#bondages

Bamboozled

He confused her. Made her confuse herself. He put her in a limbo between two extremes, and then forced her to hang between both of them, unable to commit to either, drawn to both, and pulled tight against the fence between. She pushed him away. She pulled him to her. He was a tormentor. He was a lover.

The way his hands ran over her made her want to run away. They were dangerous. Fingers digging into her skin, leaving behind light marks, little depressions that she knew would disappear within a minute, but for now felt very real, very present. They roamed across her body like pillaging vikings, claiming everything they could take, and destroying the rest. It was like a she was being razed. 

The way his hands ran over her made her want to be right here, in this moment, forever. They were safe. Fingers clinging to her like she was a liferaft, needing her just as much as she needed him. His palms ran over her body voraciously, like they were claiming each and every inch. It was like a purging, a cleansing fire that was conceiving her anew.

Contradictions in his every movement, that was the problem. The way his lips felt against hers was simultaneously possessive and liberating. The way he forced his shaft into her mouth was terrifying and thrilling, making her want to rail against his presumption and bow to his will. It was infuriating.

Confusion between what she wanted to do, what she should do. She didn’t feel as though her brain and her body were fighting one another, but as if every atom in her body was pulling away from the one next to her, a breakdown of internal communication on a molecular level. Her brain was in two minds, her body was in twin desires. Everything was struggling against itself, and she felt like she was being torn apart.

The only problem was she also felt like she was bring put back together, built anew. 

Home Brand

I’ve got my own brand of masochism, and it’s wrapped around my sadism like a double helix, inextricably interwoven until you can’t see where one ends and the other begins. It’s reveling in the pain of giving pain, that exquisite backdraft of sensation that is the heat of an afterburner that’s taking me to where I want to go so very very fast. 

It’s the sting on my palm when I bring it down on you hard, but it’s also the twinge in my arm after the paddle comes down on you for the umpteenth time. It’s the soreness in my pelvis when I fuck you hard and fast, leave you a quivering wreck on the bed. It’s the slowly hardening callouses that are forming on my hands as I work with the rope more and more. They’re moments of pain to take pride in, something to grin and bear rather than some deliciously crossed wiring that has you squirming the instant you feel that sharp sting. 

But it’s still enjoyment, and it’s still coming from that dull throb that meanders through my body, a winding river of pulsing veins and flushed skin. It’s nothing compared to what you’re experiencing, but then that’s always been how this dynamic works. But it’s something, and it’s something I enjoy, like a burn in the roof of my mouth that I just can’t stop tonguing. Something earned, something healing. 

I don’t pretend to understand how your enjoyment works, but this gives me a glimpse, a third hand account of what it might feel like. Sensation warped through some psychological broken telephone transmitting only half the information. It’s enough, though, to give me an idea, and to get a little closer to accepting that you really do get off on this, and it isn’t just some lucky fluke on my part. 

Because I really, genuinely do enjoy hurting you. You make all these wonderful noises and expressions, it’s really quite intoxicating to witness. 

Dereliction was his forte, an old familiar home that he could return to if he was ever running low on ideas. Everything he would do to her would bring life into sharp relief, have her body flare brightly as sensation overran it, and it seemed only appropriate that dereliction would be the backdrop. So much life needed to be balanced by so much neglect, places forgotten, dropped out of the present. 

There was a smell to the building that he found comforting, the dusty hug of some matriarch holding you tight to her bosom. Only the heat was long gone from this place, and there was something deathly about the cloy. But the sunlight bleached it all sterile, chasing the shadows away and leaving whatever dread remained here impotent, some sulking juvenile in the corner. Somehow petty. 

It forced a spotlight on the pair; him suited and safe, her all but naked and on her knees. Exposed, bared, the sunlight spilling over her with the same purging bright that took away the fear inherent in the building. She followed him with the kind of reverence you’d save for a sepulcher, and it was only when they were deep in the building that he stopped.

There was nothing remarkable about the room; it could have been one of the many that they’d already passed through, except for the duffel bag sitting in the corner. He let go of her hair and wandered over to it, taking out his tools and brushing an area on the floor clean so he could lay them out. Paddle, flogger, swatch, cane. Gag. Vibrator. 

She shivered. 

Finally he brought out a sheet, and cleared a space in the middle of the room. He lay it down calmly, with a professional efficiency, and then pinned the corners to the yellowed floorboards. He patted the center, and she shuffled over to it. 

“Turn around, show me that beautiful bottom.” Every word seemed almost offensive, sound seeming as alien to this place as the two of them. Trespassing.

But she did what he told, regardless. Turning around slowly, before arching her back and bearing her rear to him. He took up one of the tools, and brought it down sharply on her. The sound cracked, and for a moment it sounded as if it came from the building itself, bits and pieces of it creaking under the weight of so many forgotten years. Another offense. She gasped, squirming slightly before she came to rest.

And then another came. It seemed like it would be an offensive afternoon. 

The Wayside

The deeper I get into this, the fewer and more pronounced moments entirely to myself become. I’m not talking about solitude, because there’s still a fair amount of that, even if I’m working, around people, or just by myself. It’s more that the moments when my thoughts veer away from other people, and start to focus more inwards, are become a little more rare, and a little more profound. 

It’s not a bad thing by any stretch; self awareness is always something I’ve welcomed. It makes me a better Dominant, and a better person. Being aware and reflective can only ever keep you from doing something bad, so long as my moral compass is still functioning. 

But I feel as though I’ve reached a certain point, a plateau of knowledge in between this last leap and the next. I’ve submerged myself in the scene, for the moment, and right now I’m content to tread water for a moment, enjoy my surroundings, drink it all in. I’ll go deeper in my own time, but for the moment the water’s fine. 

And so I don’t need to think quite so much. The moments sneak up on my like old friends in airports, and I welcome them when they come. They take me a step or two deeper, tell me a thing or two I hadn’t known, but for now I’m languishing in a slow place. 

Which is nice. Lovely. Enjoyable. Relaxing. And, most importantly, a fuck-tonne of fun. 

Post its

The world was full of reminders, and he made sure it was abundantly populated. Every facet of her existence had been touched by him, somehow, and now she could see naught but him, every little piece of the world tied to some synapse in her memory, something to draw up something to remember him by, something to remind her of what he’d done, what he would do.

The blinds of the window made her think of the way he’d glance through them, two fingers slyly spreading the shades to create an opening, like he was in a Chandler novel. The orchids on her shelf the same colour he made her skin, a subtle purple shot through with a darker indigo. They bloomed as she had, and they’d fade just as powerfully as her skin had healed.

The problem was with all these reminders she wasn’t allowed to languish in them. There was no happy remembrance when every one of them was tinged with the subtle longing of the absent heart, knowing that he was away from her, a few miles south, a ways north. Wherever, it didn’t really matter, because he was not there. She was forced to bring him to mind by all the things he’d done, all the things that made him him, but none of them brought him any closer to her door.

And that, she considered, was the greatest tragedy of it all. It was the contradiction that created a tension who’s only payoff was the enormous, beautiful relief upon seeing him again, being able to revert back to the giddy girl and wrap her arms around his neck, swing about a bit if she was feeling particularly nubile. But, as with every other thing, that was not there for her, in this moment. 

Instead, she was mired in longing, lost pining for he who was not there. So why did every little reminder make her feel a little better? Why did every memory make her smile, an absent thought giving her a moment of happiness with a long draw as it receded? She wasn’t one to question life’s little generosities.

Have My Cake

I’m a pervert. I like to twist and turn things, bring them around to themselves and thrust their faces into the unfamiliar that I’ve shifted them into. I like to take you and fuck you up in all the best possible ways, turn you into the whore, the slut, the babygirl, the submissive. I like to show you that you were all of those things, that I was just slipping off the veil.

But more than that, I like to present you to the outside world as the antithesis of these things. I want everyone to comment on how sweet you look, how adorable, how absolutely not a wanton little fuckthing it is that you’re looking today. I want to know, through all of this, that I could flick my wrist, snap my fingers and give you exactly the right kind of look and have you nuzzling your face in my crotch, decorum be damned. 

Because I want to have my cake and eat it. I want to have the innocent girl and the sex-hungry woman. I want politeness and lewd rudeness. I want all the benefits and none of the draw backs, and I’m going to make damn sure that you can give it all to me, because I’ll settle for nothing less.

So I’ll dress you up, and I’ll dress you down, and you’ll love every fucking second.

Warning Signs

There are warning signs. Blinking lights slipping past your vision, hovering at the edges like the stars on the back of your eyelids. That look in your eyes when I’m going a little too far. The threat of the point of no return, the way it looms on the horizon. You know. I know. I smirk at the perimeter. 

It’s because you get off on fear, you know. Comfortable is the antithesis of that hard knot in your belly, it softens you up, makes you slip away into happy dream land when I want you here in cold stiff reality. I don’t want you to be comfortable. I want tension. I want drama. I want a conflict between the you that wants this, and the you that knew this was always a bad idea.

And I want to see one of those win. I want to see the defeat in your eyes, the acceptance, and the beauty, and then I want to set you down, safe and sound, and watch the relief flood over you like a fugue, some heady miasma that leaves you panting and breathless. I want to smell the catharsis come off you in waves.