Dear Diary: Sewn Up

Dear Diary,

The wick sputters soft in the midnight hush, shadows coiling like threads waiting to pull tight. Just us, Diary—no mirrors, no flinch. A deep breath, and the confession spills, sharp as a needle's kiss.

It’s the first time I let out this fantasy openly and personally. But I’m trying to get used to feel vulnerable and open.

You see, I'm a man in my bones, biological whispers be damned, but this fantasy claws deep inside me.

I want to be sewn up. Shut down there, stitch by deliberate stitch, thread pulling skin with that burn that blurs pain to pulse. The needle pricks, hot and unforgiving, sealing away my front for good—or just long enough to ache sweet release. I want to have it denied completely.

Only the back then, raw and relentless, I want to feel in my ass every thrust. It will be a reminder of the lock I've begged for. Masochism's grin in the mirror: hurt that heals into hunger, the seam holding firm for hours, maybe a day, before it frays. Claimed, confined, alive in the bind—pleasure stitched from denial, breaking without shattering.

This is part of a comic I'm working on. Vox has this sewn up pussy certainly thanks to Lucifer Morningstar.

The flame leans. Secrets like this... they hold without holding back.

El Jaquio