The Politics of Fucking

There are politics to fucking. Decisions to make when I just go ahead and say “I’m going to”. Feels like being caught in a web and the harder I push against it, the more I get tangled.

Been deep in a place of feeling displaced and lost and finding myself doing things I can’t even understand why. Something happened today that I didn’t plan, didn’t expect and shouldn’t have done. I know I shouldn’t have fucked him because the danger of him saying something to others is a real danger. I was warned about it from Him.

When it was happening, when I was on my knees and I had his cock in my mouth, I didn’t remember that. My mind does that. A bad excuse, I know, but I just followed this instinct to kneel and open my mouth. Then I fucked him on my bed, got up, went to work and didn’t even hardly think about it.

I made some videos sharing what had happened, and while I was making it I had that same ‘away’ feeling as when it happened. It wasn’t until He said, “Great. It’ll be awesome to see how I get blamed for this”. I just stared at the screen and said nothing.

What did that mean? And then suddenly, I felt it–the weight of what I had done. I had fucked someone He told me not to. It was because this guy would most likely not be able to keep his mouth shut. It was because of whom it would hurt if it was found out.

He gives me warnings sometimes. It’s more than just something I need to listen to, it’s a clue as to where things are headed. I’ve heard it before and it’s not till later I feel it when I don’t hold on to it and listen.

I’ve been pretty fucked up lately. I’m not even sure what the fuck I’m going through. Life is all over the place, it’s moving at a hundred miles an hour. A moment happens and then it’s gone and there’s no time to hold on or feel it or…fuck understanding anything.

Yes, I remembered His words of ‘don’t fuck him’ months ago. I swear in the moment when he showed up in my bedroom, me in my waist trainer, sheer lace bra and tight little thong…that warning wasn’t there. As it was beginning to happen, I thought of Him, not the warning, just how I would share this.

On my knees, being bent over and fucked hard, straddling him in hubby’s bed…now that I think of it, it had the feeling of an earlier moment. It was another fuck in hubby’s bed. I was lost then, too.

These moments have feelings. All of them. Fuck. Everything does. I just don’t fucking feel them until after they happen. It’s like I’m in this bubble and while I’m fucking, nothing matters but fucking. My body, theirs. Then it’s over and I’m left with what I’ve done. It’s in that goddamn fucking moment, though, that fate is sealed.

It’s those moments when I feel myself slip a little closer to hell…and so much further from Him. Each time He hates me more. I hate me even more.

I picture myself at moments like this at His hand. Strapped up somewhere with my wrists tied above my head. I silently brace for the next sting of His whip; it’s the only thing that reminds me to listen. Tears don’t matter, excuses run stale, and all there is is His discipline upon my flesh. I scream for it and cower from it at the same time.

What hurts with a pain that takes my breath, becomes what stops me instantly from making mistakes. I know inside how deeply His discipline would affect me, and like a child acting out, crying out, I act in childish ways. I make the wrong choices again and again and again. Only, like a child, I don’t understand my own impulses. I can only see I’ve made them and then feel ashamed for what I’ve done.



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