Word-picture

Your ass, raised up from the bed, your knees wide beneath you- everything about you a single curved form of slutty desire.

Your buttocks like twin curved moons, awaiting my hands, awaiting my fingers spreading you wide and opening you, invading you, taking you.

Your back arching, opening, accepting while your pretty little mouth, invisible with your face pressed into the coverlet makes soft whimpering sounds of desire. I can smell the arousal on you, the need, and I want to cover you like a stud covering a mare in season.

I love you like this, love you open and needing and slutty for me, love the indentions of my hands on your buttocks as I spread you wide in preparation.

Scenting our prey

He is apprehensive but aroused. I can smell the curiosity on him, the desire wafting from his skin and mingling with the lightly acid scent of his nervousness.

The predator in the back of my mind wakes: yawning and stretching, her claws flexing. She has been napping since the loss of Actaeon, only waking briefly when I play with Diablo. But now she is padding along the hallway of my mind, moving steadily forward until she looks out through my eyes and fills my senses.

Suddenly, everything is sharper. I can smell the perfumes of every woman in the room and how the clash with the shampoos, the colognes of every man and which ones are compatible with their deodorant.

Every color is brighter, and the individual hairs on his exposed chest are suddenly fascinating. I want to straddle him and pluck each one while he squirms and whines.

My clothing is confining, rough, and I want to strip and rub myself against him to disguise my predator's scent with his of prey.

She, the predator, looks out through my eyes and scents him. We look at him and watch the fascination grow in his face. He knows he is prey now, knows the predator has his scent. I watch him realize it, accept it- and want it.

His hug to me is brief, but tight, intense, and I can feel the desire in him- taste the scent of it, rolling it on my palate like a fine wine.

Soon, there will be a meal to accompany it.

Memories

I remember the last time that I bottomed to him.

Such a silly phrase: "bottomed to him."

I remember the last time that he pinned me down and I bared my soul to him.

I remember the last time that I cried in his arms.

Oh he was so worried as he left! Knowing that I was just post-catharsis and fragile and he was already so late, so late!

I remember his face as a study of love and worry for me, and his eyes- jade light when he is happy- forest green with concern.

But it was that concern that promised that I would be okay.

It was that concern, that knowledge- gut-deep- that he loved me, that made me certain that I would be okay when he left.

I remember kissing him and promising to call if I need him, but that I was okay.

I remember that his lips still tasted salty from my tears.

Winter Solstice

Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice, and tonight is my 2nd Annual Winter Solstice Party.

Tomorrow, after I clean up my house, I will set the table with pretty linens and delicate plates, and I will make myself a pot of tea, a plate of scones, a sandwich, and some cookies, and I will drink the tea from one of my Nana's teacups.

You see, tomorrow is a Monday, and for some reason tea rooms don't like to be open on Mondays.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Winter Solstice is the longest night of the year, and the shortest day. It's the official beginning of Winter, and a time for introspection and planning for the new year. Winter is the dark time, the hibernating time, and it's in the winter that the stories were passed down to the next generations as oral histories.

The stories.

The stories are important.

Once, there was a little girl. Her mother was gone and her father was a gypsy, so she lived with her grandmother in a big, big house where the two of them rattled around like two peas in a big, big pod.

The house was full of secrets and mysteries, but it was also a happy a place, the most stable place the little girl ever lived, and she never, ever doubted when she lived there that her Nana loved her.

Her Nana was a little old lady with pale, pale skin and silvery hair, and a curved back that nevertheless always gave the impression of being martially straight. She was a very little old lady, but everyone obeyed her and called her, 'The Little General-" everyone except the little girl, who climbed in her lap even once she was much too big to do so, and called her Nana, or Gran.

The little girl was a tomboy, and didn't like girly things. She didn't want to sit still, or dress up for dinners,and she definitely didn't want to learn to take tea. But her Nana insisted, and made her hot chocolate instead, so they sat at the long, long table in the big, big house, and her Nana set it with pretty, delicate plates and let her pick out a teacup from her special collection of teacups. The little girl fidgeted, and whined, but she loved her Nana so she sat at the long, long table in the big, big house, and she drank hot chocolate like a little lady, and learned to eat cookies without making a mess.

When the little girl was much older, and not nearly as little anymore, she was taken away from her Nana and sent somewhere else.

She never forgot her Nana, but she was angry and hurting and young and selfish and was never as close to her Nana after that.

As such things happen, for her Nana was quite old when the little girl lived with her, one day her Nana slipped into the warm Darkness, and the girl (who was not very little anymore) grieved for a very long time.

The very next Winter Solstice, she decided to go and have tea at a local tea room, in honor of her Nana.

She sat in the beautiful room, sipped real tea this time! from a pretty, delicate tea cup very much like her Nana's, and nibbled scones and cookies and sandwiches without making a mess. And if there were tears in her eyes, well, there was a smile on her lips as she remembered the little old lady and the long, long table in the big, big house.

And she's been doing it ever since.

KISS

The knife is at his throat.

It's a pretty knife. Actaeon gave it to me. Columbia River Knife and Tool, KISS blade.

KISS is an acronym. It stands for, "Keep it simple, stupid," and this knife is designed to those standards. I like it.

A lot. Actaeon carried it every day before giving it to me, replacing the one Wolf had given me.

He takes good care of his toys- it has a nice, sharp edge, which I am currently holding to Diablo's throat.

Oh he's so pretty like this! His eyes are huge and terrified, welling with silent tears. He's afraid of knives, did I mention that?

KISS

Did you know that it only takes one pound of pressure to cut skin, boy?

No, Ma'am, he whimpers. I didn't know that.

So articulate! Clearly, I'm not doing my job.

I shift my hold on the blade, a movement USB taught me, so that the tip of the blade- sharpest point of a knife- is pressed tightly under his chin and he keens in terror.

It would be so easy to shove it home, sheathe the hard steel in his warm, yielding throat.

Nope, no Freudian thoughts there.

KISS

Holding the blade steady, thinking hard about the consequences of shoving the blade home, putting the leash back on my psychopathic side.

Just the knife, just the boy.

KISS

His eyes are filling with tears again, which he stubbornly blinks away. He won't cry in front of me, not yet.

I can have his blood, but not his tears.

We'll fix that soon enough....

DomCon HNT

I love this shot... Shoes courtesy of Joe the Shoe Guy and shot by Wicked Kitten Productions

The Whys and Wherefores

"Do you know why I'm doing this?" I ask him.

His eyes are huge, brilliant green, and locked onto my face as she shakes his head a little, whispering hoarsely, "No, Mistress."

I smile. He cringes when I smile like this. He hasn't known me long,but he already cringes when I smile at him tenderly.

He's a fast learner, my little Diablo.

But he hasn't learned this quite yet. He is accustomed to photo shoots, pretty lights and photogenic welts.

I'm not photogenic- I tried modeling once, but I hated every moment of it. I don't care what I look like when I'm hitting you. I just want to see the fear in your eyes.

But the fear is already there crinkling the skin around his eyes, so I decide to be nice and explain it to him.

I lift the little evil stick- a replacement for the one I bought last year at SouthEast LeatherFest which mysteriously disappeared after using it on someone who hated it- and his eyes widen even more. It's interesting, I didn't know he could manage that- it's rather amusing, so I tap him lightly on the nose with it, enjoying his cringing.

"I'm doing it because I want to, boy."

Another tap, another flinch.

"I'm hurting you because I think it's fun."

The next tap is to his balls, drawn up tight in arousal, and he keens a little in terror.

"I'm going to do awful things to you because I like the way your eyes get all wide and scared.

Another tap, another keening sound.

"I don't have a camera. I don't care what this looks like for the website or for any other fucking reason."

A harder tap, a high-pitched keen.

"I'm doing this because I'm just a little bit of a sociopath, and you're the stupid little whore who let me tie him up and hurt him."

His eyes are beautiful- wide and terrified and just beginning to understand....

Missing him

I am having trouble tonight.

Trouble accepting that he is gone, trouble knowing that he is not in my arms tonight and will not be again.

It is a day for regrets: foggy and bleak, everything edged with a grey soft focus lens.

In the store today, I accidentally sprayed myself with the cologne that the man who raped me wore.

I wanted to call him, wanted to whimper in remembered agony and hear him soothe me.

I saw makeup today, lovely bronzed earth tones to suit his golden skin and I wanted to buy them, wanted to paint him like the beautiful whore that he is....... only not for me, not anymore.

Most days, I understand that what we have chosen is right for both of us. Most days, I love him and accept his choices with reasonable grace.

But today I don't want to. Today I woke up afraid and hurting and missing him with a fierce aching sense of loss that nothing assuages.

Today, I miss him.

First Kiss

Diablo is wrapped around me, his long, lean body intertwined with mine. I can feel the tension in him, the sense of difference that it is a female form he is curled with, the unfamiliar curve of hip and weight of breast against his skin, and it makes me smile.

Turning my head against the weight of him, I find him watching me, watching for this opportunity to kiss me lightly, fleetingly, almost reservedly. It is a pleasure to return this kiss, to enjoy his firm-soft lips, somewhere between those of a man and a woman. His small tremors of response move me, draw me, until we are lying entwined with the warm weight of him half-atop me and his hands cradling my face as he explores my mouth slowly, learns the differences in my responses from those he is accustomed to, feels the way my fingers clench and draw him closer.

I am the first girl he has ever enjoyed kissing.

Switching with Actaeon

Actaeon has cut his hair. It leaves his cheekbones higher, more exposed, his lips (even) fuller, and the planes of his face are harsher and more masculine. He looks…. aggressive. But that makes me uncomfortable, so I tell him that he resembles a young hedgehog and feel my heart contract at his expression of distress.

There is a difference even in his walk- no longer the feminine sway of his hips to which I am so accustomed (and so enjoy watching!) but a more assertive tread of boots now.I don’t know how to respond to this person I know but do not know, this masculine side of himself to whom I’ve never been formally introduced: “Hello, who are you? I have shared my body, my heart, with you, but I don’t know you.”

I know I am being cruel, know that my small, cutting remarks are out of line, but I can’t help it. I’m disconcerted, frightened by the replacement of the boi I’ve loved with this young man I’ve only ever seen glimpses of.…. and fear as always made me angry.

It is later, and I have apologized. Seeing glimpses of the boi I love in this man I barely know has helped until I’ve begun to slowly integrate them in my head, in my heart, and let me see this man as simply another facet of the boi I love.

We are kissing, and even that is different. This is not the gentle yielding of his mouth to mine but something harsher, more aggressive. His tongue fences with mine, where before it yielded, his lips demand where before they begged. I don’t know this stranger who is kissing me with the familiarity of a lover, and it makes me tense, afraid. Who are you? Why are you pressing your body to mine as though you are my lover, as though I know you, and why do I have the unaccountable urge to yield to it?

And suddenly it clicks.

His need to express this newfound masculinity aggressively, our long-ago discussions of him as a switch, and my own trust in him. It crystallizes in a single memory of him holding me, rocking me, whispering words of comfort when I was afraid and overwhelmed, and abruptly the switch is thrown.

I know this man, he is another facet of the boi whom I love. I trust this man, who has proven that he can comfort me and still believe in me afterward, and he is worthy of this, this yielding in me which I do not give to anyone.

My body goes soft, pliant in his hands, and my mouth opens to his. There is a single startled moment as his mind registers the change in me before his hands respond- tightening their grip with a low growl, winding in my hair, his body pressing me farther into the bed and his hips opening my now-willing legs.

And I let myself sink into the trust, the surrender, which I so rarely allow myself, so rarely trust in another being as he relearns what this victory feels like with someone capable of fighting.

DomCon HNT

Outfit (and yes, as far as I'm concerned, this is half-naked!) by Marvelous Mayhem and photo courtesy of Wicked Kitten Productions

FetLife's Kinky Santa Giveaway- enter to win!

DomCon HNT

The next several HNTs will be from DomCon 2009, taken by the amazing mistress of Wicked Kitten Productions.

This particular one is of Actaeon, actually! (He does better in heels than I ever will!)

Actaeon

Actaeon and I are no more.

We are still very close friends, but he is no longer my boi.

We're okay. I'm okay, so please don't worry.

Actaeon is 23. He will be awarded his Master's degree in his chosen field this upcoming May. The entire world is open to him, and he deserves the freedom to explore it- without the emotional fetters of a relationship as committed as I seek.

I love him. He loves me.

That is not in doubt, nor has it ever been- this is a mutual decision, and we respect one another's needs.

Gods, that sounds like counseling psycho-babble! But it's true. Yes, I'm hurting and grieving a bit, and so is he. But it's a clean wound, and beginning to heal already as we help one another through it.

What this means for the future is that we will still hang out (he's coming over this weekend again), we will still play some and attend events together, but the commitment of a relationship is no longer there.

In 'formal' D/s terms, we've gone from a Master/slave relationship to being a Top and bottom who are also very close friends.

I'll start hunting again for a boy soon, but not until after the Holidays. It's too stressful, and I won't put Jack through that over the Holidays.

Meanwhile, I'm planning a Winter Solstice Party and possibly an Orphan's Christmas Dinner.

I love you all :)

Diablo and Actaeon

He is strung up from the eyebolts in my living room, his legs spread wide by one of the spreader bars my father gave me.

A very pretty boy: his body long and lean, a few tattoos in judicious places to show off the muscular curve of his arms, and the line of his back until it curves into a tightly rounded little ass. I step 'round in front of him, smiling pleasantly.

He looks so nervous! He hasn't known me long enough to get nervous at my most pleasant smile! I can only chuckle, low in my throat, and wrap the silk scarf around his eyes to remove his sight.

Poor thing... spread wide and open, exposed and vulnerable to me, sightless, naked, and trembling in fear. It sends a thrill of arousal through me, dampening my cunt inside my jeans, and I point at the floor in front of Diablo, summoning my Actaeon here in front of him. It takes little arranging, a short length of rope and a collar with a D-ring, before my pretty boys are attached to one another.

It's a beautiful sight: the open living room, Diablo tied standing spread-eagle, naked with only the purple silk scarf slashing tightly across his pretty face, and Actaeon kneeling before him equally naked and obedient, watching the rising cock before his face with something between trepidation and hunger.

Actaeon's hot little mouth tight around Diablo's cock, Diablo moaning and leaning into him, the muscles of his calves tight with the effort of not thrusting into Actaeon's willing mouth.

Actaeon's soft sounds of pleasure, the slight slurping of his hungry tongue, lips, and teeth.

And now the crack of paddle, the disbelieving half-yelp from Diablo's throat as it connects with his rounded ass.

"Awww," I whisper in his ear, "girls play rough, don't they?" as another crack catches him in the sweet spot just where his buttocks meet his thighs. it isn't long before he is whimpering, hissing, and moaning with every blow as I cycle through my favorite toys: the twisted acrylic cane, the heavy leather pig-slapper, the hickory paddle, the rubber loop paddle... he learns all of them intimately, while Actaeon continues to work him with hungry slurps of his lips and hands clutching his smooth thighs, keeping Diablo hard through pain he never thought he would stay hard through.

Such lovely, lovely boys, both of them, and we climax with a second rendition of Actaeon's birthday spanking- on Diablo this time- before retiring to the couch for a lovely, lingering, 3-way cuddle.

Good morning, beautiful

It is morning, in your bed and sunshine is streaming in through the window. I can only think blearily that it was supposed to rain today...

You are wrapped around me, a clinging liana vine boy, your naked body pressed tightly to mine. I free my arm slowly and stroke your hair while you blink at me in sleepy confusion. Are we waking up? Am I just petting you?

Good morning, beautiful

How was your night?

Mine was wonderful with you by my side...

I cannot help it, love for you is swelling up in me, and I pull you in closer to me, draw your heavy head to my breast and lay it there while you wrap yourself around my supine warmth. Your fingers are stroking my neck, your toes moving along my bare legs, and we are warm and soft and drowsily aroused together.

When I open up my eyes and see your sweet face

It's a good morning, beautiful, day...

This.... this is what I love, you wrapped around me: your warmth sinking into me, fingers brushing the little hairs on my arms and your cock drowsily aroused against my hip as your lips press into my neck from habit as much as desire.

Good morning, beautiful

To be continued

You’ve given me an idea, as we chat on instant messenger. I love talking to you during the day, especially days like today, when I am exhausted and caffeinated and it’s making me slightly sociopathic. Okay, maybe not, “slightly.”

You went hiking this weekend, and spent several days in the mountains. You tramped up hills and along ridges, through rivers and over rocks. It’s a sexy image of you: sweaty and dirty, your movements restrained by your pack, your face lighting up with the assumed freedom of the forest around you.

Maybe we’ll go hiking one day, my pet. Maybe we’ll climb up a mountain and hike along a cold, cold mountain stream. We’ll find a large rock, worn smooth by millennia of water running over its surface, polishing it, smoothing it, creating the perfect place to hurt you.

On the bank of the stream, I’ll strip you gently, lovingly, my hands warm and tender on your soft skin. I’ll lift the pack from your back, laying it aside, then slowly unbutton your shirt, smoothing it from your shoulders and letting my hands linger along your chest and shoulders.

I’ll remove your boots, briefly appearing submissive as I lift your feet to my thigh , one at a time, and draw off your boots and socks. When you’re barefoot, as I prefer anyway, I’ll remove your pants, lingering over the belt as though I’m unwrapping a long-awaited gift.

When you’re completely naked, I’ll step into my waders and unpack what I need from the backpack. Rock climbing anchors are an interesting topic. Lucivar’s Mistress could likely write a thesis on them, but I don’t know how to use them very well. However, I can set a cam into a rock, and I can loop soft, tough, infinitely useful climbing rope around your wrists, your ankles, and I can secure you.

I’ve chosen my boulder carefully. Freezing cold mountain water rubs down it in a constant stream from the falls above us, and there’s a lovely little indention from our tiny waterfall which is just the right size for your head.

You’re stretched out for me now, legs and arms wide and a constant stream of freezing cold water tricking along your back. It’s so cold, tightening your skin in goosebumps and hardening your nipples to tiny round nubs and making you look at me with wide, pleading eyes.

You don’t know what you’re pleading for, though, because your cock is harder than your nipples.

Blue and Jade Bracelet

Yes, it really is a bracelet. I'm just tiny.

And those light-colored rings? Those are jade. No, really. Real jade.

It's puuuurrty.

Priests and geldings

I’m reading the “Dexter” novels again, reading about my favorite serial killer and his Dark Passenger. Reading about his moonlit Need and his playmates.

I like Dexter.

I envy Dexter.

And tonight, I want to be Dexter. I want to find a bright, cool place- and I, who usually hates cold!- and I want to take you there. I want to press steel hooks through your pretty ankles, behind the Achilles’ tendon, and lift you up, whimpering and sobbing, the blood from your ankles running up your legs and to your groin, passing over your taut buttocks and up your back, mixing in with your hair like tears in the back of your head.

You talk about wanting voluntary castration sometimes, and tonight I want to give that to you… not that it’s likely to be very voluntary once I start.

I want to take the knife in my hand, a pretty, curved gelding knife, and run it along your thighs while you squirm and twist and beg me not to. I want to open your thighs and follow the smooth line of your sartorius, and the fat rector femoris with my fingers. I’ll drag the knife down and open up the skin of your scrotum, letting the testes pop out like two fat eggs while you scream and try to thrash. The testes are only attached to the body by the vas deferens- the long tube from which ejaculate moves from the testes to the penis- otherwise, they’re simply held to the body inside the scrotum. It would take only the slightest effort to cut through it…. It barely even bleeds.

You’re a eunuch now. In some ancient temples, particularly that of the goddesses Cybele and Artemis- who most anthropologists consider related- a male had to be castrated to become a priest of these powerful, gender-queering goddesses. Artemis was my first patron goddess, the first deity to whom I felt true kinship and a desire to serve as priestess. And now you, my pet, are qualified to serve as one of her priests. How did one do that, I wonder? Was the boy-child taken, castrated, and left at the temple steps? Or was he raised by the temple, a serious young man who chose to give his manhood to the goddess for the privilege of entering her service? Did he choose this? Did he make the cuts himself? Was he held down on the altar, screaming and flailing as you are?

It bleeds up your stomach, your chest, pooling at your neck and dripping from your hair. It’s strange how untouched your face is left, contorted and red from screaming and light-headed from too much blood around the brain….

I’m doing you a favor like this, baby… every basic first aid manual says that to control bleeding, ensure that the wound is above the heart….

Chainmaille collar and cuffs HNT

This has got to be one of the coolest things ever :)

Shaking

You're touching me, your hands tender on my skin and your body wrapped around mine. I am curled, shaking, against you, drawing comfort from your nearness and your warmth and your love. I don't feel very dominant right now, my my head buried in your shoulder- don't feel like I am presenting the image of what I am supposed to be- but I am slowly learning to trust you to love me anyway.

You're teaching me, slowly, that I don't have to be a cardboard cutout of The Dominant Woman for you, that you will love me even if I stumble, even if I cry, even if I am clingy and needy and afraid sometimes.

You're teaching me, slowly, that you will love me even if I don't wear makeup, even if I don't wear heels or even know what gender I am sometimes.

You're teaching me, slowly, that you will love me even if I am myself.

I'm shaking less now, slowly uncurling from my tight ball of old wounds and fresh pain, and you are still there. Still there touching me, kissing me... loving me.

It feels suddenly like my heart is swelling, filling with love and tenderness and this deep gratitude and my entire body responds to it, swelling and ripening and somehow deepening until I am lifting my head and capturing his lips in mid-kiss, stroking his tongue with my own and wrapping his precious, precious face in my hands.

I cannot help it now, I want him as he moans into my mouth, his hands spasming, clutching me, his hair falling into our faces and his body pressing into mine. I roll him over, straddling him, my damp groin pressed to his hard cock and my fingers tangling in his hair.

God, I love his hair.

Suddenly I realize that there are tears in my eyes, that I can taste them in our kisses and I start to draw away, start to apologize, but he draws me back down to him and kisses me again, love reflected in his eyes.

Rainbow choker HNT

I LOVE this drapey style!!

Transgender thoughts

I am sitting in Gender & Society class today, discussing the difference between those who identify as drag kings/queens, genderqueers, transgenders, or simply (simply! Ha!) as gender non-conformists. I am watching a beautifully androgynous transgender person- whom I find wildly attractive, by the way- move gracefully, strongly around the room, soliciting responses and elaborating on explanations. Their voice is low for a woman, high for a man, but measured and resonant in a way that I find incredibly sexy, and it makes me think of you.

It makes me think of you in that beautiful polka dotted dress, walking quickly and gracefully in heels. You are gender-nonconforming, genderqueer whose long slim thighs are beautiful to me, whose arched feet and rounded toes, muscled calves and smooth skin delight me. You are my gracile boi whose slim hips, lean back, high cheeks, wide eyes allure me, tempt me to run exploring fingers over your skin for hours until you whimper and squirm in need and pleasure.

Our instructor for today is discussing transmen now, discussing options for sex organs and restructuring of the clitoris into a penis. Testosterone, when combined with androgen, usually causes the clitoris to enlarge, and when it is released surgically from the pubic bone it forms a sensitive and operable cock. It makes me wonder how large my clitoris would grow with testosterone, how sensitive it would be when I fucked you.

I have this image of my changing body, of my breasts slowly tightening and becoming smaller, my face filling out into more masculine planes, the first teenage peach fuzz sprouting on my chin while my hips slimmed and my hands grew wider. I imagine my clitoris growing, hardening, while I shudder each time it brushes the fabric of my jeans for weeks, unaccustomed to so much sensitive flesh exposed. I see you before me, kneeling, taking my clitoris in your mouth and sucking it like the cock that it will be while I shudder and clench my fingers in your hair, understanding for the first time the allure of the blowjob.

I imagine your body changing, as estrogen and androgen reshape you into the person you are so much of the time already- of your shoulders slimming, tender breasts opening like buds on your chest, your facial hair dwindling and the bones of your face growing more slender and feminine. I envision your hips widening and a softness stealing over your body, a roundness as your hair grows out and your lips become even fuller. I imagine how dainty you will look, you who have already mastered the high heels I could never wear, in your soft sundresses and pretty, delicate shoes.

I imagine us together in bed, hands running over skin as we explore these new forms, learn our new selves, new partners, and both cherish the old and welcome the new.

Pink/Silver/Black Bracelet HNT

Written by Actaeon: Movie Theater

I have few expectations as we walk into the theater; she greets me with a wide smile as she always does, and I smile as I kiss her, that twinge of excitement as always makes my heart skip a beat. She sweetly takes me over, and lets me know what we're watching tonight-- Where the Wild Things Are . I feel ambivalent about the film, but I know that watching it with her will be more important than the movie itself.

We walk in, and I'm nonplussed by the empty theater. It's the afternoon; of course no one's there. But when she guides me to the very top row, I suddenly realize that I'm in for something new. I grew up reading erotic literature on sites like Literotica; I'm no stranger to the idea of play in a public place like this, but suddenly with a rush fantasy and narrative blend into reality.

As we sit, she smiles and notes the low-set armrests, and I smile, nodding, not really processing the significance. It means we can get closer, that's nice. I wonder idly if the designers of the interior of the theater had what would happen in mind.

The film starts, and we watch like any couple would; I munch on my gummi bears, a childhood favorite, and I smile as we hold hands. Shortly through the film, she pulls me into her chest, and I smile, cuddling up to her. She's so warm, I love resting like this; it feels so incredibly intimate. I haven't been feeling overly sexual for the last day or so; I'm going through a hormonal cycle at the moment, at least, that's what I'll blame my pimples on. And resting there, she slides her hand down my open button-down shirt, resting her hand there for a moment.

I feel myself flush instantly as her fingers rest on that sensitive place; they're still so tender, my body reacts quickly. I shift uncomfortably; she hadn't let me wear underwear in a while, and I felt my sensitive cock rub against the denim.

All too soon, she begins whispering in my ears, reminding me of how much of a fucking slut I am, and I blush harder, realizing that, yes, I am quite a slut. My cock's so hard in this theater. A family is nearby, in the otherwise empty theater, just far enough to be out of view, thank god. But I can hear them, I can hear the mother speaking to her children, and I'm ashamed. But not ashamed enough to want her to stop rubbing and pinching my nipples. And that is why, among other reasons, I'm a disgusting whore.

She begins caressing me, and kissing my neck. I try hard to stay still, to keep from moving, from making any show of my maddening need for more. I never think, oh, god, I want more-- it's deeper than that, something that escapes language. And I want it. Oh god, I want it so bad, she's running her fingers along my chest, I feel her wet tongue against my neck, and she turns my head, kissing me deeply. She turns my head back, and murmurs, a slightly ironic tone in her voice, "Watch the movie.."

She's nearly got me moaning out loud, now, as I watch the film. It's difficult to concentrate on the movie, and difficult to concentrate on her caresses, at once. I'm entering a strange headspace, and it's hard as well to concentrate on the fact that I'm in such a public place. When she whispers in my ear, she reminds me that yes, I'm a slut, I'm right there in the theater, practically begging to cum on my chest, and I feel myself harden. Yes. I am a slut. I am her slut. I want to crawl down onto the floor and bury my face into her moistness and suck her to orgasm. I want her to cum on my face. I want to feel her hot wet sticky cum on my mouth, I want to be bathed in her fragrance.

She has me undo my belt, and pulls my tender cock out of my pants. Oh god, I'm so painfully aroused; I listen with horror, watching the staircase, waiting for a cop to silently walk up and to expose me with a maglite. But no. I'm safe here, safe enough for Mistress to stroke my cock, to murmer into my ear. For me to make little whimpering sounds. I want her more than I can bear. I'm happy.

I'm forced to keep watching. It's not exactly a children's film, as she says-- I feel conflicted about it. I feel conflicted about myself. And I feel conflicted about the hand on my cock. I grow soft; she asks me to stroke myself. And I do. And I grow hard again, and it makes sense again. I'm a slut. That's what I am.

I want to cum in the theater, right there, I want to feel her shudder under my head as I cum for her, and eat it, and listen to her pleased murmurs, I want to hear the smile in her voice, the lovely little cruelty there. She tells me that she wants to fuck me, right there. The thought scares me, but I would open myself for her, I would bend right over that chair infront of her, cling to it, stay silent as she fucked me. As long as I could.

In my fantasies, the theater is crowded, and what starts as a subtle groping grows into a massive orgy, some bizarre feast out of the past; where humanity touches its roots, and chooses to make its fantasies reality. I feel the impression of the pressing reality that's been tearing at the plastic parapets of our happy little civilization.

I want her. I want to feel covered in cum, I want to feel it flooding my mouth, my ass, I want it in my hair, on my face, covering my back, I want to feel its stickiness dripping from my chest, I want to shake as I'm cold and aching and left sore and bleeding and crying, tossed into a small cage, a plug stuffed into my ass, a gag in my mouth, left to freeze and shake and eventually sleep. To be woken up to the same process the next day, and the next day.

And here, in this theater, I feel that reality pressing me, pushing me, holding me down and raping me.

Steel Collar HNT

This is the collar I want for my boi eventually. Isn't it gorgeous?

Give a gal a hand?

So the lovely Miss Gigi has run into difficulty- her apartment caught fire, and she is currently struggling to rebuild.

Miss Gigi is a fantastic member of our local community, and a good friend. She recently presented at Whippersnappers, our local TNG group, and has done a number of presentations throughout the Southeast in particular, and needs our help.

Please take a look at her blog here and offer any help that you can.

Black and Blue Bracelet HNT

Crying jag

Jack and I have fought, and as I lay down the phone I can feel my body shaking. My heart is shaking, my soul rocking in fear and agony. I hate hurting him, but I am also angry- this wasn't my fault! I did what I was supposed to!... and I am confused and frightened and I wish that he were here to see my fear and hold me and promise me that it will be all right, and that he loves me. I cannot show him this fear over the phone- it is too vulnerable, too close, and he is not close enough to make it better.

Still shaking, I wander back into the living room. I've almost forgotten that the boi is here, too wrapped in my misery to remember anything else. Turning the corner and seeing him is a shock: he is curled on the couch, looking up at me. The love and sympathy in his eyes when he sees my face crumbles the pitiful emotional barriers I had begun to automatically build, and I go to him before I even realize what I am doing, curling into a ball, pressed against him, and shaking.

A part of me screams, "This isn't the way that it works! You care for him, you do not make yourself vulnerable to him! Stop! Get up! Put on the mask!" But I am trying to let myself feel, trying to let myself trust, and more than that... I do not want to wear the mask with him. I do not want to pretend, do not want to play the, "I'm invulnerable," game. So I curl myself against him and I let myself shake; slow, hot tears falling down my face, across my nose, and soaking the hand he curls beneath me.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks softly.

"Not yet," I shake my head.

So he gives me silence, gives me tenderness, and offers me the safety to feel my fear, my hurt, my anger and distress. I am afraid of this- afraid that he will see me so weak and hurting, and that he will not be able to see this frightened woman as his Mistress and will not be able to trust me, depend on me, lean on me again. I am afraid that this will destroy our dynamic.

It makes me want to stop, to draw myself away from him and process this alone, put on the mask and cover up my hurting, but his hands are warm around me and there is no drawing away in his touch, none of the contempt that I fear.

It adds relief to the roil of emotions inside me, and then I am crying harder, my sobbing silent as always and my body shaking against him. I can feel the fear in his hands, the worry for me, but that there is no contempt in that touch eases a small, tight knot inside of me and I sob myself out and curl up against him while he strokes my hair.

Finally, I am sobbed out, and he kisses my forehead.

"Would you like a cup of tea and a cold rag, Ma'am?"

My eyes are swollen and gritty, my smile shaky, but I hope that he understand that right now I love him more than anything else in the world, and that I am incredibly grateful for his beautiful, tender, loving, submissive heart.

Pitiful PMSing HNT

Preparing to get into the bath to stop my entire lower body from screaming....

Penance

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."

"Good."

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.

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.

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 :)

Breakfast

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.

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.

Scream

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.

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.

Consumed

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.

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-.

Leather

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.

Alone.

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.

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 19^th-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?

BoiGirlBoiGirl

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.

Old Erotica

This is an old piece of erotica: the first completed piece that I ever wrote, in fact. I wrote it for Wolf, years ago, an re-found it recently.

Note from the wording that this was a bit before I really got comfortable with my dominant side.

It starts with you on my bed. Spread-eagle, tied firmly with soft, strong ropes. I watch you watching me, naked, your eyes dark with desire. It makes me smile to see you that way… helpless and desiring.

I am kneeling over you, smiling, enjoying that you don’t know what is coming next, and that you can’t touch me the way that your face shows that you would so dearly like to.

Normally, this is not the side of the ropes I prefer, but just now, with you, I revel in it. I told you once that you make me want to lie before you and bare my belly in submission, and at the same time take your throat in my jaws, and bite until you know I can bite harder. This is the latter half of me.

I see myself bending down, raking my nails lightly up your thigh, watching you squirm as I slowly exhale one hot breath over your dick. Feeling my own body grow heavy and moist in anticipation of feeling you inside me. Licking my way lightly up the length of you, returning to do it over again, knowing that the sensation is so light as to be almost tickling, before taking you all into my mouth in one hot rush and hearing you gasp while I stare into your face. I feel my own breasts grown heavy with the desire to be touched, but for the moment deny that pleasure to both of us, focusing instead on teasing you with long, slow strokes of my mouth. Every so often I’ll stop, just to watch your eyes fly open and find me before reaching down again and taking your balls into my warm, waiting mouth.

It’s intoxicating- feeling, seeing, hearing your reactions.

I let myself grow tired of this play, and crawl up the length of you, nipping and nibbling as I go, reminding you of the sharpness of my teeth should I choose to use them while you lie helpless. The apprehension on your face is sweet… I think you sometimes forget that I am not so sweet, or innocent, as you remember. Your nipple is under my tongue now, and I roll it around a little, feeling it tighten still further, and tasting the salt of your skin. Your breath is a little faster now, and it makes me smile as I close my teeth lightly!- so lightly- around your nipple, and feel you jump. I consider biting harder, but decide to behave for the moment, instead straddling you and leaning forward until my breasts brush your face. I can feel your mouth opening, trying to catch one, but I move just enough to deny you, feeling my own nipples harden still further as they sweep the stubble on your cheeks. “Say please,” I purr into your ear, letting you hear the satisfaction in my voice.

I want you to beg. I want to hear your voice break, the way it has once before.

I wait, taunting you, rolling my hips over you so that you can feel my own wet readiness just barely out of reach. I restrain a laugh, feeling your hips thrust up against me, seeking. I roll my hips just enough to stay at the very edge… not quite allowing you to penetrate, but enough for you to feel how very close you are, my breasts still that same millimeter out of reach…. Until I hear you give in, hear your voice crack, just a little as you say, “please.”

In that moment, I thrust my hips down, taking all of you inside me in one movement as I did earlier, but so much tighter, so much wetter, even as I give you the breast your mouth has never stopped seeking. I feel you groan at the sudden sensations even as I cry out at the feeling of your mouth on me. Life is, momentarily, perfect with you sheathed tightly inside me, your mouth on me. You thrust further into me, and though I had intended to draw away again, to tease more, I find my body uncooperative. It wants you inside me, and I cannot really argue, so cooperate instead, rolling my hips down again to meet you, pressing you further into me. I can’t help but cry out as your mouth tightens on my breast again, and nearly pull away, throwing my head back in pleasure.

Though I had intended also to draw this out, to slow our rhythm and prolong both our pleasure, I find myself unable. My instincts match yours, and we find a fast, hard rhythm, guaranteed to end this too soon but I think we are both past caring. I tear myself away from your mouth to lean back a little, pressing you into me almost to the point of pain and watching myself envelope you… remembering your words so long ago, “You like watching me come into you,” while you held my hips and thrust your way into me. The memory still makes me shudder, and I do so now, knowing that you will feel it.

I find myself craving the taste of your mouth again and lean forward to kiss you, nibbling your lip very lightly first… a gentle contrast to the fierce rhythm of our hips. I feel my own body tightening in response to yours, and know that while I cannot climax myself this way I can sure as all hells enjoy yours.

I hear you choke the words out near my ear, “Please don’t stop…” and smile, tightening myself around you without losing rhythm. Your body shudders against mine, and I lay one hand against your cheek, drawing your eyes to mine as I feel your climax begin. They are beautiful, swirling black in the depths of your orgasm, and I hold them with my own, pressing down a little further to continue your pleasure as long as possible, until I feel you shudder beneath me and lie still. Only then do I stop my own movements, leaning forward across you and kissing you gently.

Sober

Last night, as we were lying in bed, Jack was listening to music- "Tool," actually. "Sober," specifically.

A man sang it to me once, 6 and a half years ago, sitting in my little green Volvo on a cold winter's night.

There's a shadow just behind me

Shrouding every step I take

Making every promise empty

Pointing every finger at me

Joseph.

I bonded him out of jail, at a cost I don't like to contemplate now.

I brought him into my home, into the apartment I'd secured.

I sat beside him in court, and I held his hand. I promised him that I would keep him safe.

Jesus, won't you fucking whistle

Something but what's past and done?

Jesus, won't you fucking whistle

Something but what's past and done?

On his 34th birthday, I made him a birthday cake- butter recipe yellow with homemade chocolate frosting. The same cake I'd made for my own recent 18th birthday.

The day I bonded him out of jail, he walked into the restaurant where we worked, straight back into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around me and lifted me off the ground, exclaiming, "Baby! You have no idea how much I love you right now!"

I had just signed on his $15,000 bond, and he'd promised me that he wouldn't leave.

I am just a worthless liar

I am just an imbecile

I will only complicate you

Trust in me and fall as well

I remember the night that the man OD'd in our complex. Fox, my brother, had seen him first, but Joseph was the first one to run down. He cared for the man until the ambulance that we called arrived. Afterwards, we went to Waffle House.

He told me that he was a cocaine addict. He never lied to me about that- he told me that he never forgot about it, never stopped craving it.

I will find a center in you

I will chew it up and leave

I will work to elevate you

Just enough to bring you down

I remember the last night that I saw him, although I hadn't known then that it would be. He took me out on the motorcycle which he and my brother shared- my brother also lived with us, and I was supporting them both- to the Botanical Gardens, and we talked there for hours.

He told me that I needed to stop trying to be so much of an adult, that I needed to lighten up and be young. I remember laughing bitterly, thinking that I was the only one contributing to my little household, and if I wasn't an adult then who would be? He told me a lot of things, but I don't remember most of them.

But I remember him telling me that I was beautiful, and that I was too young to try to be so old.

Trust me

Trust me

Trust me

Trust me

Trust me

Last night, I listened to, "Sober," and I cried. I saw his laughing black eyes, remembered the taste of the ceviche he made for me. I remembered the heat of his skin as he slept beside me, and picture of his daughter he'd kept on the mirror in our apartment's bathroom. I remembered the scent of his leather jacket when I wore it to school because I didn't have another one, and the look on his face when I presented him with his birthday cake. I felt his hand smacking my butt as he and my brother taught me to wait tables, and remembered the bitterness in his eyes when our manager fired him for being arrested and missing 3 weeks of work.

I remember the night that I realized that he was gone. The night that I realized that he wasn't coming back, that he had left and left me with a $15,000 bail bond hanging over my head. I remember how long that I cried, the detectives showing up at my door early in the morning int he hopes that they would find him sleepy and tousled in my bed. I remember how angry that I was, how betrayed. I remember my brother asking me if I'd really expected him to stay, and his look of shock when I replied simply, "He promised."

Why can't we not be sober?

I just want to start this over

Why can't we sleep forever?

I just want to start this over