Muffled

I know, you think I’m very entertaining. You appreciate that I’ve a mind as curious and sharp as your own. We laugh a lot, we joke, we argue about politics, we agree to disagree about stuff. You wouldn’t want to fuck me as badly as you do, wouldn’t want to degrade me as deeply as you have done, if you didn’t enjoy talking to me, acknowledge my intelligence. And you know how how much I love talking, how attached I am to speech and ideas, how conversation is the electricity that keeps this machine running.

You like how I use words. But sometimes you want me silent. No, not silent… muffled. Sometimes you want a symbol that saves you having to say that my opinions are superfluous right now, that my miscellaneous thoughts on matters of the universe can wait a little while. I can use my eyes to plead or encourage, I can moan more for more or less of whatever it is you’re doing, little whines from the back of my throat. I’ll make myself understood if it’s that important. I have a safe gesture, always.

You’ve taken away my precious words, so you can use yours, Sir: Pull your top down. Show me your tits. Whore. Look at me. Put your hands behind your head. Turn round. Bend over. Spread your legs… good girl. Did that hurt? That’s a shame. Five more. So wet, look at you, look at your cunt, it’s soaking. Quiet now, everyone can hear you. Everyone can hear what a desperate little slut you are. Everyone can see.

Sometimes you want me to shut the fuck up. That’s okay. Just make sure you keep talking. I need your words as much as I need you to rob me of mine.

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