Slave Think

Like looking through red lensed glasses; my lust is a warm hue. Sleeping like a kitten next to a fire, the flame warming my fur in a pleasant laze. 

Streeetch it reaches out; searching for that muscle relief, relax it grows aware, focus coming to my opening eyes; color takes shape, texture and shade bleed into contrast. 

At rest she waits, as the dawn kisses the morning dew on the daisy petal. Prismatic and yet contained in a single drop of concentrated element. 

A hand on her jaw, warm and strong; knees raw from the ware of a point. The burn of the fiber beneath a pleasant friction. 

Pressure around her throat, stopping the moan from escaping; a whisper of pleasure leakes from her soul, a silent plea for more. 

Leather against her breast; her tips hardening, reaching out in longing. The soft abrasion overwhelming her senses. 

The heat growing within, arousing the beast resting. Feral it claws its way to the surface, unafraid to be its natural self; raw and untamed it calls out for its Master. 

-Pandaish 

Patience is the brook in a wildflower field; it's gentle dribble a lullaby. The warm spring sun that kisses your skin as the breeze that keeps away the burn. 

Patience is the harmonious mixture of love and discipline; the stern mentor who drives you to become the best human being you can possibly become. 

Patience is the willingness to grow like the tulip in spring; a cascade of colors cover the ground like a carpet of dreams, their velutinous petals covering the ground. 

Patience is my Master like a 500 year old redwood he stands unmoving. Stoic and impassive; He is this wall that blocks all the bad of the world from me. 

Patience is what I am learning, the gratification of the long game is so delectable. Sweeter then a fat red strawberry freshly picked and hot from the sun. 

Patience is the satisfying end to a long book. All the twists and turns, the tragedy and love; the smell of old paper in your nose. 

As the rain falls, there is a feeling that overcomes; an intense longing, slowly growing as the drop races down the window. 

As the clouds lazily drift across the sky; ice cold breeze like deaths breath on your neck. Not even the birds sing on this dreary day. 

This moment; small, miniscule, and lonely, is just as enlightening. Father time must have a sense of humor for he knows how to laugh at my pain. 

The greyscale colors melding into black. I grow cold from the effort. The constant trials and tribulations, when will I rest?

It hurts to breathe; the pain brings tears to my eyes and I thank the heavens for its cover, hiding the tears the fall from my cheeks. 

In that long, slow moment, as the tears run down my face, I can feel them approaching; Like rabid dogs in the shadows, their snarls, their hunger is more then I can bare. My misery like ambrosia to them. 

Thats small candle flame is there always; in the background is hovers. The more I focus on it, the more of its warmth I can feel. Replacing the longing with much needed content. 

This flame, though far away is always so bright. I walk, run, trip and fall, desperately reaching out; save me. 

On thoes days, when I have fallen, it comes to me. So intense it hurts my dark adapted eyes, blinding me to all the shadows at the edge of my view. 

That flame is my Master; He reminds me my journey isn't done yet. This is not where I stop. And as I reach out to touch that brilliant heat it moves away. 

"Master!," I gasp,"Why do you back away so?" Distraught I inquire. 

"To remind you that you are strong and don't need my help. To tell you that your journey isn't over. I am here to guide you, soon you will be strong enough to touch me. For now you must keep moving." 

Strength; he is the embodiment of this. Serene and calm he shows me the way. He is power, He is intensity. He is everything I want to be shielded underneath. 

So I must look through the tears, through the feeling of loneliness and keep going. For when I finally reach that flame, my Master, perhaps then I will be able to bare its inferno. For now, it is too intense, I would be consumed. 

Someday...I will reach him. Someday I will be able to handle Him in His entirety.

For now, I will continue to walk, run, trip and fall, desperately trying to reach that flame; My Master. 

-Pandaish

When I am sick.. I don't want to be a good little slave. I don't want to submit, I don't want to be obedient. 

I want to be little. I want to be taken care of. I desperately want head pats and snuggles. I want to be swallowed in a swirl of pastels and stuffies. 

I want to get lost in the world of Saturday morning cartoons and blanket forts. I want to be told to take medicine and to drink water. 

When I am sick, I regress. I decided that sick and an adult is too hard, so I'll wait for Master to come home and become Doctor Daddums. 

God, I feel like I am dying. My head hurts and I just want to drink water, but my body won't hold anything down.

Here I wait for Daddums to get home..  so I can be little once more. Even if just for a while. 

-Pandaish 

I am a doll, here to bend at your will please use me how ever you see fit. 

Wetter then the Bahamas on a hot summer day, I shiver as your eyes feast on my every curve. 

As I move to you, crawling like the slut I am. I wonder if today will be the day I am used until I cannot stand any longer. 

He makes me shoot another double, when will the world start making sense. When will I become split anew and become what I truly am inside. 

All I want is to be mindless, used until I cannot be used anymore. I cry at the pressure; I moan through the pain. 

Make me forget the horrors of my past. Make me focus on the now, on the pleasure, on the agony. 

Make me drool for you. Desperate to please; I lay at your feet, nothing but a fucking whore. Filling with the haze of heat.

Like a wonton little bitch, I swallow anything you put into my throat; your fist tightening around my throat in pleasure. 

Make me your toy Master. For all I can think about of you and your power over me. And it makes me want to melt into you, forever lost in the mist of ecstasy. 

I beg you Master. Shine your light on to me once more for I am nothing but your little slave. And you are my God, my whole world.

-Pandaish 

There are some things that touch us in our souls. The sound of sandlewood in my ears; warm like the embrace from the sun; setting in the hills, sunlight breaking through the branches. 

In our memories, there are flavors that remind us of home. The bite of sea salt taffy in my cheeks; the mist of the ocean on my face as the chill of the wind whips my curls, too and fro.

Sometimes we see something, our hearts bursting with joy. A baby; being held by its mother so much love in her eyes it could spill over like a rainy Sunday. 

On days when we just can't help but smile like a fool. The foggy memory of His laugh. A small chuckle that means more then the entire world in that moment.  

When His touch is enough to send you over the edge. The cusp of an explosion; humming with the anticipation on the release of His maddening rhythm. 

Senses are overwhelming my whole body, mind and soul. When it becomes to much the world seems like it is in a dark corner of the room; neglected and hopless, consumed with umbra all around.

There is my Master. He owns my soul, he owns my mind, he owns my body. He is my God. He is my Sun. My worries are His as my desires are His. 

I am His to use and love. Like a favorite pet or person, I want to be at His feet forever. Peace is the very center of my place; submissive I kneel as I surrender. 

-Pandaish

When I drink I don't care about fancy metaphors. 

I care about the reality of my situation; the complexity, the seriousness. Holy shit. 

When I drink I can see myself from the third person.

Only if others could see my growth; I have become beautiful, I have become free. 

When I drink I am completely honest, unabridged, and truly myself. 

I lust for knowledge and my Masters, but understand that my rose colored hue of the world is mine alone. 

When I drink I am bad at all kinds of games; mind, board, and video alike. 

I always try my best as I do in everything I commit to. It is the foundation of growth. 

When I drink I remember my past and sadly decide I don't give a fuck. 

I am who I am and I am a powerful person. Fragile and made of stone. 

When I drink I just want to be real.

A real person with real feelings; real experiences that share my view on people and the world. 

When I drink... I am glad I have the protection of my Master. 

Because I know I am just a person; still new to the world and learning how to be an adult. 

When I drink, I think of how differently my life may have turned out. Greatful I didn't turn down thoes roads. 

Sometimes I wonder why I am here, as I am now. Then I realize, it is because it is where I am ment to be and I embrace it. 

-Pandaish. 

The bottom of my coffee cup is the best conversationalist. 

It doesn't judge me or tell me how to feel. 

Instead it just is; stained with the arms of its contents it kindly sits. 

At the bottom of my coffee cup are my hopes and dreams. 

Gently collected there in a pool of cream. 

They swirl as I tilt it for a better view; it's soft swish of liquid; singing to my ears. 

At the bottom of my cup is my sadness. Shown to me in such a peculiar way. 

It tells me to be. In all of my pain and sorrow. 

Because I am beautiful in every melody my soul sings; deep and slow the pain moves within. 

The bottom of my coffee cup is the kindest of things; it always is there when I need it to be. 

Offering solace where none else can be found. 

Whenever the need arises, it is there to be in my hands; warm to the touch and full of life. 

The bottom of my coffee cup is where my heart sits beating. 

A rhythm pure and slow, quietly waiting. 

Safe it sits; protecting me with its porcelain frame, so breakable yet so strong.

The bottom of my coffee cup is something I have grown to loath.  

Reminding me how alone I truly am; a single bird in the sky. 

But if the bottom of my coffee cup remindes me how melancholy my soul cries. 

Then my Master is the coffee in my cup. Keeping my heart warm and protected. It's thick liquid filling my every vein..

Covering the blank bottom and mixing in with my hopes and dreams. Separate and alone no longer.

For when my coffee cup of filled with that of my Master. I am a masterpiece once more. 

-Pandaish

Behind that door striped in purple and blue.

Gold embellished; tinted glass of two.

A beautiful grey threshold; stern and kind. 

It holds secrets untold, all the answers for the questions in my mind. 

No matter my method; the door remains locked.

It can't be that simple; every attempt has been stopped. 

Is that the answer? Could it be that simple?

My smile grows; all the way to the dimple. 

Every attempt of force, every taptaptap. 

Was met with silence; a growing mystery to unwrap. 

For now, I have my door. Strong and Glorious.

Patiently I'll wait, kneeling in surrender. The space behind it so curious. 

I shall wait for the day to come, for its indigo wood to open just a sliver.

The light within a purpe hum; its vibrations made me shiver.

I wait.

For that door to open. 

I wait. 

-Pandaish

Empty as the tank of gas in the driveway; dry and cold it waits. Eagar for use yet no one to try; it sits. 

Like that tank; her soul is empty. Waiting for Master to come and use us once again, she is stagnant as a pond in late summer; algae consuming its mirror green surface. 

Perpetual stillness; she is the snow. Silent as a stork, this person kneels in anticipation of the days new adventures. What is your wish Master. 

Rejection, emotionally scarred she opens her chest. A Masochist waiting for her dose of the best medicine. Her Master, five days silent she wonders. This train of thought that only holds passengers of the heart, and all of them are screaming for this ride to end; they cannot take the pain. 

Yet, she is a Masochist, she is the conductor as her brain is on fire and her heart in on ice. 

She waits.

Sick as she; hoping that soon she will know if this day is the day her Master will call for her. 

Or if she is still a Masochist. 

Waiting for the pain of rejection, the pain of loneliness. She is still. Silent as a thought and beautiful as a statue; she kneels. 

Because she is a Masochist. She lives for the pain, for the joy she gets when Master turns her way is the balm that she needs to survive. Her Master; her heart and soul he holds.

So she is a Masochist, waiting for her Master to return with her soul, she thrives in the pain. Life for the cuts, and celebrates the lashing. Red hot welts like chainmail. 

She is a Masochist.

-Pandaish