Writing on the Wall Six months later, and she finally surfaced out of her den of inequity. It was me

Writing on the Wall Six months later, and she finally surfaced out of her den of inequity. It was metaphorical, as all the best things were, but she’d spent the past half year losing herself to kink, bouncing from one meeting to the other party, one rough fucking to another bondage session. But suddenly, one morning, she felt like she’d finally woken up. It wasn’t that she wasn’t kinky anymore; she was just as resolute in her perversion as she had always been. It was just she was now aware of the world, the outside, the other, in a way that she hadn’t before. Her world view had been shifted, and she was sitting there trying to figure out why the frame didn’t sit right on the wall. Vanilla life no longer made sense to her, on a fundamental level. How did it work? It seemed lacking, like some child’s attempt at creating a relationship, all of the appearance of something complete without any of the intricacies, completely devoid of complexity. It was stark, and confusing, and it made her head spin. What did they do? Where did they go at night? What on earth happened in the bedroom? Was it just earnest rutting, in and out and in and out and in and out? That was enough? None of the creativity, the imagination, the diversity of experience? It baffled.  She didn’t resent it, or even think less of those who did it. But they merely no longer made sense to her, as if she’d slipped in one end and popped out of the other, with everyone speaking a slightly different language, one that sounds similar but didn’t quite coalesce into sentences and paragraphs.  And so she wandered through the world, her head tilted ever so slightly to one side, just to make it look right again. Until she descended back into her world, the one of rope and leather, lace and latex, when she could stand tall once more. -- source link
Tumblr Blog : darknessbecomesme-deactivated20.tumblr.com

More pics about