Overcome

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she stood there, shivering,
although she wasn’t cold,
arms at her sides,
just as he’d asked,
fighting her natural urge
to cross her arms in front of her,
hiding her bulgy spots

hungry eyes admired her,
for much longer than she’d expected,
stripping her,
her nakedness far deeper than flesh

but, that voice in her head was so loud,
the one begging him,
hoping and wanting,
telling her what she needed,
pulling at her attention,
the attention he deserved

she didn’t know it,
but he intently watched
the struggle unfold within her,
welling in her eyes,
but refusing to release

he’d like to say he didn’t love it,
that forcing her to overcome herself
wasn’t so damn satisfying

but it was,
oh, God, it was,
for them both,
although it wasn’t always easy

nothing worth having is easy,
they say,
and she was worth the effort,
his everything,
so, he’d make her fight,
with a smile, even,
loving every minute of it

he’d lead her straight to him

kissing her with gentle lips,
down the nape of her neck
and across her shoulders,
he wound the jute,
‘round and ‘round and ‘round

the crazy thing was,
she wished in that moment
she could peel off her skin
and step out of it –
scream a guttural cry,
melt and allow herself to easily
be re-molded

for, who she was inside right then,
wasn’t who she was,
nor who she wanted to be –
not any more, dammit,
but she needed to
embrace that part of her,
quiet her

overcome her

the soft, suede flogger
struck her breasts,
again and again,
waxing and waning in strength,
in a rhythm all his own,
but never quite hard enough
to make her recoil,
which is what she loved
(needed, she thought)

that voice in her head
begged for more,
harder,
and harder,
please,
oh, please

oh, please,
break me

and he did,
he broke her

he broke her, not with force,
but when he looked into those teary eyes,
and did exactly what he wanted,
paying no attention
to what she thought she needed

and though it seemed completely
ass-backward from the outside looking in,
that was exactly what she needed,
to fit once again
in her skin

in his arms,
his

-image via Tumblr

A Step Further

Allowing things to develop organically and building a foundation of soul-deep trust has been necessary for us. That trust has a basis in communication that allows for the safest place for us to grow and evolve, one that doesn’t put our relationship at risk as we do. It is allows us the freedom to explore our desires and natures, and to build upon and expand them.

Over the last year or so, we’ve explored in ways I hadn’t ever imagined we would. M has done so much exploration within himself, has owned his unique dominance, and has grown and evolved so much. I’ve done the same in my surrender. We’ve shared all of this together, and it’s the been the most amazing process.

The trust and closeness that’s resulted has enabled us to find the courage to venture out into the community, and we have attended rope class and play parties over the past year. M does an incredible job keeping us at a pace that allows us the space to process, both individually and together. We don’t rush into anything, he would never allow it. We back off when we need to, and try new things when we’re ready.

Safe, sane, and consensual is necessaey – but we need a step further. We want to positively feed as well as protect our relationship beyond the immediate fun. That’s why we are on this journey in the first place! It’s the end goal, the forever goal. Period. So, we communicate through every activity, before, during, and after, with honesty. We discuss any possibly damaging scenarios ahead of time and never jump into any potentially damaging scenarios in the moment, which is he best policy for us. We also never agree to anything just to make the other happy. Yes, I trust him, I want to make him happy, and I wish to serve him, but I would NEVER engage in anything I thought would damage me or damage our relationship. Neither would he.

There isn’t a single act that’s worth that. Not one.

Break Me

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break me

make me,
give me no other choice,
pull me from within myself,
over and over,
as many times as it takes

take me,
with presence,
with words and eyes before fingertips,
have no mercy,
make me yours

consecrate me,
force me to focus all my energy,
give me but one purpose,
claim my devotion,
coaxing it all to the surface

overtake me,
push me to my limit, then beyond,
catch me, love me,
make me,
never forsake me

but, please, oh please

break me

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