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Tell Me

April 26th, 2015 by

Tell me you’re mine
While you fall asleep
Thoughts scattered,
Mind adrift
Whisper it, with a kiss
And my name

Tell me you’re mine
When passion throws you to the ground
Let it come out, unbridled and unbidden
Escaping your mouth,
A release,
Much-needed.

Tell me you’re mine
As I start to slip away
And the distance is too much
And you feel lost
Use it as a call, to find me,
Seeking you

Tell me you’re mine
In the space between the fights
The bitter puncta that blossom into an ellipsis
Say it!
One last time–
Lie, if you must–
Just.
Tell me?

Marks

December 30th, 2014 by

A few nights ago, I, in my infinite grace and majesty, took a tumble down the stairs, the result of which is a significant bruise above my rump. The bruise is enormous–bigger than any I’ve ever had before, and is dark purple which Wikipedia tells me is called Byzantium.

This, among other things, has got me to thinking about marks.

I love leaving marks on H2O2, of all kinds. I carefully apply lipstick only for the purpose of leaving prints of my lips all over his face. I beat his ass to a lovely Byzantine shade, not unlike the one mine currently sports. Afterwards, every time he sits down, each resulting wince will remind him of me. I leave bite marks all over him. I write on his body–his chest, his ass, his cock. Loud and lovely proclamations that he is mine.

But marks fade. They are transient by nature. This seems like it should bother me, but it doesn’t. Their impermanence compels me to reapply them, frequently, in new and creative configurations; each kiss, each scribble, each bite a sign of my desire made manifest upon his body. My love emblazoned upon him, evidence that, despite whatever may come, I was here, this happened.

Chaos Was Here

Chaos Was Here

Margaret

July 17th, 2014 by

As she lay dying, we made the long drive back from his parents’ house. By which I mean, he was driving, not me.  I don’t drive, I don’t know how.  First I wasn’t allowed to because I wasn’t old enough, then I wasn’t allowed to because of medications, finally I wasn’t allowed to because of seizures.  Now I am twenty-eight and embarrassingly, still without a driver’s license. Unless I can get my health under control, I’m not sure that I’ll ever get one.

Her death was with me, weighing on me. I speak up about it, an attempt to lighten my load. I talk of her presence in the scene, how much of an impact it made on me, a young femme dominant. I talk about the tea party I attended at her house, and how much of my love of tea service can be attributed to her. I talk about the love I saw between her and her slave, how it was always something that simultaneously warmed my heart and made it ache, not knowing if I would ever get to experience that kind of love.

“That must be hard,” he says. “To outlive your owner.”  And at that I become quiet. There is too much to say, so I say nothing at all, and instead I look out the window, into the night roads, illuminated by street lights. Finally, I reply with a requisite: “I think it must be hard for an owner to outlive their property, too.”

And it must be, I’m sure, but that is not really what is on my mind, which is flooded with thoughts and sorrow.

I think about my property–him–and how, if our relationships lasts, he will almost surely outlive me, something for which I am self-centeredly grateful.

I think about how I always wanted to ask her for mentorship, and how I was intimidated to approach her about it, so I didn’t, and now I never will.

I think that while she lived a full and rich life, she still died too young. I think about the precariousness of my health, my uncertainty of my own life expectancy. I wonder if I will still be here in ten years, in twenty.

I think about myself. I think about heartbreak dogs, and whether those of us who are destined to die young are really worth loving in the first place. (I am not certain, myself.)

But most of all, I think about her, and her smile, and her class, and her generosity, and how I wish I had had the chance to know her better. I think how scared she must be, and how alone she must feel, and how I am certain she is handling it all with the grace and poise we have all known her so well for. I think on all these things and my heart fills with grief: for her, for her loved ones, and, selfishly, for myself.

Lock and Key

June 21st, 2014 by

This is not a post about chastity. (Sorry, chastity enthusiasts. Perhaps another time.)

Before I knew I was dominant, I still knew what I liked. I liked to be in control during sex. I liked collars. And I liked locks.

I make jewelry. I have been making it for very nearly my whole life; without a pair of pliers in them, my hands feel empty, and they itch for the tools with which they can create. And, of course, when I started dating, I would make jewelry for my my sweethearts–handmade chains that they would put on reverently, wear religiously, and rarely remove. (One of those things that, looking back on, makes you say fucking duh.)

In my early twenties, I was in a monogamous vanilla relationship. I became restless. Something was missing from my life. I wanted something, yearned for it, but wasn’t quite sure what. During that time, I developed a fascination with lock charms. I began to collect them. I could not get enough of them. Every time I bought one, I became dissatisfied with it, and would soon find another that I would have to have. And yet, I did not make anything with my lock charms, nor did I want to wear them myself. I just kept them.

Heart-shaped locks with filigree details, locks with the key attached, small locks, delicate locks, chunky locks. The prize of my collection was a sterling silver clasp that was cleverly shaped like a padlock. It didn’t actually lock, of course, but it worked like a padlock, and I thought, like one does when one is twenty, that it was the coolest thing I had ever seen, ever, oh my god, I have to have it. I attached it to a rubber cord and wore it around my neck, once. That felt odd–wrong, somehow. Uncomfortable. I took it off, put it in my jewelry box, and left it there for years.

And then I met Peroxide.

Peroxide and I both love the symbolic aspects of D/s, and from very soon after we started dating, I knew I wanted to make him something with that clasp.

Isn't he gorgeous?

My boy, my collar.

This collar is delicate–its lightness belies its impermanent nature. It was not meant to be a forever collar–training, consideration, what-have-you, I call it a preliminary collar. Still, it is, if I do say so myself, quite pretty. It still has the original rubber from when I first put it together, but now I’ve added onto it with a bit of silver chain, a ropelike weave of which I am particularly fond. I was worried it would be too feminine, but Peroxide, bless him, cherishes it and wears it almost constantly.

Peroxide and I recently discussed ownership. This means that it is time for a new project for my plier-itchy hands, a new collar, a symbol for “forever.”

Permanent collar

Gold and steel. Function and decoration. As strong as my love for him, as precious as he is to me.

We would like to use a real lock with which to close it. Unfortunately, as he discovered in his last relationship, he is sensitive to nickel, which makes most locks inutile. I have not yet figured out how to work around this problem, but I welcome suggestions. For now, the collar is one continuous chain, as unending and infinite as I hope our love will be.

As for my lock charms, they lay languishing in amongst my other beads. Their number remains steady, as my drive to collect them has vanished. I no longer feel as if something is missing; I’ve found someone who fits.

Image from http://www.sterlingsilvermall.com/

Image from http://www.sterlingsilvermall.com/

Giving, Taking, Losing, Gaining

April 27th, 2014 by

There is nothing I love quite so much as a man on his knees, in front of me. Giving himself to me. And yet, somehow, when he does, I become paralyzed, unable to take action, unable to take him, in the way we both crave.

We have done it. It has happened. This is not the first time, but it is one of the first. Our bodies are not yet familiar with one another, there are no comfortable routines to slip into; instead, we have touches full of wonder, trembling kisses, and an occasional awkward, fumbling disengagement when something doesn’t quite work.

Even so, our bodies have done pretty well for themselves, and they lay tangled together, exhausted. I am still on top of him, my hands cupped around his face, stroking it.  His eyes look up from it into mine with a softness I rarely see, indicative of his vulnerable state. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for taking my virginity.”

“Thank you,” I reply, “for giving it to me.” I roll off of him, but his arms remain around me and his face turns toward me, his eyes, like his arms, not yet ready to let go of me.

“I’m yours,” he whispers. “If you’ll have me.”

Will I? I don’t know.  Ownership of someone is something I have always longed for, but never quite reached, not by my standards, at any rate. It has been given to me in the past, unasked for and not necessarily wanted, dropped in my lap without any input on my part. That sort of ownership is not the same as one taken with intention, one discussed beforehand, considered thoroughly, and decided on together. That is the type of ownership I aspire to.

It is something I have wanted for ages.  It is something I am not certain I am ready for.  There are a number of factors to consider.

One is that, once again, it seems awfully soon to me. After all, it was not six months ago, that he belonged to somebody else. For me, collaring is nearly permanent, almost the D/s equivalent to marriage. It is not something I want to undertake lightly.

There is the responsibility of it all. I have spoken of this before, as well.

And then, of course, there is the commitment. I am more than mildly terrified of it. I have been independent for so long, and there is still a fierce streak of it remaining in me which I refuse to relinquish. I have always identified with the more playful aspects of BDSM, and I often think of myself as a mad scientist–calculating, hungry for power, but alone. Is there room for anyone else in my evil lair? While no scientist is complete without someone on whom they can experiment, I am still so very much afraid of this.

Still, I am awed as his willingness, his courage to offer himself to me like this.

And good test subjects are hard to come by.