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Tuesday, December 30th, 2014 by

A few nights ago, I, in my infinite grace and majesty, took a tumble down the stairs, the result of which is a significant bruise above my rump. The bruise is enormous–bigger than any I’ve ever had before, and is dark purple which Wikipedia tells me is called Byzantium.

This, among other things, has got me to thinking about marks.

I love leaving marks on H2O2, of all kinds. I carefully apply lipstick only for the purpose of leaving prints of my lips all over his face. I beat his ass to a lovely Byzantine shade, not unlike the one mine currently sports. Afterwards, every time he sits down, each resulting wince will remind him of me. I leave bite marks all over him. I write on his body–his chest, his ass, his cock. Loud and lovely proclamations that he is mine.

But marks fade. They are transient by nature. This seems like it should bother me, but it doesn’t. Their impermanence compels me to reapply them, frequently, in new and creative configurations; each kiss, each scribble, each bite a sign of my desire made manifest upon his body. My love emblazoned upon him, evidence that, despite whatever may come, I was here, this happened.

Chaos Was Here

Chaos Was Here

2 Responses to “Marks”

  1. Ferns says:

    So sweet! What a coincidence that I just wrote this: Because… mine.

    Marks are so lovely: all kinds.


  2. Fizz says:

    True story: The morning this post went up, before I had seen it, I stopped Leon as we were getting ready to leave his house for breakfast. When he asked what I wanted, though, I got all quiet and sheepish. Finally he poked me into coming out with it.

    “… will you give me a mark for my friends to tease me about?”

    He got a huge grin on his face, glanced at the windows, and pushed me into the next room and up against the wall. There was no one else around to hear me yelping, but I was definitely wearing a scarf when I got on the plane home a few hours later.

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