P
Pia
Guest
I’m sure we all think about it, from time to time. Well, maybe not us all. Maybe just me. I don’t know. But I do. Because a little whipping and tying and suspension really isn’t, or won’t be, enough, and I know that the time is coming where I want something more. Something much, much more. Something that will truly satisfy me, something that will give me my ultimate climax. Trouble is, I know it will be my last…so it needs a bit of thought, don’t you think?
And there has to be a right time. Part of me thinks that the whole thing would be so much easier if I went along to the clinic one day and the nice doctor, having poked around a bit, pronounced that he was very sorry to tell me that I had a condition that could not be treated. That they could investigate further, and that there were things they could do, but that it was, almost certainly, terminal. That I had six months left, maybe twelve with treatment. That I would feel well for a while, and then that I would subside very quickly. Of course, that would answer my dilemma. Not a problem. Make the arrangements and sort it, in three months. That’s just twelve weeks. It would be a fix. But I guess it would also be a bit of a cheat, like some supernatural force had made the decision for me. Just too easy really. Job done, courtesy of the doctors. But not really a choice, is it? Not really a hard enough choice. A choice you make between living and dying, when there’s an option to keep on living. Keep on with the day-to-day and the fun and all that. And to give it up for, well, death. Nah, I think it really is up to me to decide.
But when? Leave it too long, and despite looking after myself, trips to the gym, good diet, all those things, those tiny, almost invisible, little signs of getting a bit older will begin to, well, become more obvious. My sexy hard body (if I say so myself), my glittering eyes, my firm boobs without a hint of a droop. They will all start that long, inevitable journey of decline. But I still want to enjoy them so much… I still want to lie with my girlfriend, or the girl I pay for a night or a day of fun when I go off on holiday to the seaside. I still want to go to my favourite dungeon in town and enjoy the whip and their lovely ropes and rack and enjoy the unseen cocks (I prefer not to see them…I just like the hurt of them…) penetrating my ass and my cunt. But sometime, I know, I will have to decide. Sometime sooner than it once was. Otherwise it will be too late and I will have missed the chance and I know I will regret that for ever. It’s a deadly sort of a dilemma. One that I’m dying to get my head around. Ha ha. How funny that is. Literally. But it’s also a delightful sort of a problem. I like to sit back in a chair in the evening and watch the sunset and think about my very special, very lovely, very exciting problem. And as the evenings slip past I know that I will have to make that choice, and the more I think about it, and the more I dip my fingers in my drink and take out an ice-cube and run it over my clit and get wetter and hotter and feel my legs stretching out and trembling and my breasts moving in time with my fingers and my fingers moving the ice over my nipples and my head hanging backwards and my mouth opening wide and that gorgeous gasping sound. And I shout at the ceiling and arch myself and push my hips into the air and my hands pull on my hair and I know that I have to decide.
It’s hard, but the thought of that decision is just too delicious. So I think about it a bit more. The things to do, the choices to make.
First, the planning. My flat is rented and furnished, so that’s easy. I can give notice, just a month, so that’s easy. I can cash my savings and give them to my favourite charity, so that’s easy too. Just holding enough back for necessary expenses. There will be a few of them of course.
I’ll have to find someone I trust, naturally. Because I want it to be fun. You know, a few weeks of play, the usual things. Light torment without too many safe words, or without using them much. Perhaps one day of torment (the exact nature to be agreed, but I am thinking of straddling a horse with my nipples clipped and stretched and my back and belly gently whipped, that sort of thing), and a few days of luxuriating in other pleasures. That’s where the expenses will come in. Long baths, lying on fur-covered beds, a girl that I pick from the photos he’s offered me, a flute of champagne, a plate of smoked salmon and oysters. Not too much to ask really.
And I want a screen so I can be filmed and watch myself being hurt. I am looking forward to that part. And the person I find, the person I can trust, must be someone who will arrange things just so, for the day, when it comes. Someone who I can trust to stick to the plan, not to mess me around, and to dispose of what’s left of me so no-one has to go rooting around causing trouble.
The little things like that matter I think. But I’m sure that they are all do-able. I think it would be quite good fun, making the arrangements. Getting everything just so. Making a list, checking it twice (well, it will be like all my Christmases rolled into one, I’m thinking). And then, when the appointed day and hour comes, I can just wait by the roadside, and be picked up, and I would know that I wouldn’t really have to think about anything ever again apart from enjoying it all. Oh yeah, there would be the small issue of picking the right make-up and buying the supplies for my daily lenses. But that’s not so hard, is it?
And then, of course, there’s deciding how it should all end up. I’ve spent so long thinking about this, probably since I was about thirteen and felt myself coming during that gym lesson, hanging by my arms from the climbing rope and looking at Emily on the rope next to me and how her shirt rode up over her belly and how her skin looked so tight over her ribs and, well, that was that. And a few trips to the library to read some books about things and then a lot of dabbling on the internet. We’ve all done it, haven’t we? But there are so many options, and it’s so hard to decide. So I thought I better list them all out.
And there has to be a right time. Part of me thinks that the whole thing would be so much easier if I went along to the clinic one day and the nice doctor, having poked around a bit, pronounced that he was very sorry to tell me that I had a condition that could not be treated. That they could investigate further, and that there were things they could do, but that it was, almost certainly, terminal. That I had six months left, maybe twelve with treatment. That I would feel well for a while, and then that I would subside very quickly. Of course, that would answer my dilemma. Not a problem. Make the arrangements and sort it, in three months. That’s just twelve weeks. It would be a fix. But I guess it would also be a bit of a cheat, like some supernatural force had made the decision for me. Just too easy really. Job done, courtesy of the doctors. But not really a choice, is it? Not really a hard enough choice. A choice you make between living and dying, when there’s an option to keep on living. Keep on with the day-to-day and the fun and all that. And to give it up for, well, death. Nah, I think it really is up to me to decide.
But when? Leave it too long, and despite looking after myself, trips to the gym, good diet, all those things, those tiny, almost invisible, little signs of getting a bit older will begin to, well, become more obvious. My sexy hard body (if I say so myself), my glittering eyes, my firm boobs without a hint of a droop. They will all start that long, inevitable journey of decline. But I still want to enjoy them so much… I still want to lie with my girlfriend, or the girl I pay for a night or a day of fun when I go off on holiday to the seaside. I still want to go to my favourite dungeon in town and enjoy the whip and their lovely ropes and rack and enjoy the unseen cocks (I prefer not to see them…I just like the hurt of them…) penetrating my ass and my cunt. But sometime, I know, I will have to decide. Sometime sooner than it once was. Otherwise it will be too late and I will have missed the chance and I know I will regret that for ever. It’s a deadly sort of a dilemma. One that I’m dying to get my head around. Ha ha. How funny that is. Literally. But it’s also a delightful sort of a problem. I like to sit back in a chair in the evening and watch the sunset and think about my very special, very lovely, very exciting problem. And as the evenings slip past I know that I will have to make that choice, and the more I think about it, and the more I dip my fingers in my drink and take out an ice-cube and run it over my clit and get wetter and hotter and feel my legs stretching out and trembling and my breasts moving in time with my fingers and my fingers moving the ice over my nipples and my head hanging backwards and my mouth opening wide and that gorgeous gasping sound. And I shout at the ceiling and arch myself and push my hips into the air and my hands pull on my hair and I know that I have to decide.
It’s hard, but the thought of that decision is just too delicious. So I think about it a bit more. The things to do, the choices to make.
First, the planning. My flat is rented and furnished, so that’s easy. I can give notice, just a month, so that’s easy. I can cash my savings and give them to my favourite charity, so that’s easy too. Just holding enough back for necessary expenses. There will be a few of them of course.
I’ll have to find someone I trust, naturally. Because I want it to be fun. You know, a few weeks of play, the usual things. Light torment without too many safe words, or without using them much. Perhaps one day of torment (the exact nature to be agreed, but I am thinking of straddling a horse with my nipples clipped and stretched and my back and belly gently whipped, that sort of thing), and a few days of luxuriating in other pleasures. That’s where the expenses will come in. Long baths, lying on fur-covered beds, a girl that I pick from the photos he’s offered me, a flute of champagne, a plate of smoked salmon and oysters. Not too much to ask really.
And I want a screen so I can be filmed and watch myself being hurt. I am looking forward to that part. And the person I find, the person I can trust, must be someone who will arrange things just so, for the day, when it comes. Someone who I can trust to stick to the plan, not to mess me around, and to dispose of what’s left of me so no-one has to go rooting around causing trouble.
The little things like that matter I think. But I’m sure that they are all do-able. I think it would be quite good fun, making the arrangements. Getting everything just so. Making a list, checking it twice (well, it will be like all my Christmases rolled into one, I’m thinking). And then, when the appointed day and hour comes, I can just wait by the roadside, and be picked up, and I would know that I wouldn’t really have to think about anything ever again apart from enjoying it all. Oh yeah, there would be the small issue of picking the right make-up and buying the supplies for my daily lenses. But that’s not so hard, is it?
And then, of course, there’s deciding how it should all end up. I’ve spent so long thinking about this, probably since I was about thirteen and felt myself coming during that gym lesson, hanging by my arms from the climbing rope and looking at Emily on the rope next to me and how her shirt rode up over her belly and how her skin looked so tight over her ribs and, well, that was that. And a few trips to the library to read some books about things and then a lot of dabbling on the internet. We’ve all done it, haven’t we? But there are so many options, and it’s so hard to decide. So I thought I better list them all out.