They cursed us, and drove us away. And we wept, Precious, we wept to be so alone. And we only wish to catch fish so juicy sweet. And we forgot the taste of bread... the sound of trees... the softness of the wind. We even forgot our own name. My Precious.
Day Seven.
I cannot believe it's been seven days since I've felt his lips press against mine. Seven days since I've last seen his smile. Seven days since I've felt his fingers on my skin, the pull of his stare, his weight on mine. Seven days.
Six more to go.
I miss him so much. Is it pathetic that I miss him so much? I speak to him every day, and while his voice soothes me, satisfies a basic need within me, it is not enough. I need to feel his warm breath against my ear. I need to see the way his lips move when he murmurs my name. His lips are so soft. Have I mentioned that? Soft, and full, and pink. Such perfect lips. My mouth aches for them.
My poor butt has forgotten what it feels like to ache from a sound thrashing. My thighs have become smooth and clear, like a blank canvas sitting on an artist's table, waiting to be shaded in art. They used to be painted with lines and bruises.
They looked beautiful, dressed in lines and bruises.
Now they are naked.
My body aches. It yearns to feel again: cuffs, straps, plugs, paddles...but most of all, his cock. I remember the taste of his cock, and the memory burns down my throat.
Six more days.
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