The Cross
To begin was the working of a well worn path. The cross of many uses; so often used.
There is no thought in the moment of surrender. Only an intent to be.
Watch that deceptively agile strip of leather fly through sky. It dances in the hand of a Master. It lands with purpose.
Watch the weight of his spoken unspoken land just so: wordlessly. More communication in each of those final vicious blows than a million conversations. 
Then watch her fly.
Watch her fall at the end. Exhausted from their journey; driven somewhere far by the hand that cared.
Knowing only one place. Here is the one who drives me so, and brings me home. This is my rest.
Watch them there together. Beauty can find no grace without its testing.
And yet I’ve seen it.

The Cross

To begin was the working of a well worn path. The cross of many uses; so often used.

There is no thought in the moment of surrender. Only an intent to be.

Watch that deceptively agile strip of leather fly through sky. It dances in the hand of a Master. It lands with purpose.

Watch the weight of his spoken unspoken land just so: wordlessly. More communication in each of those final vicious blows than a million conversations.

Then watch her fly.

Watch her fall at the end. Exhausted from their journey; driven somewhere far by the hand that cared.

Knowing only one place. Here is the one who drives me so, and brings me home. This is my rest.

Watch them there together. Beauty can find no grace without its testing.

And yet I’ve seen it.

(via rolledtrousers)

Imagine With Me
It’s been suggested to me that I create my own scenarios … as though my life is the story … a thing to be imagined and created like anything else …
That’s very much so … but with a caveat …
He has been like inspiration and editor both … there is no subject without an object … all of it refined by an interaction of fact with fiction … truth with embellishment …
I don’t create alone … he stays for the ride … always … never disabusing me of all my “silly notions” …
I write the play … but he directs it … with each in our roles … at home in a dangerous land …
So that every idea that went uncorrected … built on the last … until my scenarios became his as well … by default or design … we imagined as one …
What’s mine given over … to set the stage … where in truth we could walk together …

Imagine With Me

It’s been suggested to me that I create my own scenarios … as though my life is the story … a thing to be imagined and created like anything else …

That’s very much so … but with a caveat …

He has been like inspiration and editor both … there is no subject without an object … all of it refined by an interaction of fact with fiction … truth with embellishment …

I don’t create alone … he stays for the ride … always … never disabusing me of all my “silly notions” …

I write the play … but he directs it … with each in our roles … at home in a dangerous land …

So that every idea that went uncorrected … built on the last … until my scenarios became his as well … by default or design … we imagined as one …

What’s mine given over … to set the stage … where in truth we could walk together …

(via thereluctantoptimist)

redmacha:

Beautiful

There are men too gentle to live among wolvesWho prey upon them with IBM eyesAnd sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.There are men too gentle for a savage worldWho dream instead of snow and children and HalloweenAnd wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.
There are men too gentle to live among wolvesWho anoint them for burial with greedy clawsAnd murder them for a merchant’s profit and gain.There are men too gentle for a corporate worldWho dream instead of candied apples and ferris wheelsAnd pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.
There are men too gentle to live among wolvesWho devour them with eager appetite and searchFor other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.There are men too gentle for an accountant’s worldWho dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grassAnd search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.
There are men too gentle to live among wolvesWho toss them like a lost and wounded dove.Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant’s world,Unless they have a gentle one to love.
James Kavanaugh
High-res

redmacha:

Beautiful

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.
There are men too gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant’s profit and gain.
There are men too gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of candied apples and ferris wheels
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who devour them with eager appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.
There are men too gentle for an accountant’s world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove.
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant’s world,
Unless they have a gentle one to love.

James Kavanaugh

(via erospainter)

I post that last piece not so much because it’s an exact reflection of myself … though there are certainly aspects that would apply … it’s more from respect for the author’s audacity and accepting knowledge of herself …

Be honest … be who you are … whoever that may be …

Clearing things up

artofbabalon:

Let’s just make a few things absolutely clear.

I am not a good girl.
I do not kneel for just anyone.
I do not serve.
I am not in want or need of a good spanking.
I am not a little girl, I already have a father and I will not be calling you ‘daddy’.

I am *not* a good little submissive - whatever the fuck you think that means.

I am a whore. I choose who I give myself to, and I expect to get something in return for my troubles. We’ll start with your time, attention and care.

If I don’t kneel, make me. If you can’t make me without telling me it’s ‘part of the deal’, well… There’s no place for you here.

Don’t spank me, beat me. If you want tears, earn them.

And I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want to call you. If you want it to be something nice, you’d best earn my respect first.

I do not serve. I am. And what I am is filth. Let these things we do be an acknowledgement, a celebration of who we truly are. Don’t tell me your rules and expect me to follow them. I am a woman, not a robot.

Oh, and women? Have some fucking self respect. When he’s pissing on you, let it be because you want it. When he spits in your eager mouth, let it be because you can allow him to do that to you without shaking your sense of self. And every time he hits it, let it be because you’re strong enough to take it. You deserve it, because we all deserve to get a bit of what we want.

We don’t take it because we have to. We don’t take it because it’s all we’re worth.

We take it because we can. Because we are strong. And because we revel in the depravity.

30 Days Of Dominance

artofbabalon:

celmaimaretsiglorios:

Day 1 - Does your Dominance – either what you practice or what you strive for – have a label? Do you view your preferred Dominant style as Taken in Hand, Domestic Discipline, Top/bottom, Dominant/submissive, Master/slave, Owner/pet, or some other description or combination? If you do not use a…

I really like this as a piece of writing - and most particularly as an answer. It’s honest, and that honesty has a kind of elegance to it.

It’s not every Dom who’s willing to say he’s learning - but in my experience, the best ones recognise they always are. This lifestyle - because I think it is a lifestyle - is about growth, discovery, and a willingness to observe and service the needs of another. Dominance and submission aren’t so dissimilar in that respect. We both look to our partner to know what we should do next.

I like this writing. It made me smile. Not just another guy who wants to be called Master and worshipped. This one might just get it…

what is your deepest darkest sexual fantasy?

Asked by topjames2

artofbabalon:

I don’t really have ‘deep, dark fantasies’. I wear my perversity openly, and living out those dark thoughts has long been the purpose of life, so far as life has a purpose. The thoughts that flicker through my head when I’m alone are pretty tame. Or at least, they don’t tend to involve anything that I don’t do in real life.

It’s a lame answer, I know. But I’m always miffed when I get asked this. What are people looking for? Some secret about me they didn’t already know? I’m a filthy whore, surely my fantasies won’t come as a shock. Or perhaps they’re looking for that thing they can do to me that no one ever has, the thing that will make me soar? But for me the deep satisfaction comes from fulfilling fantasies, not living them out.

I like to be the girl that lets you do the thing you always wanted to do, but never have. The girl that never says no. The girl that takes your deepest, darkest fantasy and not only makes it a reality, but celebrates with you and loves you most for the thing you refused to share with others for fear of shame.

My deepest, darkest fantasy is to be the whore who accepts all and refuses none.

And if there is anything I fantasise about and haven’t done… Well. I am confident enough in the imaginative, sadistic men in my life that I’m not foolish enough to band those things around on my blog. They might just read it and make it happen. As suicidal as my fantasies may often be, my rational head reminds me that I do, in fact, quite like breathing….

Tales to Tell
The old willow in the back yard was telling tales to the wind. Each gathering of tiny leaves like so many whispering wives at Saturday brunch.
So many stories to tell. Penknife scratches on withered bark; a most fitting testament. All those lives so very lived. The old tree knew a thousand thousand secrets.
The leaves brushed Cherry’s cheek. She found it safe here. Even though the branches muttered and moaned. “Run along little one”, the tree seemed to say, “there’s weather coming”.
Her eyes were still wet. Just as he’d left her. He was always leaving as it happened. Happy go lucky wanderers aren’t meant for keeping. But he always came back with such an angelic smile. It was easy to forget.
Or impossible to forget. It had been just over the ridge in that beat up car of his that he’d had her first. Sweaty Sunday night after some long lost picnic. The confident come hither smile and devious mind. She never could resist such brave ideas.
He was forever seeming to ask too much; and also too little. The more he had asked the more she had wanted to give. Only to be left standing with hands open in the rain.
What was this wet in her eyes anyway? Just the rain perhaps. Tears never served much purpose.
And yet this time was different. He hadn’t left as such, not this time. Been driven off by that same wind that was now being such a bother to this tree. Helpless tool in the hands of fate. To be remarkable is not to be invincible.
The sun had set a while back and it had gotten chilly, but rather than retreat she merely pulled her jacket a little tighter. Hugged the tree a little closer. It seemed to sigh for her in the rising moonlight.
In a most unexpected change of habit he had asked her to wait this time. No quick disappearing act to leave her as speechless as he. Rather than that just a simple request, albeit still delivered in careless offhanded prose.
"Wait here, I’ll be back".
Yet she knew, and he knew she knew, that he really couldn’t say for sure.
So here she sat. Just her and the jaded old tree, weeping its endless sympathies. The bright moon creeping into every crevice of the surrounding terrain. Leaving nowhere to hide.
Was it hours. Was it days. She felt she had dozed but wasn’t sure. The darkness was everywhere except for that moon, and it seemed that day might never come again.
"Wait here, I’ll be back".
The wind still whispered what his voice had spoken. As though to command her.
So she stretched. And she shivered. And she closed her eyes tight to the brightness she could no longer bear. But she did not flinch.
Happy go lucky wanderers are sometimes worth waiting for. And sometimes the only course you know is the one you’re given.
It could have been forever, or it could have been an instant. Thinking back on it she really couldn’t tell. All she would remember after was the sun creeping up in the sky.
And his smile.
"You waited", he laughed. But then of course he would laugh. He was laughter and love brought to life. And here he’d come back. Just as he said.
For long seconds it was as if she’d grown roots with the tree, bonded to it for all eternity. But the willow was having none of that. Branches brushing her cheek with more urgent insistence.
"Off you go".
Still whispering. Still telling tales. Still saving secrets.
And here then was one more for its trove of treasure. Eyes wet from a different kind of rain. The kind that heals.
Arms and legs winding like branches entwining. Wordless questions that need no more answers. Sighs and sounds and breathlessness.
A withered old tree still thinking its own twisted thoughts. That waiting is naught but a silly fool’s crusade. As its tales could endlessly tell.
But on this day, at least on this day, fate was kind.

Copyright @ 2014 Borntodance

Tales to Tell

The old willow in the back yard was telling tales to the wind. Each gathering of tiny leaves like so many whispering wives at Saturday brunch.

So many stories to tell. Penknife scratches on withered bark; a most fitting testament. All those lives so very lived. The old tree knew a thousand thousand secrets.

The leaves brushed Cherry’s cheek. She found it safe here. Even though the branches muttered and moaned. “Run along little one”, the tree seemed to say, “there’s weather coming”.

Her eyes were still wet. Just as he’d left her. He was always leaving as it happened. Happy go lucky wanderers aren’t meant for keeping. But he always came back with such an angelic smile. It was easy to forget.

Or impossible to forget. It had been just over the ridge in that beat up car of his that he’d had her first. Sweaty Sunday night after some long lost picnic. The confident come hither smile and devious mind. She never could resist such brave ideas.

He was forever seeming to ask too much; and also too little. The more he had asked the more she had wanted to give. Only to be left standing with hands open in the rain.

What was this wet in her eyes anyway? Just the rain perhaps. Tears never served much purpose.

And yet this time was different. He hadn’t left as such, not this time. Been driven off by that same wind that was now being such a bother to this tree. Helpless tool in the hands of fate. To be remarkable is not to be invincible.

The sun had set a while back and it had gotten chilly, but rather than retreat she merely pulled her jacket a little tighter. Hugged the tree a little closer. It seemed to sigh for her in the rising moonlight.

In a most unexpected change of habit he had asked her to wait this time. No quick disappearing act to leave her as speechless as he. Rather than that just a simple request, albeit still delivered in careless offhanded prose.

"Wait here, I’ll be back".

Yet she knew, and he knew she knew, that he really couldn’t say for sure.

So here she sat. Just her and the jaded old tree, weeping its endless sympathies. The bright moon creeping into every crevice of the surrounding terrain. Leaving nowhere to hide.

Was it hours. Was it days. She felt she had dozed but wasn’t sure. The darkness was everywhere except for that moon, and it seemed that day might never come again.

"Wait here, I’ll be back".

The wind still whispered what his voice had spoken. As though to command her.

So she stretched. And she shivered. And she closed her eyes tight to the brightness she could no longer bear. But she did not flinch.

Happy go lucky wanderers are sometimes worth waiting for. And sometimes the only course you know is the one you’re given.

It could have been forever, or it could have been an instant. Thinking back on it she really couldn’t tell. All she would remember after was the sun creeping up in the sky.

And his smile.

"You waited", he laughed. But then of course he would laugh. He was laughter and love brought to life. And here he’d come back. Just as he said.

For long seconds it was as if she’d grown roots with the tree, bonded to it for all eternity. But the willow was having none of that. Branches brushing her cheek with more urgent insistence.

"Off you go".

Still whispering. Still telling tales. Still saving secrets.

And here then was one more for its trove of treasure. Eyes wet from a different kind of rain. The kind that heals.

Arms and legs winding like branches entwining. Wordless questions that need no more answers. Sighs and sounds and breathlessness.

A withered old tree still thinking its own twisted thoughts. That waiting is naught but a silly fool’s crusade. As its tales could endlessly tell.

But on this day, at least on this day, fate was kind.

Copyright @ 2014 Borntodance

(via just-me-sassy)