My Heartfelt Apology to Kit (1)I was only 20, a junior in college at a large Midwestern university, when I met her.  She was 22, a fifth year senior and had already been accepted to Law School.  She was also one of the most beautiful and charismatic women on campus.  At 5’4″ and 105 pounds, she had blonde hair, a killer smile, striking blue eyes, a tight little ass that made men pant, great fashion sense, and a flirtatious,  intelligent personality.

She lived in one of the finer sorority houses on campus, but never came across like a sorority girl.  On our first date, she simply invited me to the living room of her sorority house for a chat.  When I took a seat on the white couch, she pulled out a chess board, set up all the pieces, looked up at me and said, “Black or White”.  I chose black, replying “Ladies first…”  This started off a wide ranging discussion of art, style, geopolitics, religion and many other subjects.  Then I asked, “So Kit, do you always play chess with your dates?”  She replied, “Yes, M, I do.  I can tell a lot about a man when I play chess with them (as she winked at me in her sexy, flirtatious way).”  Many moves later, I checkmated her.

This set off a torrid romance.  Our lovemaking was like two passionate hungry beasts that clawed at each other and couldn’t get enough.  When we weren’t fucking, we were cooking together.  Food, fashion, shoes (Nine West), clothes, sex, music and great discussions were her joys.  We enjoyed cooking in her new townhouse with its fabulous kitchen before we retired to more play on her giant waterbed.

But Kit also had some Daddy issues.  Her mother was a local television personality famous for her kids show in the morning.  Her father had divorced her mom, moved to a southern state, was a prominent attorney and dated a much younger playboy model.  This caused Kit all kinds of angst and there were times where she would get very moody and started fading in and out on me.  She would disappear for a month, then show up on my door, asking to be held.  I would give her a bath and then fuck her all night.

We never thought of ourselves as boyfriend and girlfriend.  We were lovers and intimates that eventually started fading apart.  Part of it simply was our age difference.  She was starting law school and I was still in college.  I had dates with other women and she had occasional rendezvous’s with other men.  But there were some wild things that happened that I simply felt crossed the line.  A young man once chased me down in his car, cut me off and then pleaded with me to let him have a relationship with Kit.  My reply was, “Who are you?”  This kind of thing, along with her disappearances and reappearances, tested my patience many times.

One night, we had agreed that we would make dinner together at my place at 7 pm.  I had purchased all the food, set the table and had the wine chilling.  Seven o’clock came and went, then 8, then 9.  I called but got no response.  At ten, I was in a bit of a panic worried about her (she had some mild suicidal thoughts occasionally) and drove over to her townhouse.  It was there that I discovered her in a compromising position with another man that I had seen previously.

Infuriated, I drove home, wrote the nastiest, most brutal letter I could write and put it in the mail to her, essentially saying that I never wanted to hear from her or see her ever again.   I was angry and the intent of that letter was to hurt her in a way that she would never forget.

I was 21 at the time and I regretted that letter every day, every year, every decade afterward.  Whatever she had done, I felt terrible about my willful intent to hurt her.  It was a weight that I carried around within me and I deeply regretted my actions.  She still meant so very much to me as someone that I had cared for deeply.

She had always told me that, after law school, that she wanted to move to the south to be near her father.  After thirty years, I wanted to apologize.  The hard part was that she had a very common last name when she was single and the university no longer had a record of where she had moved.

Finally, almost 30 years to the day from our first meeting, I found her on Facebook working as an attorney in a small town in the Carolina’s.  She was just as beautiful as she was in college, had been married for 20 years, divorced and was recently remarried.  I sent her a Facebook message and asked for a time to speak with her.  She was very surprised to hear from me and agreed.

I called a few days later, heard the same voice that I knew so well thirty years ago and then I apologized.  I apologized for writing the letter.  I apologized for wanting to hurt her.  And I did not ask for or expect an apology for her actions.  We laughed a little, chatted about our lives, the great times we had together, the challenges and joys we had experienced and then I thanked her and said goodbye.  And to this day, when I think about the women that have reached me at the deepest levels, the number is less than five and Kit will always be one of them.

Posted in My Development | Tagged , , | 13 Comments

Congratulations to Svetlana Alexievich

0,,18768156_303,00I admire women of courage, action and honesty, so I was more than pleased to see the Nobel Committee’s choice for Literature, Svetlana Alexievich.

This is really a breakthrough choice in many ways.  First, she is only the twelfth or thirteenth woman, I believe, to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.  Second, much of her work is this kind of cross between non-fiction investigative journalism and literary fiction.  She has invented her own genre of writing in the view of the committee.

But what I think is most important is her courage and bold honesty.  She writes the truth with such a gritty audacity that it embarrassed Russian and Ukrainian authorities, including Ukraine’s  president at the time, Victor Lukashenko.  Her most notable work is “War’s Unwomanly Face.”

The Nobel Committee takes many factors into consideration and by selecting her, not only are they awarding a very worthy and brilliant writer, but they are shining a light on the very difficult lives of Communist and post-Communist women and their families, who suffer under paternalistic autocratic rule.

Posted in Other Musings | 2 Comments

Beauty and Love of a Woman

20140420-044737.jpgWhat kind of fools are you, men of this world, to believe you can own a woman?  Are you so powerful, so righteous, that you catch fire with rope? For  a woman’s spirit is surely like fire and your rope is nothing but the wilting, charred evidence of your own false pride.  What good is it to shame her, to control her, if there is no gift to you?  Is it not better to love her and set her free than to place a crown of thorns on her head?

Master your own emotions. Control your stupid jealousies.  Give the gift of yourself, your honor and strength and then perhaps then she will suffer for you willingly, but it will be the kind that will make your heart sing, your body writhe in pleasure and your own soul will finally realize its salvation in the true beauty and love of a woman.

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged , , , , | 33 Comments

Nymph of the Lake

On a warm autumn day,
Leaves rustled and hot winds blew
My shirtless chest glistened in the hot sun
While men’s strong backs strained against dock and lift

And as I walked to water’s edge
Your naked form would rise to greet me
Those haunting eyes, full breasts and wanton hips
Beckoned me, “Come to me Sir.  All that I am is yours

Yet she was a spirit, a nymph
Not meant for union with mortal men
So as my arms parted cool waters, I heard her cries
I am so sorry Sir” as she disappeared forever into the depths

Posted in Romantic Poetry | 19 Comments

A Livorno Affair

Mr Modigliani:

I wrote this some time ago and still appreciate its romantic elements

Originally posted on Mr. Modigliani's Private Studio:


We met in the small Tuscan city of Livorno. It was a warm, sunny day and both of us sought our own solitude in a small outdoor cafe. And as I glanced over, I caught a glimpse of your beautiful, radiant eyes, looking at me, momentarily distracted from your deep immersion in an old hardcover.

“That is quite an old book you are reading there. What is it?” I inquired pleasantly. “Oh yes. It is quite a unique treasure called ‘Spy-jacked’ by Mavis Bacca Dowden”. And as we talk further, this beautiful woman tells me it is about a young violin teacher who makes her way back from Italy through Spain to return to Great Britain during World War II. Much of the book is a private true memoir about her exploits in Francoist Spain, she explains.

This leads us into a lively discussion about European politics and conflicts, its…

View original 426 more words

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An Altar of Carpathian Elm

Your body will be bound
On an altar of Carpathian elm
Your supple skin adorned
With pagan charms
Then lashed
With the stroke
Of braided leather
By your Master’s strong arms

Posted in Erotic Poetry | 12 Comments


Be steadfast in your resolve. Never back down from the communication of your own desire. Never apologize for the honest expression of your own expectations.

Posted in Uncategorized | 12 Comments

Pablo Neruda on Jealousy

“Love is not about jealousy. Jealousy kills love. Jealousy kills the capacity to feel freely.”

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Altar des Dionysos by Gustav Klimt

I’ve recently acquired a greater appreciation for the artistic work of Gustav Klimt.  This is one of his earlier works, entitled “Altar des Dionysos”.  This painting is on the ceiling of the Austrian National Theater in Vienna, also known as the Burgtheater.  The theater itself is one of the great gilded theaters of Europe.

What Klimt has done is to put beautiful mythology, painting and architecture together in a sublime combination of sensuality and artistry.

Posted in Uncategorized | 8 Comments

I Will Bathe You…


In a small clearing
Of verdant green 
Tall pines whisper,
As I bathe you…
The soft breezes blow
Across a clear blue sky
A warm sun sparkles
As I immerse you… 
Close your eyes my doll
Feel my gentle command
And tender touch
As my strong hands
Love you…

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged , , | 34 Comments

My Turbines Lie Idle


Silently I sit here, forgotten, neglected.  But I cannot forget and I will not forget, for I have brought life and power this city for nearly a century.  Born when horses pulled carts down the brick lain streets, I powered the trolley cars that transformed the city.  I lit the street lanterns that allowed the young men to escort their dates down the boulevards.  I powered the great breweries that paid wages for the families in the lower quarter and supplied the parties for the mansions on hill.  I brought light to the offices so that the insurance men, the bankers and the lawyers could take their profit.  And when the injured soldiers came back from war, I supplied the power to the hospitals so that the doctors and nurses could tend the wounded while their families nurtured their spirit, or the widows wept.  But that is no longer.  My turbines lie idle on my great floor and my control room is vacant.  But I do remember and I still live…

Vignette and story by Mr. Modigliani (c) 2015

Posted in Romantic Poetry, Sensual Writing | Tagged , | 4 Comments

A Different Place

I find myself entering a different place as though I were passing through a door. There still is the appreciation of artistry, the communion of spirit and my adoration for the female form. Yet I don’t need the affirmation and validation I once did. I grow more aware of my motivations, some borne of strength and others still of doubt, hurt or fear, and I settle into a more comfortable maturity, still confident of my command and mastery, but no longer needing to wave it in front of the world.

Posted in Uncategorized | 19 Comments

To An Empyrean Sea

I dive into cool waters, my arms reaching away from sunlight and life.  There is no anxiety or  fear and though I angle down to the dark unknown,  I swim strongly, knowing my way.  It is not a drowning but a return to a truer self, the self that calls back to me, my own Master’s voice beckoning.  The cold water fades to an empyrean sea, no up or down, no surface or depth, particles of light illuminate.  I swim naked and unafraid, past fear and regret, sensing the blessing of spirits loved, finally arriving at self, Master rejoined, once again feeling the lyricism of my soul, the artistry of my hand and my own rebirth.

Words and image by Mr Modigliani

Posted in My Artwork, Romantic Poetry, Spoken Word | Tagged , , , | 23 Comments

A Small Dream

OldTownSq.PragueIt was late summer in Paris and the city was overrun by tourists.  Both of us needed to get away.  The day before, I had closed my studio near Montmartre and had purchased two tickets to Prague.  Now we were in my flat in Montparnasse packing.  There was laughter and joy in the room, as you packed a few sundresses and I threw in a few extra shirts and a pair of pants.

The train ride was long with an exchange in Cologne, but we chatted and touched in our sleeping cabin, trying not to take it too far as the conductor periodically walked up and down the aisle, checking on each compartment.  Fifteen hours later, we found ourselves offloading and taking a quick cab ride into the Old Town.  There we visited the massive old square, discussed Kafka and then, when the bells struck, we watched the Old Clock with the other tourists.

But this isn’t why we came.  We came to see the beautiful Czech countryside and invest our time in each other.  You were interested in the Farm-to-Table cafes and the organic produce.  I was interested in riding a motorcycle from village to village, staying in farm houses and  small bed and breakfasts.  Both of us wanted to sample the local wines.

And so that’s what we did.  I rented a large BMW motorcycle, perfect for the two of us, a couple helmets and some leathers.  You packed our bags even lighter into one backpack, bringing nothing but bare essentials and your favorite hat.

And as I look back on it now, I remember your arms wrapped around my waist as our bike sped down the winding country roads, the wind in your hair and the smile on your face.  We walked in the farmers’ fields and hand picked squash, green beans, and other vegetables that you prepared into a fresh medley.   It went beautifully with the bread, cheese and the wine that I had purchased in the village.  And while we ate, the moon and stars filled the night sky and the candles on the table flickered and reflected in your beautiful eyes.

Posted in Sensual Writing | Tagged , | 20 Comments

More Thoughts

I wrote a piece earlier in the week about how I’d like to see a little more focus put on a power exchange relationship that is egalitarian in its nature, but does not expect sameness.  The natural order of the masculine and the feminine are preserved and the deep biological, emotional and sexual needs of each are fulfilled.

I did receive a lot of thoughtful input on this from a variety of sources.  And it really is best that I not try to interpret their comments, but that I present them directly.  So I may compile some of this input and present it in a later post.  One of the most insightful said the following:

Men and women are both strong but in different ways and in a D/s relationship those strengths are heightened. and it’s actually not the woman who serves but the man. The gift of the masculine is service, direction and guidance, the gift of the feminine is radiance, energy and inspiration.

I thought this insight was remarkable.  It re-framed some things and motivates me to further explore the nature of the masculine and the feminine (so I am doing some reading in some highly regarded texts).  As I thought through my own experience, I certainly have been quite content when my lover brought radiance, energy and inspiration.  Such gifts, in turn, inspired me to write poetically, paint, draw and give all that I could sexually and physically.

With regard to my role and development, I feel I’ve grown so much and come so far in the last couple years.  I am different than I was 3 months, 6 months, a year or two years ago. As I think about it, I started this blog nearly three years ago.  There is so much more to learn and it’s not about great sex, giving instructions or engaging in a spectacular scene, it’s really about listening to understand, asking questions, finding common ground and agreement, communicating and sharing such that two people build together a dynamic together that is filled with joy, passion, mutual adoration, trust and respect.

Then we can start talking about the magic of a kiss, the tenderness of touch, clutching a woman’s neck with her back to the wall or the stroke of a man’s strong hand.

My spanking hand. lol


Posted in My Development | Tagged | 15 Comments

Love’s Flame, a Duet with Dana


Is love divine or a burning hell?
Hot flames burn as we stoke desire
Sanity and reason leave us
As we walk into the fire

Wicked licks of heart’s immense power
Marring the flesh to heal with sin
Breath of life, touch of passion
We invite the madness within

And this madness we seek to cure
Burns us in our fiery cage
Quenched only by the passion of a lover
Whose kiss soothes our rage

Smoke screens our fading inhibitions
As we melt the moon each obsidian night
Heated need flickers in the stars
As we bare our souls in love’s ecstatic might

I am so proud to write with Dana (who many of you originally met as Desiree).  Dana is one of the best pure poets out there, but more importantly she is a dear friend with an old soul and the kindest, warmest heart.  She has always been there for me when I needed advice or someone to talk with and I hope she would say the same for me (though I am not nearly as deserving).  Please give her all of your love.

Posted in Duets and Guest Authors | Tagged , , , | 11 Comments

A New Contract

It is time that we forged a new contract between men and women, one that affirms the strength, equality and independence of women, while valuing their beauty, femininity, sexuality and desire to serve. It is not a contract of the strong and the weak as is so often inferred by D/s language. It is a relationship of the strong and the strong. And yet there is power exchange, entered into mutually by both parties to create a relationship that fills the mind, provides safe harbor for emotion and sates the body and all of our sexual fantasies and desires.

I do not see this kind of power exchange relationship well defined in D/s language. And yet I know that there are many very strong women who feel drawn to a power exchange relationship, yet are turned off by the implication of inequality.

I wish to see a new style of power exchange relationship, that is defined on mutual strength and equality, but not on sameness, while affirming the deep ancestral and evolutionary imprint we have on us as masculine and feminine beings.

Painting of Jupiter and Antiope, by Flemish painter Bartholomeus Spranger, c 1596

Posted in My Dominance | Tagged , , , | 28 Comments

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 , , , | 27 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


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 , , , , | 27 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


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 | 22 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
In the darker shadows
Of happiness

Posted in Romantic Poetry | Tagged | 16 Comments

A Slave’s Haiku


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
Or the guttural symphony
Of her moans
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

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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


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.

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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.

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The Bridge Tender


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.

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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.  

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Quark and Quanta


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

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Beast Contemplates


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




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The Taste of Your Lust


I will fill
Your fantasies
With lascivious
And wicked

I will spread
And break you
While your
Pretty eyes

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

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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…

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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


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


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


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:


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


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.



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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


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

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


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



Posted in Erotic Stories, My Dominance | Tagged , , | 25 Comments

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.


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


Posted in Duets and Guest Authors | Tagged , , , | 22 Comments

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.”

Posted in Erotic Poetry, My Dominance | Tagged , , | 29 Comments

The Blogger Interview Tag

blogger-interviewWith a wry grin, I’d like to thank the very talented Bruised Belly for inviting me to participate in The Blogger Interview.  

Here are the rules:
mention the person that tagged you
* answer the questions in full
* don’t forget to tag up to ten other bloggers at the end

The questions:

How did you get into blogging?
My first blog was a private blog between me and a female muse.  The intent of the blog was to share thoughts on art, literature, world events, relationships, sex and any other topics that came to mind.  But it gave me a private forum to express myself and I discovered my poetic writing voice.  After this, I started a photography and poetry blog with nature and romance as its subject, and finally my Mr. Modigliani private studio blog.  Today, I write periodically in about five different forums.  I also have written professionally as a ghost writer in a couple of publications.

What advice would you give to a blogger just starting out?
It is very difficult, but peel back the layers and layers of protection and listen to your inner spirit.  There is beauty, love and pain in there but you must be unafraid to venture inward.  Sometimes listening to your deepest self is much harder than listening to others or all the voices and worries in your head.

What would be your dream campaign?
I really have no idea, but I have always been into world travel, food and romance.  I would love for each of us to go to some exotic place in the world and write about our experience, preferably with a very hot lover.

Do I have a plan for my blog?
I don’t really and, honestly, it has become much harder now that I am less anonymous than I was at the beginning.  Many of you now know me.  I want to keep the quality high with more true poetry, spoken word pieces and artwork that comes from my deepest spirit.  The hard part about that is finding the time and then shutting down all the other voices in my head so I can venture deep inside myself to create.

What do you think about rankings?
Honestly, I could care less.  What is more important is connection to my friends and followers.  I often feel bad that I have so little time to keep up on everyone’s writing, but I also run a corporate business, am involved in several arts and charitable organizations and have a couple sons to raise.

I would love to tag the following blogs:
I should mention that I have so many good friends here and don’t want to leave anyone out.  You are very important to me.  There are also several other people on other writing platforms that I wish I could highlight and good friends I wish I could recognize…

  1. Submissive Slant
  2. Kinky Klarity
  3. String of Pearls
  4. Scarlett
  5. Purpleanais
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Mr Modigliani:

Some of you know my involvement in the dance community. So I was so deeply impressed by the beauty of this piece and the tremendous skill, strength and athleticism of the male ballet dancer.

Originally posted on submissiveslant:

‘I was born sick
But I love it
Command me to be well
Amen. Amen.



lyrics: Hozier, ‘Take me to Church’

View original

Posted in Uncategorized | 6 Comments

Conversation with Grandma

“Hello Grandma. Happy 39th birthday! Do I have that right?”

“Oh M, I am so happy to hear from you. You know how old I am. I’m 95 today. You know I never thought I would live this long.”

“Your voice sounds good. Mom tells me that you have been feeling better. Are you going to kick up your heels today? Are there any handsome gentlemen at the retirement center to dance with?”

“Oh M, you are so funny. You know I can’t dance anymore. And, besides, I wouldn’t dance with anyone but Grandpa. He was so handsome and I miss him so much”

“I still remember your 50th wedding anniversary. You had rented the big German dance hall in town and there was 200 people there. I remember this magical scene where a waltz was played and about 4o couples circled around the dance floor in perfect synchronicity. I was amazed and you were the belle of the ball”

“Yes that was a magical night. Your grandfather was so handsome that the other girls would try to steal him and I wasn’t going to let them. Once I told one of the girls ‘Don’t you dare try to take my husband’ and shook my finger at her. Grandpa listened and didn’t dance with her.”

“Grandma, I need to tell you about one of my favorite moments with you. I was out at the farm with you for a week in the summer by myself. Grandpa was away that day and I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. So you got out the flour and we made cinnamon rolls together. I’ll never forget that moment.”

“I am very touched M. I enjoyed making them with you”

“Grandma, I hope you have a lovely day today. You know I love you right?”

“Yes M. I know you do. I love you too. You remind me so much of Grandpa. I will talk to you soon…”

Posted in Other Musings | Tagged | 32 Comments

wild and free.

Mr Modigliani:

Marcus of the High Woods is missed a great deal. Beth has done a beautiful job in this tribute and I love it when she writes in the outdoor romantic genre

Originally posted on the sacred road:

the veil falls
as a web of mist
sways across the surface
of a blood red moon.

it is a heralding,
beckoning the most devoted of nymphs
to once more dance
among the lilting symphony
of a long forgotten tune.

shadows alight
as those left to mourn
find sustenance in the extension of spirit.

the distance created
in the apathy and joy of living
as missing souls
find the ability to embrace.

laughter abounds
though no lips give voice to such splendor.

burdens abate
into a bittersweet lightness
as peripheral glances
bring solace to yearning hearts.

and for a moment
among the gracious expanse of the stars,
hold the vibrancy
of the life that we once lived.

it is a fleeting moment
that will soon be lost
in the burning embers
of a rising sun.

but for today,
it is a sacredness
we will desperately cherish
as we…

View original 40 more words

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Screams of Eternity is PUBLISHED!

Mr Modigliani:

I wish to congratulate Missy for becoming a published writer. She is a very talented writer, an awesome mother and a good friend

Originally posted on Pushing our limits:

It has arrived! I am officially a published author of a short story.

A year ago, when I wrote this, I couldn’t have imagined how it would feel to see my words in print.

Now it’s here! Infernal Ink is a wonderful magazine filled with lovely, dark, creepy stuff. Hydra and Dave have made a great issue. I have been up reading since it arrived very early this morning. I hope you’ll check it out.



Screams of Eternity is the second piece, amidst some really wicked and dark stuff.

It’s a story of abduction, torture and revenge. Let me know what you think, if you get the opportunity to read it.

To those of you who have followed along, always reading, “liking”, and commenting, thank you for making me believe in my own talent.

And, to all of you who have been my support through the…

View original 36 more words

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Kundera’s Thoughts on Apologies

milan_kundera_2_jpg_340x267_crop_q85As a writer, I have always felt closest to the mind of Milan Kundera, whose whimsical and brilliant understanding of male and female psychology has influenced my own.

Here, in “The Festival of Insignificance” he talks, in dialogue form, about the problem of apologies.  For brevity, I am providing excerpts…

Feeling guilty or not guilty—I think that’s the whole issue.  Life is a struggle of all against all….People can’t just attack each other the minute they see them.  So instead they try to cast the shame of culpability on the other.  The one who manages to make the other one guilty will win.  The one who confesses his crime will lose.  

{Kundera then describes of scene of a man and a young woman who bump into each other on the sidewalk…}

What about you–in that situation, would you apologize or accuse? …Me, I’d certainly apologize….  Ah, my poor friend, so you, too, belong to the army of apologizers.  You expect to mollify the other person by your apologies….Absolutely….

…And you’re wrong.  The person who apologizes is declaring himself guilty.  And if you declare yourself guilty, you encourage the other to go on insulting you, blaming you… Such are the inevitable consequences of the first apology...

That’s true.  One should not apologize.”

Posted in Other Musings | 19 Comments