Three Monsoons.

It is only as I cut my lip against his toenail that I gain some awareness of my surroundings. I am not certain how much time has passed since I begged to get down at his feet and worship them with my mouth but however many hours or seconds it has been, it feels like they have gone by in a frenzied and discursive pursuit of his flesh by my mouth, like an overwhelmed and hungered creature running from pillar to post to fulfil a desire that feels more like need than it should. The very minute amount of pain—like a pin-prick—reminds me to open my eyes and breathe, and as I do, I notice I have been moaning into the soles of his feet and pulling at my tank-top in an attempt to get it off me.

“Go ahead, then,” he says, bemused and condescending, “Get naked if you must.”

As I stand up and peel off my clothes, a flash of lightning illuminates the room and a few seconds later, the thunder cracks around us, so loud and sonorous, like an empyrean message to beware. We’ve had three monsoons this year, and they began so quickly after the three we had last year that it feels like it will never end, and far be it for me to complain about the rain, but it has become such a consistent presence in our world, I’ve started to feel like the tritagonist in my own life. There’s him, the rain and then, in the miniscule amount of space there is left, there is me, drinking my fill and drowning in the other two. Life has been a series of yellow, orange and red-alerts, but in this system of it, you can call red as loudly as you like and the assault won’t stop, your misery means nothing to the rain. It has no mercy. Your life doesn’t even mean anything to it. I am not entirely sure why I didn’t anticipate this when we moved here. I grew up two-towns over from here, and I should have remembered just how tumultuous the weather really is up in these mountains, but I think, I remembered only the comfort of how it feels to love the storms and the rain.

You know how that is, right? When you love something that is fundamentally dangerous, endlessly beautiful and whimsically destructive, and you think of it in concept, you recall how it makes you feel but not what it puts you through. Love, worship, lust and abuse, that sad little fact applies to all of them. The rain, it makes me feel real, vital and small, but it puts me—it puts all of us—through real hardship, true fear and this year alone, in the land around me and even inside my home, it has destroyed so much. It has taken so very much from us. Yet I cannot help but love..nah, fuck love, I cannot help but throw myself in desperate need before things, and people, who take from me, apply to me like a condition and have the capacity to destroy me. As the downpour gains fervour, it combines with my fervid need to throw myself at his feet and I put my face right back there. It feels better to do this now that I am naked, even though it was entirely unnecessary for me to be stripped down to nothing to suck on his toes, it feels like this is how I should be and emboldened by that, I rub my body against his feet.  I lose myself in the vulgarity of it all. The squeezing of my tits between his arches, the twisting of my nipples between his toes, the urge that makes me mount his big toe and hump it until it is drenched, and the much more vulnerable and exposing urge that makes me dismount and suck his toe clean.

“That’s right, lick it clean,” he encourages through his sniggers, “That’s exactly where your place is.”

It does feel like my place, and that does feel like a reductive and demeaning thing, I could say I find home and peace at his feet but I don’t really care for those arguments of how sucking a toe, referring to your arousal as filth or being smacked by a foot are acts that feel fundamentally empowering because of how liberating they are. I mean, sure, I can make that case, but why would I? Fuck home. Fuck peace. I have plenty of sources of empowerment, I don’t need another one inside my bedroom; I live to liberate, I don’t need to fuck for that. I fuck to feel this. This shame that reminds me it is disgusting to devour a foot. This uncomfortable conflict of believing that your role in life could be beneath that of another. This untitrated substance that fills me with maddening, uncontrollable want for violence and humiliation. This feeling of being worse than nothing, not invisible, but laughable. Not shocking, but pathetically predictable. Not who, but what. A mouth, a tit, a cunt, an embarrassment. I fuck for this. I don’t experience it as peace, I don’t even want it for that, but sometimes, through the trick of distance, I do think of it as a peaceful concept.

“Please,” I say, surprising even myself, “Smother me under...you.”

“Beg,” he says, leaning over and grasping my hair, “Beg for it.”

I know he will give me what I want and he knows he isn’t waiting for me to earn it, but it’s gratifying to beg, nonetheless. I really love the pleasure of the pointless—a naked body when you must only use your mouth, a plea in the face of inevitability, a string of words when even silence would have led to the same outcome—the pointless is nonpareil in its scope for decadence, like putting a gold-leaf atop your dessert, it tastes like nothing but it means something. As I beg, he lays out the bed for what we are about to do, it’s a mindless ritual, this set-up, but sometimes, when he does it, lays out three pillows, horizontally on the edge of the bed, without so much as a word exchanged between us to this effect, it feels like a filthy, private language. It’s a message in sand telling me he’s going to ride my fucking face. I know exactly what to do and he knows exactly what he is about to do to me, but for an onlooker, we might have to explain.

He means for me to elevate my upper-body through those pillows, get on my back over them, as he stands over my head, his cock-and-balls resting comfortably on my face, and his thighs, on either side of my head, ready to crush me into suffocation. Three-pillows are all the blocking it takes, and this unparagoned brevity of messaging is perhaps undermined by the verbosity of my explanation of it. I put my head over the pillows and position my body as it needs to be, my legs spread themselves, and though it is pointless and unnecessary, it is the part of my behaviour that is most telling of the state I am in. Yielding to something that barely notices how much it controls me. He grips on my wrists and holds them down against the bed, engulfing my field of vision in darkness with his thighs before he lowers himself onto my face.

“Stick your tongue out,” he says, as I feel the soft skin of his balls nestling onto my face.

I stick it out just as he settles himself onto my face, and like entering a soundproofed discotheque from the back-door through a crypt-like alley in the middle of the night, the volume goes up from silence to annihilation in a second.  He pushes his weight onto me, crushes my head between his thighs but for now, I don’t struggle against it. The opposite, in fact, I am so eager to be able to lick anything my tongue will touch, I sacrifice my breath to be able to taste anything at all. I am parched for this and even a downpour is too little. The weight feels uncomfortable on my face, the bruise on the left side has just about healed and the swelling on the right hasn’t quite broken into colour yet but they both hurt so I notice them still, not enough for it to be a deterrent, just enough that I can feel my face underneath him. I really love being here, it’s not about my place, not here, it’s much more instinctive than that, it is about being overwhelmed by the weight of him, overpowered by the scent of him and overindulged in the sensation of him. It feels like being delighted by a force to which I am nothing, one that would drown me just as easily. A pissant existence crushed under something that would be just as magnificent, even without me beneath it. I feel insignificant and wretched, not because it is my place, but because that truly must be who I am to the universe.

“I decide when you breathe,” he says shifting off me, just for a second, “You just get to be grateful if you get to breathe at all, and if you don’t, then fucking don’t.”

Either, I am scared enough by what he says or he drastically increases the force with which he holds me under, because I start to struggle. He holds my jaw and pulls as he rubs himself against me so much harder, riding my face as if he isn’t four-times larger and it isn’t an unfortunately fragile part of my body. It becomes so much harder to breathe, and every breath I do manage is quickly snuffed out of me with his assault. The more violently he crushes me, the more this starts to feel like I must be a fool to romanticise my insignificance to this force. My face, it’s for so many things, but probably not for this, his cock and balls, I could bring them pleasure, but he chooses to assault me with them, this could look like a more straightforward form of gratification yet it also, cannot. I need to be ridden and he must need to own my breath. I need to love for beauty but only if it reminds me of destruction too. He must need this. He must need to laugh at my struggle to breathe. He must need to feel me panic underneath him. He must need to feel me acquiesce. He must need to feel my tears against his cock as I accept the merciless suffocation and break. Or maybe he doesn’t care about any of it at all, he must be this way because this is who he is and I am merely, incidental.

“Please, no more,” I beg as he pulls off me to adjust his position.

He just laughs as he forces my head between his thighs again. It’s too much. Unlike the moments I spent at his feet, I have a very acute sense of the time that is passing now. It feels like nothing in delight and it feels so capacious in strife. I feel time now, every second feels like one second too late to stop. I feel how long it has been. Two shades of darkness more, fifteen strikes of lightning, twelve terrifying bouts of thunder and the relentless rain adapting from day to night. I know how long it has been. Too long to be deprived of air. Too long to be subjected to this smothered dampness in this hovel he has created for me. So long my neck hurts. So long all soil has lost its fertility. So long I must have lost some of my brain to this place. So long that suffering and destruction is all that remains and all the delight is a distant memory. So long. Too long. Three monsoons long.

I love him, I really do, but in this moment, I cannot remember the comfort of that love, only what it puts me through. The heavens were right to warn me, but they don’t really care. The rain has no mercy and neither does he.