Slow stalking steps.
Deep, easy breaths.
Paws barely touch the ground, a cat's tiptoe.

The scent of you is intoxicating, distance irrelevant to the brief flashes of it on the wind.

The predator in my head has settled to wait, settled to slowly hunt.

I hope she knows that this hunt is not one at which she can succeed; hope she knows that sometimes all prey escapes.

I try to explain, share images of deer that bound away and times when other predators are simply biggerfasterstronger, but she does not understand the concept of losing, does not understand not trying.


She doesn't understand that she can't have you.

Half-awake dreaming

Eyes heavy-lidded with arousal. Fingers trembling with lust, and something more. An animal, primal *need* to touch, hold, share, give. The stroke of fingertips across a bare hip. The barest caress of lips against a throat. The gentlest brush of teeth prompting a soft sigh. The heat of a body pressed against mine. Weight and scent and glorious vulnerability of arms around me. The intoxicating scent of you, shifting into the sweeter, sharper, muskier notes of arousal. The almost unconscious shift of my hips as much demand as invitation. The slow curling of arousal in my belly, and the shift of you against me. Hardness pressed into my skin, enough to draw a primitive moan from my suddenly tight throat. Need. Desire. And something more. A chemical cocktail with a terrifying resemblence to nitroglycerine.

Forest dreams

Today the walls are too close. Today, the windows are too small.
The sunburn aches on my back, a potent reminder that I don't spend enough time outside anymore.
My eyes ache from the monitor, eyestrain and headache from sedentary boredom.

Time spent on Pinterest staring at other people's gardens, other people's dreams while staring at a computer trying to make enough money to pursue my own.

Today, I don't want to stare at other people's dreams.
Today, I ache to walk out, pick up my car, and just drive.
Roll down the window and taste the cool air, drive north until I hit the mountains. Drive north until I'm lost on back roads with no idea of where I am going. I want the horizon to be close and green, the only walls around me.
I want to find a place to pull off; just leave the car running and walk out. Wander the woods until my clothes stop itching and I remember the taste of loamy air on the back of my tongue. Find water and head upstream, away from people, splashing until I am soaked and taste the copper from the hills in micro-particles.

I want to strip my clothes off and run, letting the brush tear at me- whipcracks of penance for my indoor life and softened skin. I want to run barefoot along the creekbed, wincing at the occasional sharpness beneath my feet and ducking the trees around me until the veneer of civilization sloughs off and I remember how to run.

I want to find a game trail and launch myself along it, easier strides finally settling into the rhythm from childhood when we all knew how to throw ourselves into the movement, ducking and dodging and moving with the speed born of a sixth sense about every rock, tree, leaf, and bush.

I want to remember what cool water feels like beneath my feet and the air tastes like when you're free.

Instead, the phone rings and my eyes are drawn again to the glowing screen...

Predator Sex

The predator is pacing, restless in the cave behind my eyes.
I've been giving her small outlets with teeth and hands and the taste of your neck beneath my lips, but she is hungry now and disinclined to wait longer.

Your small moans at every scrape of my teeth are plenty to keep her attention, and she has been just behind my eyes and nipping at my psyche for hours now. Finally, when we reach the bed, she is tired of waiting. The immediate surrender in your face, the slackness of your jaw and the heavy lidding of your eyes drives her to the fore of my mind, takes control of my hands until you are lying  back across our bed and I am atop you and eyeing your neck with a lust somewhere between blood and sex.

There is no gentleness to me tonight. No soft kisses, and gentle nips. There is no kindness in my eyes or softness in my jaw tonight. Only the weight of my body pressing yours down, the pressure of my teeth in your skin. Tonight, there is only the purring satisfaction at your soft sounds of pain and the snarling pleasure in your tiny gasps of fear.
Tonight, there is the taste of your fear on my tongue and the knowledge that in this state it is easy to go too far, to bite too hard.
In this state, the tight pressure of my teeth around your nipple falls so easily into the taste of blood.
In this state, the soft texture of your belly is an almost unbearble invitation.
In this state, the vulnerability of your cock breeds a desire not to pleasure, but to rip and tear.

I know you can tell. I can see in your face, in the tightness around your eyes when you see the hungry way I eye your erection, that she is angry and hungry and wants to hunt.
You are my Mate, but tonight, you are prey.

I can't bring myself to ease the pressure of teeth scraping just a bare increment too hard against your cock. I can't bring myself to stop biting down- more gently than I desire!- on the round bulbs of your balls. I can't bring myself to be gentle tonight with the most vulnerable part of your body, so I finally give up.

Drawing myself back up your body is an exercise in restraint, an exercise in resisting the temptation to take a chunk out of your skin and revel in the taste of meat on my lips. Only when I reach the top of you and sink my teteh into your neck, do I realize that I am wet. Only when I taste the coppery scent of your fear do I realize that I am hungry for more than blood and meat.

Only when I see the barest flinch and low gutteral moan when I fill myself with you, do I allow the predator to slip her chain a little more. Only when I feel the thickness of you sliding inside of me, do I arch myself over you, the tips of my breasts dragging across the skin of your chest with every thrust of your hips.
Only when I am riding you, filling myself with your heat, do I let myself close my teeth on your throat and growl the predator's hunger and lust.
 Only when I feel your shudder beneath me and harden even more do I let myself smile and ride you to oblivion with my hand around your throat.

Predator Tears

The predator paces n my head, caged and angry. An eerie howl- equal parts rage and pain- pounds behind my temples and pircks tears in my eyes.
The predator does not handle pain well, does not hande denial.
She does not understand human ethics, or why she cannot have what she wants when it sits before her, wafting delicious scent of arousal to her keen nose.

She does not understand, and it is the inside of my heart on which she sharpens her claws.

Flashbulbs

Flash: Red wine glass cradled in your hand. Your fingers curled around the delicate bowl. Brief image of them around my breast.

Flash: Your smile, canines prominent. Trickle of arousal.

Flash: Warmth of your body pressed against mine, scent of you surrounding me. Sensation of melting arousal warmth in the pit of my belly.

Flash: Your hand on my throat, wrapping easily most of the way around. Strangled moan ripped from my half-parted lips.

Flash: Sensation of your teeth in my skin, curiousity about just how sharp your canines are.

Prey Dreams

The woods around me are cool and green, but I don’t notice- not today. Rarely am I prey- I have reminded lovers more than once that I am a predator in my own right- but in this moment I am the frightened rabbit Rush named me for, bounding through the woods with fear hot on my heels.

Fear isn’t the only thing. My feet are pounding, bare into the cool earth, and while I know my own steps are loud, they aren’t as loud as those behind me. So rarely am I the one pursued in my dreams, but today, I am. Branches slap at my exposed skin, leaving welts of their own before you even begin to draw close, and every bush I dodge and tree trunk I leap seems to reach out and exact its own toll for passage… or perhaps it seeks to slow or catch me for your use.

I can hear your steps behind me, over my own labored breathing, and a glimpse back is enough to make me stumble. That stumble is enough to be my undoing, slowing me just enough for an animal leap and outstretched hand to force me to my knees, scrambling painfully in the dirt, trying desperately to rise before… but it is too late, and the full weight of your body lands across me, driving the air from my lungs with a surprised grunt.

I’m nearly useless until I can breathe again, able only to draw my knees up in a pathetic attempt at something between the fetal position and kicking you away. Your only response is a growling laugh- as much the beast as the man- and a deft yank at my legs to force them back down while I choke and wheeze and try to curl away from the heat and weight of your body across me. I won’t mention the secret whimpering desire to curl into you, instead.

My breath is slowly coming back, gasps of oxygen slowly drawing strength into my limbs, but my legs are already pinned by your weight and my wrists by your hands. Your face is nearly atop mine and I want to snap and bite like the captive animal I am at this moment, but the snarl on your lips is enough to freeze me in place.

I am reasonably certain that if I call a true halt to this, that you will. Reasonably certain that if I call ‘Red,’ that you will stand, help me up, and all will be finished. But there is a kernel of doubt in my mind, and that kernel  freezes my limbs and wets my thighs.

The ground is hard beneath my back, little sticks and sharp edged leaves cutting into my skin and I know I am bleeding from at least one of the scratches that line my body like whipmarks. I know it in a much more visceral sense when your snarl abruptly becomes a growl, your face lowering to my neck, dragging my wrists as you slowly smell down the length of my bare body, causing goosebumps in a strange cocktail of fear and slowly growing desire. The first bleeding scratch you find is along my ribcage, ironically just below the old barbed wire scar and your tongue is oddly raspy against it. For once, it doesn’t tickle and in fact makes me writhe in pain until you clamp down on my skin with sharp teeth, freezing me again with a gasp and small whimper.

In this moment, I feel more like prey than I may have ever before, frighteningly unsure of what exactly you intend but only certain that I have little to no choice in it. I am embarrassingly grateful that your teeth are relatively gentle, and as your cheek grazes my side, my breathing speeds up again but for entirely different reasons.

I know you can hear the change, and the touch of your face against my skin as you explore my body with the most primitive of senses holds a note of cruel playfulness now, knowing that my body will respond to you despite my mind’s screaming fear… or perhaps because of it. Abruptly, the teasing caress is replaced by your teeth again, this time in the soft skin of my belly. My strangled gasp is closer to a barely restrained scream, and I know you can smell the abrupt switch to fear-scent along my body. Your reaction is clear and completely primal as your body sinks into mine, hands tightening on my wrists with bruising force, and your teeth sinking into my skin with enough force to make me writhe and scream against you in something between need, pain, and utter terror.

Finally, finally, your teeth slowly release the now well-marked skin of my belly, leaving behind a scatter pattern of rounded teethmarks and a faint trembling throughout my body. Only now do you move farther down my body, and the trembling is of a different sort when your cheek grazes my exposed hip and your teeth skim the hollow between hip and mons.

I hear your breathing change now, scenting the steadily growing arousal between my thighs and it triggers a change in my own- high, keening whimpers of fear and desire as my mind flips between desire for your mouth on me and fear of your teeth in the most sensitive skin of my body.

The graze of your teeth across my labia are enough to make me cringe, and your growl is closer to a chuckle now, which is less than reassuring to my panicked heartbeat.Twisting my wrists desperately, I am thankful that you are distracted enough by the scent of my arousal that your hands have loosened, allowing me to yank my hands free and scramble from beneath you when you rear back in surprise.

In a second I am on my feet and moving but fruitlessly. Without bothering to stand, you you simply leap at me before I can run, bringing my back down hard enough to see stars. Even more vulnerable now, prone in the crunching leaves I try fiercely to wriggle away, but succeed only in settling your weight more firmly across my body. Your hands pinning my arms now will leave bruises without question, and as I buck against you, I can feel you growing harder against my exposed ass from the writhing kiss of skin on skin and the intoxication of complete power over me. Redoubling my efforts, I only earn myself the sharp, bruising pain of your teeth in the back of my neck.

The force of your teeth in my neck flips a switch in the deeply primal, feline part of my psyche and I drop limply beneath you in surrender. I can feel your mild surprise and confusion in the increased pressure on my arms anticipating a trick, but there is no trick now. Your teeth in the back of my neck give the most primitive aching corner of my psyche a simple message: He wins. This is earned.

With a low moan, my head drops to the forest floor and I writhe beneath you in blatant invitation, arching my neck slightly into your teeth. Despite the lust I can now smell equally clearly on you, your suspicion remains and my arms are dragged behind my back to be pinned one handed while you lift yourself slightly from my body and drawing a whimpering moan from me. Lifting my hips in primitive request, I am surprised by the sharp smack to my ass until it’s quickly followed by one large hand pressing my face back into dirt when I lift it in startled inquiry. There is a potent reminder in the rough force that regardless of any change of heart, initiative today is unwelcome and control of this moment resides firmly and completely in your hands. A soft whimper escapes my throat as I subside back to the ground, fighting my own urge to press into you. Your chuckle is nearly human now, and the hand that runs caressingly down my side is a clear reward for my obedience, which draw another small whimper from my throat, but this time in gratitude for the gentle touch.

I revel a little now in the vulnerability of my position- naked, prone, wrists pinned in one of your hands at the small of my back, and your body easily pinning mine. The heat of your skin and scent of it rubbing into mine is enough to make me moan and ache to arch into you, even as your legs roughly part mine and I can feel the hard length of you pressed against my ass. No fear of punishment or desire for obedience is enough to stop my hips from rising to meet you, and even your free hand roughly pressing me back down elicits not the slightest contrition.

Finally, finally, I feel the head of you nudging me, opening me, and when my inner lips finally part and you slide inside of me the sound pulled from my throat is matched only by your low sound of satisfaction.

I am physically incapable of stillness now, not with the heavy heat of you inside of me, stretching and filling me, and shortly I am writhing beneath you and matching every pump of your hips. I can feel you stroking my g-spot with every thrust, but your hand forcing my face back into the ground reminds me once more that my input here is not encouraged, and for the moment I am simply prey to be taken and enjoyed. I can’t not rock my hips to meet yours, can’t stop the steady stream of moaning whimpers spilling from my parted and dirt-covered lips. I may not be able to control any of this interaction, but neither fear nor obedience can stop me from responding to it, can stop the steady stream of pleading sounds ripped from my throat as you fuck me.

I have no idea how much time passes, no idea when  my body finishes adjusting to yours and the movement of my hips roughens, deepens and matches yours. I have no idea when the painful pressure of your cockhead against my cervix becomes almost pleasure, or if I just stopped caring due to the endorphin rush. I have no idea when sweat and arousal mixed to create the potent, slippery scent permeating the air around us, or when you released my hands and let me brace myself for your thrusts.

I have no idea when the last shred of control fell from us both, or when your teeth found my neck again. I have no idea how much time passed before I felt the telltale speeding of your hips, the change of your thrusts to cross the line into pain, or the clenching of your hands on my hips. I only know the effect on me, only know the anticipation that rocked my hips to match every painful pleasurable stroke. I only know the tightening of your hands on my hips- another set of bruises I anticipated with pleasure now- and the growling roar pulled from your throat as you spilled yourself in me.

I only know the mini-orgasm that tightened my body as my lover’s orgasm always does, and the heated collapse of your body across mine, spilling me again into the dirt. I only know the tight wrapping of your arms around my body, pinning me close to you and ignoring my half-hearted attempts to move. I only know the chuckling, raspy words spoken with an effort and growled into my ear, “Who says you’re done yet?”

Frustrated

I want to write and can't.
Creativity blocked, need stifled, teeth aching from relentless grinding.

The Predator courses under my skin, boiling with the need to escape and flee, escape and fight, but all there is to fight are phantoms of my own fears, and shadows of angry regret.

Broken promises swirl like smoke and shadows, oblivious to claws and teeth, trailing mocking laughter like nails on a chalkboard while the predator screams in rage.

I want to claw you until you bleed, fight you until our bodies are slick with sweat, bite you until the warmth of copper fills my mouth.
I want to hurt you until the hurting turns to sex and to tears.

Bloody Lips

Turn my brain off. 

Wrap your fingers in my hair and shut down my mind. No more thinking, weighing, analyzing, judging. Just the painful weight of my body hanging by my hair from your hands as you remind me what, in this place, I am. 

Just the musky scent of your arousal against my face, the painful mashing of my lips and jaw against your zipper, hard enough to cut my lips and leave tiny spots of blood on the front of your pants. I wonder how, back at work, you will explain that. Will you tell them you cut yourself? Wrap a bandaid on your hand for verisimilitude? Or will you just tell them that you pressed a woman's face to your cock hard enough to cut her lips on your zipper?

Escaping my head

I need you today.
I need you to fuck me, to use me, to hurt me.

I need you to force me to my knees, so that the floor is gritty beneath them and the mild pain resonates with the tearing in my scalp from your grip on my hair.
I need you to force my mouth open with your fingers and replace them with your cock, to rape my mouth and use it as roughly as you want. I need you to choke me with it, to force tears of pain from my eyes with your hands in my hair and your cock in my mouth.

I need to taste you cum in me, hands forcing me against your groin until I am choking on you and my nose is smashed against your skin and I cannot swallow but know I have no choice.

I need you to leave your cock there, to feel you pat my head roughly and tell me that it isn't over, and to suck you hard again. I need the frantic desire to please you, soft tongue wrapping around you, stroking the head of you, aching to feel you harden and fill up my mouth again.
I need to feel that hardening, feel your hips thrust against my mouth as I strain to keep my teeth away from you, feeling them cut into my lips as I take their sharpness rather than inflict it on you.

I need to feel you pull out of my mouth, to see you smile at my little whimper of loss, my eyes widening as you yank me to my feet, turning my roughly and bending me over. I need to feel your hands on my ass, roughly spreading me apart, your feet kicking my legs wide, your cock roughly probing at my pussy. I need the sharp pain of your entrance without prepapration, the wet slap of skin against skin as you chuckle at the abundance of my arousal. I can't quite hear your rough whisper, but it sounds like, "slut"... or maybe that's my wishful thinking.

God, I need to feel you sliding into me, stretching me, filling me. I need to feel your hands on my hips, roughly yanking me onto you until every thrust is its own pain as well as pleasure. I can't help but writhe away from the pain of your cockhead bumping my cervix with every thrust, and my little whimpers of pain and pleasure only cause your hands to tighten painfully on my hips.
This, this is what I need. This feeling of being used- helpless, hanging from your hands, hurting and soaked with arousal and needing more and more.
I need this. Need the bruising strength of your hand on my hip, another carelessly toying with my breasts in an almost absent gesture of ownership. There is nothing here of concern for my pleasure, none of the tentative fumblings of a lifetime of boys hoping for another chance if they're only gentle enough, giving enough. I do not want gentle, and all I want to be given is this- your cruelty, your desire, your cock.

My mind is clear, a blank slate with only these sensations running through me. In this moment I am nothing but a body for you to fuck and it is a peaceful place, a place where I am succeeding at my only goal, and when I feel your rhythm change, speed up, your cock flexing inside of me and your hands tightening on my hips, I know that I have truly succeeded as you begin to cum.
This moment is my reward, this straining, bruising, pleasure of having pleased you, and as you drop your hands from me I can only fall limply back to my knees, boneless with submission and pleasure, my head turning langourously to gently lick you clean as your hands rests, quietly now, in my hair.

Collar

I own a girl. A beautiful girl. Smart, sexy, silly, serious, and
stubborn. Like that alliteration?
Friday night, she pointed out that we've gotten halfway through our
contract and just sort of stopped. Stymied on how to write out in
words what we want, what we feel, how we love.

Because I am lazy, i set it aside to work on later.

And then, as it does, life happened.

I got sick.
The baby got diaper rash.
D got snippy.
Work got busy.
JJ got in trouble with school.

Life happened.

And as so often happens to all of us, dynamics and lover-ships got put
on the back-burner for the necessity of being co-parents, grown-ups,
employees, and PTA members.

Friday night, our girl called us out on it.

Saturday night, we put her training collar on.

No, it isn't the collar we'd intended- in fact, one of the reasons we
put things on hold was because we couldn't agree one what collar we
*do* intend! But it works until we finish bickering about our
preferred styles.

Our girl is wearing a thin leather cord with my opal ring. It sits
perfectly on her neck, and every time I see it I have to fight the
urge to grab her by the hair and kiss her senseless.

Without words

I don't know the words...

flashes return.

The clamp of her thighs across my face, the scarlet heat of her body
convulsing around my tongue. The salty-sweet taste of her, cumming
over and over and over.

D's mouth on my breast, her lips soft on my most private ones. The
gentle lap of her tongue and the heat in her eyes as she brings me
over the edge.

Her weight across me, the writhing of her hips as D toys with her
pussy and ass. The warm trickle of her juices across my thighs as she
cums for him.

D's heat sliding inside me, the clamp of her hand and the lust in her
eyes as he fucks me. D's groan of ecstasy as I surround him, my own
desperate pants.

The taste of her breast as he fucks her. The slap of their bodies and
the heat of her throat in my hand as he cums inside of her.

The warm, snuggly afterglow of their bodies pressed against mine as we
curl into one another, thankful for this life, this relationship, this
night.

...as my husband so colorfully expressed it last night: "I am one
lucky motherfucker... that's a whole lotta sexy in my bed."

A life of joy

This is my life of joy. I am covered in sand, about to take a shower. The baby has had a bath from his first dirt-eating episode, and my 5 year old stepson is freshly showered himself. I am covered in sand from the playground today, where we taught T to swing himself.
The washing machine is chugging in the background while my shower heats up, and there is a sign on my wall that says, "I love you because...". It is framed and has a blank space beneath where my husband has written, "you're a wonderful wife and my beat friend."
Our girl will be home from work soon, and she will enter our home where I am cooking her dinner and go to her knees in my kitchen to receive her kiss of greeting. This is my life of joy.

We will eat meatloaf, and salad, and talk about our days, and maybe watch a silly tv show. My baby son will fall asleep in her arms and I will tuck her 5yr old into bed, and we will curl up together for grown-up time before I go to work tomorrow while they are off.

And tomorrow D will watch the children so Akasha can unpack and organize her house in peace, and I will text them both from work... missing them but a little grateful to be out of the unpacking. Tomorrow night, a vanilla friend will join us for dinner and we will cuddle, and feed the baby, and eventually take our beautiful girl to bed and fuck her senseless before cuddling in a warm and loving puppy pile.

This is my life of joy.


Sent from my Verizon Wireless Phone

Nostalgia

This is supposed to be my evening of alone-time. D & Akasha are together, the baby is asleep, and I am finally able to truly just relax and be entirely alone without weight of expectations or needs.
I love my partners with everything in me, but true alone-time is an increasing rarity in my life.


Instead, I am thinking about the Navigator tonight.

I have just finished re-reading a piece of erotica we co-wrote, passing it semi-randomly while looking for another document on google and clicking on it from pure nostalgia.

What we wrote was never truly on the table in real life, it was a fantasy that even the one wonderful night we did have could never truly live up to... no experience, no matter how amazing, can match 3 years of fantasy and pent-up desire.

But reading that story, remembering the heat of his lips on mine and the faint hint of worked metal that he always seems to carry rubbed into my skin from his own... I miss him.
I know that we are never meant to be, and I wouldn't leave my husband, my girl, or my son.
But it has been over a year since I have seen his face, heard his voice, or smelled the warm scent of his skin on mine, and I miss him.

I miss the comfort of being curled up with him and bullshitting about everything from cars to the insanity of women's fashion. I miss the warmth of his hands in my hair and the easy comfort of working beside him painting, landscaping, or writing a paper.
I miss the solid trust in his friendship and the pleasant sexual tension that never quite went away.

I know that my life right now, and the relationships I'm in, do not allow for the same relationship that he and I once had. I have no idea if he would even find my post-partum body attractive, with its stretch marks, widened hips, and still slightly flabby belly. I do not like my body now the way that I once did, do not trust its sexual power the way that I once did, do not have faith in the responses my body once drew.

I know that another man in my life is not in the cards for a variety of reasons, and that one as alphic as the Navigator would be a disaster to the delicate balance of my polyamory.
I know these things, and I do not regret the life I have chosen.

But tonight, I will let myself remember the warmth of his arms around me, the conscious tenderness of his kiss, and the hot metal and male scent of his skin rubbed into mine.

Her Words

My beautiful, amazing, articulate girl wrote this in the wee hours of the morning, regarding last night. I'm blessed that she allowed me to share her words, because mine are inadequate.

 Lying in your arms feels so perfect. Your flesh pressed into mine. The tangle of bodies. Your heat feeds my soul. I want so badly to run my hands over you. To stroke you gently and lovingly. But I know my hands are rough on your delicate skin, and I know that you find the tender touch I would give offensive and I don't want to risk you feeling as though I was trying to tickle you. I want this. This moment. This connection. You are such an anomoly to me and I find that frustrating yet challenging. I love you here--well, I love you everywhere, but here in this place where I get the slightest glimpse into your heart will always be my favorite. I lay beside you and know why it is important to have alone time enough to build connection with you both. This is about so much more then sex. This place is where I will fall for you. This place is where the hurt happens. These moments have to happen if we are to progress. I listen as you give me pieces of your puzzle and I will slowly put you together in my head.

     I love it when you touch me. When you force your tongue into my mouth. Your hands on my flesh. The passion in it all. Feeling your teeth graze my flesh melts me. You fuck me and I am yours. My body opens to your strokes, my flesh split by your hands allowing you to take me over.  I can feel that you want to be rough, but you are still hesitant. It is ok in this place to hurt me, love. My flesh is yours to take in any way you see fit. I will cum for you over and over again because your teeth grab me, your hands force me down. Because it is you. Because I bend to your will. Because it is here I give myself to you. This is me. This is the physical representation of how I feel for you. And as you take it the circle is complete.

     When you hurt me I feel your love because wordlessly I share years of your pain. That sharing heals your wounds and mine. It allows me to feel good enough to share it with, allows you power over your fears and acceptance of all that you are without judgement. It gives me the ability to touch the darkness and show you that even in this I will still love you--that in essence you are worthy, you are good enough, and to prove it I will physically go through hell and back for you and I will still love you in spite of yourself. I will not run. When you mark me I bear witness to our union. When you fuck me like nothing more then property to be used you remind me that I am yours. This is my safe place. That vulnerability that you need happens here. The reassurance that I need happens here. After the walls are shattered- when all the facades recede, when I no longer rely on my strength and can stand stripped of pride, stripped of obligation, stripped of fear, and still be the one you want. 

Muggy day

It's hot, muggy outside- Georgia in August.
I am sweating through my Pink Floyd t-shirt, and I can feel my
sunglasses slipping off of my nose from oil and sweat. It isn't a sexy
feeling.
We are at your storage building, and the sun is beating down on both
of us as Rammstein blares from my car. Your polo shirt is stained from
working out here, and half of the storage unit is unloaded onto the
concrete pad as you dig for the lawnmower and weedeater you are
loaning us.
This isn't a sexy feeling, isn't a sexy situation. So why do I want to
wrap you in my arms, set my teeth in your neck, and drive every
thought out of your head except the taste of my skin?

An Update on Life

So much has changed since I wrote last, so I suppose this should just be an update.

Boywonder and I were married in November of last year. I had my beautiful son in January. Yes, I know, that’s not the usually preferred timing. D (Boywonder) and I had already discussed getting married and having children when I found myself pregnant. We chose to keep it, and simply escalated our timeframes for everything.

Pregnancy was very hard for me. I don’t like being out of control, and pregnancy isn’t something that was in my control at all. I hated that. I hated my body changing without my permission, I hated being sick, or tired, or sore, and not knowing why or what to do about it. I hated feeling off-balance, emotional, and scared.  Childbirth didn’t scare me… motherhood did. It still does, but I’m learning that that’s a feeling common to all parents.

Childbirth was…. Awful. I know a lot of women romanticize it, or forget what it was like, but I can’t and I won’t. I never want to go through that again. Ever. With that said, my birth was easy as births go… D played with the pressure points in my ankles on a Saturday morning as a way of avoiding going to a funeral, but no dice. However, that night I started to have contractions, just very far apart. I slept Saturday night without much trouble, but Sunday morning the contractions became regular. By Sunday afternoon we were en route to the hospital, but they sent us home. We returned a few hours later, much to the nurses’ amusement… but they were wrong, because within 2 hours of us arriving, my little Bonkers was born. I had a waterbirth, despite changing my mind and wanting drugs. They didn’t get back to me in time, not believing my labor was progressing so quickly, so by the time  the midwife came to check on me, it was time to push. 20 minutes later, my son was in my arms. D cut the cord.

I was… ambivalent, to say the least. I remember thinking, as they set him in my arms, “Kid, you’d better be a fucking Rhodes Scholar or some shit to make this worth it.” I did not receive the endorphin rush of love many women talk about, and in fact didn’t like the baby very much at first. I cared for him, nursed him, and cuddled him more out of obligation than anything else. I ended up with very severe post-partum depression, which thankfully a dear friend finally made me see. Going on medication was a godsend, and I finally fell in love with my son. He is beautiful, and cheerful, and sweet, and terrifyingly precocious.

He was born on the Chinese New Year, in this the Year of the Water Dragon. My little Dragon Baby.

Needless to say, my kink life has slacked off a lot due to the stress, exhaustion, and preoccupation of life with an infant. Thankfully, a lot of loved ones have stepped up to the plate to help us out. Jack, my darling former partner- who never wanted kids!- is currently Bonkers’ nanny. No, I’m not kidding. Once he starts back at school, Amber, 2011 Ms SELF and dear friend, will be alternating days with Jack.

Meanwhile, a dear friend has become so much more. We met Lakasha through the Kinky Parents group I started here in Atlanta, and got to know she and her wife. We became pretty close, particularly Lakasha and I. During the family camping trip we took over Memorial Day, she and I spent most of the 2 hour ride discussing hooking up our spouses… and it turns out that they were discussing the same thing.

D & I took it slow, having been burned several times now by girls who seemed interesting, but didn’t suit what we were looking for, and we were concerned about a likely drama-bomb of their relationship which seemed like it would be problematic soon.  We are actually pretty glad that we did, because their relationship didn’t last much longer.

After Lakasha’s wife moved, we became closer and closer, and it wasn’t long before we were dating. It was even less time after that before I feel in love with this smart, beautiful, strong, and loving woman. She is incredibly submissive, service-oriented to a sometimes terrifying level, and has scars I recognize in my own mirror.

She is exactly what D & I have been looking for- passionate but pragmatic, beautiful with no idea of it, ambitious but loving, and just generally amazing. She has a lot of life changes going on right now, which definitely complicates the beginning of a relationship, but she is handling all of it with formidable strength of will. It scares me a little to be almost the only solid thing in her evolving life right now, but I know that when she comes out the other side of all of this, we will all be stronger and better.

On a more pragmatic note, I also started a new job at the end of July. I work helpdesk for law firms, and so far I love it. The office environment is casual and friendly, and we are encouraged to be familiar (within professional limits) with our clients. I’ve already made several friends here, and I look forward to a good long run here… and possibly a career, as I’m setting my sites on their HR Department.

So that’s my life right now in a nutshell. Busy, loving, joyful, stressful, silly, serious, and wonderful.

Birthday Treat

Yesterday, for my birthday, Boywonder gave me a beautiful gift.

He requested to be in service to me for the day.

He cooked for me, drove, opened doors, deferred to me in everything I wanted to do for the day, and ended the night with a long massage and delicious orgasm.

Afterwards- although admittedly after some discussion as I was too tired to even think about anyone/anything else! LOL- he requested an orgasm and I agreed.

He is beautiful when he is shy, hiding his face in my neck like a little boy, and blushing when I tell him how beautiful he is.

He is slightly ashamed of this side of himself, like so many men, but that hint of shame only makes it hotter for me- reminding him he'd had to 'earn' this orgasm through his service to me that day made him squirm delightfully. Telling him how much I'd enjoyed riding his face until I came powerfully (and loudly!) drew a low moan, and my fingers busy on his nipples and toying with his balls brought a symphony of small, shy, hot noises.

And when I guided his hand back to my groin, letting him feel the heat and reawakened dampness there? Oh, that sound was music.

Finally, after he'd cum, I drew him to me, nestling his face into my neck in that shy position he loves when feeling submissive, and brought myself to orgasm again, letting him see, feel, hear, and smell how hot his surrender made me.

It was a good birthday.

Some thoughts on cultural shifts in leather

Leather is a culture, like any other culture, and I studied anthropology & sociology before I ever discovered psychology.
Cultures change. They adapt and grow.

Catholic mass is no longer commonly spoken in Latin, but in the native tongue of the worshippers, making it more accessible to Catholics of lower income & education.

Biker culture is no longer primarily the demense of those seeking to outrun 'the law' (no matter what you may think from watching certain stupid tv shows), and in fact now includes- and welcomes- such groups as "Bikers for Jesus" and does runs like JustLizzy's particular project, "Bikers for Babies".

Marital rape is no longer legal, and recognized as rape despite the marriage vow.

Gay bars are no longer illegal and Texas v Lawrence (finally!) struck down state sodomy laws by declaring them unconstitutional, and bath houses full of unprotected sex are no longer the most common method of getting laid for most gay men.

Guess what, everyone? Social norms change, even within subgroups and subcultures.
Yes, leather was once confined to bars and intensely vetted private parties and focused heavily on dirty, raunchy sex above all.
But leather culture is no more sacred than wider Southern American etiquette (I still write thank-you notes... but I don't have a reasonable expectation for you to), gay culture, biker culture, catholicism, etc etc etc and has changed right alongside all of those other cultures.
Is dirty, raunchy sex sill awesome? Hell yes.
Do you still have the right to vette your private parties and groups? Of course.
Are there still a ton of great leather bars around the country? Oh yeah.

But do all leatherfolks have sex as part of their leather? Nope. My sex is private, and sometimes it's even vanilla. Sorry.
Do I feel obligated to vette people for my TNG group because you used to have to? Nope. It's important to me- and the other group leaders- for us to be accessible as a safe place for young folks to learn about their kinks.
Are leather bars now the only way for folks to meet, cruise, learn, and get together? Nope. There's an amazing selection of dungeons, events, parties, munches, and gatherings in my city alone.

Does that frustrate and upset some people? Of course! Does the decline of 'hostess gifts', thank-you notes, and the understanding that one does not watch TV when one has a guest present upset me? You betcha!
But guess what? My culture is changing. Your culture is changing. OUR culture is changing. And all that we can do is to try and pass on the norms that are important to us and that benefit those around us, while appreciating and accepting the good parts of those changes.

Sorry, guys, but my sympathy for those upset about the changes in leather culture is pretty slim.
I've watched, in a short 20-some-odd years of actually paying attention, as traditions I hold sacred have disappeared from my peers' lives, and I've mourned that, but I've also had to rejoice at some of the changes that have come as well. (Um, gay marriage in NY- hell yes!)

....and you know what? The things that are important to me, I've kept doing, and in doing so kept those traditions alive. My friends may not usually send thank-you notes, for example, but after receiving a few from me, they often then send me one for something- and through that sending, discover how pleasant the practice is. Do I have to whinge about the fact that they don't usually? Nope. I just keep quietly going on about my life, upholding that which is important to me and showing by example that some of those old traditions are worth keeping.

Subspace and consent

I've been browsing Fetlife today, and come up with some amusing threads. The one that is most interesting at the moment concerns subspace and consent.

Basically, the OP disagrees with the whole, "I was in subspace so I can't be held responsible for my actions and anything bad that happened is ALL YOUR FAULT."

So rather than dive into the transient and argumentative world of the forums, I'm going to articulate my thoughts here, relatively permanently stored, and let you argue with them if you want :)

Caveat the first- I refuse to define subspace for anyone other than myself.

Caveat the second- for me, when I bottom, I go into an altered state of consciousness.

Now, that altered state of consciousness, for me, is a lot like being drunk. I enter it mostly knowingly (every once in a while that 3rd drink hits harder than expected, or that really good term of, ahem- endearment- whispered just right in your ear sends you sliding under), I get really, really suggestible, and I am willing to do things I don't usually find enjoyable otherwise.

However, please note the distinctions:

I enter it knowingly, and therefore have the responsibility beforehand to choose a partner who knows what will happen and whom I can trust to be responsible for my welfare while I'm temporarily less capable of doing so.

Note my wording, by the way- less capable, not incapable.

I become suggestible, which does not mean "completely open to any influence," for those who are too lazy to look it up. The judge will not let you off for drunk driving just because someone else allowed you to have your keys, and I won't excuse you from being irresponsible simply because someone else was present and suggested it.

I am willing to do things I'd otherwise not. That doesn't mean I'll have sex with a complete stranger, let someone cut off parts of my body, or otherwise do something really stupid. It means that I will enjoy rougher sex than usual, accept a harder beating than usual, etc. It doesn't mean I'll let something completely out of character happen- it means that I'm willing to push my usual interests a little farther.

So, let's recap, shall we?

For me, subspace means that the person I already know and trust can suggest to me that we push my current interests a little farther.

It does not mean that anyone can convince me to do something I would then later classify as assault of any kind.

....don't get me wrong, Lucivar once debated digging my eye out with a knife and I'd probably have let him in the headspace I was in, but I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he did he'd find a way to fix it.

And THAT, my friends, is the key difference.

Overdue update

Hmmm so much for that 'writing here more' project.

Short version of the last few months:

Jack and I have broken up. We are still best friends, but it was past time.

Airen and I have also broken up. We're also still friends, although we're taking the time to let a little distance heal things.

Boywonder and I are still together. Our dynamic is evolving, but mostly we're vanilla partners who switch a lot in play. (Although come to think of it, I owe him a good beating for his birthday earlier this week...)

Yeah. And now to my next post for the rant I came here to write about subspace and consent.

Late night HNT

Post-pedicure HNT

A new-old change in direction

This blog used to be the place where I wrote about everything kink-related. My experiences in the community, my lovers, my thoughts on relationships- everything.

But somewhere along the way it turned into my sex blog. Where I write my fantasies, my sexiest thoughts and kinkiest desires, but nothing else.

That is not what I choose for this space to be anymore.

So.

Here's where I am right now.

I live in a beautiful little 1940's house with 2 of my partners, Jack and Airen. My house was built as officer housing for a nearby Army base, and while the neighborhood is now quite diverse, I prefer it that way. My home is filled with antiques I've inherited, but I hope it doesn't feel too much like a house filled with antiques to visitors. I love my furniture, my china and silver, but in the end it is 'wood and metal, wrought in pleasing form,' to paraphrase Jacqueline Carey, and what it means to me is replaceable.

Jack and I have been together for 5 years now, and Airen and I are approaching one this April. Jack has his own bedroom, his own little cave to retreat to, and Airen and I share the master bedroom. This is not a comment on any hierarchy, but merely on my darling Jack's antisocialness.

I was asked to join the Board of Directors for the local TNG group which was the first to welcome me home to my kink community.

I was awarded the title of Ms Southeast Olympus Leather 2011, and in August I'll compete for International Ms Olympus.

This is my graduating semester of undergrad, with my BA in Psychology. (I dropped my Sociology double-major down to a minor in the interests of graduating and getting on the job market).

I broke my collarbone in January, and have been in a sling since then, and will be in one until June.

I recently started a new relationship, which I have absolutely no idea how to label, except that it's so much like what I had with Lucivar that it terrifies me.

So yeah. Busy, much?

I'm currently in Ft Lauderdale, FL at Beyond Leather, and badly need to wrap up this rambling entry on nothing terribly important so that I can go downstairs and actually be sociable and not make my producer and judges regret giving me this title.

Writer's Block

I want to write about you, but the words aren't there.

I want to write about the shape of your eyes when you smile at me, open and not-quite-innocent. The taste of salt on your skin, suddenly spiced with the coppery hint of fear when my teeth begin to meet. The sharp intake of your breath when my lips graze your neck. The way your lips part in a combination of fear and desire when the predator watches through my eyes.

I want to write about it.

I want to tell everyone about the arch of your throat when you offer it to my teeth, the sharp hiss of your breath and the low growling moan when I bite down. I want to tell them about the way your body presses into me, and the sharp sounds you make when I roll your nipple between tongue and teeth. I want to tell them about the sweet, meaty scent of your belly and the way you moan when I run my hands over your trembling body.

I want to write about you, but the words just aren't there.