Marry Me

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speak to me in dragon’s tongue,
in silk fingertip,
and breathless grip,
claim me, show me I’m the one

listen to me with thirsty ears,
with eager de Sade,
and lightning rod,
pushing boundaries, facing fears

speak to me in action alone,
narrowing all distance,
diminishing resistance,
the only sound our primal moans

listen to me shout your name,
in arches and cries,
and quivering thighs,
an eternal, fiery flame

marry me in spirit and soul,
intersecting hearts,
one sum of all parts,
my surrender and your control

-image via Tumblr, source unknown; also shared as part of Masturbation Monday Week 138

Placement

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restless,
shifting weight from foot to foot,
as He positions the prickly jute, 
concentrating on the way He winds it ’round,
on the way it comes to rest upon her skin, biting,
and not on He who is doing the winding,
He whose flesh grazes hers,
whose breath is heavy and hot against her neck,
whose soft, yet forceful lips leave a slightly wet, cool trail,
as He works his way ’round, up, through, and around

her loose fingers stray,
following that loud, ass-backward, inside voice she has,
the one who keeps shouting and pushing herself to the forefront,
the unsettled, messy girl who needs

and wants,
and needs

that noxious voice which permeates, 
spreading its unwanted tentacles nimbly
under the surface of her skin,
first taking hold of her thoughts,
then conquering every ribbon of unwilling, aching muscle

she tells those fingers to reach down
and to adjust,
to find and target each tiny imperfection,
to, with her selfish actions,
demand perfection and symmetry,
to fidget and forget about trust,
and patience

she overpowers,
she deceives

she defies, not only Him, but her

she knows what she needs,
but doesn’t want to know

so, she bucks and she pushes against the very binding she knows she truly needs

desperately

His binding,
His will,
His way

one last time, though she’s been warned,
she commands those deceptive fingers
to reach out,
to touch His tie

He slaps her wandering, distrustful, hand,
hard,
an echoing crack, a lingering, itchy, throbbing sting

and she smiles

a smile of defeat,
of humbling,
of placement

and then, she disappears

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-image found on Tumblr, source unknown; shared as part of Masturbation Monday

Home

Behind the soft brown scarf, she could see nothing but blackness. The precise squeeze on her nipples and the pinpointed pinch on her clit were just the right amount of pain-pleasure to keep her on edge. Arms cuffed above her head and legs tied with the prickly jute, calf to thigh, she was completely exposed to him, in more than flesh. Butterflies swirling in her belly, she folded into her smallness, anticipating him.

Her hearing hyper-aware, she picked up on the slight tinking of the metal pulls being lifted, then the gritty slide of wood against wood as he opened the red wood drawer. She knew which drawer it was as soon as she heard its uneven slide – it was the drawer of impact implements, and her heart began to race.

As she lay there waiting, breathing already a bit labored, the mini clothespins on her nipples were quickly becoming the center of her world, so much so that she forgot about the impact until she felt the whoosh of air, followed by the first landing. His releasing of the clothespin from her clit had caused a surge of blissful agony, followed by an engorged ache which thumped to the beat of her heart. It was so sensitive, she could feel even the slightest shift in the air, so the crop’s swift strike brought about a guttural, almost panicky scream. Oh, God. She knew there’d be more. And more.

The strikes came, in a quick rhythm, one after the other while he watched her face contort and her back arch in love-hate of every single strike. In that moment, her entire being focused on the sound of the crop on her tender, swollen skin, on the delicious, rhythmic pain on her clit and the glorious pinching of her nipples. 

Landing harder and harder, the strikes came in rapid succession, until he stopped, abruptly, leaving a silence that was just as loud as noise.

In her stillness, she heard the click of a button and a simultaneous buzz – she knew that noise! Oh, God, she knew. 

Strike, buzz, strike, buzz. Over and over. Again and again. 

There was nothing else, only he and her, the pinch and the strike and the buzz.

Layers of pain-pleasure flowed, one on top of the other, like conflicting currents, flooding her brain. Feeling the overwhelming evidence of her arousal, cool against the heat of each landing, she could even hear her wetness with each strike of the crop and pressing of the buzz.

Desperate for release, the humming in her center flowed outward to her surface, consuming her. It was all she could taste, all she could smell. She felt like she needed it more than she needed to breathe. The coil he had wound so deeply in her core was so tight, it pulled at her skin. It clenched every muscle and clamped shut her eyelids. She was afraid of its impending intensity; she was afraid of letting it go. 

But, it wasn’t a choice.

Ripping and slicing through her entire body, her orgasm took over. It was viscous and glorious and painfully heavenly, causing her to writhe and struggle against the restraints. The grunting and moaning sounds coming from the back of her throat didn’t even sound like her.

When she finally began to float back to earth, he pushed inside her, grinding and slamming into the puffy ache, pain-pleasure rocketing her body right back to the same heightened state from which she thought she’d returned, and then beyond. And further. Until he’d taken all he wanted from her.

Removing the scarf, he looked her in the eyes. All she saw was his dominance reflecting her surrender. Infinite love.

She saw home.

-image found on Tumblr, source unknown; included in Matsurbation Monday, week 130

Sometimes, Always

Sometimes it’s
fuck me like you own me
I’m not going to break
grab me pull me
force me
don’t ask if I’m okay
leave your mark
make me yours
please show me please
harder deeper faster slower
unwind me
I am shudder moan wetness pain pleasure breath catching need

Sometime it’s
pull me closer
I’m so sorry
wrap me tight
I need to believe
don’t stop
keep going through the tears
please possess me please
tighter stronger deeper
make my brain stop spinning
quiet calm I need you
please don’t ever let me go

Always it’s
the deepest connection I’ve ever known
tethered souls
fulfilling bursting desire lust
I love you I love you I love you
whispers in my ear
moaning gasping devouring
white knuckles twisted sheets muscles teeth sweat trembling hold my breath
look me in the eyes
time stopping narrowing focusing shutting out the world
oh god oh god oh god
anchor me I’m floating away
we are meant to be

Whimper

‘stay quiet, love’

his tracing fingers glide downward, knowingly, a well traveled route on the map of her flesh, a living, breathing map he created, he her cartographer, charting and plotting, committing her to memory, creasing and folding in all the right places

mesmerized, his entirety is focused on her responsiveness to him; in an instant, goosebumps rise to meet his touch, a shivering ripple, a wave of eagerness summoned to her surface by the barely contained vibrations from his recent strumming with the canes and floggers, every hiss and buzz, each whack and thwack reverberating, she the oscillation to his thrumming

instinctively, her eyes close and her mouth falls open in a savoring exhale, as she’s reminded of the heavenly hum of the rope, of the way his nimble fingers wound the jute, ‘round and ’round, it’s prickly tightness setting her free

continuing the deliberate strums with his fingers, paired with an airy bass of whispers in her ears, he watches for her body to respond in chorus, reveling in his ability to pluck here or there and illicit the desired response

flooded with a wave after wave of arousal, she’s overwhelmed in him; it’s as if each individual goosebump forming is a silent scream, her body crying out to him, alive in him, begging for him

and all she can do, is whimper

– Shared in response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie  Tale Weaver prompt, also shared as part of Masturbation Monday 141

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What If?

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What if he took her by the hand, led her to their room and asked her to lie back on their soft sheets and relax?

Maybe he’d lie at the bottom of the bed near her feet on his side, head resting on one hand, the other resting on the bed just a few inches from her.

What if he asked her to spread her legs wide for him, allowing him full view, and directed her to touch herself, no looking down or away, only looking into his eyes?

Maybe she’d be asked to touch and touch, building to a plateau, fueled by the look in his eyes and the small, telling movements that assured her he was enjoying what he was seeing – the slight grin forming, his fingers barely curling to grip the sheet, the growing bulge in the front of his pants.

What if she was asked to stop when she was just on the edge, ready, eyes filled with need, and told to remove his pants and touch him, placing him into her mouth, only to be abruptly told to stop, only allowed just a taste?

Maybe she’d be asked to lie back again, to gently massage her breasts, using two fingers to pinch and pull her nipples, to get herself slick and circle and dip with her fingers until she was on the edge again.

What if his hand traveled the few inches up the mattress to barely graze her folds with his fingertips as her own fingers worked, her back arching and her head instinctively turning to the left to bite the pillow so as not to wake the children?

Maybe just his almost-dipping fingers and his slightly tickling fingertips on the outside of her would force her to pause in touching herself for fear of toppling over the edge without permission.

What if, after her body had just begun to calm, he asked her to continue touching herself, this time using his middle finger, tracing and circling her opening before plunging not so gently into her, massaging her g-spot rhythmically, to a beat seeming to match the beating of her own heart?

Maybe he’d tell her what a good job she was doing, but she still didn’t have permission to come, not just yet. Maybe he’d direct her to get to that edge and stop and start again. And stop and start. Maybe she’d try to never break the eye contact because all she wanted was to please him. Maybe watching him, watching her would make her want to keep touching herself for as long as he’d keep watching.

What if he relentlessly massaged her g-spot, now with two fingers, as both of her hands moved to pleasure herself, using her fingertips to travel over her own skin, squeezing her breasts, palms up and down her stomach, two fingers persistent on her sweet spot? What if it became completely impossible to keep her body still or her back flat on the bed? What if her hips danced and bucked? What if her toes curled, pressing their toenails into the bed, a wordless begging of their own? What if the only way for her to remain quiet was to bite her own lip or clench her teeth or hold her breath?

Maybe he’d tell her what a good girl she was for following his directions. Maybe he’d finally tell her if she asked him nicely, he might let her come.

What if she looked him in the eyes, and asked with a shaky, small voice, “Sir, may I please come for you?”

Maybe his fingers would continue to be unrelenting as he said, “Yes, come for me.” Maybe her own fingers on the outside paired with his fingers on the inside, all the fingers stroking and swirling and sliding in all the right spots at just the right time, would make her come so hard she couldn’t stay quiet no matter how hard she tried. Maybe she’d shake and writhe and ride the waves of pleasure for longer than she imagined could be possible from simply the touching.

What if, as her body trembled and quaked, still feeling the downslide of her orgasm, he moved between her legs, entering her and sending her body and mind to a raw, primal place of wanting and begging and needing? Of grabbing and pulling and biting and sweating? Of moans and covering her mouth and many more “please, Sirs” and wetness and smiles of pride and pleasure? Of tired bodies and eyelids which wouldn’t stay open? Of tangling and drifting? Of peace?

Maybe they’d feel as if it was all just as it should be.

What if they finally felt at home?

Who She Is

img_6496Breathing deeply
Anticipating
Body quivers
Alive, waiting
Walnut strikes
Forceful and quick
Hands caress welts
Between thighs slick
Palm percussion
Clutter receding
Wanting more
Core is pleading
Stinging whip
Drifting inward
Layers stripped
Only He is heard
Leather belt
Sinking further
Soul is bare
Ready for merger
Wicked rattan
Warmth radiating
Relaxed and calm
Contemplating
Thick, rigid oak
Challenging bliss
Sinking in to
Who she is

Song of Passion


Tonight, his chosen instrument is unlike any other he’s used. It’s beautiful, with a long shaft of soft walnut brown and an earthy smell. Slightly lighter in feel and a bit more flexible than oak, it is bound to create a unique feel upon her skin. When he holds it, he looks much like a conductor….and he is.

As her eyes close, she slowly exhales, all the warm air leaving her lungs. Her forehead leans slightly forward, making contact with the wall, the coolness of the light gray paint chilly against her flush skin. Inside, there is silence, but it is not a silence absent of sound or feeling. It is the silence born between them. The silence OF them.

Behind her, she hears his movements – the slide and shuffle of his feet on the floor, the spectacular whoosh and whip of the walnut through the air, varying with every stroke, the sharp crack and whip as the walnut meets her skin. From her own lips, there’s the involuntary hissing intake of air or low moan as each strike lands. Sometimes there’s even a stifled scream or the rapid rise and fall of her chest and eyes which fill with tears. It hurts, but the pain is brief, it is only on her surface. In an instant, it is absorbed, transforming into a deeply penetrating, aching pleasure, a tantalizing combination that makes her want more. And more. It’s deliciously overwhelming.

With each strike, the contact with her skin causes a chain reaction. The displaced cool air as the walnut cane makes its way toward her backside is a sharp contrast to the instant ribbon of burn as it lands, but then, oh god…then her body begins to truly play his tune. The wood which looks so rigid bends and flexes slightly with her contours, and it vibrates. The silky vibrations travel the length of the cane and back to his hand, back and forth, an endless loop until it’s pulled away and readied again.

Awakened by that bite of pain, her flesh is alive and her mind made open, acutely aware and ready for what is to come. 

Every single buzz of vibration creates a radiating hum that travels from the surface of her skin, deep into her bones, and it never dies. That hum remains, it’s melodious rumble becoming louder and louder, taking up more and more space inside her, taking over. She welcomes it.

Unclipping her from the cuffs which were bound to the wall, he lies her face down on the bed, still humming. Gently, he strikes her back and works his way down the length of her, increasing in intensity, turning her over to do the same on her front, the harmonious whiz and whir of vibration absorbed with each and every strike, her body a melody, a constant hum barely contained by her skin. It’s so loud, she wonders if he can feel it too. The look in his eyes makes her believe he can. And when he touches her, that hum is no longer contained. It overflows into him, and he into her. She is the verse to his chorus, the lyrics to his chords.

Together they are the sweet song of passion.


-photo found on Tumblr; shared as part of Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday prompt

Not-So-Fly Swatter

*Mature Content

Under the bed lies leather fly swatter,
M bought from an Amish donut store.
But, he never swats flies,
Just the backs of my thighs;
Each wallup creating (his) belly laughter.

-Photo is mine; limerick created as per M’s instruction. He’s been daydreaming of taking it with us to the next play party, lol.

Jumping In (Our Way)

*MATURE CONTENT 

Several weeks ago, M and I went to our first play party. We had no idea what to expect, aside from the community organization’s description and pics of the space that were offered online. We didn’t know anyone in the community yet; we’d only attended one rope group and nothing else. 

And there’s a lot to consider in deciding to go! How it could potentially impact our lives if we are outed, the exposure and vulnerability in being naked (me) and playing in front of others (us), the trying to make friends, what we expect to get out of it, developing rules and expectations between the two of us beforehand, and so much more. I think one of the biggest things is being unsure about what part of fantasy is meant to become reality and what should remain fantasy. 

We talked so much in the months before going, wrapping our heads around it all. One doesn’t know for certain which is to remain fantasy and what may become reality until one gets out there and begins to experiment…

So we jumped in.

The first play party was overwhelming, in both good and not so good ways. It’s impossible not to have expectations and visions of what it might be like – how it will look and feel, both the physical space as well as the atmosphere, in the group setting, as a couple, and as individuals. We did some reading online, and openly discussed ours beforehand, which was very helpful. 

No matter what sort of talking we did, there  were still a bazillion things to see and hear and take in at once. Above all, right away, it was the most freeing thing to walk into a room with people who are so open and accepting, who celebrate free sexual expression. The apparatus was fantastic as well; there were many stations and endless possibilities. We walked around, looked, and touched it all. We watched others play. It was exciting – an emotional and sensory playground in so many ways. And the single biggest thing I noticed right away is that no one there was body conscious. No one I saw! It was wonderful. The acceptance and freedom was unbelievable.

Other things weren’t so great feeling. The loud techno music was wearing on me after a while. There was also this feeling – a feeling that many interactions were missing a connected, erotic charge. I mean, they were having fun, but it seemed sort of coldish or disconnected in many instances. It also wasn’t very social, in that we didn’t talk to many people. And I hadn’t needed all that lingerie I bought, because most wore street clothes and just took them off to play (bottoms). 

We did not play this time. We watched and talked, and talked and watched. We took it all in.

It took a while to process it all together, and it was pretty overwhelming that night. We were both overflowing with input and measuring what we saw and felt against what we’d expected, as well as how the atmosphere and experiences could possibly meet our needs and desires.

After a lot of talking, we knew we wanted to go again. We knew some of the things we didn’t love or had perceived the way we did had to do with our own expectations and notions, and by filtering it all through our own narrow filters. We saw acceptance in ourselves. We saw possibility, in many forms. 

A couple weeks later we went again. The second time was much different; we knew better what to expect, and having processed the input as well as possible, we could process more in the moment. Some of the off things that we felt the first time, we didn’t as much the second time, and that probably had to do with not being so inundated with new feelings and information all at once, every single second!

There was a warmer atmosphere, but there were also fewer people, which was nice. The interactions didn’t feel so cold in many instances, and that was partly because we adjusted our perceptions. There will always be some people who are there to play who seek connections in much different ways than what we have or want. There are people into all sorts of things, free to experiment and live out their desires. That is the beauty of being in an accepting environment, having the freedom to do just that! I even wore something on top that was revealing by my standards and felt (mostly) comfortable! 

After being there for a while, talking to a couple people, and watching some play, M decided we’d play. He chose a spanking bench, which was a beautifully crafted and comfortable piece of wooden furniture with pads.

M was pleasantly surprised at how easily I stripped off my clothes and was ready for him as he unpacked his bag. He buckled on my collar, told me he loved me and asked if I was ready. Although I was a bit nervous, I was ready. Very much so.

It was intense and surreal. Tiring and exhilarating.

Although I didn’t register it fully in the moment, a small cluster of people gathered near our bench to talk and watch. We played hard and connected like we always do. The change of venue didn’t inhibit that at all. 

It was unbelievable. 

Our community has a party every month, and we are going again next weekend. He intends to play again. Woot woot! 

It’s so freaking exciting to be traveling this journey with M! We don’t know exactly where we are heading, but that’s half the fun. We are enjoying the ride!

-image found via google images, free getty images