Pleasant thoughts HNT

Coffee-laced kisses

Your last few kisses tasted like coffee and the lingering hint of cigarettes.

I'm wearing your shirt that I slept in, the scent of your body soaking into my skin again after reluctantly washing it off when we showered together.

Your body is pressed against mine, warm on the cold morning, and all that I want to do is drag you back into my warm house and crawl back under the covers to finish what we started last night.

All day, I could smell you on my skin and taste you on my lips.

Hot water and sisterhood

Sitting yesterday afternoon in the Korean sauna I go to, I was struck by a realization.

Let me first give you a picture of the space: walking into the bathing area in the women's locker room, the lights dim and you enter a space that is exclusively feminine, a space no man may enter.

To one side are showers, where women of varying ages and bodies scrub down before entering the hot, tepid, and cold pools, the dry and wet saunas, the UV-ray area, or paying for a massage or body scrub. Women sit beside each other, laughing and talking and scrubbing one anothers' backs and washing one anothers' hair.

I am soaking in the hot pool, letting my injured shoulder float languidly and take the pressure off of my healing clavicle and it's intrusive, supportive titanium pin. Gigi floats beside me, her beautiful red hair plastered close to her classical face by the heat, and we simply lie together for a while, not this moment in direction contact but connected by a sense of feminine community.

Around us, throughout the bathing area, are women. Aged women with baby-fine skin and long, low breasts showing the marks of childrearing. Thin women with tight stomachs and pert,small breasts. Heavy women with rounded bellies and deep, wide thighs. Women with long, glossy black hair and golden skin. Women with waist-length locks and rounded buttocks. Deep brown skin, golden skin, pale skin. Hair in every shade from red to brown to black to blonde, a rainbow of tattoos and piercings sitting alongside conservative Asian women. It is a rainbow of women in every shade and every style, in a community which is connected without needing words.

Even children are here, running freely under the indulgent eyes of their mothers and grandmothers and aunts, and every other woman in the room. Here, they learn community, learn the diversity of their gender and the beauty of every body. Here they laugh and bathe and soak and learn that their bodies are safe spaces, homes for their souls and places in which they live.

It is also a curiously asexual space. No, asexual is wrong. A as a prefix means "without", and this space is not without sex. It is non-sexual. Sex simply has no place here. It is... irrelevant, for lack of a better word. Even I, one of the most sexual creatures I know, look at the bodies around me- a smorgasboard in another place or time- and see only sisters, not lovers.

It is a curiously comforting sensation, to bathe in a potent brew of hot water and community.

Caveat: I am aware that the Asian spas (at least those I've visited) are transphobic places, and I understand that my use of them is an exercise of cisgendered privilege. I'm sorry, my trans friends.

Bewbies HNT

Rapine Dreams

I dream of rape sometimes.

I dream of forcing you to your knees, tears in your pretty eyes from the twisted grip of my hand in your hair.

I dream of the fear that twists your features when you look up at me, realizing what is going to happen. Realizing that I will bend you over, force you open to me, and hurt you.

I want that fear, the spark of hope when my hand gentles in your hair, the terrified resignation when it tightens again and you know that my mind will not change.

I want the hardness of your cock contrasting with the tightness around your eyes, the hopeful reluctance as your legs spread wide for me, and the grunt of fear and pain and long wished-for fulfillment as I slide inside of your warm, tight body.

Sleeping in HNT

An evening's thought

I want the boys who are wounded.

I want the boys who are wounded, but not so that I can heal them.
I want the boys who are wounded, so that I can lick the bloody tears
from their skin.

*squeeeeeeeeeeal*

Well, there's a very busy few months coming up for me.

This was my last free weekend until I graduate in May with my BA in Psychology, and this week, spring break for me, will be spent busily writing term papers so I don't have to write them in my complete if spare time.

Upcoming are:

March 5: Passing the Torch: An Intergenerational Dialogue in Dallas, NC

March 25-27: Atlanta Poly Weekend in Atlanta, GA

April 1-3: Atlanta Leather Pride in Atlanta, GA

and quite a few others, but those are the soonest.

I'm extremely excited about Atlanta Poly weekend, where I'm teaching "Poly and D/s," "Interpersonal Communication," and "Real Life Polyamory".

What's even more exciting?

One of my favorite writers and activists, maymay of Male Submission Art, and Maybe Maimed, will also be there. Not only is he teaching a cool class on censorship, but he's looking forward to my class on Poly and D/s!

...........a writer I really admire is excited about one of my classes?!??!?!

*squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeal*

Loss

We're in the car, and driving home.

My home,not yours anymore and that is its own special kind of pain.

You're talking about the woman you loved, the woman you still crave despite the pain she caused you and the scars you still stroke on nights when the loneliness is too much.

I am sympathizing with you because I have my own scars, my own secret could-have-beens in the middle of the night.

"...it's the most intense things I've ever felt," you tell me, and I shudder in response.

"I've felt it three times," I tell you. "Once for Wolf," whose strong-safe arms are no longer- can never again be- in my life. "And two other times."

I know the intensity you mean. The obsession- and yes, it is obsession. Your brain releases the same chemicals during the early stages of a relationship that are released during an obsessive episode for an OCD person. The craving for them, for their bodies, the meeting with their minds, the brush of their soul against yours.

The fierce craving for their touch, the need to touch them, to mark them and show the world that they belong to you, that they love you and they are yours and you are theirs and yes!

"You're lucky to have felt it so many times," he tells me.

I glance at him, pretty and dark and hurting. I know what he means- that I am lucky that having felt it more than once, I know I can feel it again. Know that the loss of it once is not the loss of it forever. But the words won't come past the lump in my throat.

"You get past it," I tell him. "You go to bed hurting and you wake up hurting and you go through the motions hurting- eating and drinking and working and playing- and you know it won't ever go all the way away but you hold on to the little things, the little pleasures."

"It's different for you," he says. "You have someone."

"It's not like that," I respond. "It doesn't make the pain less. But you cling to the little things. The taste of tea in the morning, the rush of caffeine in your body. The taste of chocolate on your lips. The accomplishment of learning a new skill. It doesn't take away the pain, but it makes it bearable.

"And when you think you can't stand it anymore, when you think you're going to call them in the middle of the night, you remind yourself why they're not there anymore. Why they're gone, whether they chose it or you did. In the middle of the night, you hold on to anger or hurt or fear or whatever it takes to remind you because sometimes they're the only things that are stronger than the craving for them."

After all, foolish boi, how do you think I keep from calling you?

Collaring

I had a ritual planned.

Elaborate, beautiful, formality suiting the depth of my feelings for you.

Candles, ritual words, my hands on your body gentle and harsh and cruel and tender.

But when you came home, like a child unable to hide the sweets from herself, I sent you to find it. When you returned, stainless steel links in hand and looking a little dazed, I could only grin in delight.

I had meant to be stern, formal, but found myself instead laughing like a child.

The links shining in your hand, bright rings of stainless steel twisting, designed especially for you and woven in an intricate and beautiful pattern by my sister.

Mine.

Love and joy reflected in your eyes like candle flames.

Mine.

The soft grunt as you knelt before me, my hand warm on your throat.

Mine.

The clasp closing, silver-bright steel against your golden skin.

Mine.

Your hands on my skin, slowly removing my clothing piece by piece, the disrobing its own pleasure.

Mine.

Your skin against my skin, your body inside of mine, my hand wrapped around your collar.

Mine.

After, we simply held one another, skin to skin, heart to heart, breath to breath.

Mine.

Always.

Craving you

I thought I was past this craving. Thought I was past the point when your voice could wrap my gut in a knot and start a low fire of need in my groin. Thought I was past the point when the thought of you could squeeze my heart with a tight-knuckled fist and focus every instinct in my body on you like a hunting dog on point: Mine.

Your slut voice is back, that high, piping boy’s voice that makes me think about pressing a knife to your balls and keeping it that pretty soprano forever. Every word is calculated to reach deep into my body and call the predator from me, the rapist, to draw him out and into my eyes and my hands. I know you’re manipulating me, but is it really manipulation when I’m cooperating fully? When my words and your voice weave together in a cooperative manipulative descending spiral of predatory and helpless lust?

This is almost not rape, not when your pouty lips are half open in undisguised need and your every glance over your shoulder is an invitation. You know that I want you, and you want the brutality of my hands and the cruelty of my teeth on your skin, and you are drawing the quiescent predator back into me, back up through my hands and my eyes and my teeth and down into my cock until I use it like a weapon to pound into your body. She’s been so quiet, the predator inside of me, this past year; barely sniffing the air since your departure but now she has the scent of her favorite prey and I don’t know if I can keep us sane, keep us from crossing the line and ripping you open like the meat that the predator sees. There is too much fury and pain mixed with the desire and it is so blended now with the love that even that may not stop us from opening you.

It doesn’t matter now, though. I don’t really believe that I’ll ever have you back for keeps, never feel your body wrapped around mine a clinging liana vine boi, so I will have to take this opportunity that may be the last and means the consequences don’t matter… so I set my teeth in your throat and bite untilI taste blood.

Fetish

I spoke with a friend today,and we spoke about our loves, our needs, our fetishes.

I described a scene to him:

Your eyes, wide and begging and fearful and glazed with arousal.

Your lips, pink and round in an 'O' of wanting.

Your face drawn in fear and desire, your high cheekbones stark as bright spots of fear-color draw my avaricious eyes.

Your throat, bared to the blade and your body lifting convex from the bed and against my hands and my knife. Pressing yourself into the possibility of death with a mixture of sex and suicide.

Submissives speak of the confidence they have in their master, the gut knowledge that he'll never harm them.

You don't have that. You know I will harm you if the psychopath in the back of my brain slips her leash, for even a moment. You know that I want to let her, know that we can smell the blood beneath your skin and crave the taste of it on our lips and the stickiness on our hands that hold the blade.

But you arch into me, and into the blade, anyway.

That.

That suicidal desire.

That overarching need that doesn't care if it ends in death.

That is my fetish.

To be continued

He looked at me with his eyes wide, his lips making that cute little 'O' of surprise.

'But I thought you were still mad at me and didn't want sex?'

I smiled, or at least I bared my teeth. Sometimes, he can't tell the difference.

'I've changed my mind... sort of.'

That was when the first nervousness entered his eyes. The first vague concern, not quite real fear yet. 'So...'

'Shut up, bitch,' I cut him off.

He started a little and fell silent, his eyes getting wider. I'm usually extremely lenient, to the point of spoiling him. This tone, this attitude, was new.

'Get on your goddamned knees, boy,' I told him, and smiled inside as he scrambled to obey, wondering exactly what he'd gotten himself into.

I unzipped my jeans, freeing my cock- 8" of beautiful opalescent silicone- and smiled when he licked his lips.

I love owning whores.

'Suck me, slut.'

I didn't need to say anything else, he was already leaning forward, licking his lips and wrapping his hot little mouth around me. God he's pretty like this! His full lips wrapped around my cock, his whole body arching into every pull of his mouth and throat.

I stroke his head lightly, drawing his attention with the unexpectedly gentle touch. 'Make sure you get it good and wet, baby, because it's the only lube you're getting tonight.'

I watch his eyes widen and feel something like contentment as his efforts at swallowing me redouble.

Such a pretty little whore.

Abruptly, I'm done with it, done with being sucked, and all I want is to fuck him- deep and hard and fast until he whimper and squeals and begs because it's too much.... because it will be.

Don't wanna

You told me in an email, "No one has ever been able to break me, and I think you could be the one."

Stupid, arrogant little boy.

Break you? I barely fucking know you.

Breaking you implies I give enough of a shit to put you back together afterwards like a good little massa.

Let's get something straight- I don't.

So I don't give a fuck if I 'break' you.

I just want to fuck you up.

I want to watch you flinch when the cold chains wrap around your wrists... ZOMG chains on wrists you might get bruises and then DIIEEEEEEE.... and then hook 'em to the eyebolts in my ceiling.

USB20 put them in for my birthday last year. They'll be a year old soon.

Maybe I'll give him a birthday present to say thank you.

I digress. Reading his pr0n does that to me.

I want to wrap the chains around your wrist and watch you shiver involuntarily from the cold against your hot skin. Watch your face go tight as you realize I've seen you flinch, watch you buck up and try to pretend you didn't because oh noes I might think you're not a big and tough and scary!

You're not, bitch. Right now you're a hanging chunk of meat.

Go be scary to someone else in your pretty digital uniform and shiny little gun. They're not here, and I am.

I and a length of chain link from Home Depot. It was your idea, and that makes it all your fault.

Tiny little links leave a lovely trail of welts.

Maybe if I were a Good Dominant I'd be able to make pretty patterns with it and take pretty pictures.

But, well, I'm not and I can't and I don't.

Also, I don't take pictures.

So I'll just hit with it instead.

The first blow, winding up my arm and down my hand with the snap of the wrist that makes a lunge whip crack, is across your chest.

Across your chest and trailing across one nipple while you grunt and groan and try to be A Twue and Stoic Mas-o-cast.

Bah. Boring little twat. I want you to make some noise for me.

Another blow, wrapping around your torso now like the flogger falls everyone says Do Not Do but it's soooo pretty wrapping around you and kissing your ribcage while you grunt and strain a little against the chain.

Another one, diagonal now across your back and your making a low keening sound but it's not enough and I want to hear you scream so it's time to switch chains, to grab the heavy links designed to hold rabid pit bulls inside their swept-earth yards even when the census man comes to knock at the door.

This one bruises, this one can break bone if I hit you wrong so I shove you around and let it fly against your back until your spine bows and a strangled scream rips from your throat.

Mmmmm, much better.

I haven't had a boy beg me for mercy in a long time.

I think you're going to.

I think two more blows will do it.

I'm suddenly debating in my head.

Good Dom, Bad Dom.

One good blow over the kidneys won't kill you, but it will have you pissing blood for a few days and blubbering.

Two good blows to the sweet spot where thighs meet ass will have a similar effect but I don't wanna be good, Mommy, I wanna hurt him....

3am

You are making small whimpering noises in your sleep, little puppy-like snuffling sounds as you move across the bed seeking my warmth. The rice paper that covers your bedroom window blocks little light, and even now at 3am I can see your face relaxed and childlike in sleep as you search for me.

I love that you search for me, that you seek in me safety, and warmth, and comfort.

It makes me want to wrap you up tightly in my arms and keep you safe forever, and it makes me want to rip you from sleep with a hand over your mouth and another pinching shut your nose before I ride you into oblivion.

Mornings

It is in the mornings that I wake to find you gone.

It is in the mornings that I reach, warm and fuzzy-minded from sleep, to cuddle you and wake abruptly to the lack.

It is in the mornings, with their 5 hour time difference, too early to call and reassure myself with your voice, that I feel how far away I am.

It is in the mornings, quite and peaceful and utterly lacking in your warmth, when I let myself weep.

Musings

We are studying the Psychology of Terrorism, sitting in a classroom in Dublin and my mind is drifting.

I am thinking of you, as I find myself doing so often.

I am thinking of your body, warm and soft and spread beneath me like a feast for my senses. I am thinking of my hands, running up the length of you, spreading your legs for me. I am thinking of your warm buttocks, rising from your legs as though they were made for my hands to spread apart and toy with while you squirm and moan. I am thinking of the slow curve of your back like flowing honey and the smallness of my hands against the length of it, stroking steadily upwards. I am thinking of the curved bow of your neck, of the swallow of your throat in my hand and the softening of your face as you slip under.

I am thinking about the solid line of your body beneath me, of the soft sounds that you make when I slip inside of you. I am thinking of your hands, grasping at the floor and at my hands as your back arches when I fill you. I am thinking of your open mouth, gasping and moaning as I fuck you.

Yes- this

OMFG This. Ferns has, as always, expressed my emotions better than I ever can:

Little Boy

An apology and a memory

Beloved one,

I woke up yesterday with tears hot on my cheeks, fear clawing at my chest like a beast trying to rip its way out through my ribs.

I knew that you would leave, knew that you would walk away as surely as I knew the taste of bile in the back of my throat.

There was no doubt in my mind that before day's end, I would lost you.

But when I talked to you in the morning, I pasted the smile to my face, letting myself take honest joy in what I knew would be my last conversation with you as Mine. I reveled in your sleepy voice, high and soft and rough with sleep. I bathed in the soft sounds of joy you made when I told you that I loved you, wrapping them like spun glass in the recesses of my mind, a tightly held balm against the pain I knew would come. I listened to your rustling movements in bed, seeing you in my mind's eye sprawled in your soft sheets, and I smiled even as tears burnt the backs of my eyes.

And then I went about my day, I wandered alone in a city 3,000 miles from my home, idly watching the people around me. I noted their movements, smiled reflexively at those who greeted me, and all the time my mind was full of you, full of all that I knew I would lose. Your face, soft and open when I'm inside of you, your smile wise and kinder than you'll admit when I am small and frightened. Your hands small and quick and nervous when you clean. Your tremulous smile when I kiss you as a man, and your slow, wicked grin as you ride me. Your face lighting with passion as we chat for hours about the things we love, your narrowed eyes and manic smile when you hurt me, your shy eyes when you curl up tight against me. A hundred thousand images flashed before my eyes and broke my heart a hundred times over: you folding clothes, obsessively neat. You at work, focused and proud. You curled close to me, watching a movie. You hurting me, mad eyes and tender hands. You spread out before me, a feast for my senses. You shopping, movements graceful and restrained. You at my dining room table, laughing and talking. You grinning sideways, that delicious, wicked expression. You on your couch, primal and barely restrained. Every image a glass shard in my heart, ripping me slowly, inexorably open. Over and over I saw you, everywhere that I looked. Architecure I wanted to point out to you, dresses I wanted to laugh with you over, pretty boys with their hipster hair I wanted to laugh with you about. Sad murals I wanted to share with you, good food, all of it wrapped around my heart like barbed wire and I bled inside.

Finally, with heavy steps I came home to talk to you, dreading every step, afraid of every word I'd have to write. When you greeted me, I was both afraid and joyful. I leapt into the conversation because I knew that if I didn't, I'd never have it. I'd give in to the temptation to conceal it from you, the nagging hopee that maybe I wouldn't lose what has become so precious to me.

Every keystroke punctuated by a tear, by a stabbing sensation in my chest, by the certainty of loss.

...and then you didn't.

Then you were quiet as you conferred, and you simply accepted in me what I cannot accept myself.

And then you told me that you love me, and the tears spilled out, spilled open in me and my heart was still bleeding but it was marked by joy now and the disbelief that this was really happening.

Were you truly still here? Would I still really be able to hold you, be able to taste your lips and hear your precious voice? It was too much, too deep, too sudden,and I couldn't believe it, couldn't process it, could only curl into myself a release the shaking sobs that had hidden inside of me all day.

I still have trouble believing it, still have to reach sometimes for the twine you had me tie around my wrist, my tangible reminder of your love and your presence.

I still keep waiting for you to change your mind, to look at me with horror and disgust, and just as you told me so long ago in the darkened car... you prove me wrong. Every time.

I've never been so grateful to be wrong before.

I love you.

Thinking about it

I have avoided writing about this, hiding it from the page as though it will hide it from knowledge.

Hide it from memory, hide it from admission.

Part of me is ashamed, I suppose, of the pleasure I take in those brief times of submission to you. That's not who I am, not who I'm supposed to be.... and yet it is, and it is a reality that to pretend away would somehow lessen, cheapen, and I will not to do that.

It was my trust in you, my willing submission to you, which prompted your choice to wear the collar, and I will not cheapen that by pretending it away.

I think about it, you know- about the brilliant psychopathy in your eyes, and your twisted grin. I know what you're imagining, know the pain you'd like to give me and the blood you'd like to spill from my skin. Yes, I know.

I think about it- about the sensation of your hand on my throat, just thisside of terrifying, the back of my mind fear that this time the collar will slip a little, this time no one will check you, and you will squeeze too hard, too long, grinning that maniacal grin while the blood drains from my brain and I slip into the darkness.

I think about it- the contrasting tenderness and cruelty of your hands, so like what I give to your other side, and yet so uniquely yours. About the way that they make me writhe, and whimper, and moan. About the way that the madness in your eyes makes me want to please you.

About the madness in your eyes that makes you want to break me.

I'd almost let you... if I thought I'd survive it.

Yes, I think about it.

Image

The image, a week old now, won't leave my mind: you, spread in naked glory across the warm hardwood floor of your home, the sunlight streaming behind you and bathing you in light as you wrap your legs around me and drag me deeper into you. Your mouth, that hot little 'O' of pleasure and need, the small sounds dragged from your throat by the movement of my cock inside of you. Your face flushed with arousal and your eyes glazed in desire...

I can't get it out of my head,and nor do I really want to.

Missing you

I am gone from you, and it grieves me. I miss you, all of the many facets of you.

I miss curling up and watching a chick flick,my fingers softly stroking your cheek while you blush and hide your face.

I miss your arms around me, tight when I am sad and insecure, your voice calm and strong and soothing.

I miss your cocky grin, half smirk and half pure lust.

I miss your voice soft and halting, as you curl into me.

I miss your hands obsessively refolding.

I miss your smile, evil and a little deranged, as your fingers dig into my sore spots.

I miss your rambling about computers.

I miss you spread beneath me, panting and moaning.

I miss you.

All of you.

More than you know.

Now

My body stretched atop yours, my cock moving in and out of you while you whimper,moan, and plead in a language I don't know.

My arms around your shoulders, giving me leverage for the fucking of you just as much as holding you close while I do so.

Your face turned half to me, dark eyes distant and turned inward toward your own pleasure... I want to take you and rip you away, rip you away from your pleasure and back to me, and I want for you to feel this, to enjoy this, forever.

You are riding me now, as I rest and let my hip recover from fucking you. Your body moving atop mine, my hands on your thighs and your head thrown back in pleasure and release, your are beautiful.

Your hand wrapped around your cock, lovely little cock, and pumping with the rhythm of your hips fucking yourself on my own, and I can only smile, groan my own pleasure and contentment while you whimper and ride me.

Soon your eyes are wide, begging, your hips and hands frantic as you whisper to me, "Now? Now?...."

Yes, darling..... Now.

Wounded Healers

“Without your wound where would your power be? It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve.” -Thornton Wilder

My best friend, who is well on his way to becoming a priest, gave a sermon today with this quote as its basis.

As always, it put tears in my eyes.

I have wounds. Some scarred over, and some still healing. A few bleed even now.

I have wounds. And yet, I am the one to whom many turn for healing, for safety, for trust and love.

For years, I wondered why. Did they think me unwounded? More whole than they? Surely not, when I have allowed my wounds to show for years now and it hasn't slowed the flow of requests, but truthfully sped it up (my academic studies have also influenced that, of course...).

So, I'm left seeking another answer. Why? Why would someone come to a wounded healer? Physician, heal thyself.

A doctor who treats herself as a fool for a patient.

Why would they come to me?

And then he showed me this quote, a few years ago.

"In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve."

In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve.

Only the wounded soldiers.

Only the wounded healers.

My wounds haven't made me less fit to heal, to serve, to teach.

They've made me more.

"Without your wound, where would your power be?"

Without your wound, where would your compassion be?

"It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble in the hearts of men."

It is your very fear, your very wounds, that show that you know, you understand, and you care.

"The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human broken on the wheels of living."

Your wounds stand as testament to your knowledge, to your compassion, to your understanding of their pain.

"In love's service, only the wounded... (healers) may serve."

Already

There is an edgy high to the air tonight, a rising pressure and I want to ride it. The warm, humid air rises around me like the warmth of my own cunt and every stray breeze is another caress against my sensitized skin.

I've just left you, reluctantly, at your home and I'm already thinking longingly of your bed again, of the sensation of your skin pressed to mine and the warmth of your body against me,the softness of your mattress and the heat of your mouth.

You are beautiful, although I don't know that you realize it. Your skin golden against my own still winter-pale pallor, the soft sweep of your eyes and the warm solidity of your legs.

I'm already thinking of the soft, mewling sounds that you make when my mouth is hot against your skin, the way that you open to me with slutty eagerness, begging silently for more, more!

I shouldn't miss you this much already, but I do, and every rising rising degree of pressure from the coming storm around me just sensitizes me more, awakens the violence in me which has slept for so long but you have brought out again.

The puffs of wind preceding the storm tease the thin layer of hair on my arms, on my wrists, reminding me of the sensation of yours in my hands, and the sound of metal nearby makes me ache for the chains to wrap around you.

As the pressure rises so does my violence, and I want to take you now, here in the wind and the clouds and the coming storm, stake you out and open your legs to me.