Perception

Heavy beat thuds through the room, it thumps 

in my veins. Anticipation. It's cold, 

goose bumps rise on my skin. Naked legs, 

naked stomach. Naked breasts. A thong stands

between me and fully naked. Lights glow 

in shades of red and blue, creating shadows. 

People stand around idly, watching. Waiting. 

I'd like to walk but instead I crawl. 

A collar around my neck, a leash in his hand. 

The floor is dirty. Tiny stones dig into my palms, 

My knees. I keep my head down, feet

walking slowly, purposefully, in front of me. 

Until they stop. To look, or not to look? 

I keep my gaze down, waiting. Perhaps being

His good girl will make him merciful. Except…

I don't want him merciful. Kind. Soft. I want

to cry out for him 

to shudder and shake for him

to plead, beg, whimper for him

To press into him in those moments 

where he pauses

and beseech him with my body. Have him 

stroke my face and whisper in my ear

that I'm pleasing him. I was his resoluteness.

For him to be unmoved by my big eyes

and trembling lower lip. I don't want him

to be swayed by what I want.

I want him to make me take it

until he is satisfied. Make me take it

just a step beyond where I think I can go.

Make me surrender to his will. Saliva slips 

from the ball gag in my mouth. The cries

of others bleed into the music. 

Out of the corner of my eye I see watchers

shift towards us. They sense something

is about to happen. A scene, a show. A spanking.

But they won't see half of what is going on

between me and him. They'll see only 

the strikes

the slaps

the reddening of my flesh. 

They'll miss the tether connecting me to him.

The push and pull of will and surrender.

They'll miss everything that counts. “Up.”

I hear his voice and I rise before the word 

makes meaning. 

Stand and take stock of what's in front of me. 

The cross. My favorite. A little gift, to swee

ten

the sadism that I crave as much as I fear. 

(Fair disclosure... Messages on TheCage rarely do this, but every. Other. Kink. Site.)

What is this place? A sex app? That

is what I hear every time I object

to your unsolicited fantasies in my inbox. 

Don't you know where we are? That

is what this place is, lady. It's for fucking.

Is it? Is it just kinky Tinder, hunting

for hook ups where you can pull her hair

and spit in her face? Did we piss away

our morals and give up our knickers 

when we became subs, brats, slaves

and switches? I don't think so. To me,

the fact that I let you bind me, hurt me,

degrade me means I need to know you

more, not less. I need to be sure that

your word is your word. 

I need to know how you'll react when

you're angry. Frustrated. 

I need to know that if I say no. Stop. 

Pineapple… that you will stop. 

And here is the secret that I think 

you are missing. 

If you want me to be your slut, your whore,

to crawl or cry or beg or lick your cum

from the floor, you first need to show me

that you value me. That I matter. So

your first words to me

should be respectful. Kind. Interest me.

Softly, softly catchy sub.

The irony of the funk. What I need

is a break.

A reset.

Time away to feel the spark again.

To feel the loss, 

The itch under my skin

That I'll crawl for someone to scratch.

What do I do? 

Push harder. Look more. Try to

force

The connection. Because I can't bear

To have failed again. 

It is me, I think. It can't not be.

If I knew the why, or how,

I’d fix it.

Instead I fumble around in the dark.

A headless chicken,

As we say where I am from.

Driven by need, trying to squeeze

blood out of a stone. 

Submission out of a disenfranchised 

Heart.

Touch. A hand gliding over naked skin.

A body, pressing into your back. A fist, 

gathering your hair, twisting it. Tight. 

Tighter. Wrenching your head back.

There are no fingers wrapped around

your throat, but you feel them. 

A phantom chokehold. Clamps pinch

tight on your nipple. Like teeth, 

biting down. Constant. Throbbing. 

Like a pin through the heart 

of a butterfly. Ropes, holding you

in a tight embrace. You're safe, here,

in my arms. The cool leather of

the spanking bench against your 

heated skin. Soothing. Calming. 

A vibrator. A hundred kisses 

at a thousand miles per hour. A tongue,

lapping and lathing and loving. 

Nerves endings set on fire. Pleasure, 

and pain. Strokes to lean into, slaps

to reel from. Every touch building

to something. A symphony. And then,

hyper sensitive. Sweating. Spent.

I live in the space in between

pleasure and pain. I crave

the gentle hand that strokes 

down my cheeks in tandem

with the hand that wields

the whip that raises my flesh

in lines of fire. I want to crawl

to you

at the same time as I want you

to drag

me across the floor. Manhandled.

Coax me and command me;

Flatter me and force me.

Make me your delicate flower, 

and your filthy whore. I am

your porcelain fucktoy. Dichotomy. 

I need you to be both the Daddy Dom

and the sadist. The pleasure Dom

and the authoritarian. Keep me

pinned in that place

where i don't know whether to moan

or scream. Where I beg for more, 

and for mercy. Tease me and take me. 

Love me and hurt me. 

(I wrote this for a friend, but I think it applies to me, too.)

I am seeking

a gentleman Dom. One who knows

that a submissive need not be

a slut or a whore or a fucktoy. 

Who understands that a lady

on her knees

is a gift to be cherished. Savored. 

I am seeking

a Dominant who is thoughtful

with his words, because he knows

that words have power. He commands

not with a raised voice or a glower, 

but with his confidence. And I obey

with grace. Because I must. 

I am seeking

a gentleman who leads with integrity.

Who understands that I am strong,

I am my own woman, but I also long

to be his. Who realizes that

the secret to the heart of me, 

is to woo with gentle words and 

a firm hand. Cherish me as you

use me. Worship me as you

play with me. Gentleman Dom? 

I am seeking. 

Anger frightens me

in a Dom. Cruel words

with a hard edge 

becomes cruel hands. 

A choke hold meant

to make you pay attention. 

Eyes implacable and

intent, but not aroused.

Moved roughly, with

a hand twisted in my hair

or fingers bruising 

my arm. Impatience. 

Temper slicing the connection 

between you and me,

leaving cold and ice. 

You stay buttoned up

and closed off.

The only thing I feel from you

is pain. Anger frightens me

because in anger, 

your control is a thin veneer.

We are all of us

only human, but when your temper 

ignites

with the tiniest spark, 

you become not safe. Not

Dominant, just frightening.

So I will push, sometimes, 

Just a little, 

Because I need to see

if you will flair. Blaze. Shove back

with the force of you, or if 

you'll absorb. Accept, 

and then correct. Firm, but gentle. 

Sub Earth. 

When you are all dressed up

in your astronaut attire:

corset, fishnets, the knickers with the slit.

but your flight has been grounded, 

your launch canceled. 

You still climb in, strap up.

All fours on the spanking table, 

a line of instruments ready

to use and abuse you, 

waiting off to the side, 

but while the countdown starts, 

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Thwack. One, Sir. Smack. Two, Sir.

The engines don't rumble

there's no fire igniting deep within. 

Space is there, right there, 

winking above, 

But you're down here 

an ant

crawling through the dungeon.

Cries and moans

don't turn you off. They hold you.

Here, in reality. 

Your shoulder twinges. 

You hair is caught in your mouth.

Minor inconveniences

that normally would bleed away

into nothingness 

demand your attention. 

The voice that talks to you

doesn't echo in the empty chamber

of your mind. You don't 

arch like a cat against his hand, 

mindlessly press your face into him.

You just exist. Enjoy. Catalogue

the stings and burns and bruises. 

You don't fly. You don't soar. 

You don't escape. 

Kinky ad: in search of … a fantasy. A gentleman

with a sadist streak. A sharp mind that likes

to throw me around and pin me to the wall.

Someone with time to spare, who doesn't want

the whole of me. Experienced, but not jaded.

With kinks that match mine, that push mine,

but not too far. A voice that coaxes out

all the dirty secrets I don't want to hide.

Perception, that sees my flaws and my fears

and soothes them away. A bear i can poke

and feel the snarl to put me in my place. 

A strength I can lean on, so I'm not afraid

to be vulnerable. In search of a dragon. A myth.

Please reply by message in a bottle. No dick pics. 

Waiting. The room is quiet except for my

ragged breathing. Can't move. My hands

are cuffed to my ankles, my weight is tipped 

forward. My face would be pressed to the floor, 

but a rope tangled in my hair wrenches

my head back. I hold myself taught and 

uncomfortable, because the other end

of the rope ties into an anal hook. And

the anal hook is buried in me. Can’t see. 

A blindfold turns the world to darkness. Can't speak. A gap bit stretched my cheeks,

the ball in the center of it fills my mouth.

It's cold in the room, but I'm sweating. 

My neck hurts, my cheeks hurt, my ass

hurts. My fingers twist uselessly, caught

beneath me, pulled back between my legs. 

My cunt hurts. It's cramping and lonely.

Waiting. Goosebumps rise on my skin. 

I want the thud of a paddle, the whisper

of a flogger. The sting of a whip. The heat 

of wax or the chill of ice. The warmth of

your hand, the buzz of the vibe. Anything. 

Everything. I want pain and pleasure. To

suffer, and to writhe in ecstacy. To plead

or to cry or to moan. I want it to start. 

Hurt me. Love me. Choke me. Fuck me.

Do anything except leave me here. Waiting.