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In Tatters

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I knelt at His feet in the utter mess I’d made. My struggle to succeed was stark. No one had ever seen me so disheveled…in such embarrassing circumstances. As He cleaned me up for the second time two minutes, I looked up to meet His steady gaze and tried to gauge his reaction. Disgust at another disastrous, completely unimpressive act of service? Frustrated at my inability to get it together? Sadistically amused at another ridiculous unglamorous predicament I’d once again found myself in? I knew he was taking in every fucking minute detail of the wreck before Him and squirreling it away in the vault of His mind, but what did He feel? His stoic expression offered me no hint. Without comment He stood firm in front of me. Fuckin unwavering. He hadn’t walked away. He hadn’t stepped back. I swear He may have even leaned in. As soon as I’d semi-collected myself, I began my third attempt even as I tried in vain to push the remaining proof of my ineptitude out of view, hoping it would simply
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Our Storm

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My hands clawed at the wet brick as I tried in vain to brace myself against the brutal rhythm of Him.  Another nail shredded. The smack-smack-smack of skin-to-skin and the wet sounds of sex and sin echoed between the dark confines of the narrow alleyway but mingled with the downpour and the random taxi or box truck that lumbered through the barren drenched city streets.  The masonry dug into my palms, and the edges of my soaked dress clung to the sides of my pale thighs, even as He used the bunched fabric at my back as leverage to fuck me like a beast in primal heat.  Just as the violent storm above raged, so did my anger, yet still I arched my back and raised my bare ass like the whore I always was for Him.   I needed... Dick... His dick... Him.  Him.  Him.  As always, the energy of us consumed us like a firestorm, singing our souls.  We were helpless to resist.  "Who owns you, bitch?"  He growled in my ear before He trailed burning bites down m
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This Woman's submission

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Womanhood is a complicated prism.  Strengths and weaknesses ebb and flow depending who is doing the assessing.  Gender, age, Power Exchange role, economic, cultural perspective, and more all influence which elements hold value and which are are irrelevant. A younger Man might rate a woman higher if she’s willing and able to bear children.  A bottom will likely gravitate more toward strong Dominant women.  Someone struggling financially might have a greater appreciation for a woman who is financially independent where a wealthier man might be ambivalent.  There is definitely no longer one way to "woman" -- at least in modern American culture.  There is also no one way to submit.  The best choice for either is to be authentic and true to who and what you are.  In fact, back in July one of my s-friends brought me back this from TESFest and Orpheus Black,   "You serve your purpose - your submission - by being who you are."   Such amazing fucking advice, and
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The Schizophrenic Writer & The Bellagio Fountain

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Shit.  I'm trapped in a writing hall of mirrors.  I must have 20 pieces actively in the hopper that is my brain.  Different topics.  Different vibes.  Just tumbling around and around and around in schizophrenic state of slow motion chaos.  I get a few sentences down, maybe a paragraph or two if I'm lucky, but I can't seem to pull hard enough on a single thread to unravel it the way I need to bring it to fruition. ~sigh~  If I rip the bullshit off, this is a complete reflection of my current state in the lifestyle.  I flitter along the surface but never dive deep the way I like.  The way I fucking need.  My sexuality and various kinks...I can't quite reach them mentally, emotionally, even physically.  I hate this...apathy in me.  It seeps into every layer of my world, even my words. The only time I can focus is that moment when Kwesi's hand grips the back of my neck.  A light touch.  A firm grip.  It doesn't matter.  Every damn thing in me skitters to a fu
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Baby...Baabay...BAAABAAY!

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I 'll always think of you Inside of my private thoughts I can imagine you Touching my private parts With just the thought of you I can't help but touch myself That's why I want you so bad Just one night of Moonlight with you there beside me All night doin' it again and again You know I want you so bad Baby baby baby baby (baby baby baby baby) Oh I get so high When I'm around you baby I can touch the sky You make my temperature rise You're makin' me high Oh baby baby baby baby Can't get my mind off you I think I might be obsessed The very thought of you Makes me want to get undressed I want to be with you In spite of what my heart says I guess I want you too bad All I want is Moonlight with you there beside me All night doin' it again and again You know I want you so bad Baby baby baby (baby baby baby baby) Oh I get so high When I'm around you baby I can touch the sky You make my temperature rise You're makin' me high Oh (baby baby baby
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Whip Lash

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The first time I heard a whip crack in my presence was a lightning strike. Electricity danced up and down my spine, bit my nipples, and seized my pussy in a vice grip.  Luckily I’d more than mastered the art of masking my sexuality by my late thirties and managed to keep from cumming on my good friend’s lawn chair as her husband continued to practices his throws. With every crack that rang through the air, everything in me responded with a “ Fuck yes...THAT. ” Me being me, it only took a minute or two before I asked for a try. My friend snickered and warned me not to kill myself while her husband raised an eyebrow in typical amused hetero-male doubt. I’d seen that look more often than you can image throughout my life.  He handed my the coiled serpent. I asked a few quick questions about stance, rotation, and placement of wrist snaps.  As soon as I began to swing that six foot bullship's beautiful weight above my head, I felt in perfect synch.   Fuck yes...THIS.  The dance
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My Sacred

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At my soul...at my very foundation and root is M/s. "The things which are sacred or precious to us are the things we withdraw from promiscuous sharing." ~Howard Roark, The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand Sacred  | ˈsākrid | adjective   regarded with great respect and reverence by a particular religion, group, or individual The Dominance of Owner. The submission of property The Power/Authority Exchange. Simply  sacred . M/s entwines itself across every core element. Of my existence. And delves so deeply into my soul. I will not. C annot. Promiscuously share. Sacred. My sacred... Is not a kinky game. Or haphazard wrapper. Or just spicy sex. It's not pretend. Or a mirage. Or a costume. Or part-time. Submissive property. Is who and what I am. Even if I'm simply waiting. To be Owned. Claimed Treasured. Led. Sacred. To serve. To please. To be used. To support, encourage, guard, protect, love, ADORE. To give... All the best I have. To bel
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Soul Searcher

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I do not know how to do surface level. Ask any of the few men I've been in a relationship with, and they are likely to say I know them better than anyone including the women they were married to for more than a decade or their mothers. I go deep. Soul deep. Every. Damn. Time. It's just how I'm wired. I don't know how to do chitchat or meaningless casual flings. I'm awkward at them. Besides, those are for silly games and temporary pleasures. Neither of which I indulge in often. Fluff and bullshit do not sate me. I want the richness that comes with depth of knowledge, vulnerability, and soul searing truth between partners. I crave the whispered confessions between us after night falls and the angry explosions of real when pushed against the wall. No...my soul searching is not always comfortable. Truth rarely is. Life, society, circumstances, and pain often force most of us to create illusions and deceptions to hide our souls from the world. We do
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