Bedtime Story

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
when all through the net,
not a blogger was stirring, for their quotas were met.
The words had been posted and read by the light of a screen,
In hopes that the devil soon would be seen.

The misbehaved were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of canes and whips danced in their heads;
And the website was stable, so I settled in for a spell.
I had something to share, a story to tell.
So girls, if you’re nice, you’d best stay away.
But if you have been naughty go ahead and hit play.

Instability

…in my life? Well, yes. But no life is completely stable.

I speak of the server my e-mail and blog reside upon. It’s been compromised. And not in that slightly embarrassing way, but in a fashion that leaves me with sporadic e-mail access and the possibility of seeing the blog vanish into mysql heaven.

The server is being re-built, but my gracious host who provides this space for me has the audacity to have events in his life around Christmas that he believes are more important than keeping my blog up for a few people to read.

Which means that the blog will likely experience some instability for a few days yet and if you see an error when trying to reach this page, it isn’t because I’m gone.

I’ve got a few stories left to tell.

City of Sin

My city of sin is built. It is populated with souls whose servitude is drawn in shades of grey. It is a city whose gates are never closed. It is a city of trade.

Anything can be yours, but everything has a price.

Sometimes the price overt. A kissing booth promise for a quarter.
Sometimes the price is implied. Expensive gifts for the pleasure of your company.

I deal in both. I make it clear the cost, but the price is deceptive. I leave you unaware of just much I am taking until it is too late. I draw you in so tight that it is almost painless to let go (just another strip of pain when pain has become an intimate friend). I tell you the price and whisper the words along the insides of your wrists. I write the bargain struck in indelible marks scratched deeper then skin.

I want you to know how far it is you will go, because each step is another step towards me. When you can’t see the bottom, I make you believe you are walking on a bridge of glass. But the truth is you are walking on faith alone.

I want you to know how far it is you will go, because when we reach the end, I want it to be in full knowledge of the path you took. Each choice you make is another link in the chains around your wrists and throat. But I don’t have to present you with real choices, just the illusion of them. I drew this maze, painted the dead-ends to look like possibilities, one less attractive than the path I walk, and then made you believe it was your decision.

At some level you know all this. And yet you let me do it anyway. Because you want something as well, or this would not even be possible. You want me to slip the weight from your shoulders, the gauze from your eyes, the clothes from your skin. You want me to convince you that the price is worth paying, no matter how high. You want more then permission, you want direction.

I know this. I learn how much I can take and ask for just a bit more than that. I want it to hurt because then you will never forget.

I am not a nice man.

Tension

It is the ten
sion between
nervousness and anticipation
churning like an
unborn fever in the stomache
waiting to give way
to expulsion

I have these moments, when typing away (and with no drugs involved) where I feel like I’m floating a few inches above myself. These moments are often preceded with a tightness in my pelvis, an eagerness, a craving that threatens to splinter me. It is the promise that this craving will be fulfilled, that surreal acceptance of inevitability that such a thing is mine to have.

Hunger (redux)

I’ve written all this before. But it was out of context. It was a test I made for myself. A message I dressed in black and white.

This is what happens when you bleed all over your words.

***

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 fucking 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. But pretension is only the start, for knowledge becomes intimacy and intimacy becomes everything. It becomes tears when you realize just how far down the path I’ve taken you, where my hands on your wrist are the only things keeping you from being lost in these strange woods. But you feel alive for the first time since you remembered what it is to not live in danger, since you traded quick breathing for long secure breaths in a relationship that would nurture you. I steal. I drain. I cut and I cut until there is nothing left but the bare truth of you and you will not thank me for it in words. You will cry, because naked, you feel everything.

glass angels ii (excerpt)

There is beauty in being delicate, in being fragile. This may strike at the reason I find vulnerability so enticing – a magnet to the predatorial side of me. In it’s presence I feel both the need to devour and to protect.

I do not desire a partner who is not resilent; but those rare moments where she has let go so completely in the faith that my hands will be there to keep her still and safe…

We treasure most what is easiest lost.

***

And then the weight of the gathered angels, not perched on pins,
But on the delicate housing of a broken angel,
Shattered the house made of glass,
cutting clear to ebony bone, swift death
to the child of speculation and half-formed hopes.

Mastering Mentorship

My relationship with NE and her husband is an interesting one.

My friends don’t understand it.

My family doesn’t need to know about it.

But it works. So far, it works. A large part of this stems from a foundation of truth between all three of us. It is also fairly significant that we all are very compatible. I meet a need of NE’s that Bear hasn’t been all that interested in. We have lines of respect between us that make it clear where we each stand with each other and there’s plenty of friendship and love to fill in the gaps.

As mentioned, Bear hasn’t been all that interested in engaging in the type of play that NE and I share. NE and Bear have a very healthy sex life and he knows her body better than anyone, including me (my main focus is on the larger sex organ, the brain). He’s a smart, compassionate, capable person and I am proud to consider him a friend.

But dominant? Not particularly.

Last week, after dinner and on our way to see a movie, NE turned to me in the car and shared something I know was difficult for her to admit. Our play was spilling over, soaking into the fabric of her daily life. Her sex drive and her needs in this area were becoming ever more intricately linked.

I couldn’t help it. Only a bastard would smile at this (and the discomfort it was creating for her). But I am a bastard. I smiled and then pointed out that I had warned her of this at the beginning. Five years ago, when our play moved from the flirting of two people attracted to each other into the serious play of two people building a real connection, I warned her that she would eventually have trouble keeping this from affecting the rest of her life. The deeper she went, the deeper her needs would grow to become.

Sigh. She didn’t believe me then, and yet today she has no problem shooting me accusing glares for not giving her enough of a warning.

Because of this, NE and Bear are becoming more interested in sharing this area of play between themselves. As anyone involved in this lifestyles understands, there are levels and layers to this that allow every couple to find a fit that suits both involved individuals.

This conversation led to a – well, not really an uncomfortable silence, but perhaps an awkward pause – before NE managed to get out that Bear may be asking me for tips.

Ah. Me as a BDSM mentor. I’d dabbled before, but never seriously. I will agree that some personalities better lend themselves towards having a dominating bent – yet I also believe that a great deal can be taught if someone with the right will to learn.

Last Saturday, I gave him his first lesson. All three of us were returning from dinner – Bear was sitting in the back; NE was in the front next to me (as I drove) and behaving in a manner that indicated she wanted to be put in her place (you know the signs: sarcastic responses, biting witticisms, irritated aura of coiled tension). I turned to Bear and said, “When she gets like this, you need to remind her of where she stands with you.”

I slid my fingers through the back of her hair and tightened my grip to draw her head back while pulling her body into a taunt arch against the car seat. Her breathing immediately caught and her eyes closed. “Just do this. You don’t even have to look at her. Just grip her firmly.” Indeed, except for the initial glance in her direction, my eyes never left the road. I held her in that position for another few moments and then let her go.

If this story is to have a moral (and considering its’ source, that is debatable), it’s this: Setting yourself up to be played with by the two most important men in your life is dangerous. What will she do if Bear gets good at this?

Excerpts, Inherent

It was my intention to post NE’s entire letter regarding our recent scene.

I won’t. Her honesty in the letter burns through me and it is something I want to savor for a while yet.

But I will share a few excerpts.

***

If you’ve been reading my writing for very long, you will know I have a fascination with throats. A place of vulnerability. Of warmth. I am most often content to let my will be the collar that binds. Representation of this will can come in many forms – a slave bracelet, a choker – a look.

But I wanted something more substantial for this scene. To embrace it with an idea – to encircle it with a presence – to entrust it to leather existence as a physical reminder.

“I remember you put the collar on.

The feeling is incomparable to anything I know. Fucking black, thick leather. Not too tight, not too loose. It was just tight enough that when I bent my head back I could feel it constrict like your hand does. I was surprised that it matched my neck that way. Nonetheless, you did put your hand on my neck during this scene more often than you have lately. I remember that I kept falling into it.”

…a collar around the neck is not quite enough. You must be marked. Often my mark is in the ache of my attention, both in pleasure and pain; the echoes of teeth on nipples, a neck sore from being held so tightly. But there are times something more visceral is required…

“I remember standing with my back to you. I was…wait, I don’t know what I was wearing…but I felt sexy and open. My ass was bare, and you started kissing it. Then you said that you were going to leave marks on me today and that I would have to be strong. I love a fucking challenge. I imagined marks all over me. You taking your time and giving each one to me purposefully, making me wait for it. You bit me hard. I still have the bruise. But I didn’t jump; instead, and I don’t do this often, I just luxuriated in the pain. I knew at that moment you could have taken me very far that day…turns out that you did, but in a completely different way than I was thinking of at that moment. Then you just rubbed your warm hands over it and every time you did, I felt a pulse in my body, in my clit. The moments I live for…”

…and the place of truth. I grip fully, my hands on the back of your shoulders, throwing you forward.

“I remember being told to get dressed. I did. I remember you handing back each piece of my jewelry that you took off. I remember waiting for you to take off the collar, except that I knew you wouldn’t. I knew it. You had warned me during the last scene that I would be wearing it out. I know you, but still a part of me couldn’t believe that you would do it. You did. We went out.”

“…but having said all of this, it did make it easier. I wouldn’t have dared order my own food. I took your pulling me across the table by my collar to talk to me without question. It made it easier.”

And to NE’s unasked question, not seen here – you did not fail. These are not the sorts of tests that you can fail at. For you to fail as a submissive, is for me to fail as well (as the hand that guides you).

But if you are looking for a passing grade, then look no further than that first step out the door with my collar around your throat.

Crimson Handprints

I love spankings.

Let me start here, with your ass – there is something in the curves, the way it rounds out when you bend over. A woman bent over and presenting herself to be taken strikes on something primal – it is the position of an animal in heat. It makes me want to fuck with her. To pull her down. It makes me want to be animal enough to take her.

The first handprint left on her skin is crimson in color. It stands at odds with the pristine, unmarked skin around it.

Here is one sliver of my sadistic side, and here is how it works. My pleasure is not in how I am inflicting pain, but that she is accepting it. That she is thriving on it. There is a degree of enjoyment in my implements: hands, flogger, paddle. But the true measure of my sadism is how much I simply love feeling her squirm, hear her gasps of pain slide along that steady crescendo into pleasure and tranquility of self.

Speaking of tranquility…