29 September 2009


He has failed me twice this week, and I'm furious.
"Come up with your own punishment," I told him, and he whimpered. But he did it... I wonder if he knows that I don't trust myself to think of something appropriate, if he realizes that I was too angry to trust myself not to choose something which would harm him.
He mentioned several options, stumbling a little and whimpering. His fear soothed me a little, and the shame in his voice eased the last of my fury. He wants this punishment, needs this penance to expiate the shame which he feels- a shame likely far stronger than my anger.

By the time he arrives at my home, over an hour's drive away, I am calm again. His face as he enters my home is beautiful- frightened and ashamed and loving and willing and beautiful. It melts me, but I keep my face still. I no longer need this, but it is clear to me that he does. Penance, else he will blame himself for his failure forever.
My boi is hard on himself, harder perhaps even than I am, and I love him for it.
And because I love him, my voice is cold: "Strip".

He strips, kneels.
I read for a while, sprawled on the couch. Concealed Carry Magazine, belated birthday gift courtesy of one of my bosses. I read about the merits of the new Kahr .380, possibly my next expensive gift for myself once I get my hands on one to try it out.

He is perfectly still, aside from the misery on his face. Test passed.
I stand quickly, 3 quick strides and my fingers are twined in his hair. He starts to stand, starts to try to come to me, but I shove him back to the floor. I am not angry any longer, but this roughness is what he wants right now, what he needs.
It's breaking my heart.

I drag him along the hallway, forcing him to keep up with my long, fast strides and then dump him onto my air intake grate.
My house is old- 1940's officer housing for a nearby Army base. It was built long before central air was standard, and central air was installed below the floors. That means that an air intake is needed. Mine sits in my floor, just outside of our media/guest room. It's a huge metal grate, maybe 3.5x2.5'. It hurts to stand on, I can't imagine how it feels to kneel on it.
He's kneeling now, his face tight with pain.
I'm sprawled on our guest bed, reading my magazine again and keeping a subtle eye on him.

He shifts, whimpers slightly, rights himself.
Sniffs, puts his arms behind his head, steals a glance at me.
Minutes pass, slowly. So slowly.
I didn't think to bring my phone, I don't know how much time is passing, but I'm watching him. I watch him consider safing out, watch him discard the notion.
He told me that an hour would be a good period of time.
It hasn't been 20 minutes and he bends over, body shaking. Instantly, I'm terrified. Was this too much? Is he retching from the pain? But my voice is cold, amused, laced with condescension, "Are you puking?"
He shakes his head, whispering, "No, ma'am."
I return to my magazine, but now I can see the shininess of his eyes, the shivering of his muscles.
Good, it's time. I want him to feel the strain, recognize that it was hard... but not to fail. I never want him to feel like he's failed me again.

It takes barely two strides in the smaller room before I'm on him, twisting my fingers in his hair once more and dragging him into the room. He stumbles after me, dropping to his knees in front of me. His face is flushed and sweating, his lovely hair matted and stuck to his cheeks.
He has never looked more beautiful to me.

I wrap my hands around his face. "Do you understand why I was angry with you?"
He nods, still miserable.
"Do you understand why I did this?"
He nods again, eyes down.
"Look at me." He obeys. The fear in his eyes is something I would normally sip like a fine wine, but not today. Not with that misery behind it. Today it only twists my gut into knots of anxiety.
"It's over now," I tell him, letting my voice take the loving tone I've been denying to myself for the last half hour and drawing him into me.
He clings to me, sweaty miserable shamed boy, and I realize that he's whispering, the same words over and over: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

It breaks my heart a little more, twists the pieces a little harder.
I draw him back to see my face, let him see the love, the tenderness in my eyes. "It's over. I forgive you. It's over."

And then he is in my arms and pressed against me and I am stroking him, kissing the top of his head over and over and we are both whispering incoherent nonsense to one another but it's all right because I know what he is saying and he knows what I am.

28 September 2009

Weekend with Actaeon

I want to blog about this weekend. I want to write you beautiful porn about my fantastic weekend with my most wonderful of bois.
I want to tell you about kissing his chest with terribly gentleness until he begged me to hurt him. I want to tell you about how brave he was at the munch and play party, talking to people despite his shyness, and how proud of him that I was.
I want to tell you about fucking him for the first time, my glass cock making him writhe and whimper and beg for more. I want to tell you how his face looked, flushed and open and needing as I drove into him. I want to tell you about the texture of his hair, sweaty and matted to his forehead as he looks up at me through his forelock.
I want to tell you about making him cry, about pushing him to the point of breakdown at his request, about the way his body felt curled and vulnerable in my arms and how strong and protective it made me feel.
I want to tell you about snuggling with him and watching a movie while he drifted to sleep in my arms, about the warmth of his body against mine as he struggled to stay awake and with me, about promising him that I would be here when he woke.

I want to tell you about this weekend, write about how hot-tender-gorgeous-loving-erotic-beautiful that it was... but words fail me in the face of it. Maybe with a little time, I'll find the perspective to write about it, but for now I will leave you with this: I had a fantastic weekend with my darling Actaeon who has stolen my heart terrifyingly quickly.

24 September 2009

Finally, another HNT!

Yes, I know, I suck at remembering to do HNTs. Shaddup. I really am trying to get better, but Thursdays are 10-hour school days for me.
But the boi and I went to mom and Mouse's and we got more chainmaille HNTs... so expect those the next few weeks :)

22 September 2009


You are kneeling at my feet beside the table, looking up at me with shy eyes. I love how light they turn when you're happy- from brown to an almost-hazel shade, hiding behind your hair as it falls into your face.
I love you like this, your body loose and relaxed as you lean against my thigh a little, your face open and smiling. You know what is coming, know what I will do to you... and you want it.
I love you for that. Love you for your willingness, your lack of defense mechanisms when you are with me. I love you for the fact that you never tell me, "no". It makes me feel as though I own the world, and at the same time it's incredibly humbling- this knowledge that you will do as I ask, even if it is harmful, and the responsibility that attends it.

Tenderly now, I weave my fingers into your hair, drawing you closer to me and pressing your face into my thigh. I want you near me.

My plate is beside me, biscuits steaming fresh from the oven with butter melting into them, and sausage patties cooked with queso, and I smile down at you, breaking off a bite of biscuit and placing it in your mouth. I see the momentary flinch, the lifetime of memories and fears swimming in your eyes and I tighten my hand in your hair, just a little and watch you relax. This is beautiful to me: the melting of your fears into the warmth of my hands, the rising tide of trust in your eyes as you accept the bite from my fingers.
Your lips are so warm on my hands... I'm transfixed by the sight.

Another bite, a little sausage this time, and I give you a sip of hot tea.
Next time, the tea will be in a bowl on the floor.

You're slipping down now, the sense of 'self' in your eyes fading, until for just this moment all you are, all you have ever been or ever will be, is my pet. My toy. My darling boi.
You will return to yourself: I know it, trust it as you trust me... but for this moment, as you slip down into my eyes, unto the warmth of my hands and the bites of food from my fingers, I watch you made safe.

Autumn Equinox

One year ago today, I held a knife to Lucivar's throat and we talked about wolves and about scars.
One year ago today, he fisted his hands in my hair and brought me back into balance.
One year ago today, I fell a little in love with him.

Our relationship now is different than it was, then. The NRE has worn off, and we've had fights and disappointments and we've both healed and given one another new scars.
It's been a long year, with high points and low ones, but one thing holds steady: you are one of my favorite people on the face of the planet, Ishta, and I adore you.

Happy Anniversary.

17 September 2009

Breakfast Date

It's loud here, crowded, a bustle of plates and servers and guests and steaming trays of food... but I notice none of it. Its mere periphery around the boy across the table from me.
I'm simply watching him, predator-still. He is pretty, femmey, with lovely blue-black hair shading his eyes as he raises them to me, blushes, looks away.
I simply watch him, and he squirms, darts another look at me with those lovely, nervous black eyes, and drops his head again, twisting a little away.

He is so uncomfortable, so afraid... and I can feel his arousalterrorjoy from here. It's lovely- I want to sip the scent of his fear like a fine wine, let it rest on my palate with a coppery tang like blood, and savor the aftertaste of the arousal which follows in its wake.

14 September 2009


You told me this morning that you look forward to my making you scream.
Instantly, my entire body tightened with pleasure, with need. You laughed last night about psycopaths: "Eat, kill, fuck- it's all the same," and I only smiled.
It is all the same.
I can't fuck. But I can sink my teeth into you and rip away flesh.
It's like sex, only better- messier.

Oh yes, darling, I will make you scream. I wonder how you will scream.... you with your dark, dark eyes and little-boy smile. Will you start out groaning, and then yelp? Will you whimper until it becomes a single, high-pitched woman's scream? Will you try to hold out, try to be brave, until the screams are ripped from your raw and aching chest?

I'll think of it as an experiment, gathering data about your screaming style- everyone has a different one, you know.
Mine are silent.

I'm going to make you scream.

10 September 2009

Sufi Night

I am happy tonight. Simply content, and full of quiet, bubbling joy.

I watched Sufis dance tonight, creating sacred space and drawing closer to God through music and movement. Their drums echoed off the sides of the buildings around them, and their bare feet pounded in time as they followed centuries-old mystic visions in a small urban park.
It was beautiful, their voices a reedy counterpoint to the deep thump of the djembes while the women in brightly colored silks handed out food to the homeless to celebrate dusk during the sacred month of Ramadan.

When I heard the drums, and saw these African men dancing, my first thought was they were performing ritual, creating sacred space, safe space to celebrate sorrow and strength. In my ethnocentric way, I assumed that they were African-American, and that their sacred space was a celebration of their mixed history here in my city in the Deep South.
I was wrong, and I was right. They were creating sacred space, but there was far more joy than sorrow to it, and I was blessed to be allowed to let it wash over me, healing me and bringing me joy and peace.
I walked to the train station is a state of bubbling joy, carrying on a beautiful conversation with a Sufi man about the nature of God and Love and Salvation, and came home to this house which I love, shared a walk with my four-legged daughter, and am curled up now with a pot of my favorite tea and my homemade Black Forest scones with butter and blackberry jam.

Tonight is a gift from a loving Universe.

Thank you.

Not the sexy- drugs and politics

In my "Social Problems" class, we're talking about drugs, about their use, abuse, prosecution, and the potential for decriminalization.
It's hard to be objective about this. It's really hard.

Drug abuse has fucked my life up- badly. My mother was an alcoholic, and because of her many, many DUIs, she spent the majority of my childhood either in the hospital or prison. Later, as a teen, despite the fact that I have never touched an illegal drug (unless you count the occasional rum'n'coke with my father as a teen), cocaine took my brother, my lover, my home, my job, my car, and nearly my career in the military. Even now, the specter of addiction, and the mistakes of both myself and my loved ones haunt me.

And yet... and yet... I pride myself on my objectivity, and now that my wounds are healing a little (a very little!), I'm learning to look at drug use with a less fearful eye. (It helps to have a lover who's experimented with every drug under the sun!)

The evidence is mounting that marijuana is significantly less dangerous than cigarettes or alcohol, and that it can have great effectiveness in helping to treat the nausea and discomfort associated with chemotherapy, as well as other maladies. Certainly, while driving 'high' is not to be recommended, I've never seen evidence that its any worse than driving drunk- which is also illegal, and likely to remain that way!
It's well-known that the prison-industrial complex makes billions of dollars a year, and nearly as well-known that nearly half of American inmates are incarcerated for non-violent drug offenses. It's a matter of common sense that a reputab;e liquor vendor will refuse to sell alcohol to a minor, and that an average street vendor of illegal drugs will not. One might also consider that while hundreds of billions of dollars are spent on the "War on Drugs", drug use among teens has been holding steady for years, with nearly half of American teens admitting to having experimented with drugs at some point in their lives.

Clearly, my personal distast for drug use aside, the War on Drugs is failing, and we as society failing to come to grips with it.

Certainly Holland's policy of decriminalization and compassionate care for addicts has actually led to a decrease in criminal acitivity and even a decrease in drug use.
Would this work in the US? I'm afraid I'm not far enough along toward my sociology degree to answer this with any accuracy. American culture and Dutch culture are dissimilar, and the sizes and populations of our respective countries are very different.

One thing, however, is clear: American drug policy doesn't work.

08 September 2009


I want your hands on me. I want your hands on my skin, and your fingers tangled in my hair. I want your lips, your teeth, on mine.

Oh, my body is sore today and weak, more sensitive to pain than usual, but I don’t care. I want you to hurt me anyway, I want you to hurt me and to make me feel safe.

I want your body covering mine, pinning mine, forcing me to stillness beneath you as the scent of you fills my lungs. I want to be surrounded by you, consumed by you, consumed in you.

07 September 2009

My men

I'm thinking of old memories tonight, old lovers and yes new ones, too.

I'm thinking of the scent of Wolf's hands on my skin, and the way that Lucivar's eyes look when he touches me.

I'm thinking of the sweet-sharp ache that they both leave in my heart without ever realizing it.

I'm thinking about the men I love tonight, and about the ones whom I've let go. I'm thinking about the Ranger, who never knew the difference he made in my life, and about Fox, my erstwhile brother whom I will likely never see again.

I'm thinking tonight, thinking about that ache in my heart and what makes it worthwhile. Thinking about the warm circle of safety that my Jack's arms create around me, and about the gleeful evil in USB's eyes.
Goddess of Light and Darkness, I love these men in my life. I love the depth of surrender in Kat's eyes before I punished him that night, and the overflowing love in Joseph's the morning I made him his birthday cake.
I love these men who love me, who hurt me, who heal me, who leave me and who stay with me.

I'm thinking of the depth of Nevoc's trust in me, and the despair on Devilpup's face before he left.

I am thinking of my men, and those who aren't my men anymore.
I am thinking of the sweet-sharp ache in my heart, and of those who put it there, whether witting or un-.


I have this fantasy about you, about you kneeling at my feet. Your eyes are wide and a little nervous- you're not sure what you're doing here, at the feet of a woman you barely know. You don't know why you trust me, what blind instinct has guided you here, to this baring of your fantasies to me... but you're here now, and some part of you is trembling with fear.

I like it.
I like the trepidation in your eyes.
Such pretty eyes, they caught my notice as soon as I saw you.
I like seeing fear in them.
Fear of me.
I've stripped you naked, your skin as bare to me as your mind, every blemish and beauty clear to my eyes, and set you to kneeling at my feet. You love my corsets, love the restriction and the power they symbolize, so I'm wearing one for you- smooth, cool leather against my pale skin. I know that you can smell its rich scent, just as I can, and I know that it's driving you crazy.
And I love it.

You've bared your soul to me, and I'm going to use every drop of that knowledge tonight.

We'll start simply, though, since you're already so charmingly on your knees...

"Kiss my feet, boy..."

Alone tonight

My home feels lonely tonight, with you gone- less like a home than a house. Another house, another set of walls and floors that I'll have to leave one day.

My home feels lonely tonight, even the sunset cold and grey. I am sick, I have been for days now, and perhaps it's only the fever that's making me maudlin, sad, vulnerable.

I don't want to be alone tonight, don't want the thoughts crowding into my mind and chewing at me like a school of pihrana. I don't want to face my cold bed with it's empty nest of sheets and blankets.

I want you here with me tonight, want your hands on my skin and your lips soft on my face as you promise me that it will be all right.
Promise me.
Lie to me.
Promise me.

I don't want to be alone tonight.

01 September 2009

Sexual violence- the sad, not the sexy

So I just finished watching Bad Girls. It’s a pretty decent movie, but the movie itself isn’t what I’m thinking about.

I’m thinking about sexual violence.

Bad Girls got one thing right, from a sociological perspective. Every time that the female characters acted in a way that was out of keeping with mid 19th-century mores, the immediate response was not simply violence, but specifically sexual violence. The opening is one of the women- they are all prostitutes- refusing to kiss one of her clients. He responds by slapping and attempting to rape her. Every time a woman stands up to a man, she is consistently punished by sexual violence- one of the main plot devices are the brutal rapes of two of the characters at different points in the movie.

While it ends on a semi-hopeful note- the women kill their attackers and stake a claim in the Klondike- the theme is consistent, and the only character who finds a successful relationship is the semi-helpless one who never abandons “feminine” behavior.

I’d like to write this off as an isolated example, or even the necessity of a “big evil” for Hollywood to have the women struggle against. I can’t, though, because I’ve seen too many movies like it, and I’ve experienced the reality of this mindset. No, I’ve seen too many examples of women punished with violence- particularly sexual violence- for acting outside of accepted gender norms.

And given my thoughts earlier on my own less-than-clear-cut gender, is it any wonder that this scares me?


I am thinking about gender again, thinking about who I am on the inside of my head.

A boi

A girl

A woman

I won’t say a man, because my masculine side isn’t as fully formed. I think of him as a boi, an adolescent, not as a man. He, and I, am not a man. We are a boi still, and that is all right. We have a great deal of learning and growing to do together, first.

I was born a woman, and I like my biological sex. I enjoy the weight of my breasts in my hands, the feel of my hand cupping my mons. I like the smooth skin of my stomach and the high line of my cheekbones.

But I am also a boi on the inside… sometimes. Much of the time.

I am a boi in my linear, problem-solving thinking, and in the length of my strides when I walk. I am a boi in my stubbornness, in my willingness to be the pursuer in my relationships. I am a boi in my obsession with fucking him, my love of simply bending him over and taking him.

I am a woman, and I am a boi. I am not transgender, but I am genderqueer. Sometimes.

But even when I am at my most feminine, the boi sits in the back of my mind, watching, commenting, and sometimes laughing.

I tried on a wedding dress, with the beautiful Miss Gigi, and for about 15 seconds I gloated over how lovely I looked… and then the boi in my head freaked out, saw that white dress as a denial of himself, and we went and changed back into my unisex clothing- a tshirt and blue jeans.

I will not lie, I am afraid of the boi in my head. I am afraid of what he means to my feminine self. He frightens me, and this is the only place where I express him. But he is here, and he is me, and I must learn to accept him… and myself.

Fuck you- a fantasy

So many times, when we come together, it’s something special. Something intimate, in the profoundest sense. When we come together, so often, it rocks us to the core, squeezing our hearts and rocking our souls.

I love that. I love the way that it makes me feel when we’re together, the depth of our connection…

But that isn’t what I want today.

I don't want a profound intimate connection, I don't want cleansing tears or to have my heart rocked to its core.
I just want to fuck you.

I don't want to make love to you.
I just want to bend you over, smear lube on my fingers, and press them into you. I just want to see your face while I'm filling you, watch the simultaneous flinch and relaxation.
I don't care today if you need this, I don't care today if you're stressed, or sore. I don't care if this is what I need, I don't care what deep inner urging in myself prompts it.
I just want to fuck you.

I just want to press my hand to the back of your neck and hold you there, to smile as you willingly put your hands behind your back. I want to feel myself sink into you and watch your body spasm.
I just want to fuck you.

I want to press my hips into your body and lean into you, wrapping my hands around your throat and watching you melt into me. I want to pound into you, watch it drive you briefly up off of the bed, your eyes wide and your mouth in a little 'o' of surprise.
I just want to fuck you.

About Me

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I am just your ordinary average every day sane psycho supergoddess