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

Home

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This journey has taught me many unexpected things. What began as a journey of self discovery, morphed into one of relationship transformation for M and I. That shared journey, not just the past four years, but the last 25, has been a source of strength and support beyond measure. It’s one reason I am where I am today. Who I am.

I belong with M. There’s zero doubt. He’s my home. He’s my support, my shoulder, my lap, my love, my soulmate. But the thing I’ve learned on this journey that’s had the most impact is that I had to be my home before he could be. I had to belong to me. I had to own my own story, love all my selves, hope for my future, and believe in myself. Only then could I truly begin to offer my surrender on a level beyond anything I’d imagined, anything he’d imagined.

It sounds crazy – I needed to know I’d be ok with aloneness, with my ability to stand alone and be myself in order to be the most vulnerable, to be the most courageous in my giving to M. To truly surrender, and for us to do the hard work that makes this the most amazing, evolving partnership. It’s a sacred place.

It’s the place of true belonging.

-image via Pinterest

Don’t Save Me

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Don’t save me

Swooping in to fix things only robs me,
only serves to set me up to make the same mistakes,
to repeat the pattern,
to fail
myself

support me,
help to set me up for success,
say the hard things,
I can take it,
and don’t listen to my excuses

I need you to,
I’m counting on it

love me,
help me,
but don’t save me

help me save myself

Alive

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he pulled me to him,
he pulled me into his lap,
so I was able to see directly into his steely eyes,
the way they go on forever,
the way they see right to my center

he ran his hand down my too-rigid spine,
and I felt everything in his fingertips;
there was no past,
no regret,
no resentment

it was just him –
skin, muscle, bones, blood,
the pull and squeeze of his familiar heart

it was Him,
all mine,
wanting me to be His

and so I let go,
I gave up,
gave in

I stopped fighting being alive

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;
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

Rules at Foreplay (She Thinks, Part Two)

As she set the brightly colored Fiestaware on the kitchen counter, the drilling sound startled her, causing her to squeal and jump. Before she could move her feet to see what was going on, his face appeared through the kitchen doorway.

“What was that?,” she asked.

 “Don’t you worry about it, you just finish dinner,” he said, holding up two shiny, metal hooks in front of his wicked grin.

Coyly wiggling his eyebrows, his face disappeared, and he went back to drilling on the other side of the shared wall.

She went back to stirring the soup,  but all she could do was grin. He never ceased to surprise her, and these seemingly small surprises meant so much to her. He kept things fresh, exciting, mysterious. Hot. So freaking hot. And the best part was, she was comfortable enough in their power exchange to be in the moment, not develop any expectations, and feel the excitement. To just feel and be, with him. Happy. Insanely turned on. Joyful in her submission.

When the drilling was complete, he pulled her away from the stove, walked her to the dining room wall, and asked her to lift her arms to meet the eye hooks. He gripped her wrists and held them next to the hooks for a moment, then ran his hands down her sides, the silky fabric of her purple nighty slithering against her skin, causing goosebumps to form. She was acutely aware of her nipples becoming taut against the thin cloth, her body beginning to do the begging she was so desperately feeling on the inside. 

“Perfect,” he said, nodding his head, his eyes saying much more. 

Reaching up to grasp her chin in his hand, and he kissed her, a ferocious, unable-to-breath, toe-curling, oh-God-please-more kiss, then abruptly disjointed his lips from hers. Breathless, she bit her lip, shivering, the anticipation electric between them. 

“Now, get me my dinner,” he lovingly commanded, pulling her away from the wall, spinning her, and smacking her squarely on the ass. Hard.

She did just that, still biting her lip, noticing the cool wetness between her legs as she strode to the stove. 

All she could think was, I love that man, and he fucking rules at foreplay. 

-image via Tumblr, source unknown

I Could Get Used to This (She Thinks, Part One)

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Chopping and stirring, she shuffled about the small kitchen, readying dinner. “Come away with me, in the night, come away with me, and I will wri-i-ite you so-o-o-ongs,” she sang along with Norah Jones, swaying her supple hips to the sultry rhythm. There was something about Norah’s voice that electrified her, made her want to close her eyes and feel every note, made her daydream about arms wrapped tightly around her, flesh gripping kisses, and fists tangled around her curls. It fit this evening perfectly.

She sang and danced her way around the kitchen, grabbing the last few things she needed. Bending to reach the bottom cabinet, she smiled, the cool air on exposed flesh reminding her she was wearing no panties with the nighty he’d chosen, just as he’d asked. As she shimmied and shuffled, there was the constant grip of the soft, black leather around her neck, and the tinking of metal on metal, as the o-ring of her collar sung a crisp, comforting tune with every movement.

The blissful song of ownership.

And all she could think was, I could get used to this.