gripped

sometimes you are new to me. sometimes so familiar it's almost like recognizing myself in a mirror. being next to your skin is like coming home, but being pierced by your eyes is the coldest winter i've ever known.

there's always ongoing discussions about how a dominant can maintain a loving relationship with their submissive without losing track of the power dynamic, or undercutting it completely.

you hold me at arm's length. but tight in your grip. i don't know how you maintain your own balance sometimes.

caught

there are two types of fantasies i incorporate.

type 1: things that actually happen, things i replay in my head. things that could actually happen. people i know, have seen, have touched me or used me.

type 2: plotlines. sometimes from stories i've read, sometimes horrifying conglomerations of images i've seen. inevitably they are impossible, due to the characters involved, or the setting, or the fact that i'd probably be permanently injured or die somehow if it actually happened.

used to be, the people in both types were foggy - their faces blurred, and there was the stand-in generic "scary man", or "dominant woman". sometimes i could pinpoint the color of their hair. or how tall they were.

my owner now has the starring role in pretty much all of them. it's been a long time since a fantasy i had did not involve him personally in some way. mostly, i think, his eyes. pale blue, they pin me down like a butterfly under glass. i can't escape it, and most of my fantasies involve his eyes watching me somehow. he witnesses who i am far deeper than anyone has, and it's not always a pleasant feeling. more than his rules, his expectations, or even his hands, his eyes hold me locked down. inescapable.

This house is a broken palace

"As a slave, without choices, rights or anything to my name, the only thing I thought I have is my pride. Without it, I'm nothing. But is it his plan to take that away from me as well?

Is a slave nothing without pride or should a slave have nothing including pride?"

- a subtle slavegirl


a tension-filled weekend. not bad, actually, a lot of fun. but so many things and pieces of our lives turned into confetti and co-mingling and i'm not very good at filtering through it all on-the-spot like a grown-up should, so it all gets prioritized and can make one crazy with too many things to think about at once. i'm a grown-up, yes, but your girl, your little girl, too.

i mis-read something over your shoulder and thought i'd read instead a title - This house is a broken palace.

no i never needed to be broken but i break into pieces like confetti at the slightest word from you.

you close me off from air, from orgasm, from pride and from shame simultaneously. somehow you manage this without turning me into an empty husk but instead full to the brim with thoughts and thinking and a tightly closed mouth.

photo credit to AsIFearTomorrow on deviantart.com

trapped: rambling again

i'm frustrated. my brain is cobwebby and i'm trapped by you at all sides. each path of thought leads back to you, and how to help, serve, suffer for you. a conversation i mis-heard today: a slave being reminded that she is only a slave because she believes herself to be, and no longer envisions the exit.

i think about my failures. i think about my baggage, about my shortcomings and my needs, size extra-large. i am self-centered enough to still believe that it is my actions, my choice, to stay or leave, and then i'm caught at all sides again with the realization that - i don't know how. my brain cannot connect the threads of exiting, i cannot conceive of why i would.

a lot of discussion about totality again. i'm not chained to the floor, or even leashed at your side most of the time. i live in the box you created for me, instead. i'm comforted by the rituals the rules and your reasons.

it just seems so simple from where i sit. your word is law, and i obey. how is that confusing?

memo to self

when there's nothing to write about because the train is moving slowly but calmly in the right direction, there isn't anything to worry about.

i keep looking for something to happen. what's happening is exactly right. my box is getting smaller, the walls are closing in. i like my box, thank you very much. the tighter the righter.

and i don't miss anything that's missing.

wrapped up

i wake up with your hand around my neck. it's instinctive, i know. your body pins mine down and holds me in place while you sleep, and your hand snakes it's way around my shoulders and grips my neck, in the half awake gray dawn. you've tied my hands, my legs, i can only move into the positions you want me in, and your hands, your fingers, your mouth, free to roam across my skin uninterrupted. but when your hands reach for me in the middle of the night when it's still black and cold and you move me where you want me, to take what you need and need and need and then again in the morning pulling me backwards to you by the neck and the sensation of that grip never leaves me.

yes, i wear your collar even when it's not visible.

work. this is a metaphor.

a man working is a magnet. busy, occupied, engaged, distracted. sometimes moving, sometimes thinking. you, the decoration, are not the focus. you're a step away, placed within his vision, but adjusted like flowers in the background.

you're busy. i'm close enough to you to see you unless i squeeze my eyes shut, splayed out on the floor. i always prefer being smaller than i am, balled up, tightened and locked down. but now i'm all stretched limbs and unfolded - immobilized and vulnerable.

you leave me there. i wait. you tell me to keep my hands busy while you work. i'm not to enjoy, not to do anything other than exist for your needs, but only when they materialize. which is not now, because

you're busy. occupied, engaged, distracted. sometimes moving, sometimes thinking. me, the decoration, i am not the focus. sometimes i can see what you're working on - and it's lovely. i can see why you do it. but it's not about what i enjoy - in fact, it's not about what i want at all.

this doesn't make me sad. i'm splayed out on the floor for your pleasure, and when you need me, i'm ready.

restrained

coming out of house arrest. three days of my house-as-cage, strictly monitored.

it made me fantasize about complete immobilization, restraint. i've begun eroticizing the notion of metal on flesh, the soft against the unforgiving.

funny how that works.

a first taste

brutal, but the realization only as it ended. not the word i'd have used at the start.

pieces i remember now:

- you suddenly in the kitchen with me i can't see your eyes
- white soft rope, tight
- a quick panic on my pillow
- gagging
- "that's not what it's about. this is not about you."

when the phone rang, i almost didn't answer it. i'm glad i did.