Naughty Rhyme….

I thought it fitting, given last evening’s activity and revelation….

Whack a cheek, whack a cheek

My dominant man

Make my ass red

As fast you can

Wind it, swing it,

And mark it with an M

Walnut, oak, rattan

Let’s do it again….


After an intense, hard and fast beginning to our cane session last night, M paused briefly to admire his work. Running his warm, brazen palms over the stingy red welts, he leaned back to then trace each with the tip of the cane.

“Do you notice anything,” he asked after he’d done so.

“Was that an M?,” I asked in reply.

“Yep…,” he answered, striking those welts again in the same M pattern, clearly pleased with himself, making the marks darker, more raised.

Pausing again to stroke and squeeze his marks with his hands, he explained that at the start of every session, he whacks an M on both of my cheeks. An M for his initial. His mark, on me. Branded as his. My insides are still smiling.

This morning, as I was sipping my coffee and sitting on a sore bum, daydreaming and replaying last night, all I could think is…I wish his marks never faded away…but that’s not it exactly. I do love to look at them, touch them, feel them against whatever it is they happen to make contact. I guess maybe I simultaneously mourn their loss as I anticipate the new. I just love to have his marks, and I love that process….the old fading away and the invitation for the new (and sometimes the old and new together).

How Am I?

M: You’re so beautiful.

Me: How am I beautiful with the dark circles under my eyes and the gray hair?

M: I don’t see those things.

Me: What do you mean? How can you not see them?

M: I just see your eyes and your hair.

I see you too, M. I love every handsome, sexy, strong, loving, caring, patient and safe inch. And not just the ones in your pants.

Her Story

Each day an animate page,
Resonate, resilient parchment, weathered
With tattered and dog-eared corners,
Folds of wishes and wrinkles of forgotten time,
All surreptitiously surrounded by a rigid spine, tightly bound,
And a pleasing-at-a-glance cover applied

Her story penned, deliberately,
Quill dipped in an optimistic inkwell of dreams,
A girl with hope too big for her heart,
Yet caged, in steely, cold bars of fear,
Days of lamented lines and years of penitent paragraphs,
Raging run-ons, not separate, but not yet whole

Until, with a patient, loving grip
He cracked wide open her spine,
Running careful fingers over her textured tagmemics
Marked with scars of overuse
And dozens upon dozens of mistakes,
Because she refused to use auto-correct

And in strong, steadfast strokes,
He inscribed with intentional ink,
In studied as well as silly scribbles,
In deliberate and desirous doodles,
He filled her stark white margins,
Enclosing each stretched syllable and every wearisome word in safety

With no bitterness or resentment,
He read between each carefully constructed line,
Assiduously added enamored notes and ardent annotations,
Careted carefree interjections into her cautious construct,
And allowing her to fuse every fickle fragment with his guidance,
He completed her

This Me

I have stretch marks, lots of them. I have them on my butt and legs, on my belly from above my belly button down into my pubic area, on my arms, and on my boobs.

I have saggy skin everywhere from losing weight, from my upper arms to my knees, the kind that makes me a size bigger, the kind that jiggles when I move and flaps when I have sex. When I’m tied in rope, that skin gets squeezed and framed and it squishes out between the tie like dough being pressed by cookie cutters.

My boobs are beginning to sag, they are oddly tubular when I’m on all fours, and the skin on my belly hangs down, too.

I have lines and wrinkles near the corners of my eyes and these two funky creases between my eyebrows.

My front tooth suffered a Mentos accident years ago and is slightly misshapen, so it’s not symmetrical to the other front tooth.

I have a myriad of things at which I could look and see as imperfections.

And sometimes I do.

But, I also have this gigantic smile that shines in my eyes, too. I have this frequency that reaches out to others and a compassion for the human spirit. I have this radiating, ever-present light in my eyes, and a passionate fire that resides deep in my soul. I’m alive.

This light and passion I feel, which has been able to shine and come to the surface, is because of M, because of this freedom to be me which I feel with him. It’s composed of trust, safety, and undying love. It’s all of his thoughtful, desiring words and constant loving touches all strung together and fluidly pulsing through me. It’s his steadfast support, his humble patience, his receptiveness and willingness to evolve and lead. It’s his foundational acceptance and strength and loyalty to us. To me.

But it’s the way he looks at me that ignites me and makes me feel alive. It’s not just the way he hungrily looks at my body, it’s the way he SEES me. The way he surrounds me and breathes me in, the way he lifts me up and consumes me. The way he cares for me and does everything in his power to protect and nourish and challenge me. The way he allows me to be me, to want to be the best me, and to accept the parts which may always be as they are.

I’m not sure I feel whole just yet, but I feel complete and secure, like I have everything I need to face whatever it is I have to face, and I’m walking the path in this life I was meant to walk. I feel sexy. I feel love – love for him, no doubt, but when I look at me, when I think about myself and my place in this world – I love me, too.

My long-time journey with M has allowed me to humbly SEE me, to begin to see what he sees.

And to begin to love me, too.