Month: April 2005

Hunger

Is there anything as simple and cutting as hunger? It sharpens the senses, it drives you to act. The trigger may be reading a story where the author has managed to capture the essence of submission; it may be the flash of a thigh, or the curve of a neck. It may be simple denial of something you want that shifts desire into need. For me, this hunger is to take. To hold in my hands the fragile innocence of unmarred skin or see the naked truth of her when she gives everything to me. For others, the hunger may push them to their knees, create a craving to be utterly consumed by another’s will, words, and whip. One hunger can awaken another. That is part of my gift.

A simple hunger, Cutting inward with desperate heat. I seldom know the truth in fingers where hands might take the place of words but I can’t quite figure the path from here to there and there to wherever it is I think I desire to go. But hey – why let something so simple as not understanding, not knowing, not existing in any real fashion stop me from doing precisely whatever it is I that I want. I want people to read my words on my lips. I want my thoughts to be painted on my skin, so you can know just how good I am with them. My words are like blades, like tempo setting drums that can pace you to the end in a soft tempor of sweet lingering pain. I want people to know that I know I know I don’t think you know what I can do with my lips. Yes, I said I can do with my lips what silk can do to your skin. Maybe I just need to tie you up, wrap my fingers around your wrists and throat like a reminder, a warm steady reminder of how it feels to be secure in a way that money, love and even friends can’t give you. I strip you bare of your everything; every face you wear during the day comes off with the snap of my fingers or the whisper of my name for you. Our secret language shared in a look when I have you on your knees. This is the moment of surrender, of complete replacement of all those things that hold you back. I tie you up to free you from your inhibitions. I hold you down that you finally struggle for life. I rip you open so that you can feel all the way to your core what it is to breath in synchronicity and breath out the remainder of your self in perfect rhythm to my fingers. I pretend to know you. But all those secrets I know about you I learned from myself. I touch you like I want to be touched; I push you where I want to go.

Stay with the Paddle, or reach for the Flogger?

I haven’t yet touched on why I am writing this.

My goal was to post something every day for a year. Poetry, stories, stories about now and from the past, random thoughts, and whatever else interests me. Why? Partly because it forces me to write. It gives me an excuse to write. I want to be a writer. And, in the simplest and truest terms, a writer is one who writes. The brilliant friend you have who talks about the novel they are going to write any day now? Not a writer. The friend who keeps a daily diary detailing her inner most thoughts? She’s a writer.

What you won’t see: posts about what kind of smurf, cloud, 18th-century novel, Egyptian God/Goddess, or any other on-line test that tells me what piece furniture I likely to be reincarnated as. I think they’re cute but they’re really not for me. I may take a real personality test, like Myer-Briggs, and write about it, but that’s as far as I go.

That said, I am thinking of re-focusing this site more towards Domination and my thoughts/actions in that area. This would encompass removing (or restricting access to) all poetry, short stories, and autobiographical entries that don’t relate to it – which isn’t *that* much, considering how influential that aspect of my life is on who I am. What would be in it’s place? A more defined exploration of what D&S is, with specific examples given to illustrate my points. I’d likely go from daily updates to thrice-weekly. Despite how wonderful I think my poetry is, I can’t imagine it is as entertaining as reading about the best position to hold someone in while spanking them. Or discussing hot and cold; the difference (or lack of) in sensation of a mouth with an ice cube teasing a nipple, and a mouth filled with near-scalding hot water. Or what makes someone a good or bad Dom. Good or bad submissive. Why are some people switches? Why do even those who switch generally have a preference for one or the other?

What do you guys think? I’m going to mull it over this weekend and any thoughts would be welcome.

Seed or Egg

Of the two, seed and egg, I would rather the egg.

The planting of a seed within the mind will quickly lead
To roots that bury deep
In memories
Bear fruits of new quandries
And other plausible metaphors

But an egg will hatch a serpentine, sensual succubus
Insidious in form
That will slither, slip, silent
Never content to rest
Rummaging through forgotten questions
And astounding observations
Down the spine
Taking shivering form
Ceaselessly hungry
Within the belly
Carelessly pressing
In knocking lose old morality
Cautiously expiring
Only when still

Of the two, sturdy tree and ghostly conniver, I’d rather the one that admits no false stability.

My Sordid Past (Or, the clit is…where?)

Setting: 1991. Massachusetts.
Loation: The multi-line BBS Argus (envision it as IRC/IM/Chat Room of choice before the Internet was widely used and people used 2400 baud modems to connect).

You should probably start by reading about my first time in ‘hot chat’.

I migrated from Future Wave, a BBS with 12 lines, to Argus, a BBS with 128+ lines. At the time a BBS this large was almost inconceivable to me. Imagine the cost of running 120 phone lines to your house. Those that ran this BBS did exactly that. Oh – there were other BBS’s out there with a significant number of lines. But none that were free. I had paid a good twenty or so dollars to join Future Wave. Argus was much larger than any other multi-line BBS and didn’t charge a cent. Because it was free and anyone could be on it, us Future Wave users used to look down our noses at Argus users. People always value more the things they pay for.

Of course, people also like free stuff. I forget what eventually motivated me to move there from Future Wave, but move I did. I just never got over the feeling that there was a catch somewhere. Sometime after I moved from Massachusetts and stop visiting it, they did implement some sort of charging scheme.

But really, that’s not the story. This story is how I learned about sex. My first obstacle was my age. I was fifteen or so. I was not going to have the conversations I wanted so long as people thought I was a young teen. Sex wasn’t the only motivating factor either – I found the random exclamations being expounded by my fellow teens was an ordeal I could live without (“STevE TylEr is a GoD!”).

No – I was better than that! Or at least I thought I was.

I told people I was a 20-something. It wasn’t hard acting older than I was. Using capital letters (when appropriate), proper grammar, and the ability to speak on topics beyond Aerosmith and The Divynls was more than enough to set me apart from the rest of the adolescents. I was surprised at how easy it was to convince people I was something I’m not. Confidence and imagination were key. This would serve me well for a long time (long enough for me to grow into who I wanted to be).

The best and worst part is, I was at an age where I had no remorse about lying, about misrepresenting myself. Perversely, today the inverse is true – I am almost obsessive over self-honesty. I am almost honest to a fault about who and what I am. If you know how to ask the right questions, I will tell you anything. The trick, of course, is knowing what to ask. But honesty is a topic for another day.

In any case, I was not a bad kid. I was just amoral. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I didn’t think about the consequences either. This would, of course, eventually lead to trouble.

Back on topic – Argus provided a fertile ground for my teenage hormones. The problem is, I was terribly interested in sex but knew next to nothing about it. And let me tell you, learning about sex from a text-only medium is, shall we say, interesting and led to some – then confusing, now amusing – difficulties. I couldn’t let people know I didn’t understand what was going on. I had to fake it and figure things out as I went along. Some of the more interesting conundrums I faced:

1) The clit…is where? Ok, I know it feels good when I describe teasing it. I know it is located somewhere between your thighs. I know it is near your pussy. But where exactly is it? Is it inside? Underneath? And it gets hard when stimulated? No kidding. Me too.

2) Wet. Wet = good. This one was especially tricky, because the first time a girl mentioned she was getting wet when I touched her there, I had no idea if this was a good thing. Of course, next was hot and wet. I learned that if I had them in this state, I was making great progress.

Quiz time, multiple choice.
What is the moral of this tory?

A) Sex Ed in the nineties was sorely lacking.
B) I didn’t date much in high school.
C) I didn’t date at all in high school.
D) Unless you count the older women I met on-line and convinced to meet me.
E) I was a peculiar teenager.
F) All of the above.

Still, I turned out alright. Didn’t I?

All Tied Up, Part II

Finally. He draws away. You open your eyes to see him sitting up; he holds your gaze before reaching down to draw his shirt up and over his head. He leans over, skin to skin, kissing you hard.

Hands shift along your sides, down to your hips and over the top of your thighs. You can feel his knees resting against your inner thighs – leaning closer, he kisses you deeper. When he draws back, you are left panting and gasping softly.

You notice how helpless you are against him. You can’t stop him from running his hands down between your thighs, or over your breasts. You can’t stop him from drawing each breath out of you until your breathing is shallow as you watch him move. His hair brushes your stomach and then your waist, head lowering slowly until his mouth finds that moist place between your thighs.

You arch up against him, unable to control yourself as you feel his hands move underneath to grasp your buttocks, pressing you to his face.

You can feel his lips part and his tongue pressing along your inner lips, back and forth as he tastes you, tongue barely slipping inside. His face presses deeper into your thighs, tongue moving faster – faster – faster, until it runs over your clit, his mouth hungrily drawing it into his mouth to nibble.

Hands move back down over your thighs as he runs his tongue against your clit a little harder as he sucks…. applying ever more pressure. You arch again, feeling his mouth pulling on your clit, then rubbing…until he finally stops. You lay back upon the bed, gasping.

His face, wet from your thighs, peers up at you and he moves up along your body.

Frustrated, you ask him to untie you. He looks down into your eyes and laughs – a not-quite-cruel laugh, but one that shares with you the intimate knowledge that he knows just how much the both of you are enjoying the torment. Unable to stop him, you lay there, waiting to see what he does next.

He takes a few moments to stroke your heated body, hands roaming slowly, taking their time to explore your inner thighs, rubbing up and down the sensitive skin. His hands are warm and teasing; you shiver.

You feel your body respond, your hips moving with his rhythm, back and forth.

Abruptly he stops.

You look at him, eyes pleading. He smiles and moves to his feet, standing between your thighs. Holding your attention, he slowly moves his hands to the top of his jeans and undoes the top button. His fingers tug on the zipper, drawing it down. His jeans slide off and down to his feet. Using his foot, he kicks it off the bed.

He sinks to his knees again and moves up till you feel him through his underwear. His voice soft as he whispers, “Want to feel it?”

You moan and nod. He rubs against you a bit more, letting you feel how hot and hard it is through the fabric. Desperate, you wiggle on the bed but fail to escape. Helpless, you watch as he teases you, his hands moving down and tugging the edge of his underwear down.

His hands part your thighs further as you feel him move, hard cock rubbing along your inner lips. His body, hot against your skin, presses down and you feel him slowly slide inside, filling you

…slowly…

…an inch at a time…

…until he is all the way inside.

You moan louder, moving your hips with his as he moves back out, agonizingly slow.

Then he presses down again, filling you once more, deeper.

Over and over again. You can feel every inch of him, every movement. His hand moves between your bodies to brush your clit, quick and hard.

You can tell by his breathing that he is getting close.

He gasps, his chest pressing into yours as you arch up against him as he goes over. You lose what little control you have left and follow him into the maelstorm, gasping.

For a long moment he lies there against you. Finally he stirs and sits up. You open your eyes as he leans down, expecting him to untie you…but he only kisses you lightly and sits back up. He looks down at you, the hint of a smile on his face. He leaves and returns a minute later with a warm washcloth to clean you. But somewhere between cloth finding skin, and fingers finding moist flesh, the notion of being cleaned up becomes forgotten.

Eventually…several hours later…he unties you.

All Tied Up, Part I

Written six years ago, at college. Was trying to get a girl hooked on my stories so that I could use them as leverage in convincing her to re-enact them in real life. Alas, it didn’t quite work out the way I planned; oh, she became quite attached to the stories. I just wasn’t able to parlay that into something more tangible then furtive phone calls and innuendo-laced conversations betwen her, her roommate, and I. Fortuntely for me, my writing got better and future endeavors were more successful.

Within the darkness of the room could be felt the subtle presence of anticipation – an almost tangible aspect that filled the room with tension. Wonderful tension. The otherwise ordinary room was transformed into a place with the potential – potential….for what?

You stand alone in the room. Dressed comfortably in blue-jeans and a flannel shirt over a T-shirt, you cannot help but shiver from the open window. You glance again through the room, taking inventory of the rooms contents: comfortable queen-sized four-poster bed, mahogany dresser, TV, telephone, a window on the right wall, and a few painting so non-descprit as to fade from your memory even as you look away.

You jump as the door opens behind you. A grateful smile crosses your face as you see him. He returns the smile but his face turns serious quickly as he walks past you to the bed, studying it intently, testing the sturdiness of the frame.

Too happy that he finally showed up, you don’t even inquire why he was late. Or what is in the bag he brought with him. You wait till he turns away from the bed.

He smiles again, almost sheepishly, but there is something in his eyes that is devious – surprisingly so. Your still trying to decide if this is a good or bad thing when he presses up against you, his mouth meeting yours, cutting off all thoughts. You return the kiss, lips parting as you feel his tongue meet your own, rubbing and teasing.

He draws back from a moment, still smiling. Flushed, you return the smile. You notice he is looking behind you. Following his gaze, you see the bed. Thinking you know what he wants, you smile and move to the bed, sitting on the edge.

Expecting him to join you, your disappointed as he just stands there watching. To encourage him, you remove your flannel shirt and then reach down and slide out of your shirt.

But he continues to stand and watch you. Feeling uneasy, but getting anxious, you unsnap your jeans and wiggle out of them before leaning back on the bed.

He smiles again, slowly. You feel relief as he approaches the foot of the bed then crawls over the edge, moving up. His body, even through his clothes, is warm against your skin. You moan very softly as you feel him move down against you. His lips meet yours for the second time that day, hungry and urgent.

Only when he draws back do you realize that he’s grasping your wrist gently yet firmly. You are too startled to protest when he reaches into the bag next to the bed and takes out a silk scarf, winds it around your wrist tightly and ties it to the poster at the corner of the bed.

Realizing his intent, you consider stopping him, but the thought fades as he kisses you again, quickly, before moving down to nuzzle your neck. His breath is warm against your bare skin as he caresses your skin with his lips.

He ties your other wrist down. You moan again at the feel of his lips against your skin, his mouth sending slivers of pleasure through you. His lips part and the tip of his tongue ever so lightly touches your skin, moving lower as he leaves a trail of kisses along your shoulder and the top of your breasts.

His body shifts as he kneels between your thighs. He traces the top of your bra, running it along your bare skin, and then over it – brushing your nipples through the fabric, lingering but a moment before moving lower.

And then you feel his fingertips at the edge of your panties, slowly sliding along the edge before moving underneath. His lips brush your stomache. He draws the edge of your panties downward, his tongue following – along the top of your innerlips, caressing as you feel his hands tugging it lower – an inch at a time.

With a slow deliberate movement he slides your panties off and moves your left ankle to the edge of the bed, tying it there securely. He repeats the same quickly to your other ankle and turns back to you.

He kneels again, this time between bare thighs, sitting back on his heels as he looks down on you. Only then does the realization come over you of just how little control you have. You test the bonds at your wrists and ankles but they were tied carefully and don’t budge.

His eyes move over your body, starting from your face and moving down across your breasts and thighs. You can feel his gaze like a caress against your skin. After enjoying it for a moment, his hands, warm against you, begin sliding up over your stomach to your breasts. His hands hesitate as his eyes find yours. Holding your gaze, his hands run over your breasts, palms pressing down into nipples, lightly moving back and forth.

You struggle against the bonds at each wrist, wanting to reach out and touch him. His fingers spread and catch your nipples between them, bringing them to hard points. He rolls each one between his fingers, tugging gently yet insistently.

You close your eyes as he bends over slowly and feel the warmth of his breath caress the top of your breasts and then the touch of moist lips against your bare skin. Shivering, you moan softly as his lips part and move over your right nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth. You can feel the warmth of his mouth surrounding the hard tip as he pulls it deeper.

Bleeding For It

I e-mailed NE on Wednesday night and told her to wear a skirt for our meeting Thursday night.

She did.

We had dinner and then came back and talked for a while in my study. We have a planned scene next month and we haven’t had a lot of time to find our rhyhm (I work evenings, she works days, and when we see each other on the weekends,we are almost always surrounded by friends). A lot has passed between us since our last scene – and the last scene wasn’t nearly as good as it should have been. Some basic groundwork would have to be laid down again for this to be the sort of scene we both wanted.

I knew she wanted to be taken down. She had called on Monday and, as she put it later, was practically bleeding over the phone in her need. I could feel the ghost of that need on Thursday, but it was buried. To bring it to the surface would be a fairly invasive act. And we hadn’t played on that level in a long time.

But I did it. I had her to the point where she was begging for more one moment, and the next begging to stop because it was too much. I had emptied her of everything but my hands and words.

I had planned to write out the details of what I did. To post what happened exactly. But there is a process that writing has on the mind. Writing forces you to edit. Even the most honest person will unconsciously put spin on their actions or thoughts or deeds in while committing memories to paper (or Blog). And as you write, your memories reshape into this written echo you are creating,

I’m not ready to do that. I need to be ruthlessly honest with myself about the things I did right and the things I could have done better. NE deserves as much – so that next time, I can use that understanding to benefit us both.

She could be in some trouble.

Shown

Show me what darkness lies behind your eyes
And I will show that behind it, there are no lies.

If you curse me with your love
I will love the naked hunger
And hunger for the innocence.

Yes, but do you *like* her? (Or, why I never plan to marry.)

When I was twelve, I told my family, “I’m never going to marry.”
They laughed and told me I was too young to know what I wanted.

When I was fifteen, I told my friends, “I’m never going to marry.”
They laughed and told me that it was just a matter of time.

When I was twenty-three, I told my colleagues, “I’m never going to marry.”
They laughed and told me that I just hadn’t found the right woman.

I’m twenty-nine and still not married. It’s not from lack of opportunity or interest in having a partner in crime – I simply think that most modern marriages are not treated with the respect they deserve by those in them; I think there are better paths to follow in cementing a relationship. Still, another tenant I tend to live my life by is, “Never…say never.” I don’t see myself getting married…but you never know what life is going to throw and I’m not the type to let others limit me – much less myself.

Which brings me to my main thought – I have difficulty pigeon-holing my relationships with people.

People like to categorize: Lover. Friend. Close Friend. Best Friend. Acquaintance. Work buddy. Fuck buddy. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. College pal. Companion. Colleague. Neighbor.

Sometimes categories are useful. Such as, “I’m going out with my friends tonight.” In a broad stroke, you’ve described the group of people you’re going to be spending your evening with. People have a general idea of what a friend is.

Where these categories are less useful is at that stage in a relationship where one party wants to define what is they ‘have’. There are multiple problems with defining a relationship based on a category:

1) You are letting society set limits on what your relationship is. Assuming a title comes with a lot of pre-defined baggage. Friends don’t have sex. You shouldn’t fall in love with your fuck buddy. Boyfriends and girlfriends should be exclusive.

2) You and your partner may have differing ideas of what a ‘lover’ or ‘girlfriend’ is. Categories are convenient but can be misleading. The better path, in my humble opinion, is to be as honest as possible when deciding what a relationship is going to be. If it comes down to setting boundaries on it, be explicit. Public displays of affection are fine. She wants to kiss other girls? Fine. Kiss other boys? Not without permission first. Calling me when I am out late to ensure I am alright? Shows you are caring. Calling another six times to check in on me? A bit…over-attentive for me. The key is to be clear about what you and your partner want and make sure the other person understands the important lines you are drawing.

Everyone lives by societal rules to some extent – unwritten definitions and rules make it possible for us to interact. But is there a need to blindly accept the dictates of others?

Labryinth Moon

It started at my feet.

The burning sensation twisted and slithered along my calves, crawling up the back of my legs.

We wouldn’t make it.

The walls blurred, twisting around us, forcing us to shift with them as we wove through the maze.

The madness approached.

I felt her next to me, her breathing matching mine in it’s labored attempts to get enough oxygen into her body.

Death, my constant companion, now seemed preferable to the madness that stalked us.

The moon hung like a guillotine above us.

It was tangible, this suspense, a sentence upon our lives. I could feel it tickle my skin.

The blurred images of the gray walls seemed to mock me. Was I going mad already?

I knew it was close.

The tavern.

And the madness.

I plunged through the Labrynth.

The doorway materialized before me in the wall and I ran through it blindly.

The door closed behind me.

My heartbeat was all I could hear for a moment.

Until I heard my own scream.

She wasn’t with me. She must have tripped or fallen at some point.

I felt my body, dead with exhaustion, slam against the door.

Hands pulled me back, restraining me.

It was too late.

For a moment, time seemed suspended, waiting, waiting….In that endless moment I could only hear the pounding of my heart.

And then the pounding on the door.

From the only person that I truly love.

I couldn’t move. I was bound.

The pounding became urgent, pleading.

My body was frozen.

The pounding stopped.

And in it’s place came a scratching, the raking of claws against wood.

I died then. There was nothing left inside of me. Not pain, not grief. Just death.

And then I was lost within my own madness.