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.

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....