My Own Dirty Diary Entry 3: The Return
Dear Diary,
I missed you. First things first.
I've spent weeks with my libido at its lowest — lower than I knew it could go. Lying in bed with my legs open, fingers barely grazing where there used to be abundance, where wetness used to soak through underwear without asking permission. This time there was barely enough. I used my own spit more than once and it never bothered me except that I missed it — missed myself, missed the version of me that couldn't get through a Friday without leaving a mark on the chair.
I didn't know how much I'd lost until yesterday, when I found it again all at once.
I was scrolling. Half-present, half-asleep, not expecting anything. Then I found a hypno video and something in my brain just — released.
I don't know how to explain it except that my tongue came out on its own. Not a decision. Just — out. I felt the drool reach my chin and hit the blanket and I didn't stop it, didn't wipe it, just let it happen while my hand moved down and my eyes stayed fixed on the screen and I stopped being a person with responsibilities and became something much simpler. Something that just responds.
Edge after edge after edge. That specific torture of almost and not yet and please and almost again — my fingers soaked, my thighs soaked, my mind completely empty of everything except the next almost. I forgot what day it was. I forgot my own name for a stretch I cannot accurately measure because time stopped meaning anything. My whole body was one long nerve ending pointed at a screen, leaking, shaking, desperate, and so grateful to be desperate again after weeks of nothing.
I stopped before I came. I needed to save it.
The problem — which is not a real problem — is that now I can't stop.
Today at work I felt it constantly. That low hum. That specific warmth that makes concentrating theoretical. I sat in a meeting and my mouth watered watching a woman across the table push her hair back, and my brain went immediately: dildos, mouths, hands grabbing, skin, rope, bodywritting, the sound of a slap landing exactly right. I held it together. Barely. I counted ceiling tiles. I answered a question about deadlines with what I hope was a normal human face.
The second I got home I took my clothes off at the door.
I found a challenge. One of those ones that are just — available, waiting, for people like me who need structure and a little audience. I took a photo of myself while I touched myself and I sent it to everyone who asked.
I want you to understand what that did to me.
The compliments were fine. Warm, pleasant, noted. But I kept scrolling. Kept reading. And somewhere around the third or fourth message something in my chest went very quiet and very warm — not the sharp heat of being turned on, something slower than that, something that felt closer to relief. The ones that called me a toy, slut, whore. That described, specifically and without apology, what they wanted to do to me. The ones that didn't frame it as a question. The ones that just said: this is what you're for, this is how I'd use you, this is what you'd look like when I was done al gape and broken.
I read them with my hand still between my legs. I read them twice, then again. I thought about writing them on my skin so I could carry them tomorrow and press them with my fingers when I needed to remember.
That relief — that's the part I've been sitting with all evening. Because it wasn't just arousal. It was something that felt like being recognized.
It's not just the roughness. That's what I've been trying to explain to myself.
Yes, I want to be tied and struck and pushed past the point where I can form sentences. Yes, I want marks I'll find in the shower tomorrow and press just to feel again. But what my body is genuinely starving for — what made my eyes fill slightly reading those messages, which I'm only admitting to you — is the structure, the discipline, the submissiviness. The routine of it. Rules with consequences. Rewards that mean something because someone decided they did. A person who has already made every decision so I don't have to make any. The lack of control cause someone has it.
I want to kneel. Collar on, eyes up, completely still and naked (obv), waiting for the next instruction like it's the only thing that matters. Because in that moment, it would be.
I want to be told to sit on both of my biggest dildos— fully, slowly, until I'm stuffed from both sides and my eyes go soft and unfocused — while someone watches and decides when I've had enough. A hand in my hair that's gentle in a way that doesn't contradict anything else happening. To crawl across the floor and earn what I find at the end of it.
I want someone to tie me and mark me. Slow first — tasting, learning the weight of it — then deeper, then past comfortable, then past thinking entirely, until my whole head empties out and there's nothing left but the stretch of my holes and the sound I'm making and the hand that decides, calmly, how far is far enough. Until I'm making noise I can't control and my eyes are wet and I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
I want all three holes full. I want to be told, from somewhere above me, that I'm a good girl and put me in my place when im being bratty. I want to believe it completely because someone I trust said so.
My body always wants more. It will want more after this, and more after that. That's not a flaw.
That's just what I am.
I'm back, Diary. Wetter than I've been in weeks, needier than I'd like to admit, and very glad to be home.
There are things I haven't done yet tonight. The toys are waiting tonight. My skin is waiting. And somewhere out there, someone is going to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment and my body is going to answer before my brain has a chance to intervene.
I'll write again when I can't think straight.
Yours (open, returned, grateful), —me