Category: Crimson Writ

Submission is not a weakness.

Submission for pleasure or release is not a character flaw. To be very clear – submitting to unwanted or unwarranted physical or emotional abuse is not the same. But that is not Submission. In the Submission I speak of, spankings are used to create physical pleasure and (or) introduction to a zone for my partner to descend into – and words are used to disarm, distract, and direct.

So what is Submission? A gift. A trust. A promise. A sacrifice. A hunger. A moment. A place inside. A spiritual awakening. A fucking. It is freedom, hope, desire, and potential. It is found in restraint, in humiliation, in love, in a glance, in a word, in giving it up and in accepting it all. It is on all fours, on knees, on a four-poster bed tied and helpless, on a desk bent over and exposed, and on the passenger’s seat of a car blindfolded and waiting. It is part of a greater whole, defining while not constraining. It pervades. It demands. It begs. It is.

Embrace it. Accept it. Most of all – enjoy it.

Want to know the secret?

Pay attention to the person. See them for who they really are – not just the surface, the clothes, the smile, and the pleasantries of small talk; see past their civilized veneer and social masks; see the insecurities and the human frailty. See and accept. Listen to what they have to say. Notice the details. Understand their desires and fears. If you can do all of this, they are yours.

It is that simple.

I understand that when you bite the inside of my thigh, you are telling me where you want my teeth.

I understand the effect whispered words can have while you are being held utterly still.

I understand that crossing lines is dangerous because it is addicting; being bad feels good; being very bad feels even better.

I understand the hunger for anonymity; a stranger’??s seductive voice telling you what to do.

I understand the cutting edge stark reality can bring, driving feelings both harder and deeper as more is revealed.

I understand where the true danger lies, in the addiction of hunger – in the moments of indecision that lead to places you hadn’t realized you wanted so badly to experience.

I understand that some scenes need weeks or months to build to, while others have to be satisfied after a few frenzied verbal or written meetings.

I understand that sexual boundaries can be driven and enjoyed in e-mail and on the phone, but nothing beats real fingers wrapped around your wrists while being kissed until you a??re breathless.

I understand what you need and am not afraid to use it against you.

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.

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.

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.

Are you afraid of how it would feel to have your hands drawn behind your back while being pressed against the wall – but you can’t stop thinking about it when you close your eyes?

Are you afraid of words that can slip inside and strip away everything, leaving you exposed and vulnerable, naked inside and out – and yet the mere thought makes you tighten inside?

Are you afraid of being drawn across lines that you’ve thought about but never crossed? Afraid the lines might cease to exist in the submission of thought into deed at the hands and voice of someone who understands those parts of you better then you do yourself? Of someone who knows just how to touch you on your neck to make you weak in the knees, knows how to tell you where to place your hands, knows how to hold you still so that that only thing that exists is the feel of his body against your own?

Does the edge of fear just make it worse, make you want it more? Afraid that what you desire most is someone who will take it all?