Lies of omission. Death by
a thousand cuts. You want me
to bare my soul, lay out my
vulnerability along with my cunt,
but you bring a mask to the dungeon,
and you wear it during, before
and after. And when one of those
little whites you told slices me
like the sharpened edge of a page,
you point at the tear of blood
that breaks free, and you say
I didn’t do that.
(Im having a great Thursday. How's yours?)
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.