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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

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.

The Middle of It

For more than three years, I’ve had the opportunity to journal and share creatively here, and it has been an unbelievable experience. I’ve grown, connected, and found the creative voice I thought I’d lost. I’m so grateful.

Over the past year or so, I have journaled less and less here. Along this journey of knowing myself and allowing myself to be known, it helped me to unravel and sort, to exercise vulnerability in more complex ways, to connect with others who shared a similar journey, and exercise my creativity. It helped me to connect dots and dive deeper. It unleashed creativity.

The thing is, after a while, I began to feel like I was circling human experience instead of engaging in it.  It sometimes felt like I was gathering information and looking for material, just a visitor in the present moment.

I’m also a deep thinker, so if I wasn’t gathering information, I was often deep in thought. I have this deep need to understand, to know in order to be known, and it’s easy for me to get lost searching for revelations that bring me to new places. All the while, people are pulling at me, beckoning me back to the surface. I would sometimes find myself getting irritated, thinking….leave me alone! I am comfortable down here. “I cannot pay attention to you, because I’m too busy thinking about you.” How ass-backward is that?

I found that I’d often been either hovering above my life or diving deep beneath it.

The purpose of my life is connection. To love with every ounce of my being. Of this I’m certain. But what I’ve come to understand is that love isn’t just a feeling or a thought or a way of being. Love is a place. It’s a place between two present people. A sacred place created when two people decide it’s safe enough to let their real selves surface and touch each other. To invite the other in to dive, until it’s all transparent. Love is an experienced place. But the cost of constantly hovering and diving, of being someone who thinks about love and analyzes love, is that I cannot be in love. I miss out too often on being IN that place.

I have needed to try to find a balance of it all. I have needed to live this awakening, and not so much create it on virtual paper. I have needed to let it be what it is, and let it become, without forcing my feelings into art, or shoving my life into a storyline. I have needed my journaling to be in the form of direct communication with those who wish and need to hear it. To be IN love.

As I have been trying, it has become easy to see that I have had many unrealistic expectations and fears regarding my writing, creativity, and presence online. I’m still not sure where it’s going or what I wish to do with it. But what I have come to feel is that my journaling and creative writing must happen when my spirit moves me to do so, and I will try not to put any other expectations on it. More than anything, I need to be awake and open to what my spirit is telling me, and follow where it’s leading me, in all aspects of my life. Right now, it’s telling me my life is not running material; it’s moments with people which are the most amazing gift. It is love.

And I want to stand right in the middle of it.

Quiet

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silky silence born of necessity,
of circumstance,
needing only to please,
sheer will forcing her voice as quiet as the midnight breeze

please, oh please,
don’t stop,
her inside voice begs

in her silence,
bright speckles of need pirouette behind eyelids involuntarily shut tight,
the space between the muscled arch of her back and the soft gray sheets whisper-calling his name,
her prickly gooseflesh the Braille,
a trail of wordless munition so eagerly read with his ravenous lips,
hungry teeth,
and nimble-teasing fingers,
the twisted fabric gripped in her palms,
screaming surrender,
her pointed toes crying out to the heavens…

oh God, oh, God,
please

and her eyes,
those wanderlust, dive-in green eyes plead-snapping open,
orange flecks glowing pure fire,
they are anything but quiet

her eyes are never quiet,
no,
they speak the loudest of all

-image credit Tumblr

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

Topography

his hungry gaze
tortuous, magnetic
fingers graze
inciting, phrenetic

studying her curves
beckoning, revering
awakening nerves
blazing, nearing

crossing silky mound
calculating relief
tracing ‘round
pausing, brief

following his commands
eagerly pleasing
cartographer’s hands
infinitely teasing

peaks and valleys
mastering her reaction
explosive finale
forced extraction

reaching destination
a path not a when
whispering softly
he begins again

-art by Fernand Fonssagrives, found on Tumblr

The Way Home

in a single breath,
bodies collide,
all hands and fingers,
grasping and digging,
until all-the-weight is pinning her down,
anticipation buzzing between them

tangling around wild curls,
gripping fists pull her closer,
and closer still,
until her every gasp
becomes his next breath

begging to be traveled,
slick bodies are grand landscapes,
delicious peaks and valleys
for savoring,
hands and teeth and instruments
the cartographers,
charting maps through hearts
and over needy flesh,
as they merge

he moved in her,
with her,
for her

and she knew exactly why

now they will always
find their way home

-image credit weheartit.com

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

Song of Passion


Tonight, his chosen instrument is unlike any other he’s used. It’s beautiful, with a long shaft of soft walnut brown and an earthy smell. Slightly lighter in feel and a bit more flexible than oak, it is bound to create a unique feel upon her skin. When he holds it, he looks much like a conductor….and he is.

As her eyes close, she slowly exhales, all the warm air leaving her lungs. Her forehead leans slightly forward, making contact with the wall, the coolness of the light gray paint chilly against her flush skin. Inside, there is silence, but it is not a silence absent of sound or feeling. It is the silence born between them. The silence OF them.

Behind her, she hears his movements – the slide and shuffle of his feet on the floor, the spectacular whoosh and whip of the walnut through the air, varying with every stroke, the sharp crack and whip as the walnut meets her skin. From her own lips, there’s the involuntary hissing intake of air or low moan as each strike lands. Sometimes there’s even a stifled scream or the rapid rise and fall of her chest and eyes which fill with tears. It hurts, but the pain is brief, it is only on her surface. In an instant, it is absorbed, transforming into a deeply penetrating, aching pleasure, a tantalizing combination that makes her want more. And more. It’s deliciously overwhelming.

With each strike, the contact with her skin causes a chain reaction. The displaced cool air as the walnut cane makes its way toward her backside is a sharp contrast to the instant ribbon of burn as it lands, but then, oh god…then her body begins to truly play his tune. The wood which looks so rigid bends and flexes slightly with her contours, and it vibrates. The silky vibrations travel the length of the cane and back to his hand, back and forth, an endless loop until it’s pulled away and readied again.

Awakened by that bite of pain, her flesh is alive and her mind made open, acutely aware and ready for what is to come. 

Every single buzz of vibration creates a radiating hum that travels from the surface of her skin, deep into her bones, and it never dies. That hum remains, it’s melodious rumble becoming louder and louder, taking up more and more space inside her, taking over. She welcomes it.

Unclipping her from the cuffs which were bound to the wall, he lies her face down on the bed, still humming. Gently, he strikes her back and works his way down the length of her, increasing in intensity, turning her over to do the same on her front, the harmonious whiz and whir of vibration absorbed with each and every strike, her body a melody, a constant hum barely contained by her skin. It’s so loud, she wonders if he can feel it too. The look in his eyes makes her believe he can. And when he touches her, that hum is no longer contained. It overflows into him, and he into her. She is the verse to his chorus, the lyrics to his chords.

Together they are the sweet song of passion.


-photo found on Tumblr; shared as part of Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday prompt

Captivated

*Mature Content

“Don’t move,” he said, backing slowly away while pulling the camera up to his face, one rugged hand gripping the curve of the case and the other wrapped around the large lens. His thumb and middle finger delicately and  deliberately squeezed and turned, slightly this way and that.

She could hear the friction of his knees against the sheet as he scooted back and forth, positioning himself for each shot, his breath quickening with each movement.

Preventing the usual, “Yes, Sir,” in reply, the ball gag rested snugly between her teeth, wrapping around to clasp tightly on the back of her neck at her hairline. She didn’t even nod in response. She was still. Captivated. Mesmerized by him. All she wanted to do was keep watching him, watching her. Her eyes replied for her.

With a few words or the grip of his hands, he lead her to where he wanted her, and she followed. She moved when he moved her. She shifted with his words. She did anything he wanted.

Every click of the shutter sent a shiver down her spine. She could feel his energy building, an electricity growing. Every so often, she’d catch a glimpse of his eyes and the bulge in the front of his jeans. His hunger was palpable; it emanated from him in waves, making her insides hum and forming goosebumps on the surface of her skin.

Without notice, the world around them melted away. It was only his lens pointing at her, and her looking back. There was no peripheral, no background, no noise in her head. There was no sound, other than his movement and his breathing and his words. Nothing else.

Except for the click, click of his shutter.

-older post reworked a bit and shared as part of Masturbation Monday.


-photo is mine