How can you explain intense to people that were not feeling what you felt, who have not seen what you have seen? Sometimes you can explain in it music or a painting or a photo, and sometimes you will just have to do with words.
This is what I found on Daddydlg.tumblr.com and it was so intense I just had to share it with you. The post is from an anonymus writer, but the text is very personal:
Don’t be afraid to hurt me. I know you worry. Please don’t. I’m not as fragile as you think.
Don’t tug my hair. Grab it. Force me to my knees with your hands in my hair wrapped in a fist. Pull hard. Make my eyes water.
Don’t graze your teeth along my skin. Devour me. Bite down until I cry out. Then do it again.
Don’t caress my throat. I want to feel your fingers wrap tightly around it. Feel my pulse hammer into your palm. Feel the breath short in my chest and that little bit of panic set in.
Don’t nudge my knees apart. Move them like they’re yours to spread. With intention. With possession.
Don’t hold my hands. I want to feel your strong grip around my wrists. Use all your weight. Make me lie still.
I want it to still hurt tomorrow. I want to see the bruises. The welts. The hand prints.
Don’t ask me if I’m OK. Tell me I am. I need to let go and not think. I need you to make me yours.
Let my body answer for me with each shudder and moan. With the pool of wetness between my thighs.
These are the things I can’t control. I don’t want to control. That’s the point.
Just fuck me.
The pictures is just as intense as the words. The eyes closed, the look on her face, the cheek against his thigh, it is all so intense.
Intense is not the name of a perfume. It is what we have.