Perception

I'd fuck me. How strange a thought that is

for someone who's spent their whole life

torn between shame and disgust. Who

has never looked at their body 

aa anything other than a sack

they have to tow around. That glance 

in the mirror. The double-take. Where, 

just for a moment, you thought you saw

someone else. Someone fuckable. 

It is you, wearing a stranger's face. 

Waist snatched in by a lacy corset,  legs

a mile long in thigh high boots. Tits

held up, high and proud, in a satin bra. 

The you you'd love to be. The you

you feel but never seen to see. Why

is no one standing with you, in this

moment of triumph. Bending you over

in your most fuckable state. Tomorrow

you'll wonder, if you really saw what 

you saw. If she exists, that woman, 

who's sex and kink and all things nasty

in the dark. She does, you know. She's 

looking at you right now.  Your reflection. 

Let her out. Let her play. Let her really be

You.

I'd like to meet.

In person. 

As soon as possible. I'm not

looking for a pen pal. 

We have to check, you know, 

the chemistry. The pheromones. 

Whether your eyes are really

that green; whether your tits 

are really that huge. I'm not big

into messaging. Words aren't 

my thing. I like to get face 

to face. Breath to breath.

It's all about compatibility. 

It is. I can't disagree. I am looking 

for the ying to my yang. The fierce

sun to my feminine moon. 

The ketchup to my bacon 

sandwich. 

But I can already tell, from those

innocent, innocuous, 

words in your profile, that we

aren't a match. You don't 

like words, and words

are my world. They are fire, 

and arousal. Squirming 

in my seat,

Panting, my cheeks red and my cunt

wet. That's what words 

do to me. More than your smile,

more than your cock. More

than anything. So if you 

aren't willing to tease me and 

taunt me with words, draw 

me in with them, capture

my imagination with them,

then we are not a match

and there is no need to meet

face to face. 

Thank you

for your consideration. 

Red flag comments in men’s profiles… and what I think they really mean.

(Yes, I’m sure there are similar red flags in women’s. I don’t spend much time looking at women’s profiles, so you can make your own post about that.)

1.      “Not looking for a pen pal” / “I’m not good at texting” = I’m not interested in waiting for you to feel comfortable with me, or letting you get to know me. Orrr I put physical compatibility over mental compatibility.

2.      “I’m not good at profiles” / “If you want to know anything about me, just ask!” = I can’t be bothered representing myself properly on here so you can know if it’s worth beginning a chat.

3.      “I’m just looking to have fun” = I want to put my dick places but I absolutely do not want to be expected to be in regular communication or really get to know you with any depth whatsoever.

4.      “Sapiosexual” = unspoken: so long as you’re not smarter than me.

5.      “Here discreetly because of my profession” =  Lolz, it’s not my job! I have a partner, and they don’t know.

6.      “Not looking for drama” = Don’t complicate my life in any way, shape or form or you’re toast.

(Ten points for the title reference.)

The mind fuck. It's anticipation, the good

and the bad. A scenario painted 

in vivd technicolor and then left to replay

over and over in my mind, as the hours

slide slowly by. It's standing in the dark, 

breath coming in ragged pants, waiting

for a stroke or a strike, a rough hand to

maneuver me. Position me. It's a hand

covering my mouth and nose, eyes 

blazing down at me, wickedly dark. 

When do I breathe? When you say so. 

It's my shame, held up in front of me, 

impossible to ignore. It's making me cum,

hard, while I still have that humiliation 

fesh in my eyes, my mouth, my nose. 

My mind. It's the razor edge of fear, of

wondering, how far will you push me? 

How far can I go? It's surrender, unlocking 

that most secret, most sacred, part of 

my mind,  and handing it to you. 

What's your pleasure: the soft stroke 

of the flogger that whispers through the air

and lands with a burning splatter and 

drags cool tendrils over my skin? Or

do you like the paddle, that hits

like the heavy hand of a scolding parent,

a teacher I've pushed too far. One 

with holes, that let it whistle through the air

or vampire spikes, to draw tiny beads

of blood? Perhaps you like the crop?

Sharp, hot explosions of pain. Precise,

on the curve of my ass or the arch

of my foot? Do you like stripes? You ask

as you run your tongue up the length of 

your cane. Smooth, long, and oh so

innocent looking. But the marks it leaves…

on my skin and my soul.  You have 

them all there, waiting for me. I'm ready.

So, what's your pleasure?

I park the car, the sat nav telling me

in her cool voice “you have arrived”. 

I have. Heard thundering, I reach down

and pull the vibe from between my thighs.

My bag sits in the seat beside me. Filled

with gags and vibes and clamps. Lingerie.

Because who knows how you'll want me

to look, how you'll want me to please you.

I turn off the engine and throw open the door.

Cool air chills the sweat that's gathered

on my bare legs. The length of my skirt 

is obscene. Just the way you like it. 

I imagine eyes watching me as I hurry 

in high heels down the path to your house.

What must they think? Trumpet. Whore.

Whatever they imagine, it won't be as filthy

as what I'm about to do. There are six steps

up to your door. I take them quickly, ring

your bell. An eternity passes before 

you open it. Take me in with eyes that 

strip me bare. Molest me right there 

in the street. I feel fucked raw, even before 

you stand aside and motion me to come inside. 

They sit in drawers, in boxes. Corsets, 

fishnets, lace drawers with a pearl string. 

They’re waiting, but there are no footsteps

on the stairs; no ragged, exciting breathing

breaking the quiet as I tiptoe into that room. 

The toys that wait their turn - vibrators, glass

dildos, clamps and beads - slowly lose their

optimism in tandem with me, as I scroll

through apps and inane messages. Fantasies

I planned to live out slide into dreams 

without someone to live them out with. 

Sometimes you just have to accept

That what you’re looking for isn’t out there.

Or if it is, it failed to swipe right on you. 

I fell off the bridge. The water was cold,

and I thought I might drown, but I didn’t.

I climbed back up and stood, sopping wet,

in the middle of the road. Traffic whipped past,

as urgent and driven as ever.

It was the same as before. Some vehicles

veered wide, others tried to swipe at me

as they zoomed past. Some slowed,

like a girl, my Lord, in a flat-bed Ford,

to get a look at me. No one noticed

that I was different. Whatever map I

was following had vanished in the churning

cold of the river. I was lost, even though

I still knew the way.

The throat hold, that's my

On switch. From strong, independent 

woman to pliant submissive

in the blink of an eye. My mind clears

and I lose that shyness that says

I can't look at you. Now I take in

your every move with quiet

watchfulness. What do you have 

in store for me? 

On your knees. You murmur 

the command and I drop, as if

you cut my puppet strings. I offer

no resistance as you cuff my hands

behind my back, as you grab 

my hair and use it to steer my head.

My mouth opens expectantly, eyes up

to meet your in pleading supplication. 

Move me. Use me. Hurt me. 

Male me plead and gasp and whimper.

You have me, lost in sub space, 

your servant and your slave. 

Content to follow your lead and take

whatever it is you want to give me.

The inside of my head is blissful quiet, 

Feed me your cock and I'll worship

It slavishly, sloppily, if that's how

you like it. Bent me and twist me

then rail me, and I'll take it, until

the pain and pleasure washes

me clean.

Desperation. That's the feeling

that floods your veins when 

the need to be submissive wars

with the strong woman in you 

who is done

just done

with wading through the quagmire.

The need ripples under your skin, 

an ever present incompleteness

that leaves you tight. Tense. 

Find him, she whispers to you,

keep looking,

keep going,

the needle *is* in the haystack.

But on top of her soft, submissive voice, 

the rest of you is screaming. Fuck

all of them. Fuck the liars and the

gaslighters. The would-be Dominants

waving red flags

like paddles,

That kills the soft supplicant in you.