I ‘m trapped in a lingering haze today,
Spellbound, thoughts in flight, stuck on replay

Your captivating lure, a mist upon my skin,
As achy reminders echo last night’s din

Whispers hovering in fevered clouds,
My inner voice howling, remembering how

Your stringed pins gripped fiery flesh, trapping desire,
And your hands drew salacious wings, stoking the fire

Until your commanding words set my wanton spirit free,
My body your vessel, aching to please

How the air abruptly changed when your flesh merged with mine,
And our breath became one, how there was no time

Then our hearts became fluid, melting from within,
One consumous puddle, an ocean of sin


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


‘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


Who She Is

img_6496Breathing deeply
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
Thick, rigid oak
Challenging bliss
Sinking in to
Who she is

The Truth Is

The truth is, I don’t need you. I can do this on my own. All of it. I am strong or soft, steadfast or pliant, cautious or free-falling, whatever I need to be to make it. I can live this life; it’s shown me I can survive. Vulnerably, even. This is my truth.

But, I want you. I want you so badly it consumes me. My soul yearns for yours on a level I didn’t know existed before you, and that only increases with time. We are inexplicably connected, you and I, and we always will be.

Not only do I want you, but I choose you. Actively. I choose you every moment of every day, no matter the moment. In sorrow and joy, pain and pleasure, anger and gratitude. During hands-in-the-air excitement and when overwhelmingly tired. Amidst it all, I choose you, with me. To be with me, and I with you. For you. Your smile gives my heart’s beating new meaning. 

Even when my struggle against myself pushes you away, I want you. In fact, that’s when I want you the most. I want to give you my trust on a soul-deep level, one that always lets you in. I choose to. You’ve earned it.

And, the thing is, I don’t want to just survive. I want to flourish. I will always challenge myself to grow and let go, whether it’s for you or not. I need to do this, it’s my nature. I long to be free, to be more and more me. To be. But with you, my soul soars freer. It’s so safe in your arms, I’m able to fly higher. And higher. 

You are my home. 

I wake, elated to be next to you. I revel in your touch, in your praise, and feeling you wanting me back gives my spirit new purpose. I want to love you with all that I am and hold nothing back. I want to surrender. More and more and more. Being a part of your happiness fulfills my soul. I want to do that for the rest of my life. 

You are my salvation. We are my church.

I don’t need you, but my heart and my spirit and my soul choose YOU. I want YOU. I freely choose to give myself to you. You deserve all I have to offer. 

I’m yours.

-image credit Tumblr

Connecting, a Gift

I’m a 44 year old, fairly technologically challenged woman. When I was a kid, phones had cords and some still had rotary dials. Every gas station, mall, and public place had pay phones. Cordless phones were like bricks with foot-long antennas. If we wanted to eat and not lose all our privileges, we followed rules: we came home to check in at certain times, which we knew because we looked at clocks and watches. We used dusk as a way to know when to call it a night, and parents called one another’s parents. Neighbors knew one another’s names. We learned responsibility and interpersonal skills. There was no Internet. No. Internet. There was no World Wide Web until many years after I graduated from college. I didn’t own a computer until around 2000. Before that, I used a typewriter, then a word processor. I didn’t own a smartphone until almost two years ago, and the job I’ve had for the last 13 years doesn’t require me to use much technology. 

Technology is a must now, and it rapidly and exponentially evolves. I had to learn to use it if I wanted to be connected, and I value connectedness. I value people. The beauty of it all is that today, connection is at our fingertips. We can meet people from all over the world in a few keystrokes. And if we come to the table with an open heart and be vulnerably ourselves, we may be lucky enough to make soulful, lifelong connections. 

I didn’t have any idea what I wanted or needed when I began blogging. But what I found were people. Fascinating, compassionate, talented, inspiring, kindred people. I found friends. 

Not long after I began on WordPress three years ago, I met Rita. I found her blog, and her words squeezed my heart. Sometimes they punched me in the gut. Either way, I was compelled to comment. She replied. We had so much in common, and not just life experience. It was like speaking to a long lost sister.

Within a very short period of time it was apparent we’d found kindred spirits. After emailing me and not receiving a reply (I didn’t see it for about a month and a half), she looked for me on Facebook and oddly enough she found me first try. She messaged, and the rest is history. We’ve spoken by text every day for two and half years. We speak regularly by phone. We talk about everything, joys and hardships, and laugh till we cry. 

Over the past several years, even as Rita and I became friends and continued getting to know one another, I’ve been delving deep to find myself. I am finally me (of course this is ongoing and evolving). That may be a ridiculous sentence, but it’s true. I am finally the me I’m meant to be, not the one anyone else thought I should be, the one I thought I should be, based on so many faulty ideas and thinking patterns. I see myself; I am myself. I listen to myself. And because of this, I believe I have more to offer others. Or less, really, lol. No smoke and mirrors. But the most freeing thing I’ve ever experienced outside of being myself with my husband and children, is being myself with friends who accept all of me. And Rita has always so easily accepted and understood me. Even when she hasn’t completely understood, she has listened and empathized with my feelings. She’s seen the strength amidst the chaos, and because of the chaos! I found a soul sister; I am so fortunate. 

This past weekend, because of a few keystrokes two and a half years ago, I was able to look my friend in the eyes and give her the biggest hug. I got to see her eyes when she spoke and watch them light up when she laughed. I saw her hands move with her words and felt the friendship in three dimensions. We talked and walked and talked and ate. There was no awkwardness. I was Kay and she was Rita, whole and simple. She came to Ohio, and was able to see my life first hand and not through still pics and typed letters. It was wonderful. 

What a gift that is, that freedom to be ourselves and trust so fully. I will forever see it as such. I miss her already. But luckily, in a few keystrokes, or the tapping of numbers on a glass screen, we can stay in touch, every day. Until the next time I can see her face and give her the biggest hug! I can’t wait. 

I’ve also been fortunate enough to make several more close friends via blogging, and I get to meet another dear friend in two weeks! It’s going to be an amazing month. 

What powerful, connecting tools we have at our fingertips….and within our fingertips, if we allow it. 

-header image found on Pinterest, image contained in post is mine

Growing D/s: The Reality

I’d like to think that M was meant to be my Dominant, and I, his submissive. After nearly three years of growing this dynamic together, it certainly feels like this is true.

In the beginning, there’s no doubt that in my brain it was the convenient rationalization. It meant that my deep rooted desire to surrender would have a purpose, that my wants and needs would be met. It meant that I could finally completely unlock this part of me that needed to be met with Dominance on the other side, that I could trust in him to do that, to fulfill that need. I saw those qualities in him, to be sure. But I’d be lying if I said that I knew he’d be some Domly Dom that would just take over and lead. I’d be lying if I said he did. I’d also be lying if I said I just let go and was the perfect submissive. I’d be lying if I said I was today.

The reality of growing D/s as a long term, married couple is that that scenario couldn’t possibly be true for us. We could not possibly have been the sort of Dominant and submissive types I read about in books, or the ones I so often read about online. I can’t imagine it is in most cases. It most certainly does NOT look the ways I envisioned it in my head at the start of things when I had no idea how any such thing played out in real life, where M isn’t a millionaire and I’m not a struggling, fumbling, single gal who isn’t strong enough to handle herself.

What we did have was the life we’d built together for more than 20 years. We had two kids, jobs, everyday life stresses, and no dungeon. We had what we knew about one another, having fought our way through good times and bad, to enhance and build upon. We had a foundation on which to grow.

What that meant in the beginning, is that I had to do my own internal work, I had to offer him my submission. I had to make way for his Dominance, first. There is no way that I could possibly have gone into this with the expectation that he rise up to be the Dominant I had envisioned, that he should be some omniscient, all knowing man who would just inherently know what I wanted or needed because that is also what he wanted or needed. It didn’t matter that we had more than 20 years of history: M needed me to let go and begin to be his submissive in order to meet it with Dominance. He had to see that he desired and needed it too. He had to discover for himself what he needed from me and how that might look and evolve. We had to talk, and talk, and talk. We had to try, and fail, and try, and fail. We had to be patient and communicate.

There have been so many tears and stumbles. But somewhere along the way, my submission was met with Dominance. And more Dominance. And more. Until one day, my submission was expected. It was fueled and commanded and continuously deepened, creating this endless loop of power exchange.

Now, about three years later, I am most definitely HIS submissive. He is my MY Dominant. It looks nothing like what I envisioned in the beginning, nor will it ever. I still develop expectations and envision them being carried out and am stunned into reality when they are not. He still expects me to follow through with the things I offered from the start and sometimes forgets to recognize them or to hold me accountable. We stumble over how our messages are communicated and received, in both words and actions, because we speak different communication languages in some ways, and we always will.

But growing D/s is no different than growing anything else that matters to my heart: it must be grown at its own pace, organically. It cannot be prescribed, it cannot be held against some ideal. It has to be grown to meet the needs of the actual individuals, according to real-life abilities, taking into consideration the differences, according to each person’s needs, wants and desires. And not all of those will necessarily be met! I think we sometimes take that for granted! Some things we will always need to do for ourselves, because it isn’t realistic to ask them of another. Or maybe just not the one sitting next me on the couch. And that isn’t a reason to walk away, not for me, at least. It just means an adjustment in thinking and expectations. It means constant communication. It means not only thinking of me.

I can’t ever go back to being the person who can’t or won’t surrender. But I sure as hell can and will continue to grow this dynamic with M, knowing for certain it will most likely NOT be grown in the way I sometimes envision it in my head.

It will be better, because it will continue to be grown the way it should. And many times it’s staring me in the face and I’m missing it. Thank goodness he’s a patient man.

-image credit Carolyn Aitken

Relax, Don’t Do It

Why do I sometimes need M to save me from myself? It’s a tough question, one I’ve asked myself dozens upon dozens of times. Many times I feel so silly after I think it through.

I don’t always know the why. And sometimes, I know what I’m doing isn’t good for me, but I can’t stop. It’s as if all my logic has been stomped down deep. I avoid using it, and this mess of thoughts I’m left with has left the train station, the momentum only gaining in strength. My thoughts continuously justify themselves until I’m exhausted and can’t do anything but avoid eye contact, because I KNOW what I am doing or what I did makes no freaking sense. But I also don’t know the why. I don’t know why I continue, not in the moment, at least.

Here’s a recent example:

M had a surgery a few weeks ago. He’s healing beautifully, and that makes my heart so happy. He is so very thankful for the care I’ve been providing for he and the girls while he’s healing, on crutches, and cannot drive. Last Sunday, he had spoken with the girls and they were going to show their appreciation by doing the Sunday chores for me, giving me some free time. It was so sweet and kind.

Except, I didn’t use the time to relax. I didn’t read or write or take a bath. I mowed the lawn. I did laundry, cleaned other stuff, and did other chores that just seemed to be looming over my head, making it difficult for me to relax. They didn’t need to be done on Sunday. They could have been done any day of the week, in fact. But, I could not relax while they worked, even though I was completely exhausted. I even completed a task he specifically told me NOT to do, but in my head, I was convinced he’d be proud of me. Usually now I can accept when he helps with the cooking or does a load of dishes or folds some clothes, but this I struggled with. By the end of the day, I was an exhausted mess.

Here’s the most twisted part of it all for me: We truly see what we each do for one another and the family. Our appreciation overflows. The fact that he does such things for me touches me so deeply; it’s the most affirming feeling in the world. Here he is, truly understanding, saying and doing things I always daydreamed of, and yet…..I cannot accept it. I want it, I’ve always wanted this sort of eye opening transparency that allows us to so deeply see and appreciate one another. And here he is trying to communicate it to me…..and sometimes I can’t receive it. 

By the end of the day, after I was sufficiently reset (with the cane) and pliable, it was staring me in the face. I mean, I was staring ME in the face, and I was brought to tears. It’s me. It’s me who ends up using negative self talk to tell myself all the things that will still be looming and unfinished, and not putting myself on that list anywhere. I do it all the time. I even know I’m doing it. Ultimately, I end up directing my frustration with myself at him, even if only in my head. In this case, it was because I needed him to say, in no uncertain terms, that I needed to go relax. That I was ALLOWED to turn off my radar and allow my brain and body to relax, that it was okay that they did the work and that I did something else that wasn’t work. In fact, that’s what I always need, for him to say so. I often have trouble even asking for time for me, even though I know I desperately need it.

And that’s ultimately what feels silly to me, that I cannot do that for myself, that I need him to do it for me. That maybe I don’t feel like I deserve it, I don’t know, but I know that when I explain it to him, it feels shameful. I feel like I’m asking him for something I should be able to do for myself, and I can’t decide if I feel that way because ‘that’s the way it should be’, meaning I have this notion in my head that I’m not living up to some standard a strong woman should be able to live up to, or because it’s so raw and small and vulnerable admitting to him I need that from him sometimes. I don’t know. Likely, it’s some of both.

And the biggest question of all is….should the goal be to help me learn to do that for myself? Is that what I’m asking for?

Next time, he said he’s going to make me leave the house. I wonder how that will go?

Unexpected Guest

M and I met 26 years ago. We were in college, it was 1990, and we were 18 and 19, respectively.

Our paths first crossed because we both played soccer. We ended up having friends in common and we’d often be at the same parties, bars, or local hang outs, but we never really clicked or became friends until the beginning of our senior year. It was 1993. 

It must have been some special gravitational pull at just the right time, our coming together. We had both experienced some big life challenges, felt a little lost, and were trying to find (forge!) direction when we collided. He had suffered a life-altering injury and was just recovering enough to see a light at the end of the tunnel. My dad had just suffered his first heart attack and my mom had just married for the sixth time (without telling me). We both felt real life looming, with graduation rapidly approaching. I wasn’t looking for anyone or anything and neither was he. But, it happened anyway.

My roommate and I lived in the large dorm room at the end of the hall. It was a gathering place and we’d often end up with a room full of people hanging with us. Such was the case one evening when my roommate invited this guy she liked to come hang out. He brought a small group of friends along. M was among the small crowd. 

Instantly, we hit it off, talking and laughing for most of the night. Several times after, they came over to hang out again, and each time he and I would eventually find a spot to talk alone, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. There was no awkward silence, our humor was eerily similar, and we just clicked. He talked to me unlike any other guy I had ever hung out with. It was fluid and open and comfortable. He was funny and witty and compassionate. I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Unbeknownst to me, one evening my roommate had invited the same group to come over to play cards, drink beer and just chill, but I had an exam the next morning. I could party with the best of them, but I took my classes very seriously. My classes and grades came first, so I hung out for a little while and talked to M, then retreated to a not-so-cozy laundry room to hide and study like a nerd. I was there until 3am studying, then packed up my stuff and headed back to my room.

When I got there, my roommate was passed out, but my room had been tidied, and M was in my bed. Until that point, we hadn’t even kissed, yet I didn’t find it odd at all that he was there. As I walked over to the bed, he pulled back the covers so I could slide in with him. He told me he knew I’d be tired, so he picked up a little and wanted to help me fall asleep so I’d be well rested for my exam. I couldn’t possibly do justice in words describing what I felt in that moment. 

I never doubted his intentions, I would never have thought him to be the kind of guy that only wanted sex. But, here was this guy who truly talked and shared himself with me, listened to me, heard me, and was so unbelievably and sincerely thoughtful. He was genuine. Along with all of that, he wasn’t using any of it as a tool to get into my pants. He’d stayed sober and cleaned up my room. He’d waited up for me. He honestly wanted to snuggle me to sleep. 

It shook me, in the best of ways. It was so unexpected. We kissed for a long while. Slow, passionate, getting to know you kisses, the ones that make you hope. I breathed him in. He pulled me close and we fit, I felt it and I knew he did too. 

I fell asleep as soon as I closed my eyes. And, I got the best 4 hours of sleep I’d had in years.

*I figured I’d share some backstory for those of you who are newer followers. I did a series of ‘firsts’ posts not long after I began blogging about 3 years ago. I pulled this from the archives and cleaned it up a bit to share as per the daily prompt. This is how it all began. 

It’s not all been sunshine and rainbows – we’ve encountered many obstacles, stumbled, and face planted repeatedly, and it’s been hard work. But it’s been worth every ounce.


-image credit

The Infinite Playlist

Some time ago, as I sat at M’s feet, he put some music on, one of his favorite playlists. I’ve heard it many times before, but this night it was much more than just listening to music in the background.

As we listened to a few songs and talked about our days, a particular song came on, and I described to M an exact moment I remember that song being played, a happy, romantic moment from long, long ago. Yet, it doesn’t seem like so long ago! It was so lucid – I remembered what we were wearing, how the candles were lit, and our surroundings. I remembered how he touched me and how his body felt against mine as we danced. And the words he said, I’ll never forget those.

Lying his iPad on the living room floor, M pulled me down to lie with him. That’s when he told me something that melted my heart……this playlist, his favorite, is one he created with all the songs that remind him of us. Of specific times and places and things we’ve done together, over the past 21 years.

We scrolled through that playlist and relived our history, surprising one another with some of the tiniest of details in our rembrances. The design on the blanket we laid upon. The time, stuck and blinking on the clock, the smell of the flowers in the air, the spoken words of a stranger next to us. We felt as we felt, we saw as we saw, experiencing all those moments again, and again, together.

M and I love music. It is more than just words and sound; music marks the passage of time. It’s alive that way – it can take us on a journey, keeping vivid  bits of our histories, preserving them so purely. Each lyric and melody evoking a response from all of our senses. Summoning emotion, sometimes so strong it’s difficult to listen. Inspiring strength and planting seeds of hope.

Every playlist is a song after a song, but it’s also a memory after a memory. An endless reel of reminiscence and aspiration.

You want to know the best part? Every day, we are creating a new playlist. And I get to keep making them with my soulmate.

Rock on.

*A spruced up oldie, as I sit here making a new ‘us’ playlist.