Wave-Length

Her pain healed him as much as it did herself.

Through her gasps and moans, he felt a piece of himself coming back.

Through her tears, her whispered confession if her fears, heightened by pain, brought out by pain, he found another piece of himself in sharing that moment with her.

Suddenly she was not a stranger anymore, suddenly he understood her behaviour, suddenly it all made sense to her, the past weekend, the past days, the frustrating silences where her tongue froze, words stiff on her lips, things she wanted to tell him but didn’t because she doubted — herself.

He held the chain connecting the clamps to her nipples, he controlled the surge of her pain, opened the door to pleasure. The endless stream of consciousness funnelling itself from her mind to his. He understood the right amount and adjusted accordingly – and she…she understood to trust him, to allow him herself, to allow herself to let go of control, of the desire to hold back. No one had wanted her mind before, why should he? But no, that was not correct. That was something else, something damaging burrowing into her skull. She needed to fight back on that thought because he…he was there for her, and would always be there for her, through the bad and the good, through the pain and the pleasure, through the devastating cries and the moments of raw human vulnerability.

He needed to let go as much as she did, had wanted to before but always doubted himself and his place in her life. Each and every day.

Pulling the chain so that she rose, in anguish, in tears, in pleasure, took every aspect of himself, to look past a gentle nature, to take himself there to that secluded part of his soul she had always marked – and in turn take back there, to show her around the place, the place that was hers.

Through her pain they opened a wave-length only they shared. Maybe it was always there, this ability to communicate, but maybe pain was the tool, however controlled it was – or had to be – needed to take that communication further.

12 Days of Kinkmas – Day #2 – ‘Cult of Helen’

chainedseated-vi

 

Jodie came awake with a wheeze that rattled her entire body.
Her mouth was dry, her head dizzy and her vision was black.
Arms felling like jelly, she braced herself to push forward and sit up, but something strikingly cold tore at her wrists and sent her backwards.
A creeping sensation of cold began to sweep over her entire body, like her mind was only just catching up with processing. The same cool shackles tied her legs and her body….she was naked, completely naked.
Wherever she was, she felt the chill skirt up her thighs and across the curves of her breasts.

A strangled cry came tunnelling up her throat and out, wheezing into the space she seemed to be confined in.
“Sisters, lights please. She is awake.”
One by one by one lights flickered into existence – tiny blazing spots of orange all over the room.
Candles, Jodie thought, squinting, thankful she wasn’t blind. Candles illuminating women all around her. Women of all shapes and sizes and ethnicities. Each of them completely naked, bearing collars around their necks that linked a chain down to…
Jodie squinted…
Clamps attached to their nipples.

With the room fully lit, Jodie looked around, trying desperately to make sense of her surroundings. She was in a basement…no…an abandoned warehouse? Something dark and dank and dilapidated that smelt damp and stale.
Jodie looked to her left, found women, chained, nude, blank.
She looked to her right, found women, chained, nude, and blank.
Her mind fuzzy, she tried to get a hold of how she got there. It was the Christmas holidays and she had stayed behind at university instead of going home for Christmas because….
She racked her brain, what was it, what was it? Because she couldn’t afford it.
What else happened?
“Sister Melanie, would you like to begin?”
Melanie. Melanie was her dorm roommate. Melanie invited her to a party in the city. Melanie…drugged her?
“Thank you, Sister Tahnee.”

Jodie looked down her body at Melanie who stood at the end of the table Jodie was tied to.
The sight of Melanie, nude and chained like the rest, kicked her stomach into overdrive. She felt bile rising along with a wave of nausea.
Melanie was watching her and Jodie was looking back, unable to look away from her friend’s bare form.
Melanie was always pretty, came a thought to Jodie. Lightly tanned, piercing dark eyes. Her body seemed to match what Jodie saw before, her nipples and pubic hair as dark as her eyes and hair. Jodie felt a need to laugh, a terrible manic need, and silenced it.
“Sisters. We are gathered here in the name of-““
Melanie, what is this? A Prank?”
Melanie paused, looked at her, arms folded behind her back.
A beat – then she bowed her head.
“A-am I part of some haze?”
“She speaks” Said the woman named Tahnee impatiently.
“Mm, she has pluck” Said another voice, an older, weathered voice.
“She will do splendid then.” Came a third voice, low and flat.
“This isn’t f-funny, anymore.”
“Hera.” Tahnee commanded.
Footsteps approached, growing louder.
Before Jodie could find the words to object, her vision was snuffed out.
“Hey! No, Listen!”
Words tumbled out to grab someone, anyone’s attention, as her heart went into overdrive, but Jodie was left to the darkness, left silenced by the cloth now between her lips.
It was at that point, at the touch of the cloth on her lips, that panic sizzled hot and quick through her body, twisting and turning its way from the pit of her stomach out her lungs. She screamed.
It felt like a bomb going off in her head, shattering both sides of the mind, with all contents left to tumble out the hole in her head.
She felt tears in her eyes, there out of nowhere; as the sting from the object reverberated across her nipples, pain radiating outwards.

Somewhere Melanie continued to speak.
“…Sisters of Helen, we are gathered here….”
Jodie wriggled on the spot, feeling the chains carve into her wrists, burning. She could feel her drool pooling in her mouth, could feel the dampness of the room give it a cooling effect.
“….in celebration of the life of Helen of Sparta, Our one true Goddess…”
Jodie felt her legs start to buckle under the strain of moving out of the equipment that held her still.
Scathing, scalding, searing pain tore its way out from between her legs where the object, wooden it felt, wooden and coarse, had struck her.
Panic-fuelled pain tore through her body, the tail end of it being a tinge of pleasure – guilty, sickening pleasure.
“Before the feast commences, I would like to ask you all to bow your head in prayer.”
With that, Melanie fell quiet, leaving Jodie alone with the chilly silence.
She wanted to ask if they would kill her – and eat her – as part of this feastbut the pain across her tits and stinging lips held her in check. She didn’t want anymore.
A beat — then:
“Goddess, we give thanks for your wisdom, beauty and fertility.”
A murmur spread through the crowd, hushed and quickly.

“Sister Abigail. Begin. ” Came an older voice.
The one named Abigail cleared her throat. “Yes, Sister.”
Footsteps shuffled across the floor. Something unzipped, all the way around.
Jodie felt a whimper come out through her wet lips and suppressed it.
Silence followed, then: “We hope this soul appeases, O Goddess.”
They’re gunna kill me, Jodie whimpered. She struggled, tried to move, tried to kick her legs free. She could see it now in her minds – she could do it, she could run out of there, where ever there is. No matter of nudity.
That’s when she felt it – the cool metal object, slick and soft, ease into her ass, feeding into her, feeding off of her, filling her in a way that was uncomfortable yet came with an uneasiness that was exciting.
The toy in her ass seemed to lock her in a state of suspended animation. Jodie’s body stiffened, the pain across her body now giving way to the toy easing in and out of her ass, as gentle as could be.
The motion seemed to ignite the sting on her lips, coiling around her clit, snaking across every inch and setting it ablaze.
She was wet now, the breeze in the dank room solidified this fact.
How long the room was silent, how long this toy, handled by whoever, was slinking in and out of her ass with such gentle ease, she knew not. Time seemed to melt away, and her body and her worries melted with it.
Nothing existed but her and this toy – the toy that collapsed her mind, that spilled out both sides of her mind. The toy that locked her in place.

Jodie caught herself easing into the toy, savouring the feeling of drool pooling around her nipples, feeling…what? She didn’t know. No one had ever taken her ass before, Christ.
When her orgasm came, it sent jagged edges of pain mixed with pleasure across her glazed-with-sweat body. In her trembles, her anus squeezed shut around the toy, holding it in place, intensifying it, bringing wave after wave after wave of slithering shameful pleasure.
There was a click from around the room, but Jodie paid it no mind, she wrestled with the toy in her ass, wrestled with her mind.
When a second toy came to rest against her clit, sending vibrating pulse after pulse, Jodie let out a cry, wet, thick with phlegm. It travelled down her body in waves and in pools, sticky and sweet and relentless.
“Melanie, as the sister whose role it was to bring an offering this year, you may have first taste, praise Helen.”
“Praise Helen…”

Jodie had wrestled with breaking free of the pain and pleasure and orgasm, had wrestled with running free of this whackjob band of women, but when she felt Melanie’s mouth cover the entirety of her cunt, when she felt her tongue run across her slit and taste her, something within her broke, and she wasn’t Jodie anymore.

 

30 Days of Kink – Day #2: List Your Kinks!

Describes what it is about being Dominant or submissive that excites and arouses you the most.

Here’s the thing – I wrote a list of links but it felt very cold and disconnected and by-the-numbers. I guess that was unavoidable though because lists are lists right? That’s how they go.

Anyway. My kinks are varied. I like a lot of psychological acts like sensory deprivation and orgasm denial – acts to really bring a mind to its darkest corners. Of course that crosses into the boundaries of Consensual Non Consent, wherein lies some nipple and breast play-torture. I do love to bite, slap, smack, suckle, stretch, pinch, squeeze and pull.

As a primal I am into exhibitionism, pet play and voyeurism. I guess cages and collars and leashes can be added in this category, as I love to lead a good kitten, bathe her when she’s dirty, feed her when she’s hungry.

There’s a sadistic side to me that likes to indulge in face slapping, hair pulling, degrading physically and verbally, spitting and flogging. There’s something liberating about tapping into that mindset. It’s almost a feral energy. If that makes any sense to either the dominant readers or submissive ones.

As to what excites me the most about being dominant, that kind of ties into yesterday’s entry — I like the psychological aspects behind it. That is to say, sharing this untethered connection with someone and peeking behind the curtain into their mind. I like knowing how people behave and why they behave that way behind closed doors. I like sharing that rawness with people.

But there’s other things right? The spiritual ever-in-need-of-balancing urge to dominate. I need that certain dynamic and I can’t really explain why it’s so important or how, only that if I can’t have that, it’s imbalanced and I’m moody and it’s just a spectacular human mess, right?

On top of all that messy qualities, there’s an interest in that edge of sexuality. A calling to, what I perceive to be, darkness. An interest in tapping into that animalistic and brutal and unfiltered vein and seeing how deep the rabbit hole is. A way to experience an edge, danger, in a safe and controlled environment, either by myself through text or with another being.

By The Sword, Part II

Part One can be found here

When the chill subsided, she let out a gasp and readied herself. Inhale the light, exhale the dark. With a steady hand, she drew the sword down across her breasts, the tip trailing coolly across her here nipples.

With the tip resting on her right nipple, she held it there. Gripping the handle with her right hand, she applied downward pressure on Chance, feeling the bite of the sword softly…then harder…then harder. She could take it, she could feed it.

When she felt the sword start to puncture, start to prick, she eased it off, and catching her breath, smelling her strong scent, slid the sword down her stomach, giggling as she trailed it, snakelike, in waves.

When the blade reached her pussy, she stopped, tilting the sword in a clockwise motion, letting the fine edges glide across her slit carefully.

She thought of Chance killing, she thought of the blade between her legs, thinking any moment it could carve into her and bleed her out. Her light would go out in an instant, her body left to be found by the guards when their patrol takes them to the armoury.

The sheer thought of balancing her life, her arousal, with this blade caught in her throat as a whimper. She let it out to bounce on the cobblestone walls, filling the chamber with life.

For a moment Avellana laid still, twisting the blade in a rocking motion, moving from one side of her lips to the other. Again, she thought of death, again she thought of adventure, again her senses flooded her, the blade, catching onto the skin of her thigh, marking her, her own scent all around her, the cool air on her body – on the floor amongst weapons and armour, Avellana felt alive.

Her thighs stinging, she gripped the handle with her soaked right hand, lifting the blade upwards again over her slit. It grazed her clit as it went – and, involuntarily, her legs began to spasm. Her thighs clenched shut around the sword and she let out a noise half way between a giggle and a shriek.

With her thighs interlocked around the blade, she felt important, and because of that, she felt stupid. She wanted it all, the risk of death, the kiss of adventure, the dance of life. And with her thighs wrapped, she eased her ass off the ground, raising her slit into the blade. Just like before, she felt for the moment the blade would puncture flesh and just like before she eased off, resting the edges across her clit.

Avellana imagined in that moment that she would’ve looked silly, thrusting into the blade, lifting her ass in the air, to grind ever gently across the blade. Even so, she dare not stop. There was pleasure there in the thrust, yes, but there was a pain. Edging this pain across her slit prodded at the pain, seemed to satisfy the sting. And with the sting came a sense of relief. The itch had been scratched – had needed to be scratched again. And again.

As her slit met the blade, her left hand pinched her nipple, twisted it, pulled it. Each time she met the prodding pain, she pulled on her nipple, stretching it till the pain bit her back.

When a wave, a striking, silky wave, crashed over her – heat and cool spiralled out from her fingertips to her head. Tears came in her eyes.

Avellana didn’t want to come. Not yet. Not really, but everything cascaded down onto her body and out through the slash in her thigh where the blade at cut her.

She rose her ass up one last time, twisting her head to the right, her vision becoming obscured by her luscious locks of hair. Pain, sharp and searing, courses through her body, running from the slash in her thighs out through her nipples writhing in anguish.

Avellana let out a cry as her orgasm reaches its crescendo – and as it began to subside, as her legs began to spasm and her breathing began to regulate, she hugged Chance close to her body. For after she had come back into her body, she would begin again. This time with the candle wax.

A Glimpse Into Darkness: Looking At My Sadistic Side

I’ve always had a strange relationship with sadism. For the longest time in my life, I’ve ignored it entirely. When I did indulge for a moment, I’d guiltily put the fantasy back in the farther reaches of my mind. Even when my lady is in a rough and sadistic mood, I still hesitate. I can feel my love wrestling with the sadistic intent.

My background is that I come from a conservative Catholic family comprised primarily of women – I have several sisters, am closer with my mother than my father and I haven’t even gotten to my nieces and nephews! This upbringing has its part to play in my development. Maybe even a part to play in my resistance to sadism – both initially and still to this day at times.

My initial experiment with sadism was humiliation and degradation as a teenager. During sex, words like ‘Whore’ and ‘Bitch’ and ‘Slut’ came out of me without thinking. I don’t really know why, to be honest. Even now, I’m not entirely sure. It’s one of those darker, rougher, more vicious sides that emerge when I’m kneeling over her body, fucking her mouth while I assault her clit.

Spiritually, I always felt I fit into the gothic romanticism era, like something out of an Emily Brontë novel. When I read Jane Eyre in college, the interactions between Mr. Rochester and Jane spoke to me – ignited my mind in ways I could not explain here in this space without boring you or writing another five pages.

The relationship between men and women of that area, sexist and misogynistic though it was, compelled me for reasons I wasn’t entirely sure.

It took me a long time to realise that, lurking under my skin, was the soul of a Master – customised though it was – to fit within my other sides – my primal side, the side that wants to unwind in the vanilla world. I just couldn’t accept that there was this stricter side to me, this side that craved control and ownership and ran a tight ship in his household. That craved, above all, someone else that would be willing to dance that dance with me – the other piece of the puzzle.

Like anything else in my sexuality, the more I chose to ignore it and try to keep it under wraps, the more it struggled back, an entity operating on its own. I would become moody and stern, if I could sense, say, someone taking charge in any kind of environment – oh the resistance I would feel in my body. The growling I would have to bite down on hard.

Maybe you understand, maybe you don’t – I needed control. I wanted control. I needed complete and utter ownership, totality. But more than that, I needed someone to want that from me. Willing and happy and content and as fiery and soul searching as I was.

And yet the questions remains – why do you like this? Where does it come from?

Maybe it comes from a fascination with the darker impulses of a mind, maybe it was born from the years of being a sensible catholic boy in the light for too long that I wanted to know – that I bit the Apple and didn’t just want to taste more, I wanted to taste Eve.

It’s interesting because the other significant poles in my life – heavy metal and the horror genre – not only have their roots in darker subject matter but there’s a sensuality to them as well – a lively, cathartic feeling to engaging in thrash metal or in the nubile naked good girl being stalked by the killer before the tension is released through the climax.

All of this, strangely, turns me and transforms me into that sadistic Master.