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

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?

Lost in You

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Waking in a haze, wrapped in your warmth, the dark curtains manage to dampen the sunlight threatening to creep in. There’s no playing hooky today, so I must open my eyes. It takes every ounce of will power I have to peel myself from the mold you’ve made for me.

As I ready for the day, I can’t stop grinning. I didn’t even know the grin was there until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, a little bit of you reflecting with it. Gliding the clothing over my flesh, stretching and bending to dress, I notice the marks, places that are a little sore and tender, delicious reminders, a map of all the places you’ve bound me to you. And that feeling, that overwhelming, consuming feeling, it lingers and lingers. I still feel you. I still hear you. I want you, even more, if that’s possible.

All day, as I go about my routine, I find myself losing entire chunks of time. I pause, again and again, still grinning, still consumed. I can still feel your body moving mine with a look, a few words, a grab or pull or embrace. My body remembers its hyper-awareness as it obeys, my mind lulled and completely focused on you and how you make me feel.

And that look, oh god – I can’t stop seeing and feeling that look in your eyes. That one that sees right through to my core, to a place no other has been before. I hear those two words roll from your lips, the ones that make me want to give you more and more until there’s nothing left.

My forehead still feels the warmth of yours, the pressure of your hand on the back of my neck pulling me to you, your breath hot on my lips, reminding me to keep my eyes open as I obey your gentle command, over and over again. I feel the pride and pleasure and power behind your smile, each time my body complies.

I feel all of you, owning all of me.

My skin tingles, my cheeks are flush and I’m glowing. I’m glowing inside my haze today, lost in you.

I hope you’re lost, too.


-shared as part of Masturbation Monday 132

The Climb

Fisted tail pulled taut
Back arched and ass connected
Prickly softness against smooth back
Your rhythm deliberate perfection

Strong fingers surround my throat
Arm locks me into place
Whiskers rough as whispers direct
Warm breath against my face

Slow and steady, smoldering desire
Body and mind engaged
Every cell alive, we climb
True we no longer caged

Explosion rippling through muscles
Involuntary trembles and quakes
Yet there’s no dip or slowing
The peak remains, no break

Higher we climb, eyes pulled to yours
Leg up and held in place
“Come for me again,” you say
As hips pick up the pace

Prodigious peak, overwhelming
Breath held an unconscious fight
A metaphysical connection, surrender
Together, we take flight

Messiness

It’s so easy to let others need me. It’s what I do. I need to care for others, I need to feel needed and wanted and valued. My whole life, that’s all I’ve wanted in a relationship, even a friendship. To have people in my life who share the same energy with me, who enjoy the deepness of life and are comfortable there. I can meet them there, I’m comfortable there, I need to be there, too.

I want to be open to others, to be available. It’s a very different story to let them know I need them right back. To be so deeply vulnerable, deeper than I’ve ever been before. To bare my deepest darknesess, my greatest joys, my absolute honest soul, no hiding anything at all. Even sharing tears, in the moment. Being that exposed. That’s so difficult to do.

In my entire life, I think I’ve only cried in front of a handful of people. Most times, I regretted it, having felt too exposed, too vulnerable. I felt weaker for having done so, wondering what they must have thought of me, now that they knew I wasn’t so strong, that what lied beneath those tears was much darker and ‘lesser’.

I avoided personal situations where I knew I’d get emotionally overwhelmed. I could acknowledge and talk about those deep and exposing feelings, but only in the past tense, after I was able to process them. Expressing them in the present was something I never did. Ever. My immediate response to those emotional situations, when they could not be avoided, was deflection or blame or even anger. Anything to self preserve, anything to keep from showing anyone I was hurt or in pain. Anger was easy, it didn’t feel weak. It didn’t feel as if it might tarnish the ‘perfect’ perception I was always trying to uphold. The strong exterior I wanted others to see.

The core of my fear was this: I feared looking like a mess or feeling like a burden. I felt guilt for being needy and shame for being less than ‘perfect’, for being too much and possibly pushing them away in doing so. I didn’t think I could handle that kind of rejection, not again.

My relationship with M has taught me so much about myself. Being my true self with him has allowed a freedom with others I didn’t know I could have. M knows, without a doubt, just how much I need him, I tell him and I show him. I try to never miss an opportunity to show and tell my friends how much they mean to me. I need them, too. I’m learning to let go of those fears, they are teaching me, they are of the same, deep energy. Acceptance and openness and love, that’s what I feel. And tears, in the moment, if they come.

Because, you know what? I’m a mess. A happy, anxious, caring, bitchy, joyful, open, accepting, strong, angry, emotional, loving, grumpy, needy, moody mess. I am. And I love it and learn from it all.

Why I Follow

My M is not generally man who dictates. He waits. He doesn’t wait because he’s lazy or because he isn’t observant. He waits because he’s already three steps ahead. He waits because he has a respect for me and knows that I/we will miss integral opportunities for growth if he steps in with and iron fist and takes over. He waits because he’s a smart man who understands me, he listens to and hears and feels me, and he guides all the time, in ways I don’t even realize. And sometimes, life grabs me by the shoulders, shakes me, and makes me see he’s known all along, that he’s had a plan all along. He waits, until he doesn’t. And I love him for it.

That is why I follow.

Deep Thoughts, By Kay

Over the last year or so, I have over-analyzed the shit out of things. I’ve had some ridiculously deep and sometimes irrational thoughts and questions about this exchange at times. Even now, I revisit some of them, or new ones pop up…..I’m always trying to find the way to the realest me, and trying to be sure my motivations and intentions are positive and healthy ones along the way.

Here are some of the things I have wondered from time to time:

What if I need this between M and I partially as penance. As a means for absolution for who I was. As a way to wipe the slate clean and begin again as the me I truly need to be…..because I don’t deserve a fresh start without a penance, without righting the scales, so to speak. If this is so, then it’s not selfless, is it? In fact, is it really even submissive? Or is it just the grandest form of Pavlovian manipulation?

I know that this is who I am, that following is what I was meant to do. But, is it really selfless to need him to help me be a better me? Is what he gets in return equally as helpful to him?

If I truly trust him, why can I not feel confident enough to not doubt myself so much? To not be so hard on myself? To stop that self destructive inner dialogue?

If I give and give of myself, how far am I willing to go, how much will I let go? Will there be a time when I don’t feel like me anymore?

If I need this particular thing from him and he’s receptive to the needing, why does it still feel childish?

Should I speak up if I know it will hurt him when I do? How can I say what I need to say and feel as though I’m not ‘topping from the bottom’?

What is it that I love about the pain? Is it his control? Is it simply the following? Is it the meeting of his expectations? The trust involved in the process? The mental and physical challenge involved?

Do I enjoy pain without pleasure intermingled? Do I find pleasure in only the pain? What need is being met if so?

Why do I love to be pushed beyond my boundaries? Why do I find safety in it when it feels so vulnerable and exposing?

As we push boundaries, will it continue to take more and more intensity in order for boundaries to be pushed? Is that okay, if so?

I’m certain there are a bajillion more, but these are ones I’ve revisited more than a time or two.

Instead of Drifting Away

“Get up here,” he says as he guides me on top of him. Swiftly entering, his hands on my hips press us together, as far as our physical bodies will allow. I can’t help it, I throw my head back and close my eyes in a sharp inhale. All I want to do is to feel him, but my lungs are full. As I hold that breath, it begins to feels as though I’ve drifted too far away, and I want to be closer, already. I NEED to be.

“Breathe,” he reminds me. Opening my eyes and lowering my chin, I release the pressure, the ballon that was carrying me away from him. As I do, I look into his eyes. I see adoration. I see that he sees me. ME. And I see HIM. I see how much he wants this.

A gentle upward push with his hips prompts me to move, and I do. I move, and I keep moving. Lead by his hands on my waist and around my breasts, we move in a rhythm with a slight pause as our bodies meet, and I try to make my breathing match that rhythm. An exhale as we meet, as he reaches my end and reminds me where I begin. With him.

I lean over him and I hold his gaze. I try to concentrate on what his eyes are saying, on what the strength and tenderness in his hands are saying as they caress my skin. On his expression, on his body needing mine. As the pace quickens, I grab the slats in the headboard, again throwing my head back and closing my eyes. But, I feel that pressure in my chest again. My lungs full, my mind drifting away from him. I want to give him what he wants, but I can’t seem to stay grounded, to make my brain stop pulling me away.

“Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Are you going to come for me?,” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer, truthfully, trying to express how sorry I am. To tell him how hard I’m trying.

“What’s wrong? Why are you having trouble?”

“There’s not enough following,” I say, propped up on my arms, my curls flopping on either side of my face. And I hoped he’d know what I meant, what I was trying to say. I hoped he wouldn’t be upset with me for saying so.

“This is what I want, okay? I love watching you, you know that.”

I shake my head in agreeance, and I know he does. He tells me all the time.

“I love your wild, fuck me hair when you’re up here,” he says with a smile, his hands gripping my cheeks, cradling my chin, just looking at me as our bodies remain connected.

Moving backward, his hands slide my hair behind my head and he gathers it all into one of his fists. Reaching down, his other hand forcefully grips my hip bone. Again, an upward push with his hips prompts me to move. As I lift my hips, I feel his fist in my hair pulling back, and then further back. His tight grip on my hip bone gets tighter as it lifts and pulls downward, over and over again. Slowly at first, then gradually faster. And harder. And faster and harder. There’s a momentary pause at the end again, as our bodies meet, eliciting a growl from him and an exhale from me. I’m lifted off my arms, pulled backward by that fist in my hair. It tugs me back until my neck is stretched and I am completely upright, totally exposed to him. The tension I hadn’t even realized was there, finally releasing as I breathe. In and out. Up and down.

And instead of drifting away, I melt into him.

Our Story

I’d pre-written our story
It’s plot line constructed
With someone else’s poor
Story telling skills

I’d predicted the end to our
‘Fairy tale’ in an outline
Constructed with
Someone else’s unrealistic expectations

In the middle of our story
We nodded off
And our book
Knocked us on the head

In the middle of our story
We woke up
Our plot line seen
Through new, clearer spectacles

In the middle of our story
We began to write, again
Each word our own
With no end in sight