It wasn’t there to begin with. No trace of it at all.
And then it slipped in, hiding between shadows, whispering.
Until eventually it was everywhere, whirling around and confusing everything, getting in the way, upsetting things, making noise.
I wanted to shut it out again, to make it go away, make everything like before it ever happened. Rediscover quiet spaces.
But once it was there it could not be denied. Instead it took shape, it demanded consideration, it coloured everything.
In actions and appetites and every breath.
In dreams and on waking; the moment between most vivid of all.
As if a phoenix … I become fire … I become ashes … I become the cycle of life returning …
As if in growth … is my own death preordained … as if in destruction … is my own resurrection ensured …
Gentle love … trusted sorcerer … be my darkness … show me light …
Gentle dreamer … this fire is ours … the ashes our testament … each sunrise one new day …
Arise with me then … dearest soul … come and join me on the wind … let the flames forever engulf us …
This is our dance … this is our way … come and watch me burn for you …
There’s a story to be told. Of early birds rising and busy streets below the window of a loft. Unexpected smiles, furtive glances and stolen hours of weltschmerz and hysterical laughter. Wafts of Kate Bush and poetry and the scents from the bakery ovens in the early hours. Hands clawing at already tender skin and bruises that lingered a lifetime. Of croissants and black coffee, crumbs between the crumpled sheets and wistful glances at the rising sun while waiting for the next night to cover us.
Notjustcookies, croissants too.
Property … such an easy concept to invoke … such a lovely fantasy …
How often is it said … I am yours … I am yours … do what you will …
But how many truly mean what they say … might think to live out their own protestations of devotion … in the face of true challenge …
My way has been more than ordinarily difficult … forcing me to travel the depths of emotional extremity … test that edge … as most would never dare to do … knowing it more than madness …
Forcing me to test my own will … my own protestations … my own commitment …
I am yours … I am yours …
A born slave … with only one Master … once in a great while the fantasy is real … the words are true … no less a revelation for myself to comprehend as it may be for him …
He is the one I choose … my only love …
“Sometimes you want to say, “I love you, but…”
Yet the “but” takes away the ‘I love you’. In love their are no ‘buts’ or ‘if’s’ or ‘when’. It’s just there, and always. No beginning, no end. It’s the condition-less state of the heart. Not a feeling that comes and goes at the whim of the emotions. It is there in our heart, a part of our heart…eventually grafting itself into each limb and cell of our bodies. Love changes our brain, the way we move and talk. Love lives in our spirit and graces us with its presence each day, until death.
To say “I love you, but….” is to say, “I did not love you at all”.
I say this to you now: I love you, with no beginning, no end. I love you as you have become an extra necessary organ in my body. I love you as only a girl could love a boy. Without fear. Without expectations. Wanting nothing in return, except that you allow me to keep you here in my heart, that I may always know your strength, your eyes, and your spirit that gave me freedom and let me fly.”
― Coco J. Ginger
There is trouble in the air … devils roaming underfoot … each with its own aims … soft knowing smiles on dissolute faces …
Is this feeling of electric light to be borne … a fever spreads and skin shivers … every nerve finding its fire … its one true end … a sensation of destruction come and gone …
Like burnt flesh in the sun … too many hours … rays of relentless penetration … Lucifer knows this game well … and never loses …
But the cool water of oblivion calls again … the night is there still … possessed of its devils always … its myriad dark embraces …
And so the fire will be there too … ever present … when fevers return … such will not be denied …
For now though the quiet of silence … come lie with me love … know comfort in what it tells … know darkness … know all …
by Ana Markezic
The Audacity of Strangers
The text was waiting for him when he surfaced out of the underground. To tell the truth, he felt a little ambushed, but he smiled anyway, still in a good mood. It was poor form, really, to text so soon. Put a little too much power in his hands. Maybe that was the idea.
He let it sit. If only to think, and properly construct his reply. Her message had been pretty blunt, her request polite, even if the contents weren’t. Or at least what was inferred wasn’t. She had to know. She seemed innocent, was definitely cute, but she didn’t appear to be naive. Not that naive.
He would check that message on the way home. The count was four times by the time he put the key in the lock, and there was another pair as he put on the kettle, poured himself a cup of tea. Once the steam had left the surface of the mug, the mug itself had been drained, he’d looked at it two more times. In truth, he was still a little surprised at how brazen she’d been. In all honesty, he was happily perplexed.
He could just acquiesce, agree and see what happened. But there was this twitch at the corner of his eye, fraying at the edge of his consciousness, that maybe that would make him an arsehole, that he’d be taking advantage of a girl a few years his junior, and he should know better. It wasn’t quite a conscience, that sensation. Just some moral safety net, the answer to the question he should always be asking.
Which meant he was probably overthinking things. So he replied. Told her that if she did come to his flat, did see him twice in one day, there would be a very specific and obvious outcome.
It was thirty seconds before she replied, and he could, without any uncertainty, hear her voice as he read the words. A simple affirmation. Yes, she knew, yes she still wanted to come, yes, she’d do what she was told. Yes, it said, she was a good girl.
Well if that wasn’t the darndest thing. He cleaned his bedroom, made the bed, put the clothes away, emptied the bin and tidied the desk. Found something soft and just a little too earnest and let the sound fill the room. Then he put on his coat and left, headed to the station.
She was half drunk when she was burped clear of the stairs, stumbling a little on too-high heels before she embraced him. Not so brazen, then, to be able to do a thing like this without a little help along the way. If anything, that made him even more attracted to her, to the courage that her being there displayed. He slipped a hand around her waist, let the night settle comfortably around them as they walked home.
They kissed for half a second in the doorway. He could tell she wanted to be held a little longer, delay things in one last ditch attempt to save her from herself, but he didn’t want to give her an opportunity to get cold feet, knew momentum was important. He gave her a little nudge as she took the first step up the stairs, and she stumbled again, let out a little apology to no one in particular, and he felt another swell of arousal.
He kissed her on the second landing. Let his hands do what they wanted, found a handful of bum, another on her chest. She whimpered, that little plaintive sound that was halfway between embarrassment and happiness, and he bit her bottom lip in response. He pulled her up the last flight of stairs, and paused for a moment.
"Last chance." His voice was soft, or as soft as he could make it.
He shook his head.
"No. I want you to say you want it, that you know what’s going to happen when we go past that door." He watched her swallow.
"I know. I want it." She was lying, at least about that first part. She didn’t know what he was going to do. But that was why she was shaking a little. That was why she was here, to slip into the unknown, find something new. He smiled, kissed the tip of her nose.
"Well then, let’s see what shapes you make in the dark." She giggled at that, and he laughed a little too. He opened the door, the soft tones of some anonymous female singer wafting into the hallway, like a siren song coaxing them into the darkness of the corridor, the pitch of his bedroom. He took her hand and they fell into it.
“Man can never know the loneliness a woman knows. Man lies in the woman’s womb only to gather strength, he nourishes himself from this fusion, and then he rises and goes into the world, into his work, into battle, into art. He is not lonely. He is busy. The memory of the swim in amniotic fluid gives him energy, completion. Woman may be busy too, but she feels empty. Sensuality for her is not only a wave of pleasure in which she is bathed, and a charge of electric joy at contact with another. When man lies in her womb, she is fulfilled, each act of love a taking of man within her, an act of birth and rebirth, of child rearing and man bearing. Man lies in her womb and is reborn each time anew with a desire to act, to be. But for woman, the climax is not in the birth, but in the moment man rests inside of her.”
― Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934
My name has become
synonymous with “whore.”
A word spat from the side of the mouth
for a woman with no pride,
and no breeding.
It has been forgotten
that I was a queen and that
I only ever knew my husband
No, what I was guilty of
was idolatry; I built shrines
to those unworthy of worship, and prayed
upon altars gilded with promises
fallen from the velvet tongues
of priests. Haven’t we all fallen
into that trap? How often have you knelt
to those who did no kneeling?
In my heart I swallowed the lies.
My only crime was belief. My gods
were too near and I loved them
too deeply. It’s for this I was branded
and for this I was condemned;
torn to pieces by dogs for loyalty.
Before my accusers came,
I met myself in the mirror;
lined my eyes with kohl,
reddened my lips with carmine—
all the better to show my teeth.
I dressed my hair in jewels and bells.
I donned loveliness like armor,
and went to meet my death.
For this, I was called wanton;
for this, I paid the price in
infamy. Heaven forbid a woman
learn to wield her body like a weapon.
heaven forbid she find her strength
I stood in the window
with the prophet glaring up at me.
They say the fire on his tongue
compelled my servants’ grappling
and I fell to my death.
That is a lie; I leapt. Even that
they could not take from me.
-Joie Martin, “Jezebel” — (starsthrewdown)
"Are you ready?"
Of all the times she’d heard that question, this was the first where she’d considered a No. Normally it was accompanied with a thrill, a three word shot of adrenaline that sent her heartrate sprinting, and tumbled a dozen fantasies through her mind in a waterfall of depravity. Normally she was so caught up in what was about to happen the actuality of it came as a surprise.
She knew she was going to say yes. He knew it, too, even if it took her a little longer to utter that little word, the agreed honorific following quickly afterwards. But that was important, in its own way, a moment to gather thoughts and steel oneself before whatever delicious horror was visited upon them. She wiggled her butt, and he just about managed to keep hold of his laughter. It was adorable.
"I’m ready, mister."
Her voice was little, all wrapped up in anxiety and earnest conflict, and he indulged in the thought that perhaps he could just stop, not go through with it and just fuck her instead. Maybe even divert into a happy bout of spanking, leave her red and raw, but a familiar kind of hurt. Something he knew she could handle, didn’t have to worry that she would go a little loopy.
"Ok, take a breath." He watched her little frame inflate a little, back arch out away from the bed, making her bottom dip down slightly. Then she curved her spine, looked almost feline, stretched.
His finger was glistening with it. It almost looked like lubrication, were it not for the telltale little fleck of red lurking inside the liquid. They seemed malicious, thugs in an alley waiting to ambush some poor unsuspecting victim. He reached down, spread her cheeks, and lightly dabbed the stuff around that gorgeous little pucker.
The reaction was pretty immediate. There was a gasp, a slight tension surging through her, and then she began to tremble. Trembles turned to slow shakes, turned to wriggles, squirms, until she was whimpering, writhing on the bed.
He slid his finger into his mouth, felt the spice take hold on his tongue and then wash away after a few moments. It felt like a mockery, at least then, to so happily deal with it when she was completely debilitated. To just enjoy the light burn, and then be done with it, when she was aflame.
It went on for a minute before she started to calm. It was like watching the initial reaction in reverse, seeing her movements descended back through violent to passive, until she was just lightly trembling on the bed again, eyes closed and thumb latched between her lips. He took a tissue, wiped her poor abused hole clean, and lay down with her, took her into his arms.
There were words he could say. A reassurance, or some sort of praise, but she was so incredibly peaceful like that. She was lost, happily, and it felt like the slightest sound would shatter that sensation, wrench her out of it and force her to think and dwell on what had just happened. He didn’t want her to do that, not yet, and so he just lay there. Let the scent of her hair tug him towards whatever place she was swimming in.
I lay on the bed … half in sleep … half in this world … and he is close … so very close … there is warmth … there are sighs … there is life …
From the heights of emotional overload … to this … this perfect peace … nothing but his quiet … his presence … his all …
Don’t speak love … you do well to just lay with me here … quiet and still … there is no need to break this silent spell … no better end than your heart so near … my own heart beating …
No need for anything more … than to live in such moments …
Only offer what you are … and the world shall all be yours …
Direction and Acceptance
One of the many joys of being a Dom and experiencing the submission of a willing accomplice is the ability to direct the action. I do not mean barking orders or having my way physically with a sub. No, what I am referring to in this instance is the ability to direct her actions upon herself; when she is her own tormentor, ravisher, or enchanter acting solely in response to my thoughts and words. It is a grown-up version of playing the puppeteer, pulling the strings of the marionette. This is not your father’s cheesy puppet show though; no early black and white television Kukla, Fran and Ollie is this. No, this is very real, and highly erotic.
In life, we all want to be the producer, director and leading actor of our own play. If only all the other actors would just do as they were told, would read the script we have written for them, say their lines on cue. If only the scenery were just so, everything would be perfect! We would be completely happy. Trouble is, not only do the other actors in real life not read our lines on cue; they have their own scripts, and their own plays where they are the star. How dare they! So we rail against life and struggle to get everyone in their positions on cue, reciting the lines we have prepared for them. Rarely if ever does it work. If only we possessed the acceptance of a submissive.
In the parallel universe we call D/s, we can actually construct the stage and set, write the script and musical score, and direct the action and dialogue as we so desire. But it takes a willing accomplice, a submissive that shares the same vision and is willing to apply the extreme level of acceptance to our direction that would seemingly serve us all so well in life. In so doing, she fulfills many of her own desires but also her Dom’s wish to exercise absolute control, or at least revel in the illusion of doing so. The curtain goes up, the Dom directs and the sub plays her part.
This is particularly poignant when I direct my Muse to act not upon me but upon herself for better or worse. It is one thing to direct her to please me in some way, but directing her to please or deny herself takes submission to an entirely different level. Not only must she act upon my direction but also must exhibit the will to suffer or revel in the sensations brought by her own hand. Start, stop. Faster, slower. Harder, softer. I command the action and pace, she performs the deed and experiences the consequences, gladly, willingly, and submissively.
This to me is one of the extreme forms of submission and indeed requires a remarkable level of simultaneous self-will and acceptance on the part of a submissive. It is a powerful paradox that she displays; the will to carry out the deed by her own hand and the acceptance to tolerate its effects, all in response to my wishes. Can there be anything more rewarding than this for a Dom? This is not about my physical gratification; this is about extreme mental and emotional gratification.
Sure, every Dom wants to get his rocks off and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. Who doesn’t? But the real depth, the real joy for me is in the thrill and sense of honor, duty and responsibility I feel when my Muse propels herself into these most submissive moments. My proverbial living puppet.
But what cannot be sensed and enjoyed from a mere puppet is the very human reaction such experiences bring. The ecstasy and delicious frustration as I command her to please herself, edging or peaking over and over again, permitting unrelenting pleasure while denying desperately sought release. Or conversely the agony and relentless desire for cessation when I direct her to pinch here or squeeze there, harder and harder, as the pain tries desperately to overcome the will. I love to observe the internal struggle played out across her face between self-will and self-preservation whether in pain or pleasure, most likely a mixture of both. This is when I experience her submission in one of its richest and deepest forms. This is when she gives herself to me as no other can or would. This is when I feel a depth of gratitude for her indescribable.
For a brief time, I am actually the director and producer of my own play, yet never the leading actor. That honor has always been, and will always be, reserved for none other than my Muse.
Caption © For The Love of a Submissive, 2012
Image Credit Unknown
Pain does try …
The immovable force meeting relentless will …
By my own hand do I shine …
Do I show …
Show all …
His puppet with a difference …
A deeper shade of desire …
A play within a play …
Though I write my own lines …
The drama is all his ….
Or rather ours …
The circle is inseparable from itself …
The dreamer from the dreamed …
The lover from the loved …
We are surely one …