Good girl

She knelt at his feet.  Naked, save for the blindfold and the leather cuffs that bound her hands behind her back.  Her hair was loose, curling around her shoulders and down her straight back.  She held her head high, seemingly determined to show confidence.  But he noted that she’d tucked one foot under the, the small gesture revealing her vulnerability.

He sat in the wingbacked chair and watched her.  She was perfectly still.  Body lit with the light of fire in the grate.  He knew she was waiting for him.  The tension growing as her mind began to wander and consider what he’d planned for her tonight.  He knew this part of the game.  Letting her do his work for him.  Knowing he was watching, his eyes studying her.  The room was warm, but her nipples rose, erect.  He knew a combination of discomfort and desire would be nudging her to shift her position.  But she stayed exactly as she was.  Back straight, head high, eyes and hands bound.

“Good girl”, he said and leaned forward and reached for the bag next to the chair.*

___

*a small teaser for Kono.  Because he’s been so very patient.

Remorse

Just where the light leaves the sky.  That thin, dying line of day.  There lives my remorse.  That shadowed thing that calls like a distant bell.  You were wrong.  You were wrong.  And my heart, propped up with chemicals and a tiny, fluttering hope, sags just a little.  Just enough.  To unstitch itself again.  So that the dark night gaps like a maw.  Quick to swallow me up, grind me down, spit me out.  Shattered and shivering into another bleak day.

Walking the moon road

The low chime of the grandfather clock in the hall reminds me that I’m not asleep. And again an hour later. If I listen, I can hear the shush and pull of the ocean. The moon sea-rises here, casting a glamoured road across the water. On nights like these, when I can’t sleep, I creep to the balcony window. And I imagine I am stolen by water fae. Thieved out the window and down the hill to the beach, and given rights to walk the moon road. To skip on fairy feet along the glittering until I reach where the mer-people hold their counsel. I long for the thieving. Keen for it. I wish with every piece of my 8 year old heart. Because I know, I know, that there is so little magic to be had. So little grace and wonder. Less so as 8 becomes older. And the deep belief of childhood leaks away. So I hope and hope and hope that the magic steals me before it is completely gone.

Pretty in pink

The rope is surprising.  The restraint more about containment, somehow.  Safe.  The slow pull of each tie, each expert tangle.  The rasp of it, as it pulls against skin, clothing, carpet, itself.   I am a novice.  The tying makes me giggle.  But I’m drawn to it too.  The fingers of the rope master.  The concentration he brings to the task.  The frustration at a wrong choice, the subsequent unknotting and redoing.  I wait.  Try not to move.  Feel myself more contained as the binding holds me.  Not too tight, this first time.  But enough to leave marks when the rope is unraveled.  Pretty in pink.  I’m cupped in roses.

Click click delete

Writing is like a muscle, they say.  Use it regularly, and you’ll get better, stronger.  They’re right.  What they don’t say, is that the type of movement matters. 

I write all day.  Reams and reams.  Words pour from my hundred-meter fingers.

“Dear all”

“Please note”

“Action required”

An accountant of words.  Dry and drab and cubicalised.  Punching out my memo streams like a clever little drone.

“She writes so well” my colleagues say.  “Oh please won’t you look at this?” they wheedle.

And I preen and edit.  And convince myself it matters.

Until the page stares.  Waits.  With the deep patience of something uncreated. 

Click, click, delete.  Click, click, delete.

And the critic in my head gives a wry smile and says “You’re only fit for emails, girl. Who do you think you are?”

Love

“Love is a form of prejudice. You love what you need, you love what makes you feel good, you love what is convenient. How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you’ll never meet them. All right, so we do the best we can. Granted. But we must still realize that love is just the result of a chance encounter. Most people make too much of it. On these grounds a good fuck is not to be entirely scorned. But that’s the result of a chance meeting too. You’re damned right. Drink up. We’ll have another.” ~ Charles Bukowski

I don’t think he’s wrong, Charles.  I think about that.  How we do our best, in the fucking dank shadow cast by happily ever after. And that’s ok.  I don’t need to be rescued or kept or cherished.  I just want to try my best with another human.  Someone who sees me.  And tries their best back.

Alone

There are moments when being alone feels ok.  When the wide reaches of time feel like luxury and indulgence.  When silence is opening and healing.  Like a deep, unfettered breath.  When alone is just a state of being complete.  And then there is the alone of crowded spaces and forced conversation.  Where time aches.  And stretches with unfathomable distortion.  When alone is lonely.  And it feels like clouds and trees and sky conspire.   There are times when alone is perilous.  When alone feels like weight and sorrow.  Tomorrow I might be able to breathe again.  But today I am alone.

The infrequent blogger

I write blogs in my head all the time.  Great blogs.  Filled with pathos and drama and carefree wit.  I write them in traffic, in the bath, just before I fall asleep.  Problem is, I don’t remember them.  Or I don’t have the time to nail them down into pixels on the screen.  So they fade, like breath on a window.

My 20 year school reunion.  Exploring BDSM.  The building work on my house.  The question of my diminishing grandmothers. The joy of having a minion.  Notes on the art of slow. A rant about my family.  A soft ode to mist.  And maybe another about the smell of oranges.

Riffs on fragments on themes on life.  I don’t know whether to be delighted with the fullness, or frustrated that I can’t find the still gaps to capture something of now.  I’m going with the former.

In the meantime.  I miss this.  And you.

Trust

What if I told you a secret?  Gave you a piece of me that no one else had?  A piece like Venetian glass. Fragile and delicate.  What would you do?

Trust is such a curious thing.  You either do.  Or you don’t.  A choice at every single point on the path.  Can it be broken and fixed?  Or do those fine lines still show, where the broken pieces have been stitched back together.

Once I choose to trust, the bond is fierce.  Loyal.  But fuck it up, and I’m gone.  It’s the only way I know how to be. 

So, you know that party…

It’s a strange sensation, a flogging.  Particularly when it’s the last thing you imagined you’d be doing on a random weekend night in the suburbs.  But there I was, shirt off.  Back naked, vulnerable.  While an experienced Domme ran me through my paces….and a series of increasingly intense floggers.  Not painful, as such.  Well, except for ‘the bitch’.  Rather a combination of sensation and anticipation that left me giggling and grinning like a loon (and, yes, I’ll admit…more than a little aroused).  That said; I suspect I was treated gently.  Kinda like a pusher deals with the noobs.  The first one’s free.  After that you pay.

“…after that…”

Now there’s a thought.

They say you don’t miss what you don’t know.  And that’s the bastard truth.  Now I know.

(For more on this strange night…a link that’s decidedly NSFW, BTW)