The house and the rose

High on a hill among the brambles, weathered boards looked down on a town that somewhat feared the old house.  Occasional y a song bird would land on the roof as inside, dust fell.   It was said that on certain nights a light could be seen coming from the upper floor.  Even teenagers full of wild ways dared not take more than a few steps inside.

So when a young couple moved into town they had none of this knowledge.  The young man was lean, with blond hair and a wild look in his eyes.  His bride was a beauty, and the two of them took an apartment in town and counted their pennies.  They were friendly with neighbors and gained a reputation for being polite and sensible.

So when the old place went up for auction and the young man expressed an interest in buying the old house on the hill, people though he had lost his mind.  Better some unsuspecting investor from another town should squander their money on the old place than this lovely couple.

The day of the auction came and as expected, speculators hoping to pick up a bargain drove the price up and up.  The couple followed as best they could with what little they had saved in their few years as adults.  When the gavel sounded and the place was sold, it was a moment they could scarcely believe.  The house on the hill would be their new home.

They attacked the dust as only eager youth can, and underneath they found fine wood banisters and floor planks laid with with care…. each one carefully counter drilled, fastened, plugged with a thousand wooden dowels and then sanded to perfection.  In short order with some cleaning, mending, and some paint, the old house was beautiful. The people in the town came by finally with house warming gifts that were brought inside hesitatingly, for fear some ghost might still be lurking.

Indeed, on an occasional morning as the sun filtered through the shades of the dining room, the young man could swear he saw two lovers seated at the table.  Perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight filtering through the dust that they always seemed to clean, or maybe he was just sleeping still and needed coffee.  What ever it was, it was a benign thing, loving and harmless.  It seemed to the couple that someone long ago had loved deeply and passionately in this place and then left it just for them.

In the bedroom was an old full length mirror and it changed the life of the man forever.  On the day that he and his bride has set out to clean the old house, he had come forewarned of the mysterious light that was reported to have brightened the second floor.  And as he approached the mirror on that first day he approached it with some fear.  And as he got closer, he felt his fear multiply and the more he feared the worse it got, so much so that he felt he must smash the mirror but something stopped him.  It was his wife who approached the mirror and instantly loved it.

And as his wife approached the mirror she fell ever more in love with it and when she came up behind him, his heart nearly stopped from the fear.  and he described what he had felt, and then she described her feeling and they puzzled this… over and over.. until they realized the mirror reflected more than images… it also reflected feelings.

And as with any couple they had their good days and bad days, but when ever they had a bad day, the mirror would reveal to them exactly what they were doing to the other.. and so they learned over time to only love each other better.  In time, never a cross word came across their lips until on one night as they entered the bedroom, full of love for each other the mirror burst forth with a bright light.. the light of their love.

Now the couple understood the source of the light that had scared the town folk and why no one dared enter very far into the house… and you would think that is the end of the story and that they would live happily ever after.. but it is NOT the end.

Because on the day the mirror shown so brightly, a hidden compartment in it’s base opened and in that compartment was a bible.  All of this was really quite too much, but the couple was beyond fear and they gingerly took the book from its hiding place and inside was a rose and some papers.  The papers spoke of the couple who had built the place and of their love for each other, and of the love that had seeped into every corner of the house… but no more than the mirror where they often sat and looked lovingly at each other.

The young couple puzzled over what to do, it was agreed to add more pages to those already there.. the story of their own love and how it had grown in this marvelous house.  Then they returned the Bible to its hiding place and closed the compartment which sealed without a trace.  They never figured out again how to open it.  The rose, all pressed and preserved, was trapped outside, so  they took and buried out in the back yard..  and again you would think that the end of the story, but it is not.

It was spring and the ground was still covered with melting snow when she first spotted it from the kitchen window.  There where they buried the rose, a bush was growing up through the snow.  And by the time the flowers of spring were blooming a full size rose bush had grown where they buried the long dead rose.  So the husband built an arbor and that summer they had the most beautiful roses anyone in town had ever seen.  And more amazing, song birds seemed drawn to the arbor and filled the mornings and evenings with sweet music.  Now, surely you must think that is the end of the tale.. but you know better than that.. love is eternal and the stories we make with the ones we love, really have no end.

 

Carpe Diem my friends..  Love someone well…

The experience of Art

No, this not about age and experience, or the art of experience, rather it is about Art AS an experience.

Art takes life and forces us to re-experience it.  Its the child effect, seeing the world through eyes for which everything is new.  Art lets us experience sights, sounds, and textures in new ways, and that brings everything that has turned common and grey back to fresh and new…

You may think, I don’t get art..that’s fine.  But you’ve seen a child staring at an ant or something common, and you’ve heard the laughter of children.  Its infectious, this love of all that is new.  Now ask yourself: Isn’t that something you want to recapture for yourself?  Nurture the sense of wonder in the world through art.  That is its value to you. If you are going to have the ability to be responsible for your happiness, then the ability to take joy in the simple things in life through a fresh start each day, a view of small things through a child’s eyes, is key to this ability.  Remember to play as hard as you work.  Be as silly as you are serious.  Life is about balance.

I get a new piece of Art in my mailbox nearly daily.  I share this blog now, in case you would like to get a daily dose of Art too.  Some recent posts..

Photos of China’s Neon-Lit Alleyways by Marilyn Mugot

Wood Sculptures by Jaehyo Lee

Grey Matter(s): Photos by Tom Jacobi

River Art Murals by Greg Klassen

Its hit or miss, but most days the art is a hit.


 

And now we return you to our regularly scheduled BDSM beating and Domination, already in progress.  Hope you enjoyed this brief respite.  Hmmm  OK.. maybe not a respite.. more like an interlude…hmmm sojourn?   Ah hell.. Let the fun continue!

Call out to me in Ecstasy…

Posted first by emdimensional, this speaks to me


Wherever you may lead, Labyrinth..

And you call out in ecstasy
I remember you’re my best friend
I have wandered through the labyrinth
I have found you at the edge of time

And you call out in innocence
To the wild unbroken wind
I have fought to see the face of God
Will you answer in the tongue of Men

Everything you’ve done by now is necessary
Even if you’re torn apart at the seams
Everything you know from here on out is changing
Everything I have is yours, Ecstasy

And you call out in infancy
I have only just awoke
Imprisoned by the medicine
All my chains have been self-imposed
Oh the body aged and bruised
I’m eternal, eternal youth
All I am, I know I learned from Love
In the ambits of the labyrinth

Wherever you may lead, labyrinth
Wherever you may lead, labyrinth
Wherever you may lead, labyrinth
Wherever you may lead, labyrinth

Every turn that you’ve been down, is temporary
Why are you worshipping what could have been
Every word you’ve spoken out has be your story
Even now, you’re the flower and the seed
Everything you’ve done by now is necessary
Even if you’re torn apart at the seams
Everything you know from here on out is changing
Everything I have is yours, Ecstasy
Everything I have is yours, Ecstasy
Even now, you’re the flower and the seed


 

How could I NOT love this?  Awesome stuff..
And now the words to music…  enjoy!

 

In case you are wondering:
Ambit: (noun) : The scope, extent, or bounds of something:

Metaphorically speaking… and fire play

I read this on a T-shirt recently…

Your use of literally makes me figuratively insane

Ha!  Funny!  Speaking of funny, you know in the beginning, way back on blog one, I said:

My thought is to make a public diary, a stream of observations as they come to me, and not put any ego into its success.. ( ha! – speaking of ideas doomed to failure).

Metaphorically speaking, I think I may have turned a lovely afternoon stroll into structured, classroom field trip. You, my dear readers, who came along to share this journey with me, I wonder, are we still just walking and stopping to notice the birds and trees?   Or have I turned this into yet another lecture as I so often do?

Now class, this beautiful specimen is is a woody perennial flowering plant of the genus Rosa, in the family Rosaceae, more commonly known as a rose.. come sample its fragrance..

Yeah, I do that – but today I will not. Let’s get back, metaphorically speaking to our stroll in the woods.  We now return you to our regular blog, already in progress…


My original goal was to be more of a diary, than a diatribe.  Today, let’s return to the diary part of this shall we?   I was asked yesterday for my thoughts on a training collar, and I am going to post on that, but not today. For my blog today, let’s go back to the diary format.. where we can wander for a while, viewing what its like, living with X.


AN EVENING OF FUN!!!

We talked about going to Feel Me Breath yesterday.   Now, since my daughter went to College,  splurging on a bag of chips and some dip is a celebration.  Things are freakin tight, financially speaking.  So I didn’t really didn’t want to spend the money, especially after we had just blown big bucks on the North East Power exchange.  It has however, been quite a while since we left home with its paper walls and sounds of neighbors living their normal lives.  It would be nice, I thought, to get into a really nice scene.  Oh, I give the occasional smack on the butt, or swat with a belt, but a really nice drawn out scene with all the sounds of leather and moans is something I would rather do in a Dungeon.

So, since we would be up late, I chose to snuggle and nap a couple hours, and then it was up for a quick dinner.  Its important to have a little energy and digestion in place before we deplete the body of all its loverly chemicals.

Izrina wanted to go full on, floggers, single tail, and then fire on top of it.  It  been a while since I got really sadistic, and I was worried that when I put the alcohol over fresh single tail marks, and then set her on fire, well, I had no doubt she’d go under but was she ready for that much sadism?   She assured me that she was..

So we negotiated with FMB for a space in the dungeon where I could set up a fire station right next to the back side of a double Saint Andrews cross, and a table for my fire source and fuel.  In effect, my own little section, ready for this intense scene we had planned.  I planned to take my time.. we had all night.  I figured two hours of play, two hours of aftercare..  I could feed her sugar laden cookies afterward to rebuild her strength.

A WONDERFUL SCENE

My slave stripped, revealing plenty o flesh for me to work my sadist pleasures upon. I drew leather cuffs snug over her wrists.. just tight enough that should she collapse, she would not drop to the floor, but loose enough to allow circulation.

I led her by a handful of hair to the cross, and pushed her roughly, face first into it.  Scratches down her back, light slaps to her ass. Reaching around from behind, breath on her neck, pinches to her nipples.

I presented my flogger, the instrument of her pain and pleasure.  She kissed it, blessing it for her submission, and so it began.  A soft low growl of a whisper in her ear, Master assuring her that she belonged to me, and I would have my way with my property.  That she would give herself to me completely, submitting her pain as a sacrifice, a testament of her loyalty and devotion to my will.  Yes Master! she replied and the first fall of the flogger kissed her bare back in return.

One strike followed another, my focus a laser on that which extended from my hand.  Right hand, swinging from the left, target is the left shoulder blade, a natural back hand swing, contact area tight, no straying towards the arm or spine, contact good.. my swing proceeds in the natural figure eight of a traditional flogger swing.. down and around and back up for a down stroke on the right shoulder blade.

Now my focus is stronger, a momentary glance at the muscles in her neck.. is she tense?  Harder or stronger this time?  Right hand, swing from the right, less time to correct my strike area, VERY focused.  It is more difficult to control the strike area than with a back-hand from the other side… flogger completes the figure eight circle, its many leather tails whistling through the air now in a downward stroke towards her right shoulder using my right hand..and makes good contact.. good speed, tight impact box, no stray towards the spine or arm…

Now is when the crowd melts away.  It is just me, the flogger, and she who is my canvas.  And I paint her.  I paint in in soft pinks, her back and ass showing the first color of this scene.  I paused.. a moment to touch her back, to connect..to FEEL her.  I need to sense what she is feeling.. and to draw my nails down her warm and now very sensitive back.  THUNK, my heavy flogger with the fat, soft tails has had his way with her and now it is Sting’s turn.

Again the focus, the desire to create just the sensations I plan, with precise hits of a speed and force that I think she is ready for.  It’s the endorphin ladder, the stairway to heaven, the method that triggers the body’s chemicals until your charge isn’t just in subspace, they a gone.. completely and totally gone.. they are flying.

Now it was the quirt.  A quirt is two leather straps at the end of a whip like handle that curve in the throw, and uncoiling about the same, but the sound is not like the crack of a single tail.  Its leather on leather on flesh.  The first strap strikes flesh and stops, then the second strap slaps into the first with a wonderful snapping noise – the sound of two pieces of leather coming together quite suddenly.  The sound is as terrifying as is the potential for long lasting bruises, but I go slow, light, enjoying the sound more than the potential, because I know we still have the single tail to bring forth.

I was anxious to get to the single tail.  They are something to not be trifled with.  All of the focus you bring to a flogger is nothing compared to the single tail.  With a tail, you are not just focused on the two dimensions, the strike zone, but also on the third dimension, the depth of your strike.   Strike too close and you can strike higher than expected.  Strike from too far away and it can crack without touching, that loud scary crack it makes when the popper breaks the sound barrier. Get a single tail wrong and you can open a wound that requires stitches to close.  Knowing this, I picked up the tail and drew my nails down her back which was now quite red.

Her back was a mottle of pink and bright red.  Her irritated skin had small spots of red, where pores protested the abuse.  I started the single tail in a light horizontal stroke. The popper grazing lightly across her back, from left to right and then right to left.  Now when I say lightly, there is nothing light about a single tail.  Each light graze leaves lines in the skin, a temporary indication of where it has been.

Now I tested a light vertical strike to the shoulder blade, Izrina shuttered, I continued.  Horizontal again, another vertical strike.  The vertical strikes are vicious.. the tail like a snake uncoils all of its fury  into that sound that breaks the sound barrier. The terrifying crack of that flimsy popper moving at tremendous speed is a real world demonstration of science.

The Kinetic energy that I deliver to my slave is the mass of the popper times the velocity squared.  Since the speed is higher than the sound barrier, and the factor of speed is squared, the damage potential is enormous.  Izrina shuttered, her eyes watering, I took mercy and shifted back to the flogger, reminding myself she asked for this.

To fly, a top must not back off.. but a top must also know when a slave has had enough.  I alternated between the single tail and the flogger, pushing her, looking for the signs that she was gone.. and then I called it.. the end of the impact portion of our scene..

I decided that what we could not achieve on the Saint Andrews, we would on the fire station.  We would talk later and she would tell me that she was almost there when I took her down.. Hind sight..So we could have achieved flying on the cross.. damn!

It is OK though.. I knew I would get her there.. She was like a rag doll.. with the help of another Dom, we moved her to the fire station I had set up next to the Saint Andrews.  She lay a bit on her side, not fully flat.  When the fire hit her it was like a switch.  She went from slightly curled up to a puddle of happy.  She fairly flowed out flat, arms drooping over the sides of the table. The leather of the table had been covered in cotton and padding to protect it from fire drips.   I now covered Izrina in alcohol and fire.

Fire play can be like a warm massage or and evil fucking torture.  It depends on what you want to do with it.  Tonight, since I needed to push her over the edge, and she had not gone yet, I started with it like a gentle massage of heat. Once a person is flying, I swear you could take a chainsaw to them and they wouldn’t care.

I slapped the burning wand soaked in fuel onto my hand.. setting my own hand of fire, then wiped that fire across her back, the secondary warmth rubbing into to tender flesh and muscles..

I took an unlit wand, soaked in fuel and laid a trail of alcohol across her back.  Alcohol in air evaporates nearly instantly.  Evaporation is a cooling process. I blew on the raw fuel, speeding the process, creating zones of intense cold.  Cautious as always to be sure no fuel remained, I returned with the fire.. heat on cold.. and she was totally and completely gone.. NOW I could do anything.  She was beyond nearly any pain I could bring. and my sadist side relaxed and played with the flesh before me.

I drew an “X” on her back in raw fuel and set it on fire.  The “X” emblazoned ever so briefly on her back in orange and blue flames.  My logo danced briefly before I wiped across it with my free hand, starving the fire of air and putting it out.  Nothing.. not a single muscle tightened, no shutter.. she was gone.

I played perhaps another half hour, drawing in her skin, warming and chilling it until I drew bored.. It’s nice when someone flys. but when they are gone.. they might as well be a rock for all the reaction you get.  I put out the candle.. my fire source.. and tightly closed the fuel jar.. my fuel source.. so there could be no accidents while I was away from my play station. The aspiring Dominant I spoke with last night at the munch was there, and I called him over for help moving her to a couch.

If she was difficult to move from the Saint Andrews, she was twice as difficult moving from the fire station.  She swam up from her fog, just enough to keep her legs under her.  I, with my arms under her left and he holding her up on the right, we half walked, half carried her to the couch where she collapsed.  I drew a soft warm blanket around her, grabbed water and snacks for the long wait of aftercare, and then drew her head into my lap.

Izrina is slow to come up out of it.  She likes to stay where she goes for long periods of time.  I have had people walk up to me 30 minutes later and ask if she is ok.  I like to joke that people sometimes poke her with a stick to see if she is still alive.  I chatted while she flew.

Now if you are wondering how the hell you can put someone on fire and not have serious burns, let me share the science while we wait for Izrina to return to us.

The alcohol is mixed with water.  It is not the liquid alcohol that burns but the fumes.  At the end of a long evening of fire play, my wands are soaked with the water that is left behind and can actually become difficult to light as a result of that.  Back when I was the carnival ride, I often had to wring out the wands, to get the water out, before continuing.

Now when I run a wand over a back, I can press down leaving some fuel behind and that fuel leaves a burning trail on the flesh.  But an odd thing happens if there is hair.. the hair only burns down to stubble.  You would expect the skin to be smooth after burning off hair but it is not and the reason is also the reason why we can do this at all.

You seen the alcohol forms a thin film on the skin but the alcohol itself is not burning, the vapors above it are.  So, if we drew a diagram, you would have layers.. the skin, then the thin film of fuel, then the vapors, and then the fire.  Between the fire and the skin is a thin film of liquid.. and it is this thin film that lets us briefly touch fire without being burned.  If you want all the gory details, go here to my fire play 101.  Fire play is also known as “fire fleshing”, because there are many kinds of ways to play with fire, besides putting it on flesh.

Izrina in due course returned to us in the land of the living and we talked about the scene.  I mentioned that I regretted not giving her a mark with the quirt.  So before we left, I gave her three. Two on purpose and one by mistake..

I marched her to the center of the dungeon and had her bend over, drop her skirt, and move her panties out of the way.  NOW I was ready to use the quirt in all that potential glory I mentioned earlier.

First her left butt check.  The aim was true and the speed and force all the I could manage and the mark was perfectly placed.. a one inch high strap mark around five inches long perfectly aligned across her ass on the left.    That swing is easy because its back hand.

Now the right butt cheek.. I was feeling cocky and sure of myself and just swung for it.  Fuck!  I was low .  I left a mark across the back of her thigh well below my target.. Damn… that’s going to be rough when she is back to work and riding horses.. Well nothing for it but another try.  I took two practice swings.. getting my stroke, speed and arch perfectly aligned and then let the real one go with all the speed and focus I could.  Perfect!  She had another perfect mark on the other cheek.  The two were so well aligned it almost looked like I had struck them both in one blow… very nice.. I admired my work, before letting her dress again.

For at least the better part of the next week, every time she sits she will have a reminder of this week end.  She’ll send me a text with just this.. WEM!.. which stands for “wicked evil man” and I’ll smile.  I’ll smile because I know she just sat wrong and got that sudden rush of reminder..  yeah.. its what we do.. and it pleases us both.  As she was crawling into bed, her ass was presented to me, and I had to stop her so that I could admire my work one more time.  I hope they color up nicely. That would please me immensely.

I’ve said it before and its true.. my main kink is power exchange. This sadism stuff is almost like the movie Secretary.. I am serving her needs more than mine.. Oh!, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy it.. but being addressed as “Sir”, or “Master” is what really gets me hard.   Carpe Diem my friends.. Go be someone’s great day.

My slave accused me of Evilution


Evolution – noun  (ev-oh-loo-shun)
1. The process by which different kinds of living organisms are thought to have developed and diversified from earlier forms during the history of the earth.
2. The gradual development of something, especially from a simple to a more complex form.

Evilution – noun  (ee-vil-oo-shun)
1. The process by which different kinds of sick fuckers are thought to have developed a lack of concern for the pain they inflict.
2. The gradual development of sadism, especially from a simple spanking into more and more elaborate shit until three steamer trunks are required to haul your toys around.


 

Munch, munch, munch…

Yeah, so we went to our local munch tonight.  Good food…. good company.. An aspiring Dominant sat across from us, and we chatted at length, and as the table filled, he found himself surrounded by three aging Masters, all with a soapbox and plenty of time, and advice.. on their hands.  That poor fucker! Trapped!  Trapped I tell you!  At least he took it in stride.

Anyway, at one point the conversation turned to how a new Dom might make the mistake of lessening their level of sadism, because he or she feels its something they can’t do to a lover.. Or not order a blow job, even if its what they want.. The general consensus was that eventually we evolve past that…. or is it devolve?.. Izrina and I spoke of this more during the ride home.. maybe we evilve?..  (pronounced ee-vilv – part of the processes of evilution).

It’s a serious issue, this evilution thing… I mean first, you have a hard time being a sadist and feeling like you are genuinely treating your pet with love.. but then you get over it.  The next thing you know, your slave is saying no to Master and you are all like.. I’m sorry.. “no” doesn’t work for me.  I believe the answer you are looking for is: “Yes Master, whatever pleases you.  Now keep that ass in the air, while I go retrieve the canes and riding crops from the closet.”

Back before Master succumbed to evilution you could be pretty sure of what he was capable of.. now you aren’t so fucking sure… After that sick bastard gets back from the closet, not only will he beat a dead horse, he’s likely to bring down such a beating that even the infamous dead horse might have the courage to run away from it.  Your slave walks into the room thinking…Look.. we both know that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him.. oh fuck!…fuck, fuck, fuck.. Look, Look! Ok!  OK!.. I’m drinking.. see me drinking like a good horse??

When did “no” start meaning “yes”?   Hard to say.. Evilution is a slow process.  The grin gradually gets bigger, the toys more wicked, and one day you just wake covered in marks and it dawns on you.. another victim of evilution!

Izrina read this before publishing and her critique was.. this is a short one for you.. Excuse me… I have to get something from the closet.. be back soon…..

Creative Writing – knife play

Written some time ago, I present this is semi-fictional, a collection of things I’ve done with sharp pointy things, but not all together with the same person, as presented here. The term tanto, along with other interesting knife terms can be found at one of my favorite knife sites:
Knife Anatomy by Jay Fisher

Edge Play
A semi-fictional story by Xtac (pronounced Ecstasy)
______..)/..________..)/..________..)/.._______..)/..________..)/__
¯¯¯¯””/(”¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯””/(”¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯””/(”¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯””/(”¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯””/(”¯¯
There was something undeniably irresistible about him from the very first time she saw him. Where other men had tried to rule her life, he just did; as if it was his birthright. He commanded her as easily as breathing, grasping her firmly, taking her breath away, and then dismissing her, as a “vanilla”.

He was infuriating and insufferable but mysterious and so she stayed, probing, asking questions until at last he explained about the life he lead, and how she could not be a part of it.

Dark secrets, both hers and his were exchanged, each bringing them closer to a world that both could share. It was all new to her and yet the excitement she felt to be in his command, to have the pain she needed, to have it administered by another, to have this burden of guilty painful pleasure lifted and placed in the hands of another; placed in the hands of this man which she now trusted completely with all her being and soul, was too delicious, too incredibly powerful a force to deny.

He brought his bag of “toys” in from the car, with her in tow. A small group of friends they had made at the local munch, gathered in the living room, anxious for the show, for the scene they would offer. He walked her to the center of the room and took the “scene collar” he always wore, from around his neck offering it to her. They had played out this scene before, she knew it well.

Will you, he asked, take this collar for the duration of this scene, and to the best of your abilities, strive to be my slave as long as you wear it? Will you obey my commands, attempt to anticipate my wants, and will you trust me to act in your best interests and needs? Yes Sir, she answered meekly, eyes down. She held her hair up, as the coldness of the precious metal encircled her neck. Precious; yes precious, she thought. Not because it is silver, but because he gives it to me, even if only temporarily for this scene, because he wants me, and offers me this chance to be his. As long as I wear this, I get to call him Master instead of Sir. Yes, this is precious, she thought.

He finished clasping the toggle of the scene collar and placed a hand at her chest, between her breasts, pushing her back silently up against the bed room door which was closed. He left her there, ignoring her while he laid out his toys in neat rows. She watched, nervously, wanting to fidget, but wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. She wanted to finger the collar, touch it but decided it was better to do nothing until ordered, so she watched and waited for him to finish. She stole a glance around the room. Doms and subs sat comfortably, silently watching this scene play out. She swallowed nervously. He knew that she used to cut herself. She had professed to be turned on by the idea of edge play. Hell when he talked about it, she had turned soaking wet, but this, now it was happening, this was real.

Out of the toy bag came floggers and rope, leather restraints and metal hardware, and now, a particularly nasty collection of knives. One was curved like an eagle’s talons. Another was oddly shaped, like a small samurai sword. Sir had shown this one to her before. He called it a tanto knife. All gleamed with the steel of razors. She found her knees going weak, and a tremble shook her body, a wake of fear, doubt, and the undeniable wetness of excitement flooded her being.

He pulled her forward away from the door, opened it, threw a pair of temporary suspension hooks over the top and then closed they door. He placed his hand again to her chest, fingered the silver collar and smiled, then pushed her back into the door. The wood was firm, hard against her back. He placed his hands on either shoulder, fingers up the sides of her neck, thumbs under her chin.

Cupping her face in his hands, he looked deeply into her in the eyes, and smiled saying, “It’s going to be OK”. She forced a weak smile, but her stomach turned in flip-flops and her panties soaked. So odd, she thought, how he commands me, how I respond, how I stay. She closed her eyes and waves of red hot sexual energy coursed over her clit and up her spine. His hands traveled slowly down again. She tremble again, under his touch. He stopped at her cleavage, and turned to the toys. It was like a break in continuity, to not have him touch her. It was an absence, a longing, she wished he would continue.

He fastened a leather shackle around her wrist, pulling it tightly until encircled and squeezed. The leather squeaked, that familiar pleasant sound that leather makes when it moves. As he placed the tongue of the buckle into its hole, the pressure released ever so slightly. He commanded her to take off her shirt and she did so hesitantly, not used to doing so with others in the room. She handed him the shirt and he folded it neatly and placed it with the toys, then guided her shackled wrist up, over her head and snapped it into the restraint at the top of the door.

She wanted to bring her free hand over her breasts, but he grabbed this one now, and after placing a shackle on it as well, bound her second wrist up over her head. She stood there, exposed, deep breaths making her chest rise and fall. She wanted to cover, to fidget, and a half dozen other things she could not while bound like this. She felt panic, at the fringes of her being, a reaction, that she suppressed. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply and slowly.

He reached over to his toys and selected a rectangle piece of stone, a whetstone, used for sharpening knives, and placed it in her right hand. Hold that, is all he said. She looked out over the room, attempting to keep her calm. The stone was heavy and rough, with hard corners. She turned it slowly in her hand, being very, very careful not to drop it.

Next he selected a small but wicked looking knife and raised it slowly, holding it directly in front of her face. See how sharp this is, my pet, he cooed in a low voice? Yes Master, she replied simply. I want you, he said, to hold this in your hand, by the blade, and be very, very careful not to run your finger over the edge. Do not squeeze it too hard or you will cut yourself. Yes Master she replied again.

He turned the knife and placed the flat of blade against the palm of her opened left hand. He paused, the steel lightly touching, as he placed his other hand at her chin, looking deeply into her eyes with a wicked smile, and said. If there is any cutting, I’ll do it, is that understood? Yes Master, again she intoned, but in her mind, the message was clear, he was testing her. By giving her the blade to hold, he was risking that she might cut herself, and daring her, taunting her, challenging her, not to do it. Her finger closed slowly, carefully around the razor edges, as she stared back into his eyes. His smile disappeared for a fraction of a second and his voice was a thousand whips, cutting his command into her, “Don’t disappoint me” is all he said.

While she carefully held the two objects her master had entrusted to her, he turned back to the guests and their host, completely ignoring her. I need something with ice in it, he said, preferably a bucket or small saucepan. Do you think we can rustle up such an item? Oh!, and everyone? He said, Now would be a great time to get a drink.

The group got up, milled around and he disappeared into the kitchen with the host. They came back with a small metal saucepan, filled with ice cubes and placed it next to the toys. She felt his intent, to put her on display, to give her time with the knife in her hand. She closed her eyes, and the room went away. If guests were staring at her, that was easy to block out, but the knife, damn the knife was there. The weight of it pressed against the pad of her thumb, against her fingers. If she moved it to a better balance so it wouldn’t be so heavy. But how could she move it without cutting herself. I must not let it cut me, I must not let it cut me, she thought over and over.

Time dragged on. Slow torturous time. Less pressure, lighter grip, don’t let the knife fall, over and over, until time stood still and it was only her and the knife, eyes closed, focused on this one task. She barely noticed as the guests filtered back into their seats, drinks in hands, and all eyes were on her, the slave, chained to the door, eyes tightly closed, holding the knife by its sinister sharp blade.

She was suddenly aware of his return, as he gently grasped her wrist. First, I’ll take this, he said. He grasped the handle and very carefully, slowly unwrapped her fingers from it. He thrust the knife into the ice bucket, and left it there. He took her hand and carefully inspected it for cuts, but she had been very careful, very delicate with the long grip on the blade. He kissed her hand, and then trailed his touch down her arm to her ear, well done my pet, he cooed.

Next he took a small blindfold from his toy bag, and approached her. Panic welled up in her throat, and she squeezed the whetstone hard. Ready? Is all he asked. “yes Master” she weakly replied. The blindfold slid over her head, and darkness fell. The room disappeared. She felt the blackness engulf her, and she clung now to the sounds of the room.

At first, she heard only the whispering of guests, but as she adjusted, she began to notice the sounds of traffic outside, and the occasional odd noises that we never notice, usually. He stepped close, very close and the smell of him was wonderful. He grasped her right arm, unhooking and lowering it. His breath was on her neck, his body so close, then came his deep voice at her ear. Edge play, my pet, is all he said.

The whetstone was still in her free hand as he took hold of this arm, pushing her elbow back into the door. I want you, he said, to keep your elbow at the door, and your arm against your side. He grasp her hand with the stone. Hold it like this, he said, and positioned her fingers in a circle around the stone. Now, he said in a low voice, don’t move. Hold the stone perfectly still. I am going to sharpen this knife, and I don’t want you to lose a finger.

She could feel the stone heavy in her hand and now it felt that much heavier. She heard the rustle of ice as he took the knife from the bucket. He placed his hand under hers. His knee slid between her legs and braced both of them against the door. His arm was just under her breasts, as he laid the knife against the stone. He slid the knife against the stone, the scary sound of steel against something harder. It scraped and the sound went through her. He leaned close. The edge can slide against your fingers, he said, but only one side cuts. As if to make the point a cold edge came in contact with her first finger. Now, he said, if I slide this against your finger fast, you won’t feel anything until the sting sets in, or he added with an evil chuckle, doesn’t sting, depending on what side I use.

Her mind reeled. Yes Master escaped her lips like a gasp. She wished now, that both hands were tied again so that she could collapse. The tremble in her knees gently shook her whole body. She struggled to hold the stone steady, to stop the trembling. Fast, he said simply. and then, before she could prepare herself, completely without warning it was over before she realize it started. He drew the blade quickly, lightly, over her upturned finger. By the time she realized what was happening, it was already over. He took the finger quickly and sucked on it, then bit her so hard she winced. Pain from the bite made it hard to tell if he had cut her or if he had teased her. Her senses stretched to every nerve in her finger, but still, from the darkness of her blindfold, she wasn’t sure.

He began to draw the blade slowly over the stone again, going back and forth, the sick sound of scraping, filling her ears. Her finger throbbed and still she could not be sure what had happened. She felt it then again, this thing she felt for this man, the man that did these things to her. She felt it like a need, like love, but somehow deeper, stronger, more powerful a pull than she had ever know a man could make her feel. It didn’t fit with anything she ever knew, but it was there, this need for him use her.

You have three more perfectly good finger tips sticking up, he chuckled, as he worked with the stone. Yes Master, again she found herself saying. What more could she say? What more should she say? Should she tell him that he owned her? That he could take her body however he pleased? Should she beg him to mark her, claim her? What more could she say, that he did not already know? He knew that he owned her. He had know that he would from the first day she met him.

He finished sharpening the knife without further incident, or so she assumed when the sound of scrapping stopped and she heard him place it in the ice. She took a deep breath, and realized that she been barely breathing. The sound of sloshing and ice bumping around the knife told her that, for now, the steel was sheathed. He took the stone from her hand, and she realized that her hand was trembling, or at least it was, until he took hold of it, and kissed it.

Slowly, deliberately, he kissed each finger tip, sucking it, and then placed his teeth at the root of her cuticle, that tender pressure point that he loved to tease in public, and bit hard, sending wave after wave of pain up her arm. Wave followed wave, one for each finger, until he reached the one in question. This finger he simple kissed and then curled back, closing her hand into a fist.

He grabbed her suddenly, by both hips and spun her, facing the door. A spank at her bottom sent a warm red tingle through her, and was following by the familiar sound of leather whistling through the air. He draped the flogger over her shoulder and trailed it slowly down her back, letting her feel the leather before it sang. It was soft, warm, and sent shivers down her back as she anticipated the pain to come.

The whistle again, this time near her ears, he was teasing her, tensing her up for the first blow and when it came, full of heavy thunk, slapping down on her shoulder blades, it was almost a relief. The first was followed by another and another, and another, coming harder and faster so that the pain spread over her, and through her. She ceased to be, she became. She was alive and the sound retreated as master applied the leather that colored her back in pink, then deeper hues. He alternate left, then right, the leather flailing over skin that grew ever more sensitive, and occasionally he threw in a wicked and skillfully designed shot that sent the tails wrapping around her ribcage to kiss the sides of her breasts and tease her nipples. He drove her deeper and deeper, her mind retreating into that place where pain turns to sparks. The sparks all collected with evil glee on her clit; a weird, warm, sexual pleasure that she could not deny.

It stopped suddenly, and she fought like someone who has jumped into deep water, looking for the surface. Without the constant stimulus, there was nothing, no room, no Master, nothing. She struggled to remember what it was she was doing. Before she could come up, he yanked her bra up over her breasts. The touch, the firmness, was familiar. Sir! She felt she must cry, not for pain, but for his touch.

Her pendulant breasts fell free. The fact that there was an audience did not exist in her mind. There was only Sir and she, whoever she was. No, she existed, yes! She existed because of Sir. His hands were on her breasts, but then came pain. He applied one, then two nipple clamps. She sucked in, the pain sending new bolts down her spine. A metal chain between them dangle near her rib cage. She trembled, with only one hand still tied, strapped overhead.

Perhaps sensing she could take little more, he turn her around again slowly, and took her free hand, the one that had held the stone, back over her head. She was grateful now for the support and let some of her weight down, let herself hang a bit by her arms. He stood close, his knee once again between her legs again. She wiggle a bit, enjoying the feeling of her pussy slide against Sir, now her Master. She wanted, so much to cum. For Sir, her orgasm was a gift given to him. She wanted this, to give Sir her sign of pleasure, to cum, to feel the release, the explosion of the passion and energy that he was frothing into her. As if reading her mind, or maybe because she was practically dry humping him, he said in a low whisper in her ear, You will NOT cum without permission my pet. Yes Master, she replied, but the pleading in her voice was unmistakable.

She heard the rustle of ice as the blade was once again lifted free, her pulse quickened; she reached out with her senses, trying to feel where he was. A single cold droplet of water splashed suddenly against chest and dribbled slowly down into her cleavage. He leaned up against her, his chest, near hers, his breath on her neck, and he whispered again.. Only I can cut. The knife was again in his hands, the words themselves cut.

She started to say Yes S….. But was cut short. A searing feeling stung against her left breast. Unexpected; it was like a burn, then a pain, then cold as her mind rolled though possibilities, trying to pin down what was happening. She realized he had pressed the flat of that ice chilled blade against her and she breathed again.

She had stopped breathing. Inside her blindfold, it was dark but the feeling of this flat, cold pressure on her breast was clear. As she processed these thoughts she could feel him turn the blade in his grasp, slowly, from flat side to edge. The edge of the blade was now against her breast, his hot breath on her neck, and he said it again: Only I can cut.

A feeling not quite panic or fear washed, a feeling strong and exciting swept over her and her knees buckled. She began to buck against the knee between her legs. She wanted something inside her. The desire to cum welled up as he pulled the knife to a point and drew it slowly down her front, scratching her as he went. She felt its tip, its malevolent edge, run slowly over her exposed breast. He lightly traced the nipples. She could feel everything so clearly thanks to the extreme cold of the blade. He turned the flat to her once more and brought it under the clamps. She had nearly forgotten the clamps and it sent new courses through her as she rediscovered the pain in her nipples.

With the flat of the blade he pulled back the blade and every so lightly slapped her breast with the flat of the blade. The clamps bounced, tugging at her nipple. She bit her lower lip, relishing the fear, the pain, the feeling. He took the blade from under the clamp and slapped her breasts again and again with the flat of the blade, each a small pain, a small terror, and a delicious torment. She wondered if the edge could cut this way? As of to answer her thoughts, he turned the blade to its edge again, and then to the point. With his other hand, he took the chain from the nipple clamps and put it to her lips. Understanding instantly, she opened her mouth and accepted the reigns to her pain.

Her bra up over her breasts, her nipples pulled high by the chain in her mouth, the tip of the knife at her breast, she leaned her head back, pulling her nipples up. As she pulled her breasts up, they slid up from under the tip of the knife. Very well done my pet, he said in approving tones. The pain of the nipples, and the thought of the knife, sent more shivers though her and she bucked uncontrollably, wanting so very much to cum. She pressed her clit against his knee. I would be so easy to cum now, with just a few rubs. Only master’s command kept her at bay. The torment was delicious, then painful, an aching need that could not be denied, but must be, but couldn’t.

But Sir was not done tormenting her yet. He trailed the scratching edge of the blade over one breast then the other. He scratched down, down, over her belly to her snapped jeans. He pulled the knife away and then something hard, maybe the handle, maybe the blade itself pressed up into the folds of her jeans. She rubbed against it anyway, not caring. She needed release. “Pleassssee Master”, escaped her lips.

He tucked the handle of the knife into her panties and she no longer cared what he cut. Sir unfastened her belt and pulled it through the loops of her jeans, then began to whip her thighs with it. She danced under the blows, the knife bouncing and jiggling against her. He pulled the knife back out from where he had tucked it, and unsnapped her jeans. The invasion caused only a moments panic but was driven away quickly by another repeat of the belt whippings.

Her body screamed to orgasm, for something to buck up against, something inside her, something, something. Something snapped inside her. He was there then, with the knife, and his body, pressed against hers. He trailed the knife down her body again, and whispered once more in her ear. “I want you”, he said, “to cum for me”. “Yes Master, OH God, yes please Master” she begged.

He turned the knife and pressed against her jeans, against her clit. As if her body had a mind of its own, without regard for safety, she began to buck, humping the hard object, and as soon as she did, it was pulled away quickly, a cold thin metal line at her neck, and a whisper in her ear. Slowly my pet, he said , Slowly. Give our hosts a good show.

Yes Master, oh God, yes Master, let me cum she begged. He pressed the handle against her again and she began to move her hips, sliding her clit back and forth over it. It was cruel to ask her to hold back, driven to the edge as she was, but she did her best to obey.

Slowly, deliberately, she rolled her clit back and forth over the handle. Her body screamed for release. Her spine was a river of sexual energy coursing through her. Her knees buckled but the sturdy straps held her, pulling at her arms. She convulsed; wild uncontrolled undulations that shook her whole body. Oh Master! She screamed, as waves became violent vibrations. Like a jack-hammer she vibrated, a long low guttural scream escaping the lips of a woman cuming as she had never cum before. Oh! Oh! Oh! She ejaculated against the knife, hot wet stickiness that flooded her panties and ran down her legs. Oh God Sir, OH! Master! She bucked uncontrollably and now Sir was there, holding her, keeping her upright, riding out the waves with her. The room was silent for a very long time.

Can I get a hand here? He asked and instantly there was a Dom at either side of her, unfastening her arms. Freed, she wrapped them around him, still quivering with the after-shocks and minor tremors of her orgasm in retreat. With help from the others, she was lead to a place on the floor, at the feet of her beloved Sir, and she hugged his legs, thankful for this man. The thought came to her, in due time and she timidly checked. Yes, he was as hard as a rock still. The excitement was still in him.

2011

Ghosts of Christmas past


Today I would like to share a semi-fictional story, based on a real event.
It all begins at a Christmas party, many years ago…


GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST –  a semi-fictional tale.

He strode into the room, feeling all of the power and confidence of his position.  A fairly young manager, who worked out regularly, his strength showed not only in his presence, but in the muscles that rippled under his tailored shirts.

The room was filled with friends and associates.  Most were people that normally, you not spend a lot of time with.  Others you would.  All were brought together by this little Christmas gathering.  A pair of folding tables, draped in holiday covers and laid out with pot luck foods was the center of attention.   Over weight people, eating and drinking too much gathered here.  The room was filled with that background buzz of people making small talk, their tongues loosened by alcohol, as they wandered about with plates of small portions.  It was Christmas that had brought them together.  In one corner, a tiny fake Christmas tree adorned with lights blinked like a shrine to this gathering of mismatched people.

He quickly surveyed the room, picking his order of attack.  Which people to shake hands with first and get it out of the way. Which people to pigeon hole, to work during play, and which to hang with later.  Plus, he needed the all important corner to commandeer, a place gather his minions.

It was later, after his minions had made their worship known, as he held court in the corner, that he noticed her.  A tall, beautiful woman leaning uncomfortably alone, against a wall across from him.  She was not unknown to him, but the opportunity to socialize with her had never presented itself before.

She was nervous, and ill at ease.  At first it was this shy discomfort that attracted the attention of his Dominant nature.  But as he looked again, he realized that there was more here than natural submissiveness.  She was a breathtaking beauty with red hair and curves that made him swear softly under his breath  God! the body on this woman!

Her freckled, small town girl face, framed by sweeping long locks of straight red hair, held beautiful eyes that turned down shyly at contact.  He gazed more intently at her and she flinched under the attention.  She wore a loose fitting dress whose plunging neckline allowed him to view delicious cleavage formed by rich full breasts, trapped in a bra underneath.  His gaze now swept up and down.  She had a flat stomach, and hips that flared out nicely, complimenting those wonderful breasts in graceful sweeping curves that defined her ample feminine form. High heals drew his attention to long lean legs that disappeared under a skirt just short enough to make him believe that a wonderful mound of womanhood awaited just above thighs that didn’t meet-unless crossed and pressed tightly together.  He drank in this beauty and felt a familiar throbbing in his lower extremities.

Dismissing court, he made eye contact once again, which she promptly broke, looking down shyly.  It only fueled his desire more.  He strode purposely towards his prize, she with her heart aflutter as he approached.  She looked up in a serious of short glances, each time he was still staring, still coming closer, still approaching until his neatly polished boots appeared in her downward gaze.  She pressed her back against the wall as if it would shield her from his presence, but it only served to square her shoulders, and make her breasts more prominent.  He didn’t lean in or put a hand against the wall to trap her.  He didn’t look down to steal a glance at the cleavage, the ample breast between them.  He moved slowly, disarming her.  Slowly he stripped her of her fears and apprehensions, laying her bear.

He talked not about himself, but instead struck her with a constant stream of questions about herself.  She found herself loose tongued, in a way that only too much alcohol normally made her speak.  He kept her off balance, one moment free and easy, and in another he would touch her forearm, a contact that froze her for a moment.  He never quite felt harmless, yet he never left her uneasy for more than a brief moment.  And so it went, moments of ease and nervousness.  The room and its people ceased to exist.

The evening melted away, in a dance of hot exchanges, her universe engulfed by this intriguing person.  Party goers began to make their exits,  and he made his first command of the evening.. stay and help me with the cleanup.  She nodded.  Maybe because in her heart she was submissive, or perhaps she was drunk with the wine of this man’s power, but she gave of herself willingly, eagerly.  It wasn’t a demand, yet she felt compelled just the same.

When the last of the party goers had left the building, and the doors were locked, he took her by the hand and lead her deeper into the building, she in tow, nervous but obedient.  She followed meekly into a room with wood walls and he closed the door behind them.  He turned to face her and backed her up into a wall, his thigh between her legs.  He looked down at her, that beautiful face framed in wonderful long flowing red hair, that fell about her shoulders and down into that gorgeous cleavage.  NOW he allowed himself the luxory of drinking in her beauty, of gazing on that wonderful cleavage.  She breathed heavy now, completely drunk in her submission. No words were exchanged.  She understood as he did, that they were two of a kind, each in their own way.

So it was that when he pressed ever so gently on her shoulders, she instantly fell to her knees, knowing his wordless desire, and was willing to obey.  She removed his cock. Her submission alone had made it hard and throbbing , and she took him into her mouth.  In that moment, as her lips closed in delicious submission to his pleasure, he knew as she did, that she was his to command.  He let her feel him, taste him, and reveled in feeling of having this woman on her knees before him.

It is odd that there was no discussion, no negotiation, no reaching of an understanding.  So sure of their desires were they, that words were not needed. He pulled her up to him, his mouth now hungry for hers.  He tasted her lips, her tongue, as he pressed her once more to the wall.  He cupped her breasts, full hands, which sought through the material of her dress and bra for hard nipples underneath.

One hand stole under her dress.  Her panties were soaked with the excitement of this encounter.  He understood now he must make her his.  One last time against the wall, with a handful of hair and soft kisses at her neck he pressed against her, then lead her to a nearby desk by the grip on her hair.  He pressed her head forward, driving her over the desk, lead by his grip on her hair.  He released her and now she lay before him, her breasts pressed against the wood of the desk, her back rising with heavy breaths, and her ass held high by those long shapely legs.

Her skirt rode up high in the move, giving him the smallest glimpse of wet panties over her perfect mound.  He paused, letting her feel her submission, her exposure, letting her feel cool air on her wetness.  He paused to admire the perfection of her lines, the way her thighs and ass cheeks met, and framed the dripping  sex he would soon possess. In spite of his hunger, he paused to make her feel the choice, her choice, to continue this dance or not.

What went through her head as she stayed frozen there with her breasts pressed against the desk?  What did she feel with her ass  exposed to him,  her sex freely offered to do with as he pleased?  Perhaps she felt fear mingled with excitement, or maybe just excitement at the thought of the control this man had over her. Whatever she thought, she did not move.  She remained frozen in place for his use.  Breathless, she awaited for his continued pleasure to take her.

She didn’t turn to look at him, but closed her eyes, blind and waiting in her personal darkness for the feel of his touch.   She waited for him to use her.  She waited, lost in the darkness of her unconditional surrender, freely giving of her body anything his pleasure would take from her, and he smiled at that.  He touched her and she breathed deeper, her knees trembled and buckled ever so slightly.

He trailed a hand up her thighs, under her skirt and then knelt to better appreciate that which he would now take.  As he slowed pulled her panties down, to reveal her wet and waiting womanhood, crowned by a small tuft of red hair, she moaned softly in anticipation.  She smelled wonderful.  He gently bit her ass, then licked and sucked at her clit, mixing little bits of pleasure and pain.  A gasp escaped her lips and she grasped the edge of the desk harder, fairly trembling now.

It is hard to say which was more drunk with lust in that moment. He with his throbbing need to be inside her,  to feel the grip of her wetness around him.  Or she driven mad by the slow conquest of her being, the need to feel him take her completely.  He stood suddenly, decisively, his cock already out, wet from her mouth.  He slide the head ever so softly between the her lips, wetting himself further with her juices.

He slid into her ever so slowly, at first, lips wet with anticipation parting to hold him.  Eyes closed, ever fiber of her being attended to the sensation of that penetration, of her grip on him, as his irresistible force met the movable object of her being.  With an unexpected change, he thrust suddenly into her, and she gasped.  He buried deep, his hardness penetrating her deeper than she could ever remember, his pelvic bone grinding into her, seeking to go deeper still, and she felt the last vestiges of self control leave her.  The moment was ecstasy unleashed, her tight wet grip, pliable and yielding to the hard and throbbing domination that slide into her, as he took her utterly and completely.

It was the first and last penetration, the alpha an omega, the crumbling and making of her world.  She was his completely, the two made one.  It was the first of many a dangerous encounter, sexual adventures in places partly public.  There is a thing about power and attraction.  Ideally, we move slowly, taking our time as we get to know another person.  And sometimes we are overcome by the momentum of a moment.  We succumb to dangerous desires,  as both Dominant and submissive.  It is not important if we are impulsive or not, if we succumb to the lust of the moment or not.  What is important is that we make good choices, ones that we can live with later.  Not long later I wrote this:

I have found, that almost every submissive has a secret key locked away in her heart and her mind, begging to be found. Any master can have her pleasures, but only a great Master can find the key, and when he does, she comes undone, but is forever more, held in the grip of the man that set her free. Given time, that Master is usually me. ~Xtac Quote

Carped Diem my friends, and a merry kinky Christmas!

A side note:  This happened in what we might call the golden age of sex, when one night stands were common – before aids and herpes where known.  This was a time when a shot of penicillin would cure any STD out there. Today, reality dictates we are much more cautious in our trysts.  I often wonder where the sexual revolution would have taken us, had these diseases never happened?  Also, this was before Izrina.  I have been this way as long as I can remember.

When being a Master is no fun

That’s right boys and girls, pull up a chair and let ol’Master X learn-a-tate you.  Some days its just no fun being a Master.

If you are young and full of cum, it seems like having a slave who will serve you dinner on bended knee and then suck your cock while you watch football is something you might have to slap yourself for, just to make sure you are not dreaming.

Yeah, having a slave is great.  You can fuck her in the shower, and over the kitchen counter,  test every bit of furniture in your house, leave a spot here, a spot there,  and maybe if you are feeling naughty, test your friends bathroom together, or maybe some other semi-public place that isn’t yours.  Sure, who can get enough of that great sex, whenever you want it, however you want it?  I love the feeling of something wet around my cock when we are both feeling a bit naughty.   Its exciting.

But here is the thing.  You should not be asking for sex for the first thirty days of having a slave.  I know, you are thinking, but X, have you lost your fucking noodle?  I have this sweet young tidbit here, all firm, wet and waiting, eager to go, and you want me to just hold my dick myself and fap off??? What the fuck X?

Lets look at this three years from now.  Do you plan to be with that same wench, or are you just going to dump her when she bores you?  Come on, be honest.  You know bitches are a pain in the ass, even ones that say they want to be a slave, so do you plan on just fucking it and forgetting it, or are you thinking of actually giving something back?  Truth is, you probably want to just fuck it as long as its easy.  Hell, who wouldn’t want that.

But I am here to tell you that every relation, and I mean every freaking one, even the Master slave ones, are work at some point.  Sorry bucko… there ain’t no Disney land of fairy fucks that slave until you are bored and then go poof and disappear.  You gotta be a prick to get rid of them and guess what?  Everyone eventually knows you are a prick.  You can ride that gravy train just so long and then everyone has your number.  Everyone knows you are Sir Master asshole prick numero uno.

Look, I’m not saying you gotta give up all that fine ass to be a great Master.  I am just saying that you have to put away your teenage thinking on this one and get ready to be real about it.  Being a Master means a lot more than just getting some ass.  An acquaintance of mine has had a slave for over decade and you think every time he walks into the bedroom looking to get some, his slave is eager and ready?  Fuck no.   But he’s in charge and if he wants sex, he’s going to have some.  Even ten years later.  How many husbands get to say that?

He might say, how about if I give you fifteen minutes to get in the mood, or he might say, if you aren’t going to enjoy this, what’s the best orgasm you can give me, and still be in the mood for it?   He’s going for options they can both be happy with.  His slave isn’t the young artisan well of wetness from ten years ago, but still, that is still some good ass, and both are living up to their sacred roles.  If control, given or taken is your kink, sex is always good, when you make a Master slave relation work.


Now slaves.  You are probably wondering:  Yes X!, that’s all fine and dandy but where is my tidbit in all this diatribe?  What sage advice have you for this wet and willing slut?  Well my eager little flogger bunnies, now that we have talked about it from a Dom perspective, let’s just look at it from the other shall we?  Hmm that would be the side that looks up through shy eyelashes, and a coy smile that betray a warm and willing submission, yes?

When you first meet Mr Sir Master, the Dommliest Dom of all creation, all fierce, intimidating and just fucking hot as hell, sure you want to jump him.  Who wouldn’t want Mr bad boy to get a firm hold on you and make you his breathless sex toy?  Its perfectly naturally to want to nurse that weak kneed, wondering what he’ll do with this slave, excitement of being taken and used again, and again and again.  It’s hot, hot, hot, to find the bad boy of your dreams standing over you, rough in some ways, gentle in others, that makes your heart race, and your blood pound.  Its good to get a good pounding.  Its good to discover you are wet and willing at the drop of a hat.  There is nothing wrong with begging to be used, taken, and having it leave you exhausted, dripping, and full; satisfied to the core.

But again, that is the heat of the new Master, the excitement of sex, the smell and the love of it.  Where is he going to be in three years?   What happens when he comes in, and just wants his dinner and to watch football?  Are you going to nag?  Does the dream turn into just another crappy boyfriend?   What assurances do you have that there is more meat on the bone, than just his dick?   Is there any substance to your Master-to-be?  Does he have the other staying power, the one that holds back a temper, and puts up with your shit when your slave side is hiding?  Will he love you right on through a crisis?  Is THAT guy inside the Master you want to fuck?

Those answers can’t be found under a man.  Looking up at him is great, but don’t do it naked.  At least not at first.  The answers you seek are found standing beside him, BEFORE you’ve given consent.  If you are going to be a slave, be one, all in, nothing held back.  Make your body a gift, but don’t do it on day one.  You need time to come to that decision. You know that trust takes time and you know trust is absolutely fucking key to a Master slave relation.  Do the math.  Add it up.  Time+Trust=Answers.  You need time to evaluate this person who says they are a Master.  You need to find out if you and they are compatible.  There are worse things than being alone.

Don’t be the slave with the Velcro collar either.  The slave who is serially monogamous.  The one who had and slept with five Masters this year, but never while wearing someone else’s collar.  Oh yeah, she was like, “totally true” to those Master she served.  She was always faithful to the collar, right up until the time she took a new one.  Don’t think that shit won’t stink after a while.  If that’s the way you roll, people will come to expect it, and the Masters who come looking for you, will probably just be looking for some ass.  If you want more, expect more.


Look.  I’m talking to Masters and slaves now.  Damn, I know its hard to not go straight for the hot fuck.  We all want that.  Hell, I’ve made more than my share of impulsive choices in the past, but its behind me now.  I know better.  I not be young, but I’m still full of cum, and I can control it.  If you want to build something that lasts and keeps on getting better, you gotta step up and demand better… or walk away.  You can do that, if you don’t give in to impulse.  And if your red flags are flying, you can realize that its not the right time and place for you to be with a particular person, and just walk away.. politely of course.

Why the title and blog tonight? My slave ticked me off again. Yesterday in fact.  I wasn’t happy, she wasn’t happy.  But I stayed a Dominant.  I  laid down new expectations and doubled down on things.  She had a very hard time with her evening ritual : Daily gratitude.  When you are having a bad day, finding things to be grateful for is hard.  But she came through.  (Good girl my pet, every day we get a little better).

This evening was nice.  Tomorrow, if my expectation are met, they will be better still.  Or they might be worse.  I expect better though.  At the time it was no fun.  Looking back though, this kind of control and adjustment and new control is EXACTLY what I am about, and in retrospect, it will have been fun.  Every relation has work to be done, and if you are not with a person who can do or will do the work, then move on.