down.  But then that's less sleep that I'll be getting, so I just hope what I want to type will come out.  Without problems, w/out rambling, w/out stumbling.  But I do, I do all that and it bothers me.  I'm not a good writer when I sit down to do it.  I wish my brain would have a print button.  Print. print. print.   But it doesn't. . . And well, I get stuck.  Stuck like I am now.  Stuck like I can't get moving.  Stuck so much that I backspace and delete.  Until it all sounds right, but it doesn't sound right.  And I just hope what I'm typing comes across okay, not so scatterbrained.  But it's useless. I'm hopeless.]

And that’s how I feel when I’m around that  guy.  That’s how I feel when I talk to him.  I also feel like I can’t say enough, or I don’t say the right things.  I feel like all I’m trying to  do is live up to an image I want him to believe.  But he knows me.  He knows exactly how I am.  I sometimes hate that he can read me so well, but at the same time, I can take a breath and say, “He knows me. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

That night we met, I felt so awkward.  And scared.  He didn’t put me at ease at all in the beginning.  The only thing that did was him making the first move.  He reached across the space and slapped me across the face.  I was shocked.  I slapped him back.  That lightened the mood so much, so much more than him picking on me.  So much more than our ridiculous chatter about nothing.  

We continued w/ the slap fight.  I had to hold onto his hands to keep him from slapping me again.  But it didn’t stop. And I got in some good shots myself.  This went on for quite some time.  Time enough for us to move positions all over the place.  Time enough for him to wrap his legs around me and pull me close.  Time enough for him to sink his teeth into my exposed neck.  Time enough for me to fall almost in love w/ what he was doing to me. 

Being w/in his grasp was exciting.  Being semi-violent w/ him brought out … I don’t know what it brought out, but sometimes, sometimes I came so close to kissing him.  Our faces would be inches apart and I’d stare at his lips and just wish that he would close the gap and press his lips to mine.  The times he could have he just pushed away.  But he bit my neck.  My god did he bite my neck.  I loved it. I moaned it.  I wanted more.

The violence of slapping each other and liking it turned into foreplay.  And we continued the foreplay.  I don’t remember when, but he finally did it.  He finally kissed me.  And I liked it.  A tingle went down my stomach into my pussy.  I felt myself getting wetter.  That tingle didn’t happen often, but when it did, my god, I wanted it to happen again.  And it did.  It did when I placed my hand on his denim clad dick.  I felt it.  Felt the length. Felt the width. My pussy was lost in tingles. 

He took my wrists in his hands, jerked them behind my back, latched onto my neck.  He said in his silky voice he needed rope.  He wanted to tie me to a tree.  Have his way w/ me, even tho he could have easily that night, w/out the rope, w/out the physical bondage.  He could have told me to stay still.  For him, I would have.   However the rope was missing, so for him it was a no go, but he said.  Next time.  

The next time never happened.  In 3 months it’ll be a year since I’ve seen him.  And in part it is my fault.  My fault I like him so damn much, half in love w/ him, and I can’t handle it.   So I do everything in my power to tell him to fuck off, then I come running back to him.  Running straight into lust and love and wanting and craving and  . . . I’m almost head over heels for him.   I hate him.  I hate it. I hate myself.   I want him.