Lingering…

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

The Forest 

I’m lost in a forest of the tallest trees, inundated with wickedly bent, sinister trunks, and thicket so dense my feet can barely move, the air damp and heavy, sitting like rocks in my lungs.

Swiping and slashing, I claw at the overgrowth’s sharpness, aching to lift my legs and move, grasping for vines that might save me. Yet, I don’t want to be saved. I crave absolution. 

On tattered, tired, and bended knees, I offer you a ridged branch, begging for penance, desperate for your command, yearning for you to envelope me in the shelter of your palm. 

Help me be my vine.

And then I wonder, how heavy is that staff? Is the weight just too much?

You answer, you deliver. You take and give, give and take. With each strike, a little of you infiltrates me, suffocating the darkness, penetrating every fiber of muscle, saturating each porous bone, filling and filling until you seep up through every follicle and pore, spilling out and bending to my every contour, forming a shield upon my flesh that no thorn can puncture.

And now, I can weave my vine, with threads of you in the center, the strength in its core. 

Together we can conquer; we can see the forest though the trees. 

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

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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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

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.

Tell Me

With kisses as soft
as a butterfly wing,
tell me I’m
your everything.

With a grip as forceful
as a vice,
tell me, command me,
don’t be nice.

With fingertips as gentle
as a summer breeze,
tell me I’m your good girl,
that I please.

With all your weight,
cover me like a blanket,
tell I’m safe, that you’ll
guide us through it.

With strikes as sure
as the beating of your heart,
tell me you noticed,
that it’s a fresh start.

With caresses as warm
as your whisper in my ear,
listen as I tell you
I’ll always be here.

Lost

the day is done

meet me at home

no more masks

imagination can roam 

open the door 

screw the lights

against the wall

pin me tight

tangle your fingers

in my hair 

tug it downward

hold me there

kiss me fierce 

no “how was your day”

let your hungry mouth

steal my words away

take my hand 

lead me down the stairs

give me that look

that tells me….beware

lock the door 

and in the moonlight 

let’s get lost in one another

lost in the night

The Sound of Silence

The striking is rhythmic, melodic, even. Rigid, thicker, and with much less bend and vibration than all the others, the oak makes contact with her sit bone muscles and her thighs, over and over and
over.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

No matter how hard she tries, she can’t keep her thoughts from distracting her focus. The deep ache of each unrelenting strike, especially the ones which land on the same spot again and again and again, beckons to her, willing her to let it all go.

When he pauses, she feels his palms travel up her back, cupping and squeezing the rising welts on her behind and down her upper thighs. She listens to the words he’s whispering in her ears. She knows what he desires. More than anything, she wishes to give him just that.

Closing her eyes, she leans back ever so slightly into each strike, hoping the extra momentum will silence the invasive voice. Her voice.

Yet, there it is again, telling her things she just doesn’t care to hear, things she desperately wishes not to think. In frustration, she whimpers, gripping and pulling at the sheets.

Why can’t I let go? Please, oh, please, just let go.

Attempting to relax into the sensations, she exhales, lowering her forehead to the cool sheet. Fingers twisting into the sheet, knees firmly planted and sinking slightly into the mattress, she breathes, in and out, savoring each thud that takes her breathe away. She shivers a bit with every cool whoosh of air, her breathing naturally beginning to pace itself with the oak rhythm.

That’s when she hears it, the tink-tinking of the metal ring at the dip in her neck, feeling it’s tink-vibration travel through the circling leather on which it rests. Slowing, it registers that it matches the beating of her heart.

The room fades away, and there’s only the tink-thump, and the vibrating hum deep inside her, desperate and building, begging to be released, the one matching, no, dependent upon, the thwacking on her behind.

Tink. Thump. Thwack. 

Tink.

Thump.


Thwack.

Silence

Exposed (limerick)

image

At first, it struck her as quite absurd,

Body responding to every word,

But his words always guiding,

Coaxing desires from hiding,

Revealed their true selves, no longer blurred

-Tumblr image