My Surrender

I am no mindless fucktoy
kneeling at the feet of any commanding boy

I am no opinionless subvert
reciting ‘Yes, Sir’s’, wearing plaid skirts

I am no boundless subservient 
doing anything I’m told, devoid of dissent

I am no willing doormat
bowing down, to be looked down at

I am a strong, educated equal
bringing just as much to the relationship table

I am a soft woman, insightful and self-aware
I know where I’m going and I know how to get there

I earned my inner wisdom with blood, sweat, and tears,
and I won’t allow that to be belittled, manhandled by fear

For, I am submissive,
and I choose to follow him

I willingly offer surrender,
because his love is both fierce and tender

I give myself to him,
because my happiness is his seraphim

He values my voice,
so I surrender my choice

He knows what I need,
because he’s asked, not decreed
and he’s been by my side for 24 crazy years, 
sharing in all of the blood, sweat, and tears

I surrender to this man, 
who owns every inch of my heart,
but he doesn’t make me whole, 
that’s my responsibility, my equal part

-image via Tumblr, source unknown

Watched, Part One

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At the corner of the couch, lying partially upright, she sat between his legs with her back against his chest, one leg outstretched on the cushion and the other draping off the front of the cushion. His strong arms enveloped her, and the fleecy softness of the gray blanket caressed her skin with each subtle movement, his fingertips stroking her upper arms as he praised her one more time.

“You did so well, Love. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she purred, his words weaving themselves into her veins, making her skin tingle.

“I love that everyone knows that you’re mine.”

Coming out in a low growl, the ‘mine’ shivered down her spine as his hand came up to her neck, palm flat against the front of her throat, his fingers and thumb slowly gripping just above her collar, beneath her jawline. She loved nothing more than to know she’d made him proud, but that particular word made a home in her chest. One syllable spoke an entire lifetime of feeling, 23 years of love, perseverance, and commitment. Ownership. It spoke directly to her essence – she belonged to him.

As his other hand kneaded her breasts, squeezing until she gasped, plucking at her nipples with a rough pinching and pulling, she wriggled a bit at the pain/pleasure. The stinging welts on her ass and up her back rubbed against him, the ouchy, bruised spots on her sit bones so sensitive as her weight slightly shifted. Her core clenched involuntarily, over and over, spasms of fire shooting straight between her legs.

He must have known that’s what would happen, because his hand cupped her cleanly-shaven mound, the warmth of his palm against the baby-soft skin causing her to moan. And want. Fingers barely grazed the delicate skin, up and down, like butterfly flutterings, teasing her need to the surface. Eyes closed, her body molded to his, relaxing into the safety and softness. The rise and fall of her chest synced with his, and her focus was solely on how he made her feel. She was lost in him.

In the peripheral, she heard the buzzing sound, but didn’t realize it was coming from under the blanket until she felt his arm rest on her thigh, the vibration traveling from his flesh into hers. Unconsciously biting and rolling her lip between her teeth, her chest heaved with irregular, nervous breaths.

“Keep your legs just as they are. Trust me,” he whispered, his breath warm on her cheek.

Suddenly, a sharp, brow-furrowing, open-mouthed intake of air stilled her chest, seizing her breathing altogether. The buzzing hum took its place within her, as he positioned the vibrator between her legs. Head fallen back against him and eyes shut, she wasn’t even sure how long she’d been holding her breath when she heard him speak again.

“Breathe, Love. And keep your eyes open.”

Opening her eyes, the realization hit her.

Oh, God, everyone can see.

That knowledge spread its tentacles through her, blooming in her cheeks and a creating a small knot which began to twist around in her belly. She forced her chest to rise and her lungs to accept the air. It was cooler than she remembered it being just a bit ago when she was naked in front of these same people, which struck her as odd. The coolness drawn into her nostrils and permeating her insides made her acutely aware of the contrasting heat flushing her cheeks, and the magnetic warmth between them under the blanket.

Scanning the room from face to face, she knew for certain that many people were watching the happenings in the room. They weren’t the only people playing, and for that she was very grateful, but, they were the only ones playing in this way, as all the others were using massage tables, the rope station, or the cross. This felt much more personal to her, even though what he had done to her on the spanking bench was soul-deep, a connection that had to have been evident to anyone watching. But this was something they’d never shared with anyone else.

Holy shit, they are going to see me orgasm.

-image via Tumblr

Bruised

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he was all teeth and muscle,
blades of white pinching at her goosefleshed breasts,
sharp intakes of air heaving,
leaving in gasps from her lips,
his warm wetness closing in around the sting,
sucking so hard her eyes clamped shut

but she did not arch away

she pushed herself further into his mouth,
welcoming the pain,
as fingertips dug into her back as if reaching for something he couldn’t wait to unearth

in that moment,
she wouldn’t have minded if he drew blood,
for, he was biting her, sucking her, devouring her

needing her

she would give all she had to give,
and she would take it all in,
all he had to give,

the needing, and the wanting, and the desiring,
the unhindered exposing of his soul to hers,
becoming one

for, they knew,
in the giving and the taking,
in this most sacred exchange,
they would both feel stronger than they’d ever felt before

more

in the end, 
she would be covered in bruises and bite marks,
scratches and ribbons of redness,
she would be rubbed straight to the bone with the kind of urgent exhaustion she imagined an addict felt between fixes

she would wake,
bruised to the marrow with him,
he a part of her, and she of him,
lying in his arms,
forever

-image via Tumblr, source unknown

Take Your Fill

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Disrobing, I exhale, closing my eyes
The sound of your feet, anticipation’s rise

Kneeling, embraced against your frame
Whispering compliance, I speak your name

The stroke of your finger over delicate skin,
The tremble of need, vibrating within

Eyes meet eyes, magnetized,
Strong hands gently spread aching thighs

No further words pass passionate lips,
Only the sound of your fingertips

For night is tender, awaiting your will
Please, use me, Sir, take your fill

– image via greekmeds.gr

Pedestals

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Asking M to dive into this journey with me was one of the most frightening things I’ve ever done. It felt like I was running, leaping off a cliff. Except, there he was listening. Trying his best to understand and absorb what I was saying, looking at me with no judgement whatsoever. There he was, leaping with me.

We leapt, together. I, with a soul in an uproar, trying to find center, to shed and get back to who I am, and move forward to who I wanted to be. Leaning on him was frightening, but necessary. Along with all the internal challenging I was doing, was a growing vision of what we could be as we grew. Especially since we felt so at home, and were thriving in this environment of constant and deep communication, of evolution.

As we dove, I was guilty of wishing for us to feel a certain way – he the dominant who took the reins easily and with few hiccups. It was easy to overlook the fact that M was traveling a journey of his own as well, in his own way, on his own time. I put him on a pedestal and expected him to be superhuman. That wasn’t clear to me until longer than I care to admit. I don’t mean the kind of pedestal on which one places a sacred love that you wish to elevate, hold closely, and protect. I mean the kind where there are rose colored glasses and expectations as tall as skyscrapers. The kind that is selfish.

No matter how much I wanted to believe I wasn’t expecting M to be someone he’s not, or grow and flourish at my speed, that pedestal allowed me to expect and hope for things that weren’t fair to expect or hope for. He is who he is, and just because I envisioned this didn’t mean it would look this way. And the most horrible part about putting him on that sort of pedestal, was that sooner or later he was bound to do something that would knock him off. He is human…and I wasn’t expecting him to be, or I was expecting him to be the same kind of human as me. Neither was okay.

The worst part is that when he would fall, I’d have trouble with that, because I wanted him to behave another way, to understand this way or that. To just know. To want the same things as me in the same ways and make that happen.

I won’t lie and say I don’t sometimes still catch myself doing it, because I do. But these days I do know nothing is ever how we envision it, and the best way to develop realistic expectations is to communicate, trust, be patient, and open my damn eyes to see what is right in front of me. I love what I see.

He is who he is, we are who we are, and it’s nothing like I once envisioned. And I’m ridiculously happy with that.

I Awake…


I awake to vibrations of electric blue
Afloat in a sea of me and you

Where time is waves of thrashing heat
And space is endless as our bodies meet

Eyes still unfocused, yet clearly I see
My soul knows every inch of the flesh against me

Molding together like sinking feet into sand
Or aching clay resting in the palm of your hand

Pushing and pulling like the moon and the tide
As my body to your commands does eagerly abide

~photo credit truenomads.com, reworking of an older poem

Liquefied


storm’s eye entrusted
within your palm,
glowing fury extends,
momentarily calm

closing space,
meeting trepidous skin,
lightning flashing,
gooseflesh begins

circling orbs,
as breathing catches,
creating peaks,
heat stinging like matches

slowly and deliberately,
traveling lower,
crackling and buzzing,
gaining power

or maybe that was you,
the eye of the storm,
shooting streams of light
against my form

finally reaching
my pinnacle of need,
with back-arching, sheet-twisting, lip-biting greed

my body awake,
every molecule alive,
thrumming and humming
in overdrive

then you touch me,
pure energy on skin,
and I liquefy
into a thunderous din

Photo is mine

Composition

as the morning breeze
whispers the melody
we made,
the sting and ache
echo last night’s chorus
with each movement,
replayed

the warm sheets still hum
our candlelit din,
a masterpiece composed
over willing skin

oh please, Maestro,
may we play that
song again?

-image credit Pinterest, reworking of some older prose

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

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