One of the hardest and most rewarding aspects of being a writer (if I dare call myself that), is listening to one’s inner voice. My inner voice has been speaking to me for some time now, but I have not been willing to listen. We all have a journey and the last year has largely been about sharing my journey with you. At the beginning, all I wanted was a private place to write where I could express my appreciation of art and the women that have been part of my life. But then I discovered that my anonymity gave me a place to explore and communicate my most intense passions. And I did that, not only in words but in real life. In that exploration, I grew and matured personally. While I was on this journey, I felt myself passing through new doors. It was like I had left one room and entered another. I literally could feel the change happening within me. And then I would try to write as though I were in the previous room and found that I could not do it. The current direction of this blog does not feel authentic inside my spirit. I still have this deep love of women, but it does not feel as fierce. It feels more tender, caring and responsible. My inner, lyrical poetic voice has not found its new center and I continue think about all of my responsibilities as an executive, and advocate for the arts and as a father. There have only been a few times recently where I felt compelled to write and those were about protecting women, standing up against abuse and other similar situations that align with my inner values. I have changed and my blog must change to reflect the new realities within me. I realize that many of you follow me because many of my posts are fierce, erotic and poetic. I will understand if you decide to unfollow, though I hope that you will stay. There will always be some sensual aspects of my writing. It is who I am. If I could use a metaphor, I have been sailing between these islands for a year now. And though I largely sail this big ship alone, it is time I headed out into the open waters. I hear the gentle winds calling my name as the sun reflects off deep waters. It is time for me to go.
For those that know me well, they know that there is a storm that constantly rages within me. I do my best to constantly sail through this storm, always battling myself, and it is no surprise that I also occasionally charter large sailing yachts in my real life.
There are times, however, when the storm inside of me is so fierce that I am unable to sail. Though I reef the main and pull in the jib, my own inner storm becomes such a tempest that I am unable to to navigate. The water just boils and heaves around me, leaving me cautious and uncertain.
I have found that it is far better to summon one’s courage to sail through such storms than to simply wait for it to pass. So it is with that, that I write the rest of this piece, part as a confession and part as counsel to any young or emerging Dom that may happen upon this post.
In truth, my experience sailing is about equivalent to my experience as a Dom. I can sail a large yacht and give clear direction to a crew, but there is still so much to learn and so many experiences I have not yet had. As time has progressed here in the last several years, I have become a much more experienced and capable captain, similar to my experience as a Dom. I have both successes and failures to my credit.
Sailing a large yacht well can fill one with confidence and this sense of mastery of the complex. I remember this spring, I had chartered a 43 foot Beneteau. It was a beautiful day and we were sailing with the wind. I instructed to crew to put out the spinnaker pole and we sailed wing on wing, reaching a perfect cruising speed. The sun reflected off the blue waters and I felt a great sense of harmony, joy and accomplishment. The moment and the experience felt perfect.
Yet, it is just when one is feeling most comfortable as a new captain that one is quickly reminded of the overwhelming power of wind and the ferocity of the sea.
Similarly I have thought about the relationships in my life. I have had relationships, even long ones, where there simply was no wind in our sails. The joy, the lightness, the play, the erotic sexuality were all missing. There was no “dynamic”, at least in the way that I like to think about the joyous dynamic between a man and a woman.
I have had another relationship where the wind did fill our sails. The boat just glided through the water effortlessly and I remember being so filled with the joy of our play. And though there were difficult moments, we kept fine tuning and improving until we hit that harmonic frequency where a sailboat just hums in its perfection.
Now listen to me young men. This is exactly the moment where you are most vulnerable and must be at your absolute best. Do not take that moment for granted. Do not be too impressed with your own mastery and skill. Always remember that the woman’s belief and trust in you is the wind that fills your sails, and it is only by the grace of that wind that you are able to sail at all.
I should know. Metaphorically, I was sailing the most beautiful yacht with a perfect wind in our sails. As we cruised between the islands, I became too confident and self assured. We had the most beautiful trip together, but as I have been prone to in the past, I lost my humility and sailed that yacht right into the rocks. It did not sink, but the wind was lost and the ship damaged. The experience shook both of us deeply and caused us to reflect on our individual journeys.
After an experience like that, one is quite shaken and simply wants to motor back to harbor and head home. I understand completely. But I also know that there is still much to learn and more to experience. I choose to live. I choose to sail and I very much want to feel the billowy sheets of the main fill with that glorious wind again.
Young Doms, do not be arrogant or over confident. Never take for granted the belief and trust that fills the sails of your dynamic together. Listen to me. Look at me. Listen. You can be courageous and humble at the same time. Cherish the belief and trust that she has in you.
I’ve reserved the third floor bedroom in an old Victorian bed ‘n breakfast away from the other guests. You just float on my arm as we check in and then head up the old oak stairs. There’s a lightness in your step and a playfulness in your voice. As we head up the stairs, you plant several kisses on my cheeks, while I feel the shape of your tight little ass under the vintage dress that I have purchased for you. You really have no idea what I have in mind for you, do you my beautiful slut?
As we approach our room, I take the old skeleton key from my pocket, insert it into the 1920’s era lock, and listen to the old brass mechanicals as I unlatch the door. Inside, the room is exactly as I have instructed. There is a four post Queen Anne bed with white duvet and four pillows and two dark wooden night stands on each side of the bed. There is also a wooden chair. A silver bucket of ice sits on a white tapestry on of the nightstands. A vase filled with red roses sits on the other.
I move the red roses to a dresser and take an electric wax warmer out of my bag, place it on the other nightstand and turn it on, so that the ice is on one nightstand, the wax on the other. I also take out of my bag two sections of rope, a blindfold, an electric wand, a dildo and a small crop. These are placed on the dresser. Then the duvet is pulled off the bed, leaving nothing but the sheets and the pillows.
Your voice fills with some tension, “Amedeo, what are you doing? What do you have planned for me Sir?” “You must trust me my beautiful slut and do exactly as I command when I command.” “Yes, of course, Sir.”
The smell of the wax begins to fill the room.
to be continued…..
Your comfort is not my priority
My heart races
And cock rages
Seeing you bound to a tree
On public display
For any passers by
Let’s them watch
While I mark your hot little ass
And vibe your clit
Until you quiver and shake
With that wild look in your eye
Your voice pleading
And as I consider the options
The toys still in my bag
I whisper gently
“Not quite yet dear slut”
As my wicked reply
I have been painting in this lonely studio in Montmartre for over thirty years now. My studio is open four days a week and my clients are almost all women. I used to believe that they simply hired me to paint, but along the way I have learned to listen to their story and capture their essence.
There is something about painting a muse that allows a woman to shed her inhibitions. Not only does her dress fall to my studio floor, but so also does her pretense and her protections. As I mix paint on my palette, my clients tell me about their husbands, boyfriends and lovers. They reveal to me their hopes and fears, even their darkest, most secretive desires, for I have earned a reputation for being discreet with the women on this Parisian hill.
What have I learned? I’ve learned the tender beauty of a woman’s spirit must be tended and nurtured each day. I’ve learned the intense generosity that most women have toward their children, their family and friends and the men in their life. And I’ve learned that long-term relationships are very difficult. There are so many grievances, so many old stories that are like permanent markers on the path of a relationship. These stories are never forgotten. I’ve been told a million times how needy, small-minded and self-centered so many men are in their relationships with their women. I’ve learned that a woman’s spirit, including her body and her loyalty, are gifts that should never be neglected or taken for granted.
And, finally, I’ve learned that I, as a man and an artist, will continue to learn these lessons, through my own successes and failures, until the air no longer passes through my lungs and I can no longer apply paint to my canvases.
Her song calls out across the oceans
And many men have lost their senses
In search of her beauty and submission
Lost at sea, they search endlessly
Hearing her lyrical calls
Believing her song
Is only for them
You will lose
And your very life
In your own delusion
Painting by Sir Edward Poynter, 1903, Cave of the Storm Nymphs
I have thought long and hard
About the extraordinary gift
Of a woman’s submission
It is not just her body
Tied to my bed
And bending to my will
But it is the generous gift
Of her very spirit
How can I honor such divinity?
Am I wise enough?
Can my empathy and intuition
Guide me to the right course?
I have failed often
Yet grown each time
Can I trust another
And give of myself
Can I reveal
What I have kept hidden
For a lifetime?
Why should I trust
When I have so little faith?
I have observed
So many men take for granted
A woman’s service
When her spirit
Is not truly theirs
And so the gift that I offer
Is one that no man would choose
And few women would expect
It is her freedom
With the highest respect
And my deepest
Deep in an ethereal ocean
Of stardust and water
My body spirit
Finally felt free
Part of me
Wanted to drown
Peacefully and finally
Ending my isolation
But then looking upward
I saw the light
Of your effervescent spirit
Shining through the water
And felt your energy
Trying to save me
I made my choice
Toward the light
Of our union
Clothed in silken raiment
Adorned in gold
Women envy her
Warriors lust for her
And a nation bows
In adoration and homage
To their beautiful queen
And yet for me
She lets the raiment fall
Dropping to her knees
To have me bind her
In rough strips of leather
My naked gorgeous queen
Is also my slut
Painting is of Cleopatra from John William Waterhouse, 1887
I thirst for inspiration
My mind is like the dusty corner
Of the wooden planked floor
In an old vacant studio
An old fixture dangles
As weak sunlight
In front of
An empty lounge
Words are not written
And a painter’s hand lies still
Like the coagulated blood
Of a dead poet
On a side street of Old London
Dark, cobblestoned with black lanterns
The guests slowly file in
Beautiful masked women
With plunging necklines, pearls and gowns
Men in their black coats, tails and glasses
It is an erotic affair
As though it were a private masquerade
On All Hallow’s Eve
And as I come out on stage
Looking upward at the tiers and balconies
Gilded chandeliers and tapestries
I take my deep bow
And the lights dim
The audience settles to a whisper
There is nothing on this old stage
Except me, two candelabras flickering
and you naked in a long pine box
You are not quite awake, but not asleep
Aware but in a dreamlike state
Obedient to my commands
Looking slyly at the hushed audience
I wave my hands over the old pine box
As the lid slowly opens
Raising my hands slowly, rhythmically
Your naked body rises and floats
So beautiful, the audiences gasps
Your flowing hair and gorgeous face
Full, erect breasts
And beautiful curves
Aware of the audience and performance
But receptive to only me
Half dreaming, still desiring
Floating naked above the stage
I slowly tease a rope to encircle you
As though the serpent were to devour Eve
My hands never touch, but my motion
Controls your every move and response
Your body slowly rolls and twists
In a dreamlike stupor, you feel my touch
As though it happened
My hand on your neck, the lobe of your ear
As my hands move downward
I brush past your breasts
Your back arches, head tilts back
One hand below you, one above
The audience shivers and anticipates
Women whisper, men just stare
And as the rope begins to tighten
My hands near your deep wetness
While your thighs slightly part
You imagine my soft touch
Electricity rolls through, tingles and excites
Energy builds, pulses and throbs
And finally, as though possessed
You moan and explode, clawing at the air
Releasing all your power
The audience gasps
And as I lower my hands
You settle back into the box
And the lid closes
I take my deep bow
The audience roars
You are my assistant
And I am the magician
We talk gently and respectfully
Like mature lovers with lives and responsibilities
Speaking of burdens that we carry
But also the joyous play
That reminds us
But when we fuck
We’re like a human tornado
A spinning melee’ of wet limbs and mouths
Reaching a fury beyond comprehension
Destroying everything in our path
Pounding the earth
Into oblivion and
Exceeding all the limitations
Of our imagination
And our bodies
Yet in the middle
There is a tenderness
In this storm
Bright blue skies
And the promise
I will seduce you
Slowly and artfully
In an old mansion
With a cast iron bed
And an oval mirror
You will wear
A string of pearls
The black brimmed hat
A hint of perfume
And nothing else
Except soft ropes
Wrists and ankles
In your mouth
My seed on
You will be kissed
And taken reverently
Like a Victorian muse
Being painted by a Master
“The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body.The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life’s most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?”
― Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Come with me. We will sail the world and leave our worries and past behind. And when a hard day of sailing is done, we’ll cook a wonderful dinner together, share a bottle of wine or two and spend the rest of the evening fucking in the V-berth, while the waves gently rock our lovemaking and the galaxies glisten above.
I have a dream of worshipful artistic and spiritual communion under the stars. Your body will be painted tonight and you will wear your white cotton dress, sandals and nothing else, no panties, bra, or jewelry of any kind. Be ready at 8:30 pm as we will drive two hours north to my studio in the northern woods. My lake home and studio barn have been prepared and are waiting for you.
Once we arrive, I have a small dinner waiting, a salad with some baked salmon, fresh asparagus, some brie cheese and wine. A dinner table with white linens has been prepared on my outdoor deck and as we dine, we will listen to the loons calling from the cool waters of a glistening, glacial lake and look upward through the tall pines to a brilliant sky. I will have Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major playing quietly in the background. Tonight is the night of the dark moon and there will be an ocean of starlight to adorn our meal and communion with each other.
After dinner, I will lead you with the touch of my hand to the studio. It has a modern kitchen, a large master bath and Queen Anne four post bed in its upper loft. The entire middle of the barn is a painting studio. Hundreds of candles have been lit around a large circle on the floor of the studio. Many of the candles are in floor standing holders of various heights, some are on the floor itself. The circle is in the exact middle of this floor and, looking upward, you can look through a large glass skylight to the brilliant night sky above. There is wine, cheese and red grapes to the side and the emptiness of the studio is filled with Bartok’s Viola Concerto.
I will take your hand and lead you silently through the candles to the center of the circle. I have already painted the circle in swirls of jet black, gray, small amounts of green and dark indigo blue hues. You will remove your dress and be commanded to get on all four in the center of the circle. Taking the remainder of the black, blue, gray and green paints, I will use my hands to liberally apply these dark hues to every part of your body. Starting with your feet, calves and thighs, your legs begin to disappear against the dark backdrop of the Vitruvian circle. Now my hands apply paint to the smooth curve of your ass, the arch of your back, finally encasing your shoulders and arms.
Turning you over, I slowly cover the top of your legs, thighs, labia, tummy and breasts in dark hues, followed by your shoulders and the remainder of your arms and neck. The night sky is now quite dark and the stars luminesce through the skylight above. Taking a small brush, I begin to paint your face tracing around your lips, carefully covering your eyelids, your nose, cheeks and even your ears. Dark lipstick is applied to your lips. Then covering my hands in paint, I begin to soak your hair in indigo, black and cobalt until entirely saturated like the night sky above.
With my hand behind your head, I lie your naked, wet body down on the floor. Bringing your arms above you, I restrain your wrists to some black leather cuffs anchored with black chain above you, then your ankles below. You are now a dark goddess, spread and restrained in this worship circle. While the paint dries, I retrieve my camera from the studio’s dark room and set it up on a tripod. I also open small cans of phosphorescent, artistic grade white, yellow, light gray and red paints.
Entering the circle, I start to applying small dots of color and many white highlights on the dry, dark paint of the floor beneath you. Using a small pointed brush and the white paint, your body slowly transforms into a reflection of the galaxies above. Bartok’s concerto continues to play softly in the background while candles flicker as the wax drips toward the floor. Many more points of light are added on your thighs, your breasts and arms, on your face and the remaining surfaces of your body. Hundreds of small dabs of yellow, red and even blue are added to enhance the effect.
Finishing my work, I pull the paints and supplies aside and begin blowing out all of the candles, except for one. Your painted body now glows, filling my studio with your naked beauty from below and the divine light of the stars from above. Taking one picture without a flash, I reach down and kiss you tenderly on the lips. Pulling a book out of my artist’s case, I whisper the following poem in a gentle, reverent tone, from John Keats, entitled “Bright Star”:
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as though art-
not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
and watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors –
No-yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath
And so live ever-or else swoon to death.
How should a man use power?
To accumulate wealth?
Conquer other lands?
Rule a populace?
Manipulate a democracy?
Revel in the adulation of fans?
Acquire a harem of beauties
For his own pleasure and service?
How does he then soothe
The deep pain of his spirit?
For the ego of power
Only seeks greater conquest
And never experiences
The true bliss of
With a loving, trusting woman
For she is not a conquest
Her love and body are gifts
Offered with joy
I always knew
Submission was a gift
What I hadn’t yet mastered
Was how to offer myself
Not just my body
And my mind
But my inner spirit
Wisely and maturely
But still wield
The power of a man
Words by Mr Modigliani, image by Kahlil Gibran
I have departed
But not yet arrived
So I float naked
In a quantum sea
Filled with stardust
No longer flesh
Yet to be transformed
Not of this earth
And not yet ascended
Their lustful bodies
Visions of our union
For past experiences
Who am I?
But a shadow
And so I swim
Against the current
Of my own doubt
Toward a vision
A luminous point
Far in the distance
That can only be
Words by Mr Modigliani, image by Kahlil Gibran
Many people think of Georgia O’Keeffe as an older woman and famous American painter who painted flowers in the New Mexico desert. However, as a young woman, she was Alfred Stieglitz’s passionate muse and the talk of the New York art and social scenes. Alfred’s pictures of Georgia set the New York art scene on fire and made Georgia famous. Most of these pictures were taken between 1918 and 1922. Please click on the first picture to proceed through a slide show. She was a natural beauty who would do anything for Alfred. Georgia was born in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin and I love the last pic of her in her bowler hat.
Joy does not uplift
Without the depths of sadness,
Love is more delicious
Having felt the pangs of loss
Pleasure ripples more intensely
when coupled with pain.
Like light illuminating the darkness,
Contrast gives us the sensation
Of living fully.
I saw the post above on Tumblr about giving vs. taking in a D/s relationship. It is very well written. Frankly, I don’t care whether you call it D/s or not. Too many people are trying to live up to some arbitrary definition. But I will say that this is the way I will cultivate my most intimate relationship. I will focus on giving and constantly building trust in a secure, mature and loving way. And, for that, I expect that she will welcome my Beast and let him ferociously consume whatever he desires. In my experience, the most extraordinary sex happens when there is a strong spiritual, emotional and intellectual connection first. Everything else simply flows from from that connection. The combination of these four elements, spiritual, emotional, intellectual and physical create a relationship experience that is ecstatic, divine and metaphysical. When this happens, I literally know the other person’s thoughts and feelings, wherever we may be in the world. I am a mature man now. I don’t have time to waste. I’ve tried everything else, including decades of duty and responsibility. This is the way I will spend the rest of my life.
This is the hand
That will clutch your jaw
Back you to the wall
So I can check
This is the hand
That will bend you over
Strip down your panties
So I can mark
This is the hand
That will smother your mouth
Sinking fingers inside
So I can finger
This is the hand
That will stroke your hair
And lift your chin
So I can kiss
This is the hand
That will write you poems
Caress your pain
So I can cure
And a woman spoke, saying,
Tell us of Pain.
And he said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break,
That its heart may stand in the sun,
So must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in
wonder at the daily miracles of your life,
Your pain would not seem less
wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the
seasons of your heart,
Even as you have always accepted
the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity
through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which
the physician within you
heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician,
and drink his remedy
in silence and tranquility:
For his hand,
though heavy and hard,
is guided by the tender hand
of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings,
though it burn your lips,
has been fashioned by the clay
which the Potter has moistened
with His own sacred tears.
Poetry and art by Kahlil Gibran
It is not
Or shapely ass
That enthrall me
I am a mature man
And have seen many
It is the twinkle in her eye
The joyous play of minds
Sharing of confessions
The revelation of self
Our dance together
And the nurture
Words by Mr Modigliani, image by Buzillo on deviantArt
Here is a spoken word reading of “It’s What She Needs”. I haven’t done one in a while and I hope you enjoy it.
Note: the slideshow of Frida Kahlo requires java script and may not display properly on a mobile device.
Oh Dear Frida
Did you ever paint Diego?
That wretch of a man
Instead your art reflected
Your own beauty
Not just physical
I would take you
All of you faithfully
And serve you
Laughing and crying
To the end of our days
A sexual tryst
Is like striking a match
A bright flash of light
Searing heat and flame
An Intoxicating curiosity
Hold it too long
The flame will die
Leaving only smoke
Acrid scent of sulfur
And charred remains
I would rather use it
To light a thousand candles
A more eternal flame
And amorous reminder
Of passion and love
I have a follower that is going through a very rough time. She feels alone, won’t accept her own beauty and is not feeling much happiness in her life at the moment. As a friend, I gave her an assignment to write about something, not related to her children, that has been joyful in her life. She is a former professional ballet dancer, of the highest caliber, and so she wrote this piece called, “My Heaven” and gave permission to post it. The picture below is actually her (though not from the ballet that she writes about).
My dear friends and followers, please write warm words of encouragement for her.
“My Heaven” – written by Kimberly
Standing on stage ‘in our places’- the warm overhead lights, the orchestra tuning, conductor tapping his baton on the podium – music begins. Tchaikovsky Serenade for Strings in D. Choreographed by Balanchine. The first few measures play and then the heavy red velvet curtain slowly rises. I was standing all the way down stage left. The rest of the corps took their cue from me. Feet were in neutral, left arm down, right arm extended up with the right wrist slightly flexed. Eyes looking at the hand. Chin slightly lifted. Then – the right wrist broke position on cue with the music…. The dancing had begun. On stage with a live symphony orchestra and a full house – or rehearsal – there is nothing more powerful in the world to me and the closest I have ever come to pure joy. I can smell the rosin, make up, hairspray and feel the draft of cold air as the curtain rose. I was where I wanted to be. I felt thin, beautiful, capable and alive.
This post was contributed by good friend, follower and anonymous guest author, Miss Beltstripe. Also I want to thank her Sir for his blessing. Miss Beltstripe’s post is damn smoking hot, so if you’re going to read it, have ice water and a cold washcloth nearby. Please give her good feedback.
Arriving at your hotel, you are in the bar, meeting with clients, when I arrive. I’m wearing a gray satin trench coat with black patent leather red-bottoms. My pale, blonde hair hangs sleekly around my shoulders.
When you see me, you leave your clients to greet me and give me a key to your room. The look in your eyes makes me squirm as you approach. You take my elbow and walk towards the elevator.
“You look very lovely, my dear. I’m curious what you have beneath that coat, but I must finish my business. Go up to the room, I’ll be up in 30 minutes.”
As the elevator door opens, you pull the edge of my coat toward you, and slip your fingers between my legs where you feel my undress. Pushing me into the little box, up against the wall, you growl against my lips. “You would come wearing nothing, slut.”
Crushing me with a kiss that nearly makes me cum, before backing away and slipping the key between my fingers, you smile with a glint in your eye, “You’ll pay for this, little girl.”
My eyes follow your hand motion to your arousal, straining against the front of your pants, just before the elevator doors close.
I smile as my knees threaten to collapse but somehow manage to remain upright. I feel my desire trickling down my thigh as the doors open on your floor.
Once in the room, I have no idea what to do. If you found me masturbating on your bed, would you punish me? You already alluded to punishment for turning you on… How was I to know you’d be working this late in the evening?
I slide the coat off and pour myself a glass of the champagne you’ve left chilling next to the sofa. Glancing around the room, I take in the beautiful decor and contemplate how much such a beautiful space costs. Then I twirl my hair impatiently, curious if you’ll really keep me waiting half an hour.
Perhaps you’ll torture me, and make we wait longer.
I notice cuffs and straps on the table next to the bed and quiver at the idea of being in them. I consider turning on the television, but opt for music instead. Something to soothe my nerves. After turning on the tiny stereo, I step into the restroom to check my appearance, swaying to the rhythm of my choice.
I dab my lips with a tissue, my lip gloss smeared from your kiss. I do hope you wiped it off before heading back to your meeting. I run my fingers over my neck and across my full breasts, before sliding them down my soft belly stopping short of my sweet little landing strip.
I look better than usual. Something about being here for you makes me look incredible. I’m aroused by my own reflection, and allow my fingers to travel the path all over again.
I imagine your fingers… and sigh, wishing you wouldn’t keep me waiting long. I let the music fill me, and move, with it, back to the room where I find you staring at me. How long had you been there? Oh, my. Are you angry with me?
“You’re very smart to keep yourself from playing in my absence, girl. Your punishment would’ve only been worse. Come here.” Your voice does things to me that make it difficult for me to walk. But as you hold out your hand, I make my way towards you.
Your fingers slide over my shoulders and down my arms, and a rumble escapes your throat as your senses take me in. Inhaling my scent, with your nose in my hair, you growl, “You smell delicious, slut.”
My knees nearly buckle, I want you so badly. But you keep me upright and walk me to the sofa. As you bend me over the back, I know what’s coming, and I’m panting with anticipation.
I hear you slide your belt off, and I’m sure you can smell my arousal. I hear you take in a deep breath before your fingers slide between my thighs.
“You’re far too excited about being punished, dear girl. …But I like it.”
You’re fingers dip between my folds and I tremble, already so ready. For your fingers, your mouth, your cock, your strength and your Dominance. I clench trying to entice some movement, but you pull away.
Your hand smooths over my bottom cheeks before you land a few blows to warm my skin. You rumble with satisfaction at the color change in my flesh, striking me a few more times, before folding the belt in half and swatting me with it.
I keep myself from crying out, but can’t stop my body from flinching. You seem to like it, because each strike comes harder and faster until I cannot stop my voice.
After the first cry, you hiss and let the belt fly open. Lashing me several times before stopping to soothe my skin with your palm.
“I believe you could take more, but I need to fuck you.”
I hear your pants fall before you plunge into my depths. I moan, involuntarily, but the sound quickly changes into something far closer to mewling as you hammer away at my rent. I’m about to topple over the edge when I realize you haven’t instructed me about cumming. Do I need to ask?
As if sensing my need, you roar, “Cum, slut! Cum now!”
Your words send me into oblivion, writhing and clenching. I lift my hands behind me, in attempt to slow your momentum, to allow the orgasm to subside, the sensation of you pounding my bruised ass is too intense.
Instead, you grab my wrists and use the additional leverage to drive deeper and harder.
“Please, Sir, please…” My cries only serve to make you chuckle.
Sliding out of me, you pull me up, “If my cock is too much for your cunt,” you grab my hair and force me to my knees. “Perhaps your mouth can handle more.”
You ram your throbbing cock between my lips, deep into my throat, and hold me there, by the back of my hair until I’m gasping and clawing at your thighs.
You release me, and I take a deep breath before taking you back into my mouth. I bob up and down, pressing my lips firmly across your shaft while swirling my tongue around in the most intimate massage. I suck and pull, plunge and swirl, using my fingers to tease your balls until I feel you tighten.
You push me off so that you can blow your load on my face. I stick out my tongue, wanting to taste you, and am rewarded with rope after rope of your fluffy, white cum on my tongue, cheeks, and chest.
Your groans and grunts make me pray silently that I will get to hear them again and again. Such a magical sound.
You allow me to suck you clean until you are soft, and then whisper for me to go shower while you prepare things so that you can play. I practically convulse at the thought.
I finish in the shower quickly, and when I step out, you are standing there with a towel.
“Turn, let me see my marks, little girl.”
As I do, I turn my head so that I too can view the proof of your punishment on my ass. There are some slight welts and a few bruises, I’m not sure how easily I will sit tomorrow, but tonight, the pain is barely noticeable.
You suck in a breath, tracing the marks and smiling. “Good Girl. Come dry off, I have more fun for you.”
As I make my way into the room, you pull me against you, digging your fingers into my backside and crushing my lips with yours. Your kiss is so hard, I find myself, again, weak in the knees. You play me like a fucking instrument and I’m wet, instantly.
As you pull away, you chuckle, as if reading my thoughts. “Little girl, you are too easy.”
You guide me to the bed and gently push me to lie down on my back. As you wrap my wrists and ankles with the cuffs, you stroke and pet my body, making me pant and wriggle. I never take my eyes off of you, while you stretch and spread me, attaching the cuffs to straps secured to the bed.
Once you have me, spread eagle, with my arms pulled tight above my head, you tickle the back of my knee and my underarm to see how much room I have to move. I have none, and giggle and squirm as you chuckle down at me. “Hmmm, that could be fun,” you whisper.
You laugh at my pout, and turn to change the music. I’m not sure what it is that you turn on, but it’s a piano playing a haunting melody. I still can’t tear my eyes away from you, and when you turn back toward me, your smile has turned devilish.
You pick up something from the floor and place it on the sheet between my legs. I’m so focused on watching your face, I don’t even look to see what they are. As you glide around the bed, you drag the fronds of a suede flogger over my skin. Up my left leg, belly and chest and down the other side. I’m panting again within moments and when you lift it into the air, I hold my breath in anticipation.
You swing it from side to side over my belly and breasts then down over my legs. I wince when it hits my shins, but the sensation is not at all as I expected it to be. Of course, then you change pace and the height of the hits. The warming bites of the tiny fronds on my thighs and abdomen make me arch my back and whimper slightly. When they fall over my breasts, my body feels so alive, I pull at the straps wanting to direct the hits.
As I moan and writhe, you suddenly stop. I whine before opening my eyes to look up at you. Pleading in my mind for more, your fingers slide up the inside of my thigh before you run them up my slit. Like your checking me, testing me. I try to push against them, closing my eyes again, but they are gone too quickly.
Before I open my eyes, the flogger is back, but stinging my pussy now. Strike after strike, it burns, but like some some incredible fire that I never want to go out. The sound of you grunting, softly with each swing and my own mewling noises mix with the music adding a strange percussion to the song.
I start to get lost in it, feeling the perfection of pain turning into pleasure and lifting me to the sky.
When I realize the blows have stopped, I feel you climb onto the bed between my legs. You stroke and kiss my thighs and belly, so softly, it feels almost surreal compared to the heat trapped in my skin. When your lips make their way to my swollen, hot mound, you breathe gently across my folds before blowing lightly on my hooded clit.
Your hot breath feels delicious against my shaved pussy and I lift my hips wanting more of you on me. Or in me. When I feel nothing but air, I whine and finally open my eyes to look down at you. The look on your face is absolute dominance, and your hand comes down fast and hard on my sex.
I cry out and arch my back but want more and finally find my voice. “Yes! Please, Sir… more!”
“Good girl,” you rumble and land three more strikes quickly before using your other hand to pull back the hood of my clit and rub my pleasure pearl.
I’m so wet with need that when you pop my clit with several lighter smacks, I feel the liquid splatter across my thighs. You rumble loudly and drop your lips against me, licking up my juices and pushing two fingers inside of my clenching cunt.
It takes mere moments of licking and sucking while pounding into me with your fingers to get me bucking off the mattress and pulling hard at my restraints. “Oh, God… Oh, God,” I moan, sensing you are about to rip a massive orgasm from me.
When your teeth scrape against me, it sends me into the abyss of the most incredible climax of my life. I’m spinning and convulsing, but you pull me back to earth with your fingers around my throat and your hand spanking my already vibrating pussy.
“Cum again, through the pain. I need to see you do it,” you growl, and as I feel my body taking the pain and morphing into something greater, building into something indescribable, I give you exactly what you want.
I try hard to keep my eyes open, to watch you take in what you’ve done to me, but I can’t. As they roll back into my head, I feel the waves pulsing through me, wondering if they will ever stop. My whole body finally falls limp and you quickly move to take off the cuffs.
When my limbs are free, you kiss me hard before flipping me onto my stomach and positioning yourself on top of me.
“I’m going to take your ass now, little slut.”
You are rubbing your cock between my cheeks, using my own liquid lust to lubricate before pressing against my puckered hole. I take a deep breath and try hard to relax. I don’t think you’ll fit, but if I think about it too much, I’ll panic.
Your kissing and nibbling my shoulder, and the distraction works very well. Soon, the head of your dick is inside me. I gasp as you push in further and do my best to relax and open up to you. Within moments, I feel your body pressed against my bruised backside, and I realize you are in.
The feeling is odd but amazing. As you begin to move inside me, it hurts, but I don’t want it to stop.
You pull my hand down beside me and whisper for me to pleasure my clit, “It will make it easier,” you breathe against my hair.
When I start kneading my mound, I realize you were right. I’m sore and on fire, but I don’t care, because it is easier. My muscles relax and I just keep rubbing as you increase your speed until to you pull up onto your arms and are fucking my ass fast and hard.
“If you cum again before I do, I’ll have to beat your ass again,” you growl, hearing my moans and mewls getting faster and shorter. It’s too late to stop it though, and I explode, this time, spraying the sheet below me.
You pull my ass in the air, rising to your knees behind me and beginning smacking my sore cheeks while pounding into me. Not for long, however, because you soon pull out, grunting and groaning as you spray your hot cum all over my ass.
When you collapse next to me, we are both silent for several minutes as we catch our breath. Tenderly, you push my hair away from my face, and smile at me weak and sated. In a gravelly whisper, you say, “Good Girl, how do you feel?”
I contemplate for a moment before licking my lips and giggling, before whispering, “Like a well used submissive.”
And, oh, what am amazing feeling that is. Even if it is only one night.
Photo Credit to LithiumPicnic on deviantArt and Tumblr
She is not a sub
And may never be
Her inner voice
Convinces her of
A different choice
But her spirit wails
And her body lusts
For hard physical passion
Seed and submission
If you play with her
Back her to a wall
Kiss her hard
Command her jaw
Drop her to her knees
It’s what she needs, and
She loves to please
Picture taken from Tumblr
A special thank you goes out to each of you for participating in “Eye Day”, especially for for trusting me enough to receive your emails and handle these pictures appropriately. I promised to treat each contribution respectfully and confidentially, so if you have any concerns or requests about anything posted here, please let me know and I will do my best to respond to your request quickly.
It is also very important for me to say that everyone one of these eyes is beautiful. I learned that taking a picture of your own eyes can be challenging and so I did my best to fix and touch up some of your photos. As you’ll see, nineteen women from their early 20’s to mid 50’s participated and I am very pleased. The pictures below are in random order. Please offer your words of support and positive comments to all that participated.
Finally, I said that I would include my eyes. They are all the way at the bottom as I did not want to distract from yours. Thank you, once again, for contributing.
This eye is from Sicilian Siren
These eyes are from Lady Virtue at Graceful Simplicity
Piercing eyes submitted by “Anonymous”.
The always wise eyes of Little BoPeep
These are the eyes of My Sir’s Mynx
The eyes now listed as “Anonymous”
This is Kelly from ‘Kelly’s Wandering Mind’
Submitted by Kimberly.
These are Mel’s eyes. Doesn’t she look happy?
WildWestAngel’s lovely eyes
These are Elle’s eyes
These eyes were also submitted anonymously
The eyes of Blossom
Errant’s blue eye
These are Phoenixasubbie’s eyes
Many of you know Hasty’s eyes
Here’s a peek behind those sunglasses at Heartafire.
These are the eyes of Alder’s Ash
These are the whiskey colored eyes of Desiree G
These are Claudia’s eyes from Claudia’s Ramblings
These are Kimmie’s eyes
Thank you Peeps for bringing this to the light. I hope I am able to reach a few more readers.
Originally posted on bopeepmeetsmrwolf:
Ladies and Gentlemen…. This is the man Vile Woods warned you about.
Canadian broadcaster Jian Ghomeshi was fired recently due to allegations from 8 women that he choked, beat, and verbally abused them without their consent. 8 women.. They had independent accounts of very similar treatment by Ghomeshi.
Ghomeshi claims he has been fired because of his “kinky” tastes in sex, hiding behind the guise of BDSM, joking at one point that he and his former girlfriend had a “mild” form of FSOG relationship.
I’ve read the FSOG books, and while I do not particularly like them, I did not read ANYWHERE in them where the fantasy called Mr. Grey beats Anna with a closed fist, throws her up against a wall, or wants to hate fuck her. Mr. Grey cannot in fact bring himself to do anything to Anna without her consent, and even when she does consent…
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Elena is a beautiful, talented woman who not only speaks her mind, but lives her life courageously and passionately.
Originally posted on Live simply, travel lightly, love passionately & don't forget to breathe:
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you, and yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love, but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward, not tarries with yesterday. “
- Kahlil Gibran
from the book : The Prophet
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I have received a few notes from followers asking about me. I haven’t written in a week or so and I just wanted to assure you that I’m fine. I’ve been writing in a few other places and have been living the high life a bit. I’ll write something soon and appreciate your notes and interest in me.