Category: Crimson Writ

NE shared an intriguing comment with me tonight. We were considering how women have actual sex together (not just foreplay or teasing). We discussed several of the possibilities and towards the end of the conversation I asked, ‘How would you have sex with SB?’ (SB is a close friend to NE and I and NE has been exploring the boundaries of this friendship over the last couple years – an exploration that had gone to some interesting places, but has yet to cross certain borders).

Bear with me, I am going somewhere with this.

I listened to her answer, which included going down on SB, and then asked, ‘How would you do that? Slide one of her legs over your shoulder?’

No, she replied. That’s something men think of. She leaned over, and said in a soft voice – as if passing on a secret, ‘Women like to be open. Spread and then feasted upon.’

Women like to be open.

In my mind, I’ve equated this openness with vulnerability. When I spread her thighs or tell her to do so, it is to let her know how accessible she is to me. I want her exposed and knowing it. But from her words, I now think there is something more to it then that.

I still think the idea of slipping a leg over the shoulder is erotic (such possibilities to nuzzle the thigh, nip at a calf, feel her heel dig into my upper back). But now I must consider where true consummation is found.

Upon reading this, NE had this to say: “My darling master, your post was lovely…but you forgot the most important word. The word that actually put me down. ‘Concentrate’.”

So I did. Consider it included.

***

“Kneel.”

She went to her knees beside the leather ottoman I was sitting on. I reached over and removed the plastic wrap on the large fruit bowl sitting on my desk. Her eyes followed my hand.

“Let’s start with a grape.”

She leaned over, selected a large grape, and brought it quickly to my lips. I shook my head. “Too fast.” My fingers caught her wrist and I drew it back to the bowl. “Do it properly. There is no rush. You are making an offering to me.” I wanted to be clear. This was for my pleasure. She was merely the instrument of it.

She tried again, going slower this time. I parted my lips and bit into the grape. It was juicy, succulent. I gave her a small smile and nod. “Better, but still not quite right. Try a strawberry.”

Her hand trembled and it took her a moment to draw out the strawberry. The trembling spread to her arms and shoulders. By the time the strawberry had reached my lips, her entire body was shivering. I accepted the strawberry, enjoying the slightly sweet bite it carried.

There is a beauty in the naked form. An honesty of lines and curves. She had nothing to hide behind, and as she fed me cantaloupe, grapes, and strawberries, she slid deeper into a role her subconscious craved with a keenness that made her shake.

It was my pleasure that she feed me – and my pleasure to see her fed. I lifted a grape and brought it to her lips, feeding her from my own hands as she had done for me. She understood I would take care of her. In placing herself into my hands, she was trusting me with her body, mind, and soul.

I could be cruel. I could be kind.

I am often both.

“Enough. Stand.”

Having been on her knees for so long, she had difficulty drawing herself to her feet. Being in the slightly disorienting space of submission did not help matters. I lifted her up and indicated that she should follow me. We crossed the hallway to my bedroom.

My bedroom is simple. A bureau, a nightstand, a bed. Today, the bed was stripped of everything but black silk sheets. I pressed her onto the center of the bed and told her to close her eyes.

From the nightstand I drew out two leather cuffs. Lacking rope, I had been forced to be creative in how best to use them. A black pillowcase, cut in half and tied at one end to crimson silk would work in place of rope. The silk end tied to each leather cuff, and the black cloth of the pillowcase tied to the top posters of the bed.

I placed her wrists in the cuffs, fastening her hands up over her head. “I want you to test them. Pull on each hand slowly.”

This served two purposes: I wanted to make sure they would not come free over the course of the next hour. I also wanted her to know how strong the bonds are. There is understanding, and then there is knowing.

She tugged. The cuffs remained secure.

“Harder.”

She pulled harder – and the silk tied to the left cuff came undone. I retied it, making sure that to keep it tight.

“Again.”

She tried again. This time they held.

Now the real fun could begin.

A couple of months ago, I asked NE to select a scene from a book that she would like to explore. She was quite reluctant – it is one thing, she said, to fantasize about something. Another thing entirely to experience it. Being the cruel man I am, I forced her to select one anyways.

Today, she acted it out.

***

My home office.

“I’m going to have you undress. Jewelry, first.”

She had on a lot of jewelry; all gold. Two earrings. A ring. Two necklaces.

“Now, your shirt.”

She started at the bottom, quickly undid the first few buttons.

“Slower. Take your time.”

A pause, and then she resumed; her fingers were more hesitant, but she tried hard to obey. The buttons fairly came undone just by being touched, making it difficult to slow the process. A moment later, the shirt hung open.

“Now slip it off. Place it on the chair.”

She rolled her shoulders back, letting the shirt slide free. Gathering it in her hands, she placed it over the arm of the large leather chair. I had her remove her shoes next, and then her skirt. A few minutes later, she was standing in just her black panties.

“Do you understand what I am doing?” I lowered my head slightly, watched the way she held herself. She has a tendency to want to clasp her hands behind her back. Quite often I have to remind her to keep her hands at her sides. “I want you naked.” Watched her breathe. “I want you bared, body and soul. I want you exposed.” I paused, “There is naked, and then there is naked.”

NE has two ways of giving it up to me. The first is an offering. This path is very fragile and I have to handle things just right for her to want to give it up without a fight. The second path is more direct, harsher – I take it from her. To force her to place herself in my hands. Both have their rewards, but the first path, although much harder on her, is what I wanted today.

“Now your panties.” There was no hesitation on her part; off they went and she stood naked in front of me. I let her feel the weight of my gaze for several seconds before reaching to the desk beside me and lifting a long silver chain. I settled this around her waist. My fingers lingered on her hips, but only for a moment. Patience is key; the feast would be later and I could wait.

Slave bracelet was next, on her left hand; silver and black beads along the top, chain around the wrist, attached by a ring slid onto the second-finger.

Details are important. She knew the weight of each piece of jewelry; knew that I was dressing her for my own purposes. People often forget the small things, believing that if they can achieve the larger picture, then they have suceeded. But the larger picture is made from the little things. It is the hint of cologne. It is the way the carpet feels when on your knees. It is the heat of fingers. All of this will fade into background noise when she goes under – but, and this is important – these details are what draw her down. Drowned in sensation, in particulars.

Next was something entirely new for us; a silver chain with nipple clips at each end. NE does not seek pain, but she does not shy away from it either. I ran my fingertips across her breasts slowly, taking my time to awaken the nerve endings. I knew how sensitive her nipples could be, and I enjoyed feeling them harden against my hands. Once ready, I attached a clip to each one. She didn’t flinch and I couldn’t hold back a small smile. My pet takes a lot of pride in how she deals with pain – but this went beyond that. She was withdrawing, becoming, descending. Believing.

Finally, the leather collar. I had let her try it on once before, a month ago. But this was her first time wearing it in a scene. I slid the leather over her head, drawing it close and buckling it. I made sure she could breathe, but kept it tight enough that she could not forget it was there.

She was almost ready.

Earlier, before I formally began the scene, she muttered that she had been too open with me the last few months, offering too much in the way of her fantasies – she had developed a false sense of security due to the length between scenes and, as she exclaimed, “You’re going to use it all against me!”

Damn right I was.

What do you see when you close your eyes, and you are alone in the dark?

When all else flees, but the quiet and the hunger. When you press aside everything that does not have to do with your need. When you remove the binds that hold you to everyday life and embrace the promise of the extraordinary. When you discard rules and lines, erase boundaries and constraints. When you strip off the faces you wear for everyone else and expose the naked truth of self underneath.

What do you see when you close your eyes?

When I close my eyes…

…I see you.

***

On your knees. Your head lowered, sensing but not seeing me – knowing I am standing in front of you, close enough to slide my fingers through your hair and grip you. You feel a sharp tug as fingers tense and draw your head back until you’re forced to look up into dark eyes.

But only for a moment. Because my fingers tighten further and your eyes close to absorb the shock of my sharp unyielding grip even as I use my free hand to draw a delicate line down the length of your bared throat.

I can see total release in the tension of your neck, your shoulders lowered just a bit in anticipation. I can feel the moment you let go and let yourself be caught in the building tide, swept hard against the walls I’ve placed to guide you exactly where I want you to go. I can feel you give in as I lift you and place you in a chair, blindfolding and binding you in place.

All is dark. Your hands are bound along the back side of the chair. And I have placed a female friend, a very beautiful, accomdating friend, on a chair facing away from you. She is close enough that you can feel her hair brush the back of your neck as she breathes.

You don’t struggle. Much.

Are those my hands pushing the skirt up your legs? Are those your thighs being parted?

Is that your leg resting over my shoulder?

Can you hear me do the same to her? The sharp intake of breath when my lips leave a trail of small wet kisses along the inside of her thigh until they reach the center?

Does it make you shiver to know she’s so close? To know what is being done to her? So close you can feel her shudder, feel the growing heat of her skin?

Is it hard to sit still, tied as you are, and hear the steady rustle of clothing, the surprised gasp?

To be continued…

Words have power. They can make a believer out of you. They can tear you up and tear you down.

Words are an extension of my will and hunger. With words, I can place you under my hands. I can tempt. I can take. I can make you wet – and more, I can make you need it. Read the words below in one breath. Let them unravel in your mind like a crimson ribbon of sex and secrets.

Is there a particular moment where the strength of words has touched you in a way you can never forget? A conversation that lingers with you, and makes you shiver when recalled? A voice on the phone that made you do things naughty and wicked?

***

Too far, too little, too much too fast to realign when the signs all say go. With sensations sweet and surpassed only when your momentum slip slides glides free under your feet and casts you free.

Words like fingers wrap around the throat and pull you in until you can’t breath through the heat and the desperate hunger. Reaching inward for safety, but driven there by need until you release all else and give in, give in completely to the desire for more – to not stop with just one touch, one kiss, or one bite. Addiction in moments, using the edge as a reminder of life, flushed skin a heated sign of how tight those fingers can be.

Breath. Breath. Breath.

Now stop.

Pulse of the wrist, pulse of the neck, places of supplication and surrender. Pulsating, perseverance through pressure, protracted pleasure in the way you writhe. Writhe? Right now. Rhythm of reckonings made of rigid lines, wracking your body with risks too sudden and too soon to be questioned. You are here, now, in this desperation and too deeply in debt to a devil you only too willingly sold your soul to despair when all else is said you are simply a morsel too delectable to be passed over.

You are naked. Bare. Stripped. Exposed, exploited, explained and x-rated. You are an empty canvas, melody without words, poetry in heat. You are lust, sinfully languid, lingering in limbs made of little but caresses carved from cradled hopes and lasting dreams.

Cultivating need. What will it harvest?

***

“Are you sure that is what you want?” My fingers tightened around her neck, cradling her throat in a grip that held her in place.

“yes…yes…yes.” Each word a gasped whisper, a silent plea. I finally took mercy on her and slid my grip along her neck to the back of her head, burying fingers in hair. Tugging her head back, her gaze was forced upwards. I leaned over, lips finding her own, the feather kiss of a wish that moves from lips to chin, to neck like a trail of tears across naked skin.

Leaning over her kneeling body, my teeth find the heat of her pulse and I am forced to stop, to taste this spot, teeth grazing across sensitive skin. Its more instinct then knowledge now, fingers tight against the back of her hair and teeth biting in, leaving marks that won’t soon fade, and a gasp of pain and pleasure that rings in my ears like burning need.

I preach the need for change. For embracing it. For not fearing it. Yet strive as I might to be a disciple of this teaching, I find myself reluctant to step off my current path and reach for something extraordinary. Why is the opportunity here now, when I have only just broken-in my current lifestyle? Life is a tricky business.

But if there is one thing I have little respect for, it is hypocrisy. So my decision will not be made out of fear, either for losing what I have or losing what might have been.

Today, I am here. I am in this word, and in this. Today, I am the light behind your eyes.

I’m that hungry feeling you get when you see something you want. This hunger isn’t in your mind, or heart, but somewhere darker and deeper.

I’m what’s on the other side of that moment of indecision.

I’m the one who knows what you’re *really* thinking when you look away and say you’re not sure. I’m the trail of heat along your throat when lips find skin and whisper promises against your pulse. I’m the hand on your neck, the bite when you expect a kiss, the kiss when you expect a fight. I’m the guilt that feels better then it should. I’m the seduction that knows what you want before you want it. I’m the wry smile that knows you’re already getting wet.

I’m the hands that still you, the voice that invades, the binds that give you the freedom to be alive for those moments you’re with me.

So precious are the moments we hold. Fleeting, too, these moments of understanding and joy. It takes work and hunger to sustain. Why are some glass angels more fragile then others?

***

The second parts are the feelings. How intensified everything feels after I am under: my own long hair down my back or falling across my breasts…or the desire to dig my nails into the palm of my hand while he is rubbing my nipple with one hand and holding my neck with the other (I am blushing intensely thinking of it). Waiting for it, when I let go, so that I start to shutter and shake with need. Everything turns a different color and a different speed. It is so luscious.

This is one set of feelings. The other kind of feeling is hard. I am released from everything to become free. I want to do whatever he wants, so I respond to everything that we do. Everything turns me on and I become a woman in the most primal sense of the word. A sexual being. It’s all I want to please him and be pleased by him. The word that comes to mind is “slut”, but what does that really mean? It means that I want to spread my legs for him and show him how wet he makes me…not a woman who just goes through the actions of doing it to turn someone else on, but being highly aroused by those actions. Not only being aroused by doing each thing, but watching his reaction, knowing that I am fucking pleasing him, hearing it in his voice if I am lucky enough to get praise.

What I find strange about the entire thing is that I never know what will trigger me to go all of the way down now. I would before know, OK, when he puts his hand on my neck, I am done. It’s different now. When will it start fully when we are playing? He decides. I know that and I fucking love it.

Not to share too much, but I was with him the other night. We were fooling around. He knew that I wanted to be under him, but he wouldn’t fully put me there…he had his reasons for letting it progress slowly. I know this, so I don’t fight the little things anymore; I do what he says whether I am 100% out of the driver’s seat or not. He had me down laying on my back, with him overtop of me talking next to my ear. I was not under all the way, but I wanted to be there so fucking badly, I was going to go mad. (Just to make it clear, most of the time, I do not make a choice to go down or not consciously.) He moved away from me after my answering a question, and I was sure that he was going to stop. I was terrified that he would leave me on the cusp of being right there. I began begging and begging for him not to stop. I didn’t care how loud or desperate I was, and in fact, that thought didn’t even cross my mind. I couldn’t stop begging and breathing and panting. I don’t remember everything after that, and as you can guess, I was gone. I spent the end of the evening curled up in his lap while he caressed and played with me. It was heaven…my own personal definition of a very devilish heaven.

NE

Something a little different today – I am going to share some writing that is not my own. They belong to someone quite special. Through her, I learned a lot about myself. And still do.

Because of the length, I have broken it up into two parts.

***

How does it feel to be submissive…his submissive? I don’t like to talk about. Why would I? It’s private, between him and me. But I have a homework assignment, and I know what happens to me when I ignore such things.

It is the most erotic thing, to be taken down under the knowing eye and sure hand of someone you trust and love. In fact, I get incredibly high when we “play”. It is like a drug. I hope here to explain at least partly why it makes me feel this way. But, writing this is difficult for me because I have very little idea of how it is for anyone else; he has purposefully sheltered me so I would come to love and understand it on my own. We have been involved in this way for seven years; him as dominant, me as submissive. (it makes me wet even thinking of it in those terms, for, again, I seldom talk about it). In the earlier years, he would always say, when we would “play” or have a scene, he had so much more to teach me. I always wondered, what? I am fucking turned on, I burn with it. I knew how to let go…not for a long period of time, but I was learning him and what he expected of me and how it made me feel. We would go out in public while I was under. It was very difficult for me and often I did not really stay down. He knew this of course, but he was letting me find my way. He trusted me enough to know that given enough time I would learn how to stay down. You go through the motions long enough and you will find it. (if he is good, which he is). I get it now…he had so much to teach me about reaching down into myself (I am still learning). Not about “we could do this or this”. That was not what he meant. I mean, does it really matter if you’re bound with silk or cuffs or will alone? It’s mostly a vehicle to a feeling.

How does it feel?

We rarely have to opportunity to be together when I am dying for it…drowning in the need for it…just to have my hair petted or have his hand on my shoulder while I am on knees with him above me. When we are together now, often I am somewhat boxed off. It has taken me years to find a middle ground where I don’t entirely close myself off to him. But I am a strong, career woman, in control of my life. It’s harder for him to get at me. That’s not to say that he can’t, don’t misunderstand me, but it is harder.

He used to start with something small; a hand on my neck, a backrub.

Now, he is much more interested in making me take an active role in it, own it. I had no stake in it before; it was up to him to start me. I would sit back in reap the benefits. This isn’t to say that he wasn’t hard on me, but I thought I could always handle whatever he would give me. This began to change. Each time he would take me down, he would force me to go further, deeper. Now he starts with me much differently. He asks me to describe something I thought about when getting off that day while taking off my clothes for him. Being a private person, this telling of my fantasies is still fucking hard for me. Or maybe without warning, he bends me over and spanks me for something I said at dinner. This is different from before, because he is forcing me to deal with the anger that I feel on my own. Hell, yes, I get angry at him. Most of the time I won’t go down without a fight, but often I fight it in my head, now. He knows it. Sometimes he asks where I am just so that I verbalize it and can deal with it easier. But the fight makes with end result so much more amazing. Anyway, this active role has made me not as naïve anymore and I like that. He likes it too. Things that he would allow me to get tripped up on in the past are unacceptable. I have to be more capable. I can’t pause to answer a question just because I have to say the word “cunt”. There is a certain level of confidence in myself and in him that has developed over the years because of it. Afterwards, I get so fucking prideful about how I was for him. That makes me high, so fucking high. Of course I have been reprimanded for that. But that is only a part of it.

NE