The Beast’s Senses


Beast’s fangs taste
The swirl of your tongue
Lobe of your ear
And nape of your neck

Beast’s eyes follow
The plunging lines
Of your chest to
The curve of your breasts

Beast’s nostrils smell
The sweetness of your skin
And the slight musk
Of your moist cunt

Beast’s hands hold
The slope of your back
And the perfect curve
Of your taught ass

Beast’s mind knows
Your unspoken words
Vivid thoughts of passion
And feelings of desire

But it is that wildness in your eyes
Part she-beast and devoted prey
That makes him ravenous
And sets him on fire

My Instructions for Client Dinner


My meetings in Manhattan are done for the day and I am picking you up from my suite at The Standard Hotel to meet my most important client for dinner at seven. I gave you clear instructions: what to wear, your jewelry, your perfume, the preparation of the bed and the placement of the jeweled nipple clamps, glass toys and the crop that will be ready for me to when we return.

Arriving at the hotel, you are waiting for me in the lobby and as I watch you stroll to the curb, I am taken aback by your beauty. Your beautiful curves are stunning in the gray silken dress, but I am most taken by the sensuality in your eyes and the wantonness of your lips.

As I open the car door for you and set you gently inside, I catch a glimpse of your legs all the way to your black lace thong. The scent of the Chanel No. 5 fills the car and draws my eyes to the deeply sloped valley of your chest. I reach over to kiss you and murmur in soft tones, “Thank you dear, for wearing exactly what I instructed.” “I am pleased to do so Sir” is your reply.

We have a 45 minute drive out to the island and as we drive along on a cool winter evening, you reach over and start caressing my shaft through my pants. My breath deepens and I can see the glaze in your eyes.

I order you to recline your see part way and pull up your dress. “Show me your cunt slut. Pull down your panties. I want to see it.” You dutifully obey and slide the panties all the way down your legs and over your 4 inch heels. “Now lift your dress and spread your legs wide!” I hear the soft moan in your voice as your gorgeous cunt suddenly becomes fully available to me.

Reaching over, I deliver a light slap right on your cunt. Then another a little harder. Then more, faster and harder. Your cunt is just throbbing as I hear your deep moans and see the wild look in your eye.

“Open the glove compartment slut. I have something for you to use.” You open the glove compartment, as instructed, and take out a large pink silicone dildo and just gasp. “Slide it inside. I want you to bang yourself. You will not cum until I give permission.” “Oh God, Sir, here? Really?” “Yes. I don’t care who sees you while we drive.”

You put it in and start sliding it in and out. “Deeper slut. I want it to hit your cervix.” I hear you panting and I reach over and start slapping your clit while you bang yourself. “Bang yourself harder!. You are going to cum for me now or I am going to take you in the back seat and fuck you in the ass.” “Oh God Sir, I so need to cum. Let me cum. Please Sir.” “Cum hard for me now slut before I shove my cock down your throat. Cum for me.”

And with that, you let out a long guttural moan as your entire body clenches and then releases. “Good sweet girl, my pet. Now just remember, your mouth, your cunt and your ass are mine tonight. I will use them however I see fit. Now let’s go wow this client. I need your help landing this deal with him. I will fuck your ass hard later once we get back to the hotel.” And as you moan deeply again, I hear what I expect to hear, “Yes Sir. Everything I have, everything I am is yours, all yours for however you wish to use me.”

The Beautiful Singing Voice of Lady Virtue

Some time ago, I recorded a few of my writings in “spoken word” on SoundCloud.  One of my followers, Lady Virtue, also has an account on SoundCloud and has an extraordinary singing voice. She now has several tracks recorded on SoundCloud, all of which are truly wonderful.  I encourage you to listen and to follow this very talented woman.


Conversation with my Son


Hi Dad. Happy belated birthday! Sorry I missed it. I’ve been very busy and just forgot. I’m sorry. That’s fine son. I understand. How are you? I’m fine Dad. Can I talk to you about something? Sure, of course.

So I’ve been seeing this girl here on campus. I really like her. Up until a couple weeks or so ago, we saw a lot of each other. She would pop by my dorm room a couple times a day. And when she wasn’t here, we would text each other all day long. She would always send me a picture of herself and then say something fun or sexy.

So what happened? About two weeks ago, she went to Colorado to see her parents for four days. She was all fun and flirty before she left and then I didn’t hear from her at all when she was out there. When she got back, she sent me a single text asking how I was and saying she was really busy with some projects. Was the text flirty at all? Did she send you a picture of herself?. No it wasn’t really and she didn’t send a picture. Since then I’ve barely heard from her even though I’ve texted her many times. What do you think? Is there anything I can do?

Well Son, it is my experience that a woman who is truly interested in you will find ways to be fun and flirty even when they are busy. It really doesn’t help to text them too frequently or chase them down the street, so to speak. I would wait a couple days and then text her something funny and just let her know she is thought of. If you don’t hear from her, you will know what is happening.

Thanks Dad. Love you. I’ll see you in a couple weeks. Love you too Son.

We All Change


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.


The Wind in My Sails


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.




The Skeleton Key (part 1)


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…..

My Wicked Reply


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
For release
And as I consider the options
The toys still in my bag
I whisper gently
“Not quite yet dear slut”
As my wicked reply

Life Lessons of the Painter


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
For surely
You will lose
Your ship
Your fortune
Your heart
And your very life
In your own delusion

Painting by Sir Edward Poynter, 1903, Cave of the Storm Nymphs

Love, Grace and Countenance


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
Without vanity?
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
Offered unconditionally
With the highest respect
And my deepest
Love, grace
And countenance

The Light in the Water


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
Imploring me
Trying to save me
And so
Choosing love
I made my choice
And swam
Toward the light
Of our union
And my

The Wanton Queen


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

My Aurora


My Aurora
Goddess of the dawn
Brings the light of each day
Wings carry her across
Oceans and mountaintops
To join me in sanctuary
Bringing the sun
The joy of her spirit
And the deep, wet quake
Of her submission

Painting is “The Gates of Dawn” by Herbert James Draper in 1900



My Athena
Unlace your bodice
Let your dress fall
You will unsheath my sword
Press its cold hard steel
To your cheek
Hold the blade
Caress it
Adore it
It is now yours

She Has Curves


She has curves
And a killer smile
She prances and dances
Struts and throws glances
Enchanting all the while
Oh you men…
Don’t be weak, don’t be soft
Don’t dawdle and don’t dote
Just command her
And drop her
Then fuck her throat

Your Sacrifice


Adorn your body
Calm your mind
Prepare your spirit
The scent of incense
Already fills the sanctuary
Candles have been lit
The altar awaits
Your beauty
Your service
And your sacrifice
To my hard ferocity
and intense desire

A Painter’s Hand Lies Still


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
Filters through
Broken glass
An easel
Sits barren
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



I prefer the artistic
Not the graphic or the profane
Give me light and shadow
Sepia tone or black and white
Show me composition
From an artist’s eye
Show me submission
With respect
And adoration
What could be more divine
Than an artist’s desire
For a beautiful woman?

On a Side Street of Old London


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

The Lightest Touch

A man’s hand
Should convey strength
Deliver power when needed
And command every part of a woman
But also have the lightest touch
Like a gentle whisper
On a summer’s breeze
Always reminding her
That she is free
But fiercely desired

My spanking hand. lol

There Is A Tenderness


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
To breathe
And feel
Like living
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
That calms
The spirit
Leaving behind
Bright blue skies
And the promise
Of another
Beautiful day

Taken Reverently


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
Your garters
Cuban stockings
The black brimmed hat
A hint of perfume
And nothing else
Except soft ropes
On your
Wrists and ankles
My cock
In your mouth
My seed on
Your breasts
You will be kissed
And taken reverently
Like a Victorian muse
Being painted by a Master
Transported in
And Spirit

Weight or Lightness?


“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

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.

Worship Under the Stars


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.

You Are My Art, My Canvas


I will silently watch by the glow of candlelight, while hot wax drips from your peaks and pools in your valleys. You will hold my hand and gaze into my eyes until I give further instructions. You are my art, my passion and I choose to use your body as my canvas.

The Power of a Man


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
Metaphysical union
With a loving, trusting woman
For she is not a conquest
Her love and body are gifts
Offered with joy
And vulnerability
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
Without reserve
But still wield
The power of a man

Words by Mr Modigliani, image by Kahlil Gibran

And So I Swim


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
Muses call
Their lustful bodies
Mystics intimate
Visions of our union
Lovers lament
For past experiences
Who am I?
My past
But a shadow
My destiny
Yet unknown
And so I swim
Against the current
Of my own doubt
Toward a vision
A luminous point
Far in the distance
A destiny
That can only be
The being
Spirit knows
As “Me”

Words by Mr Modigliani, image by Kahlil Gibran

O’Keeffe Was a Muse

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.

Giving vs Taking


Giving vs. Taking

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


This is the hand
That will clutch your jaw
Back you to the wall
So I can check
Your folds

This is the hand
That will bend you over
Strip down your panties
So I can mark
Your ass

This is the hand
That will smother your mouth
Sinking fingers inside
So I can finger
Your hole

This is the hand
That will stroke your hair
And lift your chin
So I can kiss
Your tears

This is the hand
That will write you poems
Caress your pain
So I can cure
Your fears

On Pain


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

Minions and Pawns


The chess queen is bored
with minions and pawns
She’s a Russian master
Weak men paw at her feet
Toppling over to
Sorcery and words
I’m white, you’re black
If you want to play dear
Get down on all four
And I will mark your
Hot little ass
While you thank me
Then, just maybe
We’ll consider a match

Our Dance Together


It is not
A woman’s
Full breasts
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
Of union
That firms
My desire

Words by Mr Modigliani, image by Buzillo on deviantArt


FX Photo Studio_image

Spring is in the air
I smell the musk
Of the forest again
And of a woman’s scent
My insides stir
The beast growls
Come with me
I’ll strap you to a tree
Kiss you deeply
Lift your skirt
And belt your
Pretty little ass

Live Once Again


You have suffered so deeply. Do you know how beautiful you are? Roll the stone away from your pain and come to me. Take off your crown of thorns. I will brush away your tears, kiss you deeply and make you remember what it means to live once again.

Tears of Submission


She has endured
More transgression
Than any woman
Should suffer
But through it all
Remained strong

Even in the face
Of the darkest storm
She offered her all
Her body
Her life
Her loyalty

And yet
Her sweet heart
Still cries
With vulnerability
And the tender
Tears of submission

She’s A Wild Lioness


She’s a wild lioness
Who was penned too long
And is finally free
She smells the scent
Of wild game
And the fresh meat
She longs to devour
Slowly and
In her own sweet fangs
Don’t even attempt
To cage her
She’ll never let you
Just listen to her roar
Then bite her neck
And fuck her hard

Oh Frida (A Slideshow Gallery)

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Oh Dear Frida
Did you ever paint Diego?
That wretch of a man
Instead your art reflected
Your own beauty
And pain
Not just physical
But spiritual

I would take you
All of you faithfully
And serve you
Feed you
Tie you
Fuck you
Laughing and crying
Truly living
To the end of our days


A Thousand Candles


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

My Heaven

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.

Quick Video Tours of Sugarloaf and Corcovado

My dear muse, we will be leaving Rio de Janeiro soon.  But before we go, we need to tour Sugarloaf and Corcovado.  For all those that are following the tour, please come along…  The first video is of Sugarloaf.  For those that remember old movies, you might remember the battle that occurred between James Bond and “Jaws” in the movie Goldfinger that occurred on this mountain.

And, of course, Rio is most famous for the large statue of “Christ the Redeemer” at the top of Corcovado mountain.  Although it is possible to drive a very windy road up there, it is easiest to take the train, so come along!

A Churrascaria for Dinner, Then Dancing


We will be visiting a churrascaria for dinner. A churrascaria is essentially a Brazilian grill where meat is prepared in the churrasco style. As you sit at the table, a waiter continuously brings different cuts of meet on a sword or skewer, then slices it off for you per your request. My particular favorite cut is the peeled rump.

Afterwards, we will be dancing in the Miroir Club, which is very posh and very exclusive…


Dressing You for Dinner

At night, Ipanema becomes a very chic urban destination for fine food and dancing. As such, I’ve selected a dress and footwear to show off your shapely feminine assets.



I know that you’ll love the footwear. Also, you will wear the gold bracelets that I purchased for you today….

Beach Time is Over


My muse,
Beach time is over
We have purchased the jewelry
Of your selection
And my approval
Dinner will be late
I want you on your back
With your breasts in the air
Available to my hand
Head tilted back
And mouth open

It is my turn

Swimwear for Ipanema – Rio de Janeiro


One thing you realize very quickly in Rio is how sensual the city is. The people that live in Rio, that visit Rio, and especially the beaches, are not afraid to show their bodies. The swimsuits are exceedingly small and it is rare that they would cover a woman’s behind. This is true for women of all ages.

This, my dear slut, is the swimwear you will wear today…