There are times when I intensely crave specific things.

A dick, thrust between my lips until they are raw and swollen. Not a blow job but a face fuck that continues well beyond the point I’d really like it to stop. A raping of my mouth that coats my face with spit and tears, that has me swallowing back the need to vomit.

A face, heated and splotchy from repeated slaps. That slightly dazed feeling those sharp cracks bring with them.

My body bitten and scratched and pinched and slapped past the point of curling into a little ball, past the point of curling into myself until I am splayed, stunned, beaten down by the tears and the emotions and the pain that never seems to stop.

Torture to my flesh and my mind that goes on and on and on…

My pussy and ass brutalized and numbed by the repeated torment and, finally, the pounding of his relentless dick while all I can do is accept it in my broken down state.

That’s it.

It’s not, perhaps, the specific things but the specific feeling.

Broken.

And while I know that this is what I crave and can fairly shamelessly admit it I don’t seem to be able to accept it.

I mean…

That need builds over time. It’s not something I want all the time, not something that hits me on a whim. It’s a craving that builds and builds inside me; restless, pacing, growing.

And for some reason when it’s grown so large that it’s rising up from my belly, nearly choking me….

I shut down. I block it. I stomp and shove and force it back down, refusing it.

I grow distant. Colder. Bitchy.

I brush off attempts to be touched, I resist efforts to give me what I need, am less than receptive to any sort of play.

Part of me cannot help but resist what the other part of me needs.

I thought, for awhile, that it was a shame thing. An old feeling of discomfort and humiliation at needing such things that I hadn’t removed.

It’s not. I can admit I need things, easily concede that I crave them almost irrationally. I don’t feel weird about it, don’t feel it’s bad or wrong, don’t feel embarrassed.

I do, however, need to be forced. I think I resist and shove the feelings down because the only way it really feels right, really appeases the need is when I am forced.

I can cheerfully accept a flogging, laugh thru a pounding scene with half the toys we own. I can eagerly thrust my hands into cuffs or sweetly and shyly let him know I’m aching for an ass fuck.

None of those things break me down. None of those things leave me gasping for breath, my head swimming with the knowledge of who I am and where I belong but unable to remember my own name.

Force is the only thing that really satiates the desire that has grown inside of me to near bursting.

Force is, perhaps, the basis of what I crave.

I need to be forced to bend and bend and bend until mind and body break, shattering into a zillion little pieces that, when gathered back up, leave me sated and utterly sure of my reality.