when prayers are not enough

I want to write of faith.

Proselytize the beautifully corrupt notion that I can save you by making you bleed for me.

Acknowledge the ache you harbor and the agony of being used in a way that leaves you warm and sore. I want to hear your prayers for the kind of release that unwinds you, unmakes you, until you are a ribbon of gold unraveling forever.

But I cannot; my mind, instead, is consumed with tangibles.

I think of your hip, rounded and smooth, and the slow dip of your back when you’re braced against the wall. I think of the scent of your skin, vanilla and spice, and the low heat between your thighs stoked with words and fingertips until I can feel it pressing into the palm of my hand in rhythm to your breathing.

And when I have you there at the edge, I think of the small sounds you make, words of lost coherency, the soft cries and sharper mewls of pain an animal makes when deprived of some basic need.

I want to write of faith.

But today I need more.

godzilla’s strange attraction to large cities

Our lives are filled with assumptions.

If an action has had the same outcome a hundred times, we expect it to have the same on the hundred and first.

We call this experience.

Assumptions play an important role in our lives. They are short-cuts in thought that save us time. In niches, they are one of the differences between an expert and a lay person: they are what tell a plumber the source of a leak after looking under your sink, tell a doctor the source of your ailment just by the bumps on your skin, and they tell a network engineer the root cause of a network outage in glance through equipment logs.

Assumptions are important, but they all have the same, obvious, flaw.

They’re not always right; but that isn’t the problem.

The problem is when we aren’t aware of the assumptions we make; because if we’re not aware, we don’t catch when we are wrong.

I can live with being flawed; but I want to know the kind of flawed monster I am.

serenity

Because your flesh is mine, you are never that far.

I remember your baby-steps when I led you, blind, to the bedroom.

If only you could have seen yourself; serene, obscene, your chest against the ground, ass raised. You were open, my kind of open, my kind of vulnerable, open enough to reveal your obeisance, your slick evidence of place.

If only you could see through my eyes; the pride in how you took it without question, without resistance. Unwound, unbound, but held tightly, your small cries were real, gut real, and I smiled at every one.

Your tears, when they came, were beautiful.

Because you didn’t turn away from them.

story of my life

…or rather, parts of my life.

My life is not an open book; even here, where I capture the ideas and desires that motivate my life, I am discreet; I don’t have a ‘100 things about me’ list, I don’t complete memes, and when I write about people in my life, I tend to do so at a distance (sometimes weeks, often years).

Still, there are details, here, for the curious.

Such as how my life as a sexual deviant, which began at fourteen when I discovered sex in a medium not so different then the IMs we use today. It didn’t take long to be hooked – of course, I had to lie about my age to get people to talk to me about ‘adult’ things, but I was convincing.

And eager to learn.

My explorations didn’t stay textually based for long. I became rather attached to playing on the phone.. And this is where the real trouble began, because it is where I learned about D/s and led to me eventually meeting some of those I spoke with.

But I am more then the sum of my sinful endeavors. There are my scattered hobbies, my attempts to find life-reminders outside my study: sky-diving, hang-gliding, and my more sedate reading habits.

I’ve touched on dentists, my best friend in college, and the jewelry I wear.

There is mention of how I met my submissive and best friend, NE, and then how I kept her attention.

For the voyeuristic, there are a number of on-line chats from my past and a few examples of my more intimate playful exploits.

As for the rest – well, there’s a lot of posts I haven’t touched upon.

And you can always ask.

“she is a woman, therefore to be won”

The best way to make a woman feel beautiful is to touch her.

It can be gentle or rough; it can be unhurried or frenzied; it can be lingering or fleeting.

But it must always be with deliberation.

Because a woman knows.

The first time your hands find her, she knows. She knows if you are indulging in the heat rising from her arched hips; knows how aware you are of her soft skin and permissive nature. She knows when your hands are brusque but not ungracious. She knows when your kisses covet and when your touches become carnivorous.

When you uncover the secrets that make her yours, but continue to believe in the mystery of her body, she knows.

When the line between the small of her back and her thighs becomes a chord in the learning, an ellipse at the end of your fingertips, she knows.

And when you use her, wringing pleasure in indelicate cries from her parted lips, she knows you know too.

sleeping in

For the first time in a very long time, I didn’t want to get out of bed.

Most often I find my eyes open and know I’ve overslept. I’m out of bed and into the shower before I have time to register the fact I am awake.

But not this morning. This morning, I didn’t want to move. I was warm and the rest of the house was cold. I stretched, taking time, taking all the time in the world. I found myself on my back, eyes closed, and it just felt so good…no, can’t stay here all day.

I slid out of bed and wandered into my study, nudging the mouse to kill the screensaver. I glanced at the corner of my screen. Nothing that needed my attention. Sleep clung to me like a familiar lover, beckoning me back. I tilted into my larger leather chair.

My eyes were closed just for a few minutes, but several more managed their way past. When I glanced at the old clock in the wall above my bookcase, I realized I was no longer late. I was really, really, late.

The shower didn’t help; the hot water reminded me of the warmth of my bed and I found myself leaning my forehead against the cool tile – resting while the scalding water burned its way through me. I finally managed to drag myself out of the shower, throwing on black jeans and button-up shirt, and then I was out to my car.

tapping at her chamber door

First window on the left, ground level.

It was open, just half an inch, and I could hear the sounds of the evening news. The blue glow of the television flickered through the curtains.

I slid the window open the rest of the way and entered into the room feet first.

The bed was just a few feet away; she lay facing the other direction, blankets pulled up under her chin. I approached the bed and leaned over her quiet form; my hand slid over her mouth as my weight settled fully against her.

Startled, she tried to turn towards me. I tightened my grip to keep her still.

“Don’t make a sound.” I used my free hand to draw out a blindfold from the pocket of my leather jacket, sliding it over her face. “Stay still,” I let her turn her blind face up to meet mine, removed my hand, and then pressed the ball gag between her lips, snapping it close behind her head, “or I will hurt you.” From the same pocket, I drew out leather cuffs and a snap hook, drawing her wrists up over her head and attaching them together.

It had taken less then a minute. She was now bound, blind, and gagged – but this didn’t keep her from struggling the moment she felt me lean back. I pressed my knee against the top of her thighs as my hand found the snap hook that bound her wrists. I pulled it back over her head and pinned her to the bed until her stopped trying to escape.

I kicked the blankets off her body; she had on only a pair of white panties and a black bra. My hands ripped her panties down over her thighs, and I pushed her legs apart with my own. She was wet. Soaking wet.

Lowering my head, I buried my hand in the back of her short dirty-blonde hair, mouth right next to her ear, “Yes, this is happening. Yes, you are about to be used. Fucked. Abused.” My fingers drove inside her, hard, and I felt her torso twist as she moaned against the gag. “Yes, this is real.”

An hour. That’s how long she was under me, trapped. On her back, legs over my shoulders; on all fours, driven into the bed until she begged through the rubber ball for release. I was not gentle. Her skin was marked red where my fingernails cautioned her into silence. Her hips were bruised where I drove her into the positions I wanted, ignoring her cries of pain or discomfort. She came while I was buried in her ass, my fingers between her thighs.

When I was finished, I kept her face-first in the bed, releasing her wrists and removing blindfold and gag.

“Don’t move. Not an inch. If you do, I will come back and the pain you’ve felt so far will be sweetness itself compared to what I will do.”

I climbed back out through the window, shutting it behind me.

—

In the car, on the way home, I received a text from her, two words.

They made me smile.