Елена by Sergey Yakubitskiy on 500px
a motto I live by :-)
Top: ‘Shell’ (1927)
Bottom: ‘Nude’ (1936)
by American photographer Edward Weston (1886-1958).
Some shells are easier to peel away than others. Some are perhaps best left intact. Some merely take patience, and when that patience pays off, the rewards are immense.
"Mine" may sound of ownership;
Of oblation brought
To bear on another’s will.
That’s fucking swill.
Listen to to her;
Watch her, as he speaks
That sacred term—
It implies a willing offering—
A gift she gives,
And is given in return.
If you were the parent of a petulant child — not an infant, or a toddler, but a child who was old enough to know better — a child who, when offended, or when angered because he did not get what he wanted, felt justified in striking out and doing harm — wouldn’t you be ashamed? Wouldn’t you be…
- 368 plays
She possesses the strength, the intellect, the inherent worth to intimidate—to dominate—nearly the whole of humanity. Yet, she searches for the one who will not buckle beneath her strength; who will not be intimidated by her own mental prowess; who will not hide his eyes from the brilliant light that she exudes—the one to whom she might bow without a flicker of shame in her heart.
I’ve had a busy busy busy week in that other life they call “real” …
So to those who bother to follow … many many apologies for the extended absence … the smut shall live again soon …
Off on a plane Tuesday morning … back to Oz … back to Wonderland … back to inspiration …
Back where I belong …
Pained By Numbers
Hands - You should probably start here. Get those flailing limbs, those feigned protestations, out of the way as soon as you can. Loop the rope around the wrists, figure eight maybe, and then start to run it up the arms. Keep folding back and around, cinching it and twisting it a little tighter. Smile, maybe, when she puts on a pained expression. Any discontent should be replied with a light slap, or a quick spank. Allow yourself half a thought of how pretty she will look, how pretty she does look, how pretty she did look. Marvel at how the change is already manifesting.
Arms - Lattice. Wind up and up like a vine, pulling ever tighter. Make sure not to forget that this pushes her chest out, makes her breasts lie against her in the most beautiful pert way. Perhaps tweak a nipple, she likes that no matter how many times she gasps or cries out. Just look at how they stand up, how she bites her lip the moment after, the utter, complete lack of sincerity in her voice when she complains. Don’t forget the spank, the slap. Force the elbows together with another loop, another turn.
Feet - More flailing limbs, more to tie down and keep still. The arms are just a stub, now, an ungainly mess of rope and flesh behind her, only useful as an uncomfortable pillow for her back. So take her feet out of the equation. Stroke her calf, appreciate the swell of it. Tie them to the bedposts, wrap the rope around it and then pull, let her feel the tug of the rope as it spreads her legs. Do it slowly, take your time. Watch her cunt as it is exposed. Watch her blush as it materialises on her cheeks. Maybe laugh, maybe say something about how wholly beautiful she is when she is nothing but sex and bondage. Watch her blush some more.
Body - You have time. You can draw this out. You can wrap her up so tight, for so long, that she forgets what movement felt like. Bring another length around the rope at her wrists, down between her spread legs, up against her belly. Thread it between those swollen lips, hear her gasp. Draw it tight, then let it slack a little more. Tie it off and watch her squirm.
Mouth - Knot the rope a few times, create a wad of fibre and threading, and shove it between those pretty lips, turn every complaint, plead, desperate attempt at turning this into something that isn’t exactly what both of you want, into nothing but mumbled sounds, soaked in saliva and lust. Let her taste the last time she was trussed up like this, the way she would gush onto the rope like she was trying to dye it the colour of sex.
You - Grin. Like a loon. Like the cat that got the cream, the canary, the mouse, the whatever. Beam like the moon, like you’re moony, loony, a crazed lunatic, a free radical bouncing from cell to cell spreading your disease. Take the vibrator and turn her into a puddle, take the flogger and temper her into steel, take your hand and make her melt or squeal, whichever takes your fancy. Enjoy, sate yourself, consume all you want to consume.
Rinse and repeat.