Manic: Free Form Poetry

Sleepy, hot, high-anxiety, I wrote this as it came to me, fiery and intense and strange and possessing all the tendencies of a Master / Slave Dynamic mixed with a dash of self loathing. Not sure what, if anything, it represents, but as a piece conjured from anxious consciousness, maybe there is something to be found for the curious reader – TD&D

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You know it’s wrong – to come to her

Moving so fast that if your life was a film,

It’d be shot with a handheld camera.

You know it’s wrong,

To stand before her and demand

Something of her

It’s like being on the outside

Looking in on an asshole.

You know it’s wrong

When she obeys

Her eyes glistening with understanding

As she dresses down before you.

You know it’s wrong

Wanting. Channeling. Breathing. Taking.

So why do you do it?

Vacancy

I feel like, from here until November the first, in the spirit of Halloween approaching, you can consider my blog like a dusty hotel on the highway.

I’m sure you know the kind – the N in Vacancy blinks in and out of existence, there’s not a car in the parking lot and you’re reminded of a fellow that had a house on the hill behind his very own motel from long ago.

You, my dear ladies and gents, are the people stopping by to rent a room. Me? I’m the lowly owner and operator, something, I’m sure I’ll say to you, I have wanted to do for as long as I can remember. I’ll greet you with a warm smile and a story from my past, I’ll tell you about the history of this place, that the pub up the road does the best meals for the best prices. I’ll say all this and more with a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye.

Each room might have the same decal, the same musty smell, the wallpaper beginning to crack and peel off, but there’s personality I would think you’ll find. Personality that creates charm. Charm that makes you feel at home.

Oh – and should you find yourself awake in the middle of the night, maybe you’ve ducked out into the dark for a smoke beneath the flickering neon light, maybe you can’t sleep because this bed is not your own, if you find yourself hearing the cries, the sobs, the walls of a young woman, do not be disturbed. For that is my kitten, which I totally do not have chained in the basement, like the little well-behaved Slave pet probably she is.

If she’s wailing, do not be alarmed. She likes to act out when it’s feeding time, she likes to test my boundaries and patience when she’s cuffed. We’re working out some of the kinks, you see. That’s all. Nothing a good discipline will not solve, yes indeed ladies and gents. She’ll be herself in the morning, she always is. It’s just that the evenings make her go a little mad. And in turn that makes me a little mad I suppose. I can’t seem to help myself when she clicks her tongue and calls to me so sweetly. I just can’t. There’s just something she does to me, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Things need to be twisted and taunted, things need to be corrected so she will learn, this I keep telling her.

Anyway. Don’t let me keep you. I hope you enjoy your time here. There is a lot of history to be had from these walls around you. I hope you are open to it’s charms.

If you need anything, anything at all, give me a call. I’m a night owl and welcome the company. Good evening.

Sweet Relief

We talk about relief in terms of domination and submission, of orgasms, forced or denied until madness. We talk of the build, the pressure and the release as the holy trinity but something else that I can see being added to all this is the sensuality behind urinating. In certain situations, of course.

I’ve never been one to think of golden showers as erotic but I’d be a liar if I said it hasn’t started to occur to me as of late when it comes to the holy trinity, the three stages of sweet relief.

I’m guilty of letting things build. I delay the release in favour of the thing I’m writing or the movie I’m watching or if I’m enjoying a walk with company – insert numerous situations. Sometimes, dear reader, I admit to lying in bed, unable to find motivation, denying myself release as I browse WordPress or see to daily tasks.

When it comes to the pressure, the act of relief is in the back of my mind. The urge escalated but so does the eroticism. In my mind’s eye, I’m starting to transform, like a werewolf under the full moon, and I’m above a Slave about to commence a daily ritual.

This ties into a Master side of me I would guess, because in my mind, it’s a ritualistic encounter. In my mind, I’m delaying her pressure like a dick sadist. In my mind, there is no God because I’m the devil here. You see what I mean? It’s a gut-wrenching alternate me. And it’s profoundly erotic in ways I’d never think.

And then there’s that millisecond of ecstasy where you let go – you’re not afraid to release, you are free. I can almost feel myself plummeting from the top of a waterfall down into the lake, ready to be reborn by the act as much as she will be. We’re born together.

Maybe I’m being pretentious but I don’t know if I am. There’s a lot going on in my mind at times when I urinate that I’m not sure you could boil it down to sheer over-thinking. I mean, there’s a ritual there. Something sacred. There’s worship and the idea of being worship. There’s ownership and trust and a shared connection.

I can picture myself being right there with her, elated with her, transported with her, high on the act just like her. But I can also sense, on my part, in my Dominance, feeling that relief of letting go, of shedding my skin and feeling my new body for the very first time.

I could get used to that ritual.

The Master in Me

So here’s the thing about me.

You could say I’ve been in this lifestyle since my experiments with it as a teen, but I really didn’t start to understand the depths to which it was a part of me until my mid 20’s.

Only then, through educating myself through various web pages and through friends across Fetlife, Whisper and Collarspace did I start to understand what I was feeling.

The thing is though, I didn’t learn everything in my mid twenties. Some of it was yet to come later – like the fact that I realised the Daddy dynamic – or that mentoring a student who began to identify as a Slave made me realise my own tendencies as a Master.

A Master.

The Master in me has always been a mystery to me because it’s so far removed from who I am outside of my Sex life. The Daddy side I understand – nurturing people, friends of friends, mentoring newcomers, reading to my kitten – these things come naturally to me. But my Master side is a bit more elusive.

It’s not just because it’s not always a fit for my relationship with my kitten, that I understand. We fulfil each other in a different way.

It’s that it comes out – is triggered, I guess you could say – at random, like I’m possessed by some otherworldly being.

I remember explaining to this student this visceral mindset and their reaction being one of ‘You’re kind of a different person’. A similar reaction occurred with my kitten in an organic way, though our personalities, melding as they often do, seemed to thrive off of each other as totally different people from our softer sides.

Maybe that’s the appeal? The contrast between different lives?

But then again, as I write this – I realise a lot of the M/s style appeals to me – the symbolism and rituals, the exchange of power, the slave training – all of these are things of beauty for me and appeal to me greatly.

Like I said with my relationship with Sadism, I haven’t fully understood what this all means for me but it’s an entity that takes up rent in my head and is along for the ride.

And as always, I’m eager to hear from both sides of the coin, the Master/Mistress and Slaves-mindset, new to it or otherwise, that are out there and lurking. If you care to, please feel free to share some of your own experiences with your journey so far – either in the comments or at email!

We Are The Masters Of Our Own Fate

I was cleaning my MacBook and I stumbled across some old text messages that dated back before my relationship with my lady (Thanks, iMessage!) and one of the files was from a Fetlifer I befriended on my travels before losing contact – and something she expressed to me, which has since struck a chord again here in the future, was her pull of submission towards her ex, who, for whatever reason – maybe he was manipulating her, maybe he himself was trapped in that comforting yet vicious cycle, maybe they were working things out – felt that same animalistic pull.

Now I don’t want to seem like I’m focusing on the negative here, but something I have come to read a lot of, and occasionally sense first hand in relationships, some right before my eyes, is this dysfunctional relationship between a submissive and a dominant.

It could be a conscious thing. I have heard many stories of men, thinking they understand Dominance, abuse the power with malicious intent. I’ve heard of submissive women feeling trapped, either in their marriage to a controlling man or maybe they’re feeling different in a irreparable way, maybe it’s a man, stuck on how to express his feelings, either to his wife, or about his own sexuality, maybe he is unable to proceed with his dominance because the progress eludes him – the variables are endless.

The thing is…we are the captains of our own ship. We are the masters of our fate. Today may be a shit day but tomorrow may be better, if not a step towards being better. Something that people don’t realise, I certainly forget often, is — you’re in this for the long game. Progress takes time. You’ve got to fight like hell even when you feel you’re already there.

For submissive folk, don’t you ever feel weak. Realising you’re submissive takes great courage. Tapping into that submission takes great bravery. Exploring the aspirations of a submissive and it’s dynamic qualities takes tremendous strength.

Always remember that submission isn’t just simply obeying a dominant persona. It’s choosing a dominant persona. It’s granting access to your heart and mind. That takes guts, that takes a certain fearlessness. You should be proud of yourself.

For Dominant folk, remember that being dominant is so much more than protocol and order and sexual gratification, it’s love and trust and harnessing your mind – not just yourselves but the mind of your submissive. It’s about being tender, about being attentive and it’s about care. Here and now and in the future.

And if Dominance and submission is a one night thing, see it has tender and care and harnessing minds for that brief period. There’s still a moment that takes patience and respect into equation.

More importantly, and I speak to both dominants and submissives, don’t let someone walk over you. Don’t let someone boss you around. Don’t let your current situation, of destructive or helpless, put you down – because you can strive for a better future in which all is harmonious. And you can achieve that. It’ll take time, you may need to reboot your life, but you will survive so long as you believe in a positive future and in yourself.

You’ve got this.

Some Version Of You

Some version of you exists in my mind,

Drenched in sweat,

Quivering

So degraded and humiliated you’re trembling,

Skin stinging from rope and an open palm,

A clit so sore you don’t want to move,

Burning, scorching marks from the paddle,

Nipples pulsating from the bite.

You don’t understand. You don’t understand. How could you? No one’s ever tested you, ever tested your limits, ever twisted your mind. No one has ever been curious enough to wonder how your mind sounds when the last moment of sanity slithers from your lips, and drips, down your throat like the bead of sweat from your temples.

But I do. He does.

We want to break you, to violate your sweet tight cunt till you are forced to come, till your thighs tremble to rock with the umpteenth orgasm that will wash over you. And when you’re spent, we will flip you over and fuck your untouched ass till you feel so disgustingly full you will squeeze your eyes shut tightly and feel the nagging presence of a headache.

With each thrust, you’ll repeat back to me. I am Nothing. I am No One. I am Ready to be His Toy. With each forced orgasm, you’ll thank me, through gritted teeth, till I don’t have to remind you, till you know the words.

And when I fuck your salty mouth with my aching cock, grasping the nipple clamps planted fiercely on your tits, tugging them like a rider alerts a horse, you fucking animal, I am going to shoot my load down the back of your throat till you swallow.

Only then will you be free, left to curl up, left with the ache, left with the come drying on your lips, rocking and panting and promising and pleading:

I am nothing. I am no one. I am ready to be His toy.

The Rope

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Tangles of red rope reached across her pale flesh, cuffing around her inner thighs, resting at the edges of her lips.

The rope stretched along her stomach, forked diagonally upwards across her tits, where it would grind against her light pink and puffy nipples.

The rope scorched her, leaving behind thin broken lines seared into her flesh. Like dunes in a desert.

 

She was to remain on her stomach on the floor, her legs held up across her back and bounded by the rope.

Every inch of her was met with the coarse material. It was perverse, painful.

Even though she was only in the middle of their lounge room, she

felt exposed to the world and all its elements. Like a girl, like a lost little girl.

The knots started to itch against her, yet she became its slave, open and willing.

She dare not move, for the rope would only work against her, twisting and digging in a delightful mix of pain and pleasure.

She hated it yet loved it. For every thrill she felt from the sting, the rub of pain, she wanted to relieve her ache. She wanted to dull it, just a little. A little squeeze of her nipples, just a little. But she was bound, left to feel the lingering kiss of the rope.

 

She had learnt to be still the hard way.

Pressed against the wooden floor, she felt the cool teasing ache of its touch against her nipple. In her absence of reason, a fault of no one but her own she reflected soon after, she tried to move her body up, if only to slightly drag her hardened nipple across the floor, to satiate herself.

But upon even an inch of movement, the rope tightened. It dug a nice crevice into her breasts and began to leave its mark.

Oh, she had whimpered, had tried to flail like someone half her age, but in the end, she was bound to that spot on her stomach.

 

There she would remain, a wretched prisoner, a willing slave, till he returned home from the shops, just like he said he would.