Marks

I could break her.

She’s bound, naked, helpless, vulnerable. I could shatter her with my hands, with my belt… with a single word. I could hurt her more deeply than she’s ever been.

She knows it too. She swallows, fear and nerves caught in her throat, she swallows around that lump and looks up at me through long lashes wet with tears and says “Master.”

I couldn’t break her. I wouldn’t.

She knows that too. But I can. And that makes all the difference. The fact that I am able to destroy her, that she puts herself, willingly in my hands as fragile as a kitten, wanting to be there, wanting to feel my control, wanting to feel what it’s like to pressed to the edge and played and toyed with, opens that door.

I can come in and tear those walls down, I can raze her defenses and shatter her protections and I do. I do. It’s what she wants. It’s what she needs, it’s what she cannot do for herself, it’s the freedom, the release, the letting go of the artifice she craves.

I will cause her pain. Pain cleanses, it heals, it brings the body to an awareness. Pain is pleasure caused all at once. When her ass is heated from my hand, that is pleasure I give her, a surfeit of pleasure, and once that warmth spreads, once the stinging edge of my palm disperses in her body, the pleasure is hot and lasting.

I will bind her. I will make her see she is not in charge, she has no responsibilities, no obligations. She is not there to pleasure me, she is not responsible for my release, she has nothing to do but obey and wait on my ministrations.  She can scream and writhe and thrash and express the internal animal, the feral lizard brain can revel in the moment and her intelligence and reason can go away, put safely aside. She’s bound, hand and foot. She cannot hurt herself or me, no matter how wild she becomes. She is allowed to not hold back even the smallest amount.

This is freedom in bondage.

She can be whatever she likes. Do whatever she likes, be loud or silent, pull against the restricting chains or lie seductive and taunting. She can play any part she desires, any fantasy that comes her way, any wicked dream, because her body is with me and I will safeguard it for her. I will protect her and cover her and let her reach back into the dark vault where all her darkest, dirtiest wishes are put against discovery and she can be whoever she desires. I will play the role of tormentor, rescuer, torturer all in her mind and she can live those little secret fantasies that she is told are wrong, dirty, bad. I keep her secrets.

And when she screams, and cries, and my manipulations are done, when she is shaking in her ropes, when the chains rattle to the sound of her ragged breath, I will be there to hold her and stroke her. I will help her walls to rise again, brick by brick. But this time, I will be just that further inside of her defenses. I will be there to whisper in her ear and cover her nakedness, wrapping the blanket around us both.

The world does not deserve to see this part. The world will not know this part. This part is for her, for us and it’s the most intimate touch, the greatest connection between two people there can be. My marks are on her flesh. My mark is on the walls she puts up against all others. No matter if she plays with others, or them with her, no matter if there are men and women lined up for her charms. This is mine.

And my mark is on her. And she owns my heart.

Beautiful Images

There is nothing so beautiful as a woman in the throws of orgasm while tied or chained so her thrashing is confined and directed inward. It amplifies the orgasm, makes it cycle inside of her and the strength and vitality of that image can make even the most ardent cynic believe in a master craftsman fashioning the perfect form in the most perfect state.
Watching her moan and cry out, a desperation born of primal need and her higher senses lost within her passionate throws is the application of perfection made mortal. An angelic form, locked in lust and desire and held down by rope and her own subjugation is a greater sight than any artwork or creation of man.
She holds herself proudly, she has a keen mind, a rapier wit and all the charms and persuasion of a master negotiator. She’s a fighter, a good one, a warrior whose arena is the office, the schoolyard the day to day gladiatorial melees that come with modern living. She wins those fights.
She bends corporations to her will, she molds the future, she creates and endures and rises to the top and takes all that, gathering all that power and will and grace and lays it at the feet of a Master who will help her turn off her mind, release the beast she keeps locked away and keep her safe enough that she can let the animal run free.
She calls him “Master” and kneels, naked and trembling, not in fear, but in anticipation of that glorious moment after the bonds are tied, after the flogger makes her dance in the bonds, after the fires are ignited with the whip and the belt and the mind fucks that break down the walls the world has made her raise. That glorious moment when she can go sub-primal, where words don’t exist and lust becomes a tangible feeling and desire is the extent of her world. When she screams and pulls on the ropes and tears the device she’s strapped to.
That moment is where the primal self lives and loves and breaths and where and when she is the most vulnerable. Where she cries and laughs and reaches for that core she buried over the week and pulls it out like a livid and feral beast.
Where he has made a safe place for her to feel the pull of desire.
And when it’s run it’s course, and she falls endless into the stygian existence of subspace, when she is held and comforted and protected and told over and over how wonderful she is. Then she believes him. Then she sees through his eyes the wonder she is. Her body shakes, her eyes glaze and she can slip away on the clouds of Morpheus because he is there to see to her, to care for her, to protect her.
To be the master of such is daunting, but rewarding. For such a creature as she, in the world and in her feral state to call him “Master” is the sweetest sound he could hear.
He will unlock her again. He will break down the walls again. He will help her rebuild them again, but he will rebuild them from inside. She will never be truly alone. Master will be there with her, a talisman against the growing clouds of responsibility and obligation, he will be a part of her, belt in hand, rope to the ready and open arms always.

Play Party

I was recently at a play party. Our hosts had recently taken a larger home- convenient that as the number of revelers had dramatically increased.

In the little formal living room off the entrance, a young woman was moaning and crying out as the ropes she wore tightened and cut into her crotch. Ropes where all she wore and while her mistress put her through the paces, six people sat on the floor in respectful silence and watched her writhe and moan.

Passing by, the sound of flesh hitting flesh was like a door chime. Sweet sounds as the slave’s groaning rose higher and higher and cut off in a gasping need for completion, but her mistress hadn’t determined it was time.

That was the first five feet into the house.

The kitchen table was loaded with sugar and carbs and salt. Soul food for the slaves who stood, shaken and shaking, wearing blankets in a post session bliss. After care Doms herded them to the choicest cuts, replacing the expended energy and letting them come back again.

One woman walks by in high heels and a body stocking, others, fully dressed and buttoned up to the chin sprawl on the carpet courting coloring books and oversized crayons.

You can tell the new ones, the men and women who look around wildly and try to pretend they’re cool with casual nudity and the sounds of whips and floggers coming through the wall from the dungeon. They are frightened, just a little and reveling in the fear and uncertainty. No one tries to push them, they’re caught in casual chit-chat.

The dungeon is a huge room, black with muted lights and quiet music that blends with the sounds of flesh struck and bodies teased and hoarse voices calling out in agonizing pleasure. Two slaves – one male, one female – on opposite crosses, both whipped and stroked until they fall into bliss and cease to exist on this plane.

Their sweat glistened bodies dance to the master’s whip, but they are far gone into the soft ether of subspace and nearby on the table, a naked slave arches as her master brings her to orgasm, showing her to the world.

He pours her, limp and shaking from the table and curls her against him. Her nudity forgotten, the people watching nothing more than shadows as she continues to have little tremors while in his arms. He holds her, whispers to her, words meant for her, only she knows what they are, but she reaches for him.

Conversation in the main room runs from politics to floggers to health food and any slave found wanting is offered a hug or chocolate by others. They all know each other, even the ones that never met before tonight, even the new faces are known and welcomed.

At the end of the night, a few linger in the living room, a woman is bent over a bench as her man enters her from behind. It’s impossible to tell who is the master and who the slave, they have become two people in orgasmic bliss and they serve to bookend the night, giving the same pre-orgasmic grunts as welcomed the visitors earlier that evening.

There is nothing to say to those faint friends you know intimately other than, “good night, see you next time.”

But the drive home is made in silence, and the quiet is a contented yearning.

These are my people.