The King’s Maidens (New Original Artwork by M)

A royal Mayan tomb was uncovered at Takalik Abaj in Guatemala in 2012.  Within the tomb were six ceramic figurines, representing the King’s maidens.  These female figurines guarded the entrance to the King’s crypt.  I have recreated these figurines in two dimensional artwork using oil pastels in this new original piece.

Original artwork by Mr Modigliani, July 2015

Posted in My Artwork | Tagged , , , | 26 Comments

Cumming High Above Mariacka In Old Gdansk

Gdansk is an ancient harbor city in the north of Poland on the south shore of the Baltic Sea.  It was a major trading port for the Hanseatic League that traded throughout the Baltic, including with the Dutch, the Swedes and the Baltic states of Lithuania and Estonia.

Its architecture is charming and very much like northern Germany, Holland or Denmark.  The Germans have occupied this city several times and called it Danzig.  Its central square is a not a square at all, but a wide cobble-stoned street (called Dlugi Targ) with arched gates on both sides.

In the middle of this street is Old City Hall, with its tall clock tower.  In front, there is a sculpture fountain of Poseidon with his trident, reminding all of the historic importance of this city as a trading center and shipyard.  But just one street over is beautiful Mariacka Street.

Mariacka has its own charm, also with arched doorways on both sides.  As we enter, a harpist strums her beautiful song as she plays just inside the canal-side gate.  Mariacka is also home to some of the best silver and amber shops in all of Europe and as I pull you inside one of the beautiful little boutiques, I spy several amber amulets.  One of them, the most expensive, has trapped an ancient fly.  I purchase it, place it on your neck and am filled with joy to see it dangling between your breasts.

The shopkeeper thanks us as I pull you out of the shop clutching your hand.  At the end of Mariacka is St Mary’s Basilica, one of the largest basilicas in Europe.  You are wearing a beautiful sundress today.  Your smile and eyes are playful and I want my hands all over your beautiful curves.  Walking through the big doors of St Mary’s, you are stunned at its enormity.

We stop and look briefly at The Triptych of St Mary’s, an ancient three-panel panel painting that shows the horrific scene of Judgment Day.  Both of us comment on what a spectacular piece it is and how it must been used so very effectively to influence the local populace.

As we look at the painting and wander around the cathedral, I am so on fire for you.  I can see your form in that pretty dress of yours. I want my hands on your breasts and to be deep inside you.  It is a quiet Monday in the off season in Gdansk and there are few around.  The basilica is nearly empty.  And because I have lived here before, I know what I’m doing, where we are headed and exactly what will happen.

Grabbing your hand, I pull you to a small door that leads up a flight of narrow steps.  It is 500 steps to the top of St Mary’s and it is the highest point in all of northern Poland.

It is so much more fun to have you in front of me going up the steps.  My hands are all over you, reaching under your dress, grabbing at your breasts, occasionally swatting your ass and feeling its delicious shape under the loose fabric.

We continue to climb higher to the upper reaches of the Basilica.  About three quarters of the way up, the stairs open up onto a platform that overlooks the top of the ceiling of the Basilica.  We are between the ceiling and the roof.  You reach for me and drive your tongue deep in my mouth while your hands undo my belt and remove it.  Unsnapping my pants, you reach in and start stroking my hard shaft with your hand while we continue to kiss passionately.  Fuck, I should just turn you around right here and belt your pretty little ass.

Yet I know what is at the top and so I keep pushing you forward.  We keep climbing past the large bells in the tower until we emerge high on the viewing platform.  The view is spectacular.  One can see all the tourists and shoppers down on the main street and on Mariacka.  The great ships of the Gdansk shipyard are off in the distance and once can see for thirty or forty miles off into the beautiful countryside.  We can smell the local cafes and still hear the beautiful melodies of the harpist.

And yet, despite all this beauty, all I can think of is having you right now.  And you desire the same as you quickly drop to your knees and take my shaft deep into your mouth.  My head just spins as I look down and see your adoring eyes looking up at me while you serve.

But this is not the way I wish to cum with you, so I lift you up (despite your protests), turn you around and bend you over the rail.  Lifting your dress, I swat your ass hard and the sound travels throughout the old town.  It is quite possible that some may be able to see us, but I really don’t care.

Your ass is now red and well marked and I spread your legs a little wider and insert my shaft into your wet mess.  You moan softly and buck your hips against mine.  The scene is a bit surreal but oh so perfect as we pick up speed.  I am just ramming you hard and deep, without mercy and the fact we are at the top of a very famous Basilica in public view motivates me even further.

You have never been driven so hard and I can feel you start to clench and quiver around me while your moans escape echoing against the walls of the tall building on Main Street.  I keep driving hard into you, holding your hips and using every bit of power and force that I can muster.  Finally, at the last second, I clutch your neck and choke you while I release waves of my large load over and over deep inside.

And really, could anything be more perfect?  The beauty of the city, the music of the harp, the soft curves of your beautiful body, the amber amulet dangling from your neck, all of it is perfect.  But what I love most is the look of adoration on your face as you appreciate my brazen desire and my seed runs down your thigh.

Photo is of Mariacka Street.  You can see St Mary’s Basilica at the end of the street.  Note the flat top of its highest tower.  All of this is accurate. 

Posted in Erotic Stories | Tagged , , , | 21 Comments

They Are All About You

Lovers-by-Marc-Chagall

I dreamed of my life
In the bold strokes of a painting,
The fierce choreography of a dance
And your tender caress, my dear

I looked for you, I did
Searching the lusty eyes of muses
And movements of ballerinas on stage
But saw only glimpses of you

And even today, my dreams
My vision and the deepest art of my soul
Are all about you my love
They are all about you

Poetry by Mr Modigliani
“Art must be about love, or it is nothing at all”, quote by Marc Chagall
“Lovers”, painting by Marc Chagall

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged , , , , | 23 Comments

“Self-Clubbing” by L Passos

Note from Mr Modigliani:  As a writer and artist with some presence, I meet interesting, talented people from around the world and learn their life story, as they learn about mine.  The following is a guest post from a friend from South America, who though beautiful, intelligent and talented, has battled depression.  Her first language is Portugese and I assisted with some editing.  I also want to thank J for her support of her dearest friend and this post.  Ms Passos will read your comments so I encourage you to offer her your love and support.

“Self-Clubbing” by L Passos

LPassos

In times of social phobia, self-clubbing is THE way out.

It is the way out of my boredom, out of what my doctor called, “emotional detachment “.

It’s all dark in the living room. The music, a mix done by a very heart-broken inspired friend, doesn’t play loudly.  It’s early evening. I just need to close my eyes and feel the music to find myself.

I wish I had drugs, though they are not quite necessary to make me feel like I have my soul – and body – free again.

Anxiety is imprisonment and I have been caught and put in a cage. The music makes my soul feel free. And because of that I cry.

I miss being free, with all its consequences: the craziness, the strength (I will call it power), movement, people, cold drinks, sunrises with sun glasses, runny makeup and the feeling of being alive.   I miss feeling alive.

I lost the will for living somewhere in a dark corner of a night club. Maybe because somehow I knew there is no middle ground in my life.   Either I throw myself into something completely or I restrain myself entirely.  I need to try to live and understand what a normal life is.

Here I am again. Tied up in my own trap.

Oh, but not now, right now. Now I am clubbing, self-clubbing.

Posted in Duets and Guest Authors | Tagged | 21 Comments

The Darker Shadows of Happiness

Beasts senses you
His nostrils flare
To catch the scent
Of your ashen wings
He hears their velvety flutter
Just out of reach
And quietly listens
To the soft melody
And the hopeful tears
Of your tragedy
Lurking
In the darker shadows
Of happiness

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged | 16 Comments

A Slave’s Haiku

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Something of a whore
She begs for validation
Her Master’s command

Posted in Erotic Poetry | Tagged | 13 Comments

I Am the Jaguar King

JaguarKingI am the Jaguar King. I rule the city of Tikal deep in a rain forest of howler monkeys, parrots, snakes and jaguars. Warrior priests take my command and run the city and govern the residents.  My queen sits by my side in the royal court.

Slaves erect massive pyramids in my honor from blocks that are cut from limestone quarries. Others raise crops and hunt to keep me, my queen and our warriors well fed. Women in the city make my clothes, adorn my royal courtyard and serve my fiercest sexual demands or those of my warriors. Those that disobey are disciplined, but most wish to serve.

At my direction, war is waged on neighboring tribes. Prisoners captured are turned into slaves, killed outright or sacrificed to the gods. They are killed so that all know my power. I rule ruthlessly and without hesitation.

You were captured by my war chief in a neighboring village. The male warriors of this village are a nuisance and were killed immediately. As I kept you prisoner, I considered what to do with you. Should I please the gods by sacrificing you? Should I keep you prisoner or put you to work in the fields?

But your beauty is alluring to me. I can have any woman in Tikal as my slave, but your eyes are wilder, your thoughts darker and you remain defiant, while others beg to serve. There is a part of me wishes to punish you, to humiliate you, to soak you in the seed of a hundred warriors. There is another part, that I will not reveal to others, that wishes you to be my queen.lady-kabel1

It is nearing the dusk of the summer solstice. If I am to sacrifice you, it is the time. There will be a ceremony. No other citizens of Tikal will be permitted near the royal court and the sacrificial altar. I summon two of my priests and my medicine chief. The two priests are instructed to bring you naked and bound to the court at dusk. The medicine chief is to kill one of the caged jaguars, bring me his head, his pelt and a gourd filled with his blood.

As instructed, you are stripped naked, bound with vines and delivered to me. You spit and hiss and when I see your fiery eyes, I slap your face hard. The sun is beginning to set, creating a beautiful silhouette among the thirty large pyramids in the city.

“Put her up on the altar!”, I command. The priests lift you while you writhe and twist, laying you on your back. “Tie her to the altar. Make sure her legs are spread” They tie you with your head drooping backward over the altar, your knees bent and your legs spread wide with your cunt exposed.

At that point, my medicine chief steps forward. I step out of my garment and into the jaguar skin. The jaguar’s head goes on top of mine as I transform into a ceremonial Jaguar King for the sacrifice. He then hands the gourd of blood, a switch that has been cut from a branch in the forest and a sharp stone knife.

My medicine chief, my two priest and I begin circling around you slowly, citing incantations in a slow melody leading up to the sacrifice. As the sun finally disappears beyond the farthest hills, I raise the knife with both hands and bring it down rapidly, stopping just an inch from your heart. Your panic, pleading for mercy as I drag the knife over your breasts and up to your throat.

I then take the switch and deliver a sharp blow to your breast, then another, then more to your chest, stomach and legs. Sharp lashes are being delivered all over your body. Walking around to the other side, I smack the other breast several times. Then walking to the end of the altar, I take the switch and deliver a sharp blow to your cunt as you scream from the pain. Then I deliver more blows to your labia and clit until you are engorged and throbbing.

Taking the gourd, I drizzle the jaguar blood all over your marked breasts and stomach. Then I slowly slide my whole hand deep into your cunt, pushing it in deeper and making it larger. You start gushing and cumming all over me. Removing my hand, I take the switch to your cunt several more times.

Walking to the head of the altar, I pull aside the jaguar skin and drive my large shaft deep down your throat. There is no mercy and I can see your throat expand as my shaft is driven deeper. Your eyes water as you gasp for air. I pull back a bit and release a large load deep into your mouth.

Holding the knife to your throat, I look into your wild eyes and utter, “Do you wish to live slave?” Tears in your eyes and deep in subspace, you utter yes almost unintelligibly. Cutting the vines loose, I growl, “You are mine now whore. I will fuck your ass, your mouth, and your cunt whenever I choose. You will be disciplined regularly and you will obey my every command. If you refuse to obey, you will be killed like all the other whores. However, if you serve me well, you will be taken care of….”

Your teary eyes looked up at me and you nodded your consent. “Priests, take her to my residence and tie her ass up on my bed. I will be there shortly.” “And remove the queen. She is no longer needed.”

There was a purple and orange sunset in the sky. I could hear the howler monkeys and the parrots in the treetops. You were taken to my quarters. Your wounds were dressed. You were fed and then you were tied, your head down, your ass in the air with your swollen labia exposed. I arrived shortly thereafter to take what was mine and was very pleased.

Posted in Erotic Stories | Tagged , , | 31 Comments

Only For Him

What is it
that so delights a man?
Filling the depths
Of his melancholy
With lightness and joy
Perhaps it is the beauty
and the artistry
Of her pose
The soft hourglass
Of her hips
And full symmetry
Of her breasts
Perhaps it is
The sweet tendrils
Of her womanhood
Dripping
Or the guttural symphony
Of her moans
Affirming
Her desire
Her love and loyalty
And the deep, satisfying submission
Of her body, mind and spirit
All that she offers
Only for him

Painting by Pierre Bonnard

Posted in Erotic Poetry | Tagged , | 25 Comments

Trapped


Trapped in a tower behind an unlocked door
And banished by a husband she no longer loved
Her heart was finally set free
By the lyrical chains
Of a poet

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged , , , , | 16 Comments

My Own Perspective on Connection

mine

When I wrote my last post, “Taking a Deeper Look Within”, I explored some of the inner psychology that underlies some of my D/s motivations.

Essentially I said that I have always had this belief, like a quiet whisper in the back of my mind, that I would not be met fully in the way that I desire to be met by a woman.  And yet every shred of evidence that I have in my current life is that this is NOT true.

Still the issue weighs on me in the same way that a poetic story lingers in my mind.   And so, I must write about it.  It is my method of healing and the way I must release my inner thoughts and vision.

When I first encountered this D/s world, I was presented with a wide range of labels.  I’m not going to go through the list as most of you already know a vast majority of them.  But what disappoints me is that they primarily describe the nature of the preferred sexual interaction, and not the fuller nature of the connection itself.

All I can really go on our my own experiences and the models and beliefs that are in my mind.  I know they are different for each person.  But, for me, connections must first be mental and intellectual.  I deal with small minds, trivialities and tasks all day at work.  In my romantic relationship, I want to discuss and explore subjects and ideas.  Those conversations should happen spontaneously because my lover is curious and enjoys exploring those subjects in greater depth and then sharing her thoughts and perspective with me.  I will offer the same in return and will naturally gravitate to subjects that are of interest to both of us.

Secondly, I need words of endearment, or an emotional connection.  It isn’t that I need to hear the words “I love you”.  I don’t really, though it is nice to hear.  What I need are words and actions of affection that demonstrate to me that I am respected, loved and adored.    One of the best ways I have received and given this is through poetic and sensual writing.  Yet, writing is not a requirement.   I can feel when there is an emotional connection and often it comes simply from the joy in her voice, the glint in her eye and the turn of her smile.

Third, I have had experiences where there was so much intuition and empathy between us that our connection felt spiritual.     I have had some surreal experiences where I suddenly knew what a woman was thinking at that moment.  I have had experiences where I knew exactly where a woman was and what she was doing, even though I had not been told or we shared the same dream.  When these things happen, I feel like our connection is on a different plane of existence.  This feeling is the most intoxicating of all.

Finally, with a least a couple of those other elements in place, I need a very high level of sexual play.  I am very fierce and demanding in this area and any woman that sexually communes with me needs to give herself completely to me knowing that the experience will be creative, very high energy and intense.  At the same time, I think there are many lovely opportunities for kissing, holding, caressing and skin-on-skin lovemaking.  I want it both ways depending on the mood and the situation.

I don’t want anyone to misunderstand my motives for writing this.  As mentioned earlier, I write to release these ideas, thoughts and visions that I would otherwise have to carry around solely by myself.  It is good to get them out.

Posted in My Development | Tagged , , | 24 Comments

Helga’s Peonies are Blooming

In 1993, I purchased a beautiful little Scandinavian tudor in an artsy urban neighborhood of my city.  Just to the north of us lived Helga Bessac.  Helga was already 86, frail, and needed a walker to get around.  She had no family that we knew of and her only visitor was a slightly younger older lady that would periodically come over to help her.

After living in my house for a short while, I naturally wanted to check in on her to make sure that she was okay and see if there was anything we could do for her.  Helga had a thick German Yiddish accent, was reserved, but still very bright and a pleasure to speak with.  She greatly appreciated that I took an interest in her and our relationship slowly grew.

I became more curious about her life and her history.  However, when I asked, she would only talk about her life in the United States.  She talked with pride about being a nurse in the city hospital and still clearly loved her husband, who had now been gone for nearly 25 years.  Pictures of her husband, now yellowing in old frames, were placed around her house.

One day I noticed a set of numbers on her forearm.  Deeply shocked and disturbed, I suddenly realized very directly her reason for not wanting to talk about her time in Germany.  I wondered deeply what had happened and what she had experienced.

We lived next to each other for six years.  Every spring, beautiful pink peonies would bloom right on the property line between our front yards.  Each year, Helga would encourage us to clip some of them for our kitchen table.  So we would clip some to place in a vase in our kitchen and then we would clip some more for her kitchen.  She always appreciated it.

One day, she made the comment that those peonies had been there since 1950.  Surprised, I asked if she had planted them and she told me that she and her husband (my memory says “Frank”) had planted them when her husband “had finally joined her in the United States”.  I was quite surprised by this and asked her when he had arrived.  Though I am getting fuzzy on the details, I recall that he arrived in the US about three years later than her.  Strangely, she had actually first landed in California and then had made her way to the Midwest.  If you are coming from Germany, why on earth do you go to California first?

This question of Helga’s history was personal for me too.  In the summer of 1992, just a year before we had moved in next to Helga, I was living in Gdansk, Poland, working in a summer internship for a private consulting firm.  I had gotten to know some of my young consulting colleagues and had learned some of the personal stories of their, their parents’ and grandparents’ tragedy in World War II and its aftermath.  I told Helga about this experience and this created a stronger bond and more trust between us.

One day, I told Helga that I really wanted to know more.  I told her that I understood if there were things that she just couldn’t talk about, but asked her if she would tell me what she could.  She said that there were some things that she could never tell me, but that she would think about it.

Bits and pieces of the story started to come out.  She and her husband realized that things were gong very badly in Germany.  Jews were disappearing and they realized that they needed to get out.  Helga and her husband talked to her parents and her siblings, but they all said that things would get better and that they were going to stay.  Helga’s husband, Frank, knew some German officials and used all of their life savings to bribe them, so that they could get on a refugee ship.  Helga became very very quiet at this stage in the story and I suspect there is far more that occurred here.

As they arrived to get on the refugee ship, the Germans separated Frank from Helga, allowing only Helga to get on the ship.  Helga protested and demanded to go back with Frank, but he would not allow.  I do not know what happened to Frank in the following years, only that he survived and made his way to join her many years later.  Helga never again saw any of her siblings or her parents, all of whom disappeared.

The refugee ship departed and traveled all the way around the west coast of Europe (where they could not stop during war).  It then made its way to the major port cities of Western Africa, stopping in each port.  At each port, the Jewish refugees were denied admittance and the ship was sent on its way.  It went down the coast of Africa, to South Africa, into the Indian Ocean, to all the major ports of Southeast Asia.  At every port, they were denied.  Finally, they were accepted in Shanghai, China.  Refugees from the ship were forced to live in large tent city refugee camps.  Here, Helga, alone without her husband, her siblings or her parents, served as a nurse and took care of the other refugees in the camp for two full years.  I figure that she was probably in this camp somewhere in the range  1945-1948.

I don’t know how the camps came to a close, but somehow Helga was allowed to emigrate from Shanghai to the United States, arriving via ship in California, and then arriving in my city shortly thereafter.  As a well qualified nurse, she quickly landed a job in one of the hospitals and served faithfully there for the next 30 to 35 years.  As mentioned previously, her husband Frank, arrived a few years later, but was never the same and died at a young age.

Helga always had a bright, engaging personality.  As a younger healthy woman, I can just see her joyfully and unselfishly taking care of the patients in the hospital.  I’m sure her patients, and probably even her co-workers, never knew what she had experienced and endured.

In 1999, we bought a new house in a different part of the city.  Helga was getting progressively more ill and she encouraged me to take some of her peonies to our new house.  Shortly thereafter, she passed away.  She had outlived most of her friends and had no family, so there was a small crowd at her burial at the tiny little Jewish cemetery where she is buried.

Each year, Helga’s peonies are now blooming in my back yard as you can see in the picture.  Tonight, I will cut some and take them to her grave.

Posted in Other Musings | Tagged , | 21 Comments

The Bridge Tender

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For 27 years, I have tended this old railroad bridge.  Deep in the basin of the river, the sandstone cliffs tower above me.  On top of these cliffs, the city bustles.  Lawyers, doctors, bankers and insurance workers scurry to their jobs, concerned with their next promotion, their children’s success and the angst of their love lives.

And yet I sit here, day after day.  They do not know I’m here, but I do not mind.  When I started, the trains would deliver grain to the brewery daily.  I was important.  But the brewery is no more, the bridge is rarely used, but still I sit, filling the time.  I think about my childhood, the sweetheart I loved in high school, and the father that I lost. What else am I to do?  Time is passing me by, but I am still needed.  After all, I am the bridge tender.

Posted in Other Musings | Tagged | 11 Comments

Sapiosexual


I am a dominant sapiosexual…I want your mind…your words…your dark secrets…your smile..all of it…like a meal served for me to devour…one small course at a time…and I, in turn, will offer mine…and we will see…when all the hard fucking is done…your ass is marked…your cunt and mouth taken…and your eyes…and lips…are caressed in tender kisses…if you can still stand

Posted in Erotic Poetry, My Dominance | Tagged , | 20 Comments

The Art of August Rodin and the Words of Anais Nin

“I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, fucked, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding.” ~Anais Nin

Note from Mr Modigliani:  I have been paying a lot of attention to the sculpting work of August Rodin lately as I have a craving to try this form of art.  He had such an extraordinary understanding of the beauty of the female form.  At the same time, I have also been paying more attention to the words of Anais Nin, and when I saw both of these, I thought they deserved to be put together.  

Posted in Other Musings | Tagged , , | 29 Comments

Quark and Quanta

space_and_particles_by_janrobbe-d5pqgtb

My mind used to hold
These precious golden fragments
That could be spun into
A tapestry of art and form
Poem and verse
And passion for the beautiful
Muse on my chaise lounge
Posing there
For my artful hand
Now it is a shattered ether
Of swirling particles
Quark and quanta
Always untouchable
More theory
Than practicum

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 10 Comments

Beast Contemplates

IMG_0762

As Beast drinks from his chalice
And dines on his meal of sweet flesh
He contemplates his passions
Kinks and motivations
And he asks himself
If ferocious sex
And submission
Is enough
To sate him
Is it enough
To fill him fully?
Had he looked
Deep enough?
Had he listened
To his own inner voice?
His own Master
Was he compensating
For his own pain?
Perhaps he was
A wounded Beast
Not knowing his own injury
An injury of spirit
In his own belief
And faith
The core of his being
Doubts resurfaced
Old beliefs spoke again
Would he
Ever be met fully
And completely
Strength for strength
Service for service
By the love of a woman?
He pondered
Sighed deeply
And continued
To devour

 

 

 

Posted in My Development, My Dominance | Tagged , , , | 15 Comments

The Taste of Your Lust

IMG_0736

I will fill
Your fantasies
With lascivious
And wicked
Dreams

I will spread
And break you
While your
Pretty eyes
Plead

And I
Will hold
Your heart’s lust
Savor its dripping red
For my fangs
To feed

Posted in Erotic Poetry | Tagged , | 33 Comments

Queen of the Sahara

She is the Queen of the Sahara
With perfect curves and beguiling eyes
Her charms and enchantments
Cast a spell over a vast kingdom
Her subjects
Tremble before her
Awed by power
Her ruthless grace
and beauty
And yet all the while
Her tender loving heart
Drenches in its own desire
for a wise Master
To guide her
Lead her
Command her
Looking up at the stars
On a cool, clear night
She feels loved
And simply wishes
To be a slave

Photo is of the beautiful and talented performer Haifa

Posted in Erotic Stories | Tagged , , , | 11 Comments

Love and Light for Cousin and Sir

Mr Modigliani:

Sir meets Sir and a cousin is reunited in a small moment of my life…

Originally posted on An Artful Man's Journal:

Church WindowsMy blog character, Mr. Modigliani, was born in Livorno, Italy and has his art studio in Paris.  However, I, the writer and real person, live in the United States and was raised in the Midwest.  Most of my extended family comes from a strong German Lutheran heritage and my own great grandfather was a very commanding and intellectual Lutheran minister.  If you travel to the town of my grandparents and visit the small prairie church there, you will find at least three generations of my family buried in its cemetery.  It is an important and spiritual place for me.

I also have many cousins and know many of my second, third and even fourth cousins.  One of my third cousins is the daughter of a minister and is naturally attractive, intelligent and worldly.  About twenty years ago, she had enrolled in Lutheran seminary, married another young Lutheran minister (who never matched her intellect…

View original 642 more words

Posted in My Dominance, Reblogs | Leave a comment

Kundera’s “A Festival of Insignificance”

Mr Modigliani:

Kundera is one of the central figures influencing my thoughts on life, love and sexuality… I am very excited about his English translated novel coming out soon.

Originally posted on An Artful Man's Journal:

milan_kundera_2_jpg_340x267_crop_q85There are a few writers, philosophers and poets who have had a huge impact on my own thinking and philosophy.  One of the most significant is Milan Kundera, the Czech writer who wrote “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”.  He is considered one of the greatest living writers and is a perennial Nobel prize candidate for literature.

Kundera, along with Vaclav Havel, was part of a group of intellectuals, writers and playwrights who were instrumental in overthrowing the Communists in Czechoslovakia.  This was known as “The Velvet Revolution”.  Havel was the playwright.

His book from 1984, “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”, had an indelible impact on my own life philosophy and understanding of love and sexuality.  If you read his work, you will notice many Dominant philosophical, spiritual and sexual themes.  However, if you only pay attention to the erotic aspects of his work, then you will overlook the true power…

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Submission Is Not An Archetype

The title is provocative, isn’t it?  Though the vast majority of my followers are submissive women and baby girls, I want to talk about chasing the ideal of submission.  The reason I want to talk about it is that I continue to have the same conversation over and over with women who are doubting themselves, but continue to chase this ideal.

Let me say this out loud.  Submission is not some kind of perfect archetype ordained by the gods.  Isn’t the goal to achieve a higher higher level of joy in union with another?  Joseph Campbell famously quoted “Follow Your Bliss”.  One cannot truly achieve a blissful union if we are changing who we are on the inside to make someone else happy.  We need to be loved for who we already are.  As I have said before, you are already beautiful and worthy.  I have learned my own lessons the hard way in a relationship where BOTH of us were playing a role for each other.

I don’t believe it makes sense to pursue the perfect archetype of submission because there is no perfect archetype for Dominance to match in union.  Once we start to believe in these archetypes, then the whole value of the concept is diminished.  D/s is not a theology, it is the constant search of two imperfect people to create a more blissful union, based on trust and communications at all levels of connection with each other, emotional, intellectual, spiritual and physical.

p.s. I do love chain.  *wink*

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The Submission of Ishtar

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Ishtar
My love
Remove your robe
Kneel before me
In the circle of candles
Your breasts forward
Nipples protruding
Back arched
Wrists crossed
Behind you
Eyes averted
You are my angel
But I am your Master
I lead you
Through the darkest valleys
Of your own fantasy
To the mountain tops
Of your ecstasy
All that you are
Your flesh
And blood
Your sex
And climax
All that you do
Even your very spirit
Is mine

Picture is of me

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My Soul Will Speak

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Imagination is not merely a human faculty, but is an activity of soul to which the imagination bears witness. It is not we who imagine, but we who are imagined.  So my soul will speak, create and love as it so desires and my words, art, and passion will be its testament.

Words by James Hillman and Mr Modigliani
Drawing of “Master” by Mr Modigliani

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Strong and Unbroken

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I will stand strong
My will unbroken
As I wade
Through rushing rivers
Fight through
The fiercest thickets
And scale
The steepest cliffs
To once again discover
The tender, fierce music
Of my own
Heart song

Picture is of me on a wilderness adventure

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The Storm in the Chrysalis

I am a man
hidden in a chrysalis
and though you may see
the beauty of transformation
inside it’s a fierce storm
driving rain
pelts my face
ice shards
tear at my wings
lightning bolts
shred the sky inside
yet my mind remains calm
as I repaint my beliefs
and ponder
in which world to emerge
to be known
or unknown
to be seen
or unseen
to be beautiful
or plain
to live
or just exist
or simply
to fly away

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Live Once Again

Mr Modigliani:

Whether you celebrate Easter, Passover or simply the onset of a beautiful spring, this is often a time to reflect and begin anew as the crocus, the daffodils and tulips bloom. What I wish for you is the release of the pain that you carry and your own absolution of self. I did a lot of thinking, working and writing while I was on my island this week and the first step that I am taking is absolving myself of my own mistakes, guilt and pain. May your day be a joyous as it can be. Look in the eyes of a child and see wonder and beauty.

Originally posted on Mr. Modigliani's Private Studio:

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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.

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The Salvation of Ishtar

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There was a beautiful young woman named Ishtar from Pomerania, in the north of Poland, who lived alone with her father near an ancient monastery in the village of Kartuzy.  She was a wild girl who looked nothing like the other Polish girls.  With her dark hair, exotic looks and fierce eyes, some mistakenly thought that perhaps her mother was a gypsy.

But others in the village whispered that her mother was Assyrian and had descended from a long line of Babylonian princesses.  They said that she had been a courtesan or a prostitute.  Others thought she had also been a spy or an agent for Russian or American interests.

Ishtar was always curious though and drawn to her dark fears.  “Father, who is my mother?  Why did she name me Ishtar?  What is the meaning?”  Her father would just look at her and say, “Your mother knew she could not stay with you.  She knew that you would struggle to understand your true spirit.  You will learn the meaning of your name as you grow older”

ISH87-2Her mother had also left Ishtar a necklace with an eight point jeweled star that she was required to wear every day.  What was the meaning of this star?  It was such a mysterious, ancient piece and why had her equally mysterious mother insisted that she wear it?

The village of Kartuzy is particularly known for an ancient order of hooded Carthusian monks.  These monks are known for emphasizing the inevitability of death in their monastic teachings.  They are solitary, celibate and speak only their religious incantations for most of the year.  Because of these practices, their history as warriors and their long dark robes and hoods, they are often feared by visitors of the village.

Once when Ishtar was walking by the monastery, one of the monks noticed Ishtar’s necklace and her wild eyes and said, “You are the daughter of Anu from Nineveh.  I see it in your eyes and you wear her cross.”  The monk was frightened and ran away.  So Ishtar, now a young woman researched her mother.  She researched the symbol that hung between her breasts and discovered that she was descended from an ancient line of sacred prostitutes.  In fact, her very name meant the goddess of love, war, fertility and sexuality.

Ishtar felt deep drawn to the monastery in Kartuzy.  There was something about it.  The symbolism, the secrecy of the monks and their incantations.  What were they like as men? Her fascination haunted her and at night she dreamt of the monks disrobing, revealing their strength of their bodies and taking her sexually.

One night as she was looking through her father’s closet, she discovered a monk’s robe.  He too had been a Carthusian monk long ago, but had never told his daughter.  Suddenly inspired, Ishtar pulled back her hair, put on the hooded robe and slipped out of the house to make her way to the monastery.

Quietly opening the heavy wooden door, she entered the old church.  Candles dimly lit the sanctuary while the monks slowly circled singing their chants in ancient Gregorian style.  Ishtar tried to blend in with them, but her hair fell out of her robe and another monk quickly realized that they had been invaded by an impostor.

A group of monks surrounded her as her hood was pulled back revealing her beautiful, yet wild feminine face.  A small group of monks brought her to the center of the sanctuary and began circling around her, holding hands and singing.  A larger group of monks also formed a circle and began circling around Ishtar in the other direction, singing their chants in a perfect, dark, yet beautiful chorus.

One of the monks stepped forward and disrobed Ishtar, leaving her naked and exposed.  Grabbing her hair, he forced her to her knees and placed a heavy metal collar on her neck. Four chains were secured to the collar and screwed to the floor and the monks continued their circling and singing.

Ishtar closed her eyes and listened to the heavenly, masculine voices.  It were as though a thousand Gabriels were singing just to her.  She smelled the scent of men as they circled and as she remembered the fantasies of her dreams, she reached down and began touching herself, getting lost in the music and the delicate touch on her own wetness.

As she did this, one of the monks stepped forward and opened his robe, bringing it near to left side of her face.  Then another monk did the same on the other side of her, while a third presented his cock directly in front of her.  Instinctively, she took his cock deep in her mouth while she used her left and right to stroke the shaft of the two other monks.  Three other monks from the inner circle opened their robes and started stroking themselves, aiming their cocks at her and spraying her back and breasts with cum, while the outer ring of monks continued to circle and sing.

And, in this moment, when many would be fearful and ashamed, Ishtar found within herself the greatest peace that transcended all understanding.  Suddenly she understood the message of her mother, the symbolism between her breasts and what she was meant to be.  She was strong and proud.  No longer ashamed, she finally understood that she was to serve with strength, with beauty and with the deepest submission. She had found the salvation of Ishtar.

Please listen to the musical selection from the German group Enigma.

 

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Colors of My Choosing

tumblr_nlmvnevi401s37q7mo1_500There are many ways to paint a woman.  I prefer mine quite pretty, chained and in a beautiful mask, before she is adorned in the colors of my choosing.

–M

 

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The Real Work of an Artist

 

IMG_0762a friend recently said something… almost unnoticeable….but for me it is what I have been waiting to hear… and the next light in sequence turned on…. illuminating my path… because though I do not know the path forward… i do know that I am on one… and my greatest source of pain has not been what i have endured from others… it has been my own willingness to see within myself first… and be honest with myself…. always blaming another…. carrying my pain like a mantra to justify my misery …and my choices….  i have written poetry… i have painted…i have drawn… some say with beauty…and pain…i have let my rage and ferocity flow like a red river… i have gained lovers and lost friends that i cared deeply for… and yet i tell myself the same story over and over…my own mantra… you know me as an artist…as a poet… as a fierce lover…i have painted both the beauty and pain in my life…painted with blood, semen and tears…a brush in one hand….a knife in the other….and yet have i really put in the effort to create my own real life… in the same way i paint?…or is it simply a facade needing constant mortar ….via my own justifications… like an ancient fresco masterpiece on a decaying wall….i am capable… i am strong… and i have to power and the will to do so…and i am starting to put in the real work of an artist….

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Your Strength Revealed

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The gift of
Your beautiful curves
And your submission
To my fierce demands
Is not a sign of your weakness
It is instead your strength
Revealed and used
Beautifully

Original art in mixed media (watercolor, colored pencil and ink) by Mr Modigliani
Words by the Beast himself
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The Skeleton Key – Part 2

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continued from The Skeleton Key Part 1

Once inside the upper suite of the old bed ‘n breakfast, she knows that she is not permitted to speak.  Her role is to follow my command quietly and submissively until the scene is complete.  I instruct her to untie and let her simple dress fall to the floor.  She was told not to wear any panties or a bra and her simple jewelry is placed on the nightstand.

Putting a pillow against the nightstand for her comfort, I set her on the bed, resting her back against the pillow.  Immediately a leather mask is placed on her face and a ball gag placed in her mouth.  Her wrists are roped tightly to the headboard and her legs are spread, leaving her completely exposed, while I tie her ankles with longer sections of rope to the bed’s legs below.

The crop. Taking the crop, I gently tease her cheeks with it, then run it down her neck to her breasts.  I give the sides of her breasts a light tap with the leather tip.  Then I flick her left nipple, then the right.  I do it again. And again as each one grows harder, standing to attention.

Running the crop a little further south, I tease her tummy and then tap on the insides of her thighs. I lightly tap her right on her labia, then a light tap right on her clit, as she convulses.  I tap again a bit harder.  Then snap it harder, right on the hood of her clit, as she struggles helplessly against her ropes.

The wax. Walking over to the nightstand, I whisper in her ear, “Prepare yourself my love… This will not be easy.” I unplug the wax warmer and hold it directly above one of her breasts, letting one drop drip on the side, then on the other side, then on top and the bottom of each breast.  Her whole body is shaking.  Then letting the wax cool just a bit, I let one drop carefully drip right on her nipple as her arms flail against the rope restraints.. As she flails, I drip wax on her other nipple…

Slowly I drop small amounts of wax between her breasts, then start heading south, circling her belly button, dripping on her pelvic area and then on her inner thighs.  A small amount of wax is dripped on either side of her labia.  Spreading the labia with my fingers, I head just a bit north and drip just to the left and the right of her clit.  Now her legs are just shaking and I can hear her deep moans as I let a drip fall right on her clit, then another. Her legs shake wildly as I firmly remind her that she is not allowed to cum.

The ice. Taking a piece of ice, I run it along her neckline and let it drip between her breasts.  Holding it above her, cold water drips ever so silently and fiercely on each breast before I circle the ice directly around each nipple, making each one hard and erect.  A second piece of ice is put between her labia, then briefly inside of her, before moving north and teasing her clit until completely melted.  I watch with a bit of glee as her back just arches helplessly to fight her restraints.

The vibe.  She is still quivering a bit as I wrap some rope a couple time around the wand and then around the tops of her thighs.  The head of the wand is placed between her labia while I pull the ropes tighter, holding it firmly in place.  I turn it on low, just letting it hum gently between the lips of her wet mess.

The poem.  After placing the wand between her labia, I pull over a wooden chair and just watch as she quivers and shakes, sweat now rolling off her breasts…  I remind her that she will not cum and then open a small hardbound book.  Before beginning to read, I turn the vibe on a medium pulse… on and off, on and off, on and off…  As I begin the reading.

Come slowly — Eden!
Lips unused to Thee —
Bashful – sip thy Jasmines –
As the fainting Bee –

Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums –
Counting his nectars –
Enters – and is lost in Balms.

The Denouement.  Turning the vibe on high, I stand up and slowly put the chair in its original location.  Returning back to the bed, I remove her mask and take the gag out of her mouth.  Commanding her jaw, I force her to look at me.  Her eyes are off in another world while she struggles to focus on me.  Speaking softly, I look deep into her eyes and simply say “Cum for me”…..

Poem is original work by Emily Dickinson
Animated image from Tumblr
All other work is, of course, my own

 

 

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Love on the St. Charles Bridge – A Duet

Some time ago, I asked Bruised Belly at The Migraine Chronicles to write a duet with me.  BB has written a number of these with other writers and so I am pleased that she accepted the offer.  Please visit her blog to see more of her poetry.  She writes with a poetic intelligence and deep sensuality.

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He met her in Prague, and his desire for her burned
She was a Bohemian beauty and he a man of the world
And his heart, his soul, his very flesh yearned to make her his own
So he held her and whispered, “My love, my dear,
If you desire me, I will come back for you in one year
Meet me on the St Charles Bridge

A year of waiting, of yearning and wondering
Would he remember her, want her, still call her name
He promised his love, yet a year is long to carry a flame
She pretties herself as she looks in the mirror
Today is the day, it’s been exactly one year
She steps to the Bridge, gripped with fear

He worried, for it had been so very long
Would she be there for him, would she still care?
He longed for her eyes, her beauty so fair
Surely she was now taken, in love with a gent
He thought he had lost her, much to his lament
As he rushed to meet her on the St Charles Bridge

She sees him approach with a sad look on his face
She wonders why, as she runs to his embrace
With his arms wrapped around her all doubt erased
A smile, a tear, a promised kiss
That face of his that she has so missed
All worth the wait to meet on St. Charles Bridge

He gently wipes away her tears
Brushes back her hair and calmed her fears
Just off the bridge, a cellist strums an ancient song
While its melody wafts through the tall towers of old Prague
He looks in her eyes and drops on one knee
Dear love, he says, please spend your life with me

And so it was that day, that these two lovers
A pretty Bohemian and a strapping young Brit
Gave themselves to each other
On the St Charles Bridge

 

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Captured Angel

I’ve captured an angel and bound her with ropes and chain.  Her eyes have been wrapped in cotton raiment, her breasts bound tightly and anointed with oil.  A heavy steel collar is secured on her neck and I love to watch as her wings flap and flail.  Looking at her, I speak softly  “Go ahead.  Struggle my dear.  But you will sing and you will cum for me as I whisper in your ear.”

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My Eyes Can See

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Look at me
While I hold your jaw
And still your frenzied mind
Look into my eyes
While I peer deeply into yours
So that I may know your thoughts
Your fears and insecurities
Desires you will not admit
Cravings unfulfilled
Never expressed
But my mind hears them
All of them
And my eyes
Can see

Picture is of my eyes

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Do You See What I See?

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Do you see what I see?  Do you love her beauty reflected in such austere simplicity?  Do you gaze at the subtle nuance of her lines and curves, the light and the shadows?  Do you lust for her form and gaze at the curve of her ass as it slopes into the arc of her back? Does your hand wish to run gently, then roughly over each slope and undulation?  Do you sense her submission in the averted turn of her head?  I do.  I always have.

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The Hills of Paris

Truth be told I did not paint for years
As though a part of me had died
And even in a beautiful Paris spring
All I saw was gray

And so I sat in my studio
With my cheap Bulgarian wine
Watching the spiders crawl across
My old wooden floor

When you came through my door
Something changed
A perfect light filled the room
And I awoke from my self inflicted tragedy

As you posed so graciously
Your radiant form on my chaise lounge
My mind suddenly remembered color
Layers, textures and hue
And the beauty of a woman’s body

Now once again I can see
Vivid colors in my mind and
The beautiful hills of Paris

I saw this photograph from the amazing Carl Warner and decided it fit one of my poems really well.  You can visit Carl’s work at http://www.carlwarner.com

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Chain Her

If I am drawn to her
And feel the depth of our connection
Fed by her joy and devotion
If my body lusts for her
And I desire her to be mine

Then I will chain her
Beautifully and reverently
And use every part of her fiercely
Marking her with passion
And my love

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The Gift of Her Spirit

Forest_Magic_by_Pygar

I heard my name
Being whispered in the wind
So I set out and happened upon a fairy
With the face of an angel
And the wings of a dragonfly
“Sir, I have waited for you”
She sang as she fluttered about
“Take me Sir”, she implored.
“I will give you all that you wish for
You may tie me, chain me, fuck me
Take me wherever you wish
My body is yours
For your pleasure”

My dear fairy
This is a beautiful gift
But is not all that I need
I wish for the gift of your spirit
Given joyfully, without reserve
I wish to hear your voice
Singing for me
I wish to feel your love
In a poem for me
I want the gift of you
My beautiful fairy
Then I will tie you
Mark you
And devour you
Fiercely 

The fairy listened to my words
While flitting and fluttering
Finally she said,
“Sir I just can’t,
My spirit is for no man”
I felt the drop of her tears
Land softly on my cheek
While she turned
And flew away

Picture entitled Forest Magic by Pygar, from DeviantArt.com

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Compassion for a Man’s Inner Life

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When Hasty Words invited me to write for her, I told her that I wanted to write about the challenges that men face with compassion.  There are so many female bloggers on WordPress that share every joy and sorrow, but the men are so very few.

Men here that express themselves with vulnerability, honesty and humor become like charismatics at a revival.  Female bloggers flock to them because, I believe, there is such a need and desire for women to understand the inner lives of men.  They are drawn to a man who is willing to reveal himself, whether he does that with humor, vulnerability or simply raw unfiltered expression.

As men, we simply don’t communicate like women do.  Men and women seem to inhabit the same planet but lead completely different lives as though we are closely related species that diverged 10,000 years ago.  Breeding is still possible but the communication capabilities of women have raced ahead of men’s evolution.

At 52 years old, I never had a full appreciation for this until this last year.  Sure, there have been numerous studies and I have read related articles in The New York Times or The Atlantic (or wherever), but it didn’t really sink in.  What happened then is that some women befriended, trusted and allowed me to simply listen and participate in their conversations as women. In all of my lifetime, I have never really had this opportunity.

My observation is that women are so much better than men at being friends.  They wake in the morning and greet each other with love and warmth.  They share both the small and large details of their lives.  They mentor each other to better navigate difficult problems and make wiser choices in their lives.  They send each other small gifts to demonstrate their love and friendship for each other and they are the first people to rush in during a crisis.  Women constantly express love, compassion and support for each other.

Women, you can’t possibly imagine how different a man’s life is.  Everything I will say is a generalization, but we are lone wolves.  We carry all of our emotions bottled up inside and, for the most part, those emotions stay there, never to be expressed.  In the last 30 years, I think I have cried twice and I suspect that is not uncommon for many men.

As men, our lives are like we exist in a hierarchy of wolves, competing for our position and its rewards.  Even the other wolves we consider as our friends feel a bit like competitors and so we never really share and never, ever make ourselves vulnerable.  So instead, we bury our emotions deep under many layers of protection and focus on building, creating and solving problems.

And, to be honest, our women are not always so good and helping us with our inner emotional lives.  My own experience is that the women in my life have always wanted me for the needs that I fulfill for them.  And so I have spent decades absorbing various complaints and worries, trying to support and then solve practical problems while trying to provide leadership in all the aspects of my own life.

Expressing and communicating our inner life is ultimately is each man’s responsibility.  We must acknowledge that we have an inner life and that we have a journey that is uniquely our own.  We need to reach out and share ourselves more openly with other male friends that we can confide in.  We must also have the courage to peel away the layers of our protection so we may experience compassionate love from the women we cherish and love in our lives.

Permission to use this photo, “She Tamed the Wolf”, is graciously granted by the photographer, Raphaelle Monvoisin.  Raphaelle is a very talented graphic and web designer in Paris, France.  You may see more of her work at http://www.raphaellem.com.  

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Mr M Meets the Spirit of His Wife

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As I lay on the tarmac with Djanira weeping above me, I felt my spirit starting to move to a different place and though I was being transported through a dark tunnel. Toward the end of that tunnel, I saw a light and from that light, a vaguely shaped spirit emerged.

I drew closer to this spirit and immediately felt its love and care. Was this the destination that some people spoke about when they die? It didn’t feel like it. As I drew closer to the spirit, I was shocked to hear the voice and once again see the beauty of my first wife and beautiful muse, Jeanne.

“My dearest Amedeo, my love, I have come to speak with you. There is much in your soul that wishes to die and I know that much of that pain comes from me. Amedeo, you must let go of that pain and choose to live. Since my death, I have watched you grow so much as a man and an artist. An when you were suffering, when you were blaming yourself, while tears rolled down your cheeks, even while you stood strong for others, I was always there for you Amedeo. Even as a spirit, I wiped your tears and wrapped my arms around you.

I know that you blame yourself for what happened between us. But, know this my dear love, as much as you loved me, I was not the right woman for you. I was insecure. I was deeply afraid that I was not enough for you. I tried to control you too much and did not love you fully with my words and my actions. I never loved your body the way it needed to be loved and I never let you take mine the way you so fiercely desired.

Amedeo, I suffered with you when you sank into depression after my death. But I have watched you grow and become the man that I always knew you were. I have seen your strength and your command. I have witnessed your deep artistry, not only in your art, but in your life. I have seen your inner Beast take and make love to the women you care for so deeply. And, dear Amedeo, the one you care for…, I know her spirit. She does love you. Her spirit is good and wise and she mourns every day for your loss, even as she projects her strength and holds back her words.

My dear love. It is time for you to live. It is time for you to let go of the pain that you have held onto for so many years. There is joy in the living and the loving that you will still do. I will always be here for you. I am proud of you. I love you. But for now you must LIVE!”

As soon as those last words were spoken, I felt my spirit suddenly return back to my body. My eyes opened as I saw the blue sky above me. I felt the warmth of the sun on my skin and saw Djanira’s big smile and the happiness on her face. I was alive and it was time to start living again…

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This Is the Hand

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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

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On Pain

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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

Posted in My Pain | Tagged , , | 29 Comments

Strapped

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

Posted in Erotic Poetry, My Dominance | Tagged , | 38 Comments

Live Once Again

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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.

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged | 33 Comments

Tears of Submission

Crying

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

Posted in Erotic Poetry | Tagged , , | 36 Comments

It’s What She Needs

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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
Power exchange
Seed and submission

If you play with her
Deliver strength
Back her to a wall
Kiss her hard
Command her jaw

Use her
Discipline her
Drop her to her knees
It’s what she needs, and
She loves to please

Picture taken from Tumblr

Posted in Erotic Poetry, My Dominance | Tagged , , , | 51 Comments

On Spanking

As I sit here by the fire, I found this draft on my iPad. I don’t think I ever published. This piece is aimed more at women who are exploring submissiveness, not the many of you that have every wood and leather implement ready for use in your night stand.

I had a great conversation about spanking with a blogger the other day. Spanking doesn’t really seem like the right term in that she really wanted her ass beaten pretty hard before she was fucked and used (using her words here). Her man just wasn’t getting it.

Most of the readers that I’m connected to on this blog are bright, very sexual women in their 30’s to lower 50’s. There are so few men that comment, especially on this subject area, that I feel compelled to say something to give a male perspective. Guys, you could help here.

Before I comment, let me say that this has been an area of progression for me for the last three years. I’m not going to have the same point of view as a long term, very experienced Doms and I have a much more aggressive view than any vanilla man. Any woman who has experienced me knows that I am different from most men on many different levels (and you already know that from my writing).

Women, let me tell you that 90% of men have no clue how many of you want this, how many of you need this for the deep satisfaction of your sexual needs and your very spirit. For very good reasons, us men are taught just the opposite at an early age. We are taught to date and to court and to be gentlemen. We are to woo you with our charm, our athletic skill, our intellect and our success (whatever advantages we offer). Just to be direct about it, we are taught never to hit or lay hands on a woman and most young men would be shocked to learn that a woman might actually want this.

This is the genteel societal approach to courtship. And, frankly, it is terribly dissatisfying. It ignores the fierce, primal sexual and spiritual being that is within us and does not satisfy what many women want and what almost every man needs.

Our inner sexual spirit is at our core. On top of that are many layers of protections, perceptions, societal expectations, fears, insecurities and motivations. My own experience is that women are closer to their core sexual being than most men, especially after the children get a little older. Many of us men are so wrapped up in the throes of economic competition that it seems we have many more layers to remove to get to that sexual spiritual core.

It takes a special woman to help us remove those layers and allow that inner beast to come out and play. Men are direct and don’t take hints well, so my thought is that, for those of you that are exploring your submissiveness, tell your man how important for your spirit to be spanked. Tell him that you want his beast in all his ferocity. Just say it. It will be fine and certainly start a lively conversation.

Finally, I want to be be very clear that I very much enjoy a charming, engaging date with a beautiful woman.

Posted in My Dominance | Tagged , , , , , | 33 Comments

The Shackles of My Mind

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I was shackled
To her small mind
Her conventional priorities
Insecurities and angry tirades
But the most important shackles I wore
Were the ones I put on me
And yet I contrast that
With the soaring joy
Of having you here
Naked in my studio
Tied and bound
Not because I demand
Your submission
(Though you offer)
But because I crave
Your love

Posted in Erotic Poetry, My Development, My Dominance, My Pain | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

Your Eyes

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I see you
I can see into you
And even with your weak defense
Your eyes take me
To your beautiful depths
And one by one
I will open each little door
And enter every room
To consume your thoughts
Your dreams
And whatever else I choose
You will feign resistance
Like you always do
But I am three steps ahead
And it is much too late, my dear
For I already have you
And see it in
Your Eyes

Posted in Erotic Poetry, Romantic Poetry, Spoken Word | Tagged , , , , , , | 37 Comments

My Muse

Reclining Nude by Amedeo Modigliani

Reclining Nude by Amedeo Modigliani

You.
So deeply beautiful
Moving really
As a woman
A spirit
A passionate lover
And my muse
Wild and fierce
Known
But partially hidden
Your perfect lines
And gorgeous eyes
Inspire the artists hand
Your verse
With such sensual honesty
Moves the poet’s soul
And you
As a woman
Stir my
Most basic and intense desire

Image | Posted on by | Tagged , , , , , , | 16 Comments

Off to Australia

Mr Modigliani:

I am heading to Australia and New Zealand on Monday. Will miss all of you.

Originally posted on An Artful Man's Journal:

1-australia-hero

Though I think everyone is pretty busy this summer, I thought I should mention that I will be leaving for a trip to Australia.  It is doubtful that I will be posting, though I will be bringing my international phone along.  Departure is Monday and I intend to spend a fair portion of my time exploring the Great Barrier Reef with time in Sydney and five days in New Zealand.  I will probably post one more time before I depart.  If we don’t talk before I leave, have a wonderful couple weeks.  I will be back the third week of August.

View original

Posted in Uncategorized | 19 Comments

Introduction of M’s Art Gallery Page

I am not sure why I didn’t think of this sooner, but I’ve decided to add a separate Art Gallery page with a few of my selected works.  To go there, you can either visit my blog’s home page or click on this link.

https://mrmodigliani.wordpress.com/art-gallery/

Posted in Uncategorized | 12 Comments

Blog Notes About Gdansk

StMarysCathedral

So, for my readers, I am sure you have noticed that I have been writing some erotic fiction about different places in the world.  My most recent story about Gdansk, Poland is so very detailed because I lived there for a while long ago.  I worked for an elite consulting firm and consulted on the privatization of state-owned enterprises, working with government ministers and various private sector clients.

But the important point is that I walked every one of those steps.  I tipped the harpist on Mariacka (she was pretty and talented).  I visited the amber shop and walked through the massive doors of St. Mary’s (which is the largest brick cathedral in the world).  I pondered the triptych, which is frightening.  I walked the steps to the top of St. Mary’s.

Though my writing is a blend of both reality and fiction, there is much of my life in each and every story, even some of the most exotic.

Posted in About Myself, Other Musings | 11 Comments

Modigliani and Modigliani

  
I visited the Museum of Fine Art in Houston yesterday and had the opportunity to see this real Modigliani oil painting. It was a remarkable moment and I felt a kinship with him.

Posted in Uncategorized | 27 Comments

Breaking A Slave in Rio

I have always had dreams.  They have been the basis of my life. And my dreams become my fantasies.  I listen to these fantasies and turn them into reality.  It is my reason for living and the basis of my joy and happiness.

As a young man, my first adult vacation was to Rio de Janeiro.  While there, I stayed in a penthouse apartment on the Copacabana beach where I quickly met a beautiful young Brazilian woman on the beach who served me well the rest of my trip. 

It has been twenty years but I am returning soon.  And you will be coming along, for I have arranged a very specific surprise for the two of us.  I have already packed a bag for you, so you will be leaving in nothing but the dress and shoes I have selected for you, no panties, no bra, not even jewelry.  I have already chosen whatever you will wear according to my own wishes.

It is a twelve hour flight from Miami to Rio.  After flying all night, we arrive mid-morning.  I have arranged a private driver in advance who takes us directly to a private beach house just behind the Ipanema beach hotels that I have rented for the week.

And what you don’t know my dear, is that a special house guest is awaiting us.  She is so very beautiful and you will be her plaything and slave for the week.  I have given her special instructions on how she will use you to please and delight me.
As we arrive at the house, you are stunned by the beauty of this young woman.  I address her as Luana and kiss her while she takes my bag, then approaches you, slides your dress down off your shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.  Taking you by the hand, she leads you to the Master Suite where you are tied spread eagle to a vintage wrought iron bed on your back, your arms and legs spread wide, your cunt exposed and your breasts in air.
Luana looks at me and I give her a nod.  Dropping her own dress, she bares her perfectly tanned body.  Her skin glistens as sweat begins to roll between her breasts, across the ink of her tattoos and down her shapely hips and ass.  Opening the nightstand drawer, she removes a flogger and looks at you with both a wicked and loving grin.
Bending down, she kisses your lips sweetly like she were Judas condemning you.  She whispers, “Master has made you mine.”  Then the blows begin.  Across your legs, your tummy and then to your breasts.  I nod to her again and she takes square aim at your cunt.  The blows to your cunt are light at first and then pick up power and intensity.  Luana then takes a glass dildo from the nightstand and starts banging your cunt hard with it.
I calmly walk over to the head of the bead while Luana continues her work.  I remove my belt slowly, unzip my pants and release my shaft in front of your face.  Grabbing your jaw, I drive my shaft deep down your throat and fuck your mouth mercilessly until I deliver a large down down your throat.
Withdrawing, I bend over and whisper in your ear… “You see my dear whore, I’ve arranged with beautiful Luana here to have you broken.  Each day I have given her new instructions on what she is to do with you.  She is quite the master with a whip and looks delicious with a strap-on.  You will obey and if you are a very good girl, my dear little slave, perhaps I will release you and we will both fuck you senseless several times a day. Would you like that my dear whore?  Would you?”
Gasping and out of breath, your body writhing from the pain and pleasure, I see the eyes roll back in your head as you utter the words “Yes Sir”.
Posted in Erotic Stories | Tagged , , , , , | 17 Comments

Release


I have found it hard
For my mind and hand to settle
Both tense. Each demanding
Their own form
Of release

Glass dildo custom crafted by Dale Chihuly
(wouldn’t that be wonderful?) 

Posted in Erotic Poetry, Erotic Thoughts | 22 Comments

Ecstasy Haiku 

  
Knowledge is power

So I explore your intrigue

To free ecstasy

Posted in Erotic Poetry, Romantic Poetry | Tagged | 2 Comments