A Few of My Favorite Things

In the tradition of the holidays, and The Sound of Music, I give you my favorites:

Burning red bottom, from spankings bare-handed;

Bruises that linger, as though I've been branded;

Black, lacy, sheer-with-red-ribbon stockings;

These are a few of my favorite things.

Fingers that twist 'round and tangle my tresses;

Pinches and scratches that melt away stresses;

Chafed wrists and ankles all tied up with strings;

these are a few of my favorite things.

Weight of a collar resting at my bare throat;

Grip closing tighter as I begin to float;

Strong arms that pin and the lash when it sings.

These are a few of my favorite things.

When the cuffs bite, when the stick stings

when I'm feeling bad.

I simply remember my favorite things,

and then I feel oh, so glad!

Happy Holidays!

He Loves Me This Way

My Top loves me in many ways. He's my friend, my lover, my sadist, my supporter and cheerleader, my secondary (in terms of polyamorous-relationship-definitions.) and he lives 251 miles away from me.

Long miles.

Quite far.

In a totally different state.

Some days that distance is acute. I would give anything to feel his hand closed hard around my wrist, to hear the growl in his voice -- I need this. He knows this about me, and so recently he gave me a gift.

No, it's not what you think. It's not the notebook, or the pen. Though either would be a very nice gift. I'm his poet, and he loves that I write for him and for myself. The actual gift does appear in this photo, however. It's the elastic band around my wrist.

(Let's not talk about the fact that I need a manicure, please. My hands are not my favorite feature. Thank you.)

That little elastic band was my Top's idea. He knew I was feeling lonely, and missing his presence, his propinquity. (How I love that word.) So, he instructed me to wear this band. It's always there, even when he isn't.

In addition, he suggested that whenever I feel lonely, or am particularly missing him, I might snap the band against the tender place at the inside of my wrist, and enjoy the sting. I love that the feel reminds me very much of his possessive grip of my wrist. I love that he knows me so well, and that the smarting bite of such an little bit of elastic can bring me pleasure. He is very good to me, my Top. He loves me this way...

with a little, black, elastic band.

It's perfect.

The Darkness

I am inspired by this post, tonight. You should go and read... and before you come back here, you should bookmark the site. It's worth returning to again and again. Trust me. Poppy, the author of this inspirational piece, speaks in a voice that I recognize. There is, in her, a strength, a knowing, a spirit quite kindred. My soul echoes with her words.

Go. Read. Then come back.

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There is, in me, a restlessness, an appetite for darkness. It's the part of me that thrills at the wind in the trees on a moonlit night. The part that tingles with dread as leaf creatures skitter across the path and chase my footsteps in the inky autumn night. It is the tug that pulls me, as Poppy says, from hearth and home, and out into the twilight, to find myself somewhere out there in the shadows.

I'm a good girl... most of the time. I am happiest knowing that a Top is pleased with me, that they cherish and feel protective of me, and the rewards for being on my best behavior are doubly sweet, when they come with a satisfied smile, perhaps a hint of pride. I like being good.

But there's also that midnight ink that runs in my veins. It's dark, and thick and blackest-black. It can spill over in a moment, and I can be impish. I can taunt and tease. I love to shiver at the hungry growl that lives in the throat of a Top, to tremble at the flames of desire that dance in his eyes. I thrill at the sudden rush that prickles my skin as he pins my arms against the wall, and whispers his commands through teeth laid against my bare neck. I long for him to push me to the edge, to watch me shudder, and dance with fear, knowing I can trust his strength.

I confess, there has always been a sort of delicious dread that fills me when I recall Shakespeare's Macbeth, and the lines "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." and "Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble." I'm not sure why it is, but a part of me loves the music in these words. I think perhaps, it may be the poet who lives in my darkness; she whispers to me with glee when I read Edgar Allan Poe, dancing, floating, swimming in the cadence of his words.

There is a woman in me that is much the way Poppy described...

"Maybe sometimes she has children now but she has a life away from them as well. Maybe she loves but does not obey without question. Maybe she walks her own path, thinks her own thoughts; she has the distinct smell of trouble about her. Maybe she is so restless at night because she has such dreams of desire that they will not let her rest."

There is a woman in me who must go after a life of my own, who must find her freedom, and assert her independence, who acknowledges her own hunger, and seeks to have it fed. She is a woman who needs to look into the eyes of man, and find looking back a recognition of her strength, her intelligence, her dangerous nature--yes, a celebration of these things. She needs a power she can rise to, can match and yet surrender to. She also, needs strong sister friends, who revel in their own strength and beauty, who accept their own darknesses, who can stand in the light of the full moon, and make peace with their demons.

And so, on this autumn evening, I venture out into the darkness... and inward too, to meet night with night. I am grateful for the spirit of Lilith, if that is who she is, and thankful to Poppy for reminding me that I too, like what I find in the dark.

It Was the Pain

I was amazed.

Not shocked -- in the way you might think one should be -- but overwhelmed. Dare I say it? Titillated. I saw unsurpassed beauty in the nudity of average bodies, and did not look away. I was captivated. I heard the sounds of leather, wood, rope and metal against flesh, and did not cover my ears. I heard gasps and groans and cries of pleasure, and I smiled, I shivered, I watched in awe.

I bore witness to the grace of a Top who knelt before his beloved bottom, and bid her breathe, trust, relax as she was lifted from the floor by ropes that intricately bound her body. His gentleness and her surrender brought tears to my eyes, and made my heart trip in my chest. I felt the pleasure I saw painted on her flesh, on her face for the rest of the night.

I observed as two old friends negotiated and agreed to something they'd never done before, and then marveled at the exquisite beauty of her body as he deftly drew the pleasure from her flesh with the sting, and strike, and slap of one tool then the next. He watched her, carefully, read her breath, her trembling muscles, her groans and giggles, until she erupted with a look of surprise etched across her lovely face.

It was my first dungeon experience, and I had no idea what to expect. I found myself among friends. I relaxed, and chatted, and wandered around and watched. I became the fascinated spectator, holding my breath, trembling with the gift of their generosity, aching with epiphany. I realized that what brought each of us to this place was something truly phenomenal. It was, for me, a very spiritual experience.

I found myself, again.

Exchange

I recognized the pain in her face,
the fire on her skin,
I knew the torment that made her tremble,
and for a moment it was mine.