Blood, Sex, Crimson

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

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.

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

I think we all have a habit of writing stories in our heads. Rehearsing conversations before they happen, re-writing moments long after they are behind us. My stories have a theme. The plots change, but the intent remains the same. Of course, I have to wonder – where does the hero of the story go next? Save a damsel, slay theevil witch, retire to Florida…

Why not? It’s what I would do.

There was quiet in the way he stood behind her, a silence of intent felt not just in the firm grip his hands had on her waist, but in the subtle presence of his body along her back and the heat of his breath tickling the nape of her neck. A quiet born of patience.

She feared and hungered for his hands, his teeth, his lips. For what they brought out of her. For what they reduced her to. She recalled the last time he had come for her. Each time she had felt fingers there when she had expected them here. Each t ime she had gasped in surprise from the sharp sensation of fingernails digging into skin where she had expected a gentle touch. He had written poetry on her thighs and whispered secrets against her breasts. He had pulled her under again and again, letting her up for air just long enough for a single breath before taking her down again. It was in moments made of these, that was she was laid bare and he feasted. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes temptation was a sin worth losing yourself in.

Into the stillness of temptation he spoke.

“Do you remember? Can your skin recall the feel? Yes. Yes, you do, you remember in places you thought well hidden.”

His hands moved gracefully around her waist, meeting in the front; she felt fingers trace the edge of her shirt, tempting the line between fabric and flesh. Just a shirt. Just a shirt between him and her. Carefully, it seemed, his fingers curled around the edge and she felt fingertips brush the surface of her skin.

Her body trembled quietly as she drew in a deep breath, almost scared to breathe while assaulted with the delicate, almost torturing touch of his fingertips. Fingertips moved upwards, under the edge of the shirt, traced along the edge, against bare skin and the top of her thigh. His fingers slid with a slow purpose around to the back and then down along the smooth skin to the back of her knee. Like a whisper, his breath brushed across the back of her neck, the warm presence of his body against her pressed just a bit closer. The subtle shift of his body accompanied his hands as they pressed across the front, shifted positions under the shirt, and found the front of her thighs…