Insomnia

I crash down on the matress. I am so tired, I think I only need to close my eyes to fall asleep. Ten minutes later, I open them again. No matter my exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come to me. There’s too many impressions running around in my head, a wild thunderstorm which doesn’t want to come to rest. My body is like a stranger to me: submerged into the sore and strain, and at the same time, yearning and compliant. I try to bring myself down, I try to hate him. I just can’t. My abductor, my captivity, they have become abstractions. They don’t have anything to do with me anymore; I’m completely occupied by turmoil within. I know I should sleep, I know I will need all my strength tomorrow. Yet half an hour later, I’m still twisting between my left and right sides.

I stand up for a pee, and have a sip of water. It is all I can do. Well, and watching porn of course. It isn’t even fucking porn anymore. A voluptuous girl is on all fours, a man standing in front of her. He has clawed a hand in her hair, pulling her back, not allowing her to suck up his cock even though it is dangling right in front of her face. His other hand is holding a flogger. In wide arcs, it flies through the air, landing a rain of strokes on her back and bottom. She screams, but that is no reason at all for him to diminish his efforts. The horror! There isn’t even a suggestion of genital stimulation, but it is clear that that scene is deeply sexual. I can feel that she is yearning to, that she wants her holes filled and driven to cum - and all she gets is the lashes of the whip. I hope that she feels better than me, that she hasn’t been subjected to two days of relentless and abusive hornification. But somewhere, very primal, very subconscious, I hope that she is.