Mark Me

The pictures don’t do them justice, but I have some serious bruises on my thighs from this past weekend.


Problem is, I got them completely innocently. H had no part in causing them; rather a drunken, enthusiastic romp with a mechanical bull is the perpetrator. Not quite the ride of my life, but a good time was had. H doesn’t have the faintest idea how badly I need him to bruise me. I want the pain, I want the proof. I want to submit. All day today, every time I moved, I felt my bruises. It burned knowing that not only did I not get them from another person, but also knowing that H wouldn’t touch me anywhere I’m bruised. He won’t shove my legs apart, won’t pin me down by my bruises and use me. As these bruises fade, there won’t be new ones to replace them.


This isn’t my first post about marking (, and I’m sure it won’t be my last. But carrying around bruises covering more than half my thighs is so much worse than I could’ve imagined. I had no idea how rejected it would make me feel to have a small part of what I crave, without all the most important parts. I don’t know how I’m going to get through waiting out the healing time, knowing there won’t be more bruises, knowing H won’t get near the ones I did manage to get. Every time I move and feel the pain, its a stinging reminder of what H has no desire to give me.


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