I imagine my hands and knees on the floor.
There is a bucket. A dripping rag.
I’m in a kitchen. A bathroom, perhaps.
Somewhere cool, hard. Domestic.
I imagine your voice. Quiet, serious. At ease.
Do this. Like that. I whisper affirmation.
(Exact direction is a rather captivating freedom.)
I imagine your gaze, sharp, heavy
with attention. Pressing me into shape.
I imagine my skirt, riding up
as I crawl and stretch, rag in hand.
Damp folds unfurl between my thighs.
I imagine the blood in my cheeks,
my hair tidied away, nowhere to hide.
Red doesn’t always mean stop.
Shame curls my head, lust
arches my back towards the floor,
heat seeping out of me.
There are many directions this could take.
A yank, a kick, some measured violence.
A series of commands, expecting exactitude.
A baring of skin, of sweat, of yearning.
An invasion; the thing that isn’t done.
A desperate struggle, mostly within.
Admission, confession. Surrender.
(I’m not supposed to want this, but I do.)
This is a post for the Kinktober prompt “domestic, at home.”