Slave of sensation...

Yesterday, when I was working, my shoulder muscles were extremely tense and I could not understand what I had done to them, running through the various positions GV8 and I went through over the weekend, none of them required any strenuous shoulder activity. I chalked it up to the general physical exertion of having sex in various locations for hours on end and put it out of my mind, save for the occasional stretch.

I stripped down, that night, in the bathroom. I shower at night because I want to be able to be out of the house within fifteen minutes of waking. I'm not at my best in the morning, so I make sure that anything that requires time, effort, or being fully conscious gets done before bed.

Shoulders still sore, I stretched and rubbed the left while staring into space in front of the mirror. Turning sideways, I check out my tattoo. It's hard not to look at sometimes. It's so very in your face, and I love how it plays down the curves of my waist and hip.

Is that a dark spot on my shoulder?

Leaning forward and dropping my arm, I see perfect purple prints of GV8's teeth over my shoulderblade. I check the other, switching arms, and pull my hair up.

My upper back is covered in bite marks. If he had a smaller mouth, it'd look like I had purple leopard rosettas dancing over my shoulders.

Sunday morning, when I looked up at him braced over me, and told him that I wanted it rough, he shifted speeds so quickly.

Teeth in my back, separating my sore flesh so quickly, driving into me, my hair wrapped around his fist, thrusting his dick into my mouth with rapid repetitions and I have to fight to make sure I don't clip him with my teeth. Lying on my stomach in front of him, knees bent, ankles in the air with his hands wrapped around them as he uses them in anchor me for the right angle with my arms stretched out in front of me, fingers digging into the mattress to keep from letting the force of his thrusts slide me away from him. Light is leaking inside in lines from the living room, around the door's exterior. There's no sense of time. There never is, here.

The paneling of the walls fascinates me, the graffiti spread across them in neon greens, dull yellows, and muted purples.

I've shacked up with an ex-gangster, an ex-con. His history makes me feel safe.

It's hard for me to feel safe.

The headlights on the freeway, lighting the asphalt we tracked over, white dashed lines our companion at 4AM, non-existant stars covered by clouds and music hovering in the back of my brain, curled up in his passenger seat, my hand on his forearm, heat on my fingertips, in my palm, radiating from him as he drives us home.

Safe.

I never expected to feel that way again.