Wear me out.
I fantasize about that sex-induced type of exhaustion. Every single night, after my fingers are sticky with my cum and my pussy is still convulsing from release, I roll over onto my side and imagine that I am not responsible for this exhaustion. I imagine that it is a result of everything I’ve just thought about - being spanked red, being choked until I’m begging for air, being slapped across my tear-stained face, and being fucked like your sexual property. In my post-orgasm imagination, the sweat on my skin is all your fault. Your cock and your wicked toys are responsible for burning me out like this, not the skill of my own hands.
I want the pain the most. I want the physical pain to mingle with the pleasure of an orgasm, and that is the kind of intoxication that will lull me into my inevitable sleep. I want the feeling of sore limbs and an even sorer pussy, the feeling of chafed skin around my ankles and wrists, and the feeling of newborn bruises that will be darker in the morning. I want my lower lip to throb and tingle from when you slapped my mouth and then bit me, want my nipples sore from endless torment. I want to lie there, in your bed, with a red ass that still leaks with your cum and thighs that still bear your welts. I want to get lost in all of it, relax in all of it. I want to surrender to the aftereffects and let them weigh me down in the most liberating of ways.
And I’d want to feel your hands again, but gently now. I’d want to feel them stroking my hair and my skin, soothing me. They’d be soft where they were rough, and they’d pull me deeper and deeper into a state of sheer bliss. That kind of fatigue, the kind where I am nothing but an aching body in a satiated, sadistic man’s bed, would mean a lot to me.
It would mean that I’ve been useful.
It would mean that I’ve served my purpose.