Perception

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.

Make me uncomfortable. Fill my mouth 

with a ball gag and cinch it till it cuts

the sensitive skin of my lips. Press 

my face into the carpet, bind my wrists

to my ankles. Gather my hair and tie it,

yank it back until it stretches the muscles 

in my neck, until it's hard to breathe.

Twist me, bend me, stretch me, 

until I can't stay in my head,  until

I have to live in my body. 

Let me feel every little twinge, every

pinch. And then, when you have

my complete attention, when I don't dare

move an inch, when I *can't* move an inch,

Torment me. Tease me. Treat me.

Because in this already tortured state,  

I can take it.

Are you familiar with the analogy, 

one hundred dollars to a nickel?

Probably not. People rarely know themselves. 

But that's you. 

You start all in. Showering me

with one hundred dollar gifts

of affection,  attention.  Interesting

questions and thoughtful discussion. 

Poetry. 

You hook me, until I'm checking my phone,

hitting that refresh button. 

And then, when you know you've got me

all in

That's when the gifts begin to dwindle.

Eighty dollars, fifty. A half-assed chat

about my day. A four hour delay

when I ask for permission to cum.

The barest compliment on a picture

I made just for you.

You wean me down until those 

hundred dollar gifts are just a memory

and I'm grateful for a nickel. 

Keep your pennies. I don't accept

your minimum effort. I am worth 

One hundred dollar gifts

One hundred percent commitment.

I won't let you reduce me

To begging for your scraps.

Note: this is not about money. Or gifts. At all. It's a metaphor, people!!! 🤦‍♀️

It starts with a numbness. I’m fine.

I am. I’m totally fine. Breathe. Shut

down. Batton all the hatches and 

close all the doors. Don’t let it in;

don’t let it out. Float along on a 

cloud of nothing. Pretend until

A trigger sets off a firework. No, an

explosion. You can’t lie to yourself,

you’re on balanced on a wire, a fuse

an inch from the flame. Try to contain 

it; build a forcefield around it. It’s not

them. It’s definitely you. And right now

You won’t mean what you say. Hurt 

pools at the bottom of the well. You

Can put a cover over it, fill pots with 

fake flowers and use them to hide

the hole. But you know. It’s still there,

and one day you’ll need to drink again.

It's a terrible thing, when you identify

with Austin Powers. But I've never 

seen the point in denial. Dishonesty. 

Lying to yourself is the most foolish

of deceptions. I've lost my mojo. 

I don't know where it went, or how

to get it back, but it isn't within me.

That spark. That fire. The devilishness,

the joy in the game. Teasing. Taunting.

Playing and prancing and performing.

Gone. The brat in my soul reduced

to ashes. I'm quiescent, or maybe

crushed. I don't know. I don't know 

where I've gone, or how to find me.

Tension. I kneel on the bed,

My eyes kept firmly downcast,

As you lay out implements in a

line. Choose, you say. With

trembling finger, I point to the

flogger. Purple and black, soft

suede strands. A toy that can sting

or stroke. You give a small huff

of laughter, and remove the flogger

from the line up. I glance up,

surprised, and catch a glimpse at

your amused smirk before you raise

an unimpressed eyebrow. Eyes.

It’s a command, spat out with

displeasure. I don’t have permission

to look at you. I’m sorry, Sir. My

words are a mumble. A whisper.

You make me wait, leave the

Possibility of punishment

hovering for an endless moment,

then tell me, choose again. I

understand the game now, I think.

I point to the cane. My least

favorite of all of your tools. Two

more, you say. I pick the vampire

paddle – something new I haven’t

yet been brace enough to try – and

the dragon’s tongue, that I know

feels like fire. Good girl. I bask

in that for an instant before

the rest of the toys disappear.

Outmaneuvered. I should have

known: the rules can change.

I hear you chuckle as I keep my eyes

off your face and on my future.

My pulse thuds in my chest, and in

my cunt.

Have you done the work? I saw

these words on another profile

and thought, have I? The man

was uninteresting, but his words

rang in my head. Do I know myself?

I know that I'm strong, independent, 

and I know that I'm stronger and 

more independent when I'm afraid.

I know I yearn to hand the reins

to someone, but that I'm too scared

to fully do so. And I know why. 

I know the reasons that I crave

being in control and being 

controlled. I know what I'm looking 

for, and why I haven't found it.

I know all the pieces that make up

my kintsugi puzzle, but the razor

sharp fragments are just that. 

I understand what needs to be fixed,

but not what tools I need to fix it.

Have I done the work, or just

the research? 

Do you know what should

be at the top of every sub's list 

when it comes to qualities 

you're hoping for in a Dom?

Consistency. Consistent 

boundaries, so that the walls

of the cage you crawl into for

Their pleasure don't contract 

until you can't breathe, or fall

away until you feel there's 

nothing holding you together 

at all. Consistent control, so

you don't have to fear

mercurial moods that will send

you spiralling into self doubt

and self consciousness and 

self protection. Consistent

communication, so you aren't 

left wondering if they give

a shit at all. If they've gone 

off grid, or if they've gone

Casper. Forget spankings 

and sexy voices, muscles

and tattoos. The greatest

gift a Dom can offer you

is to know where you stand, 

and that the ground isn't about 

to disintegrate beneath your

feet.

Hands are an unappreciated beauty.

They can draw me to you, and they

can repel me, kill my interest dead.

I like rough hands. Strong. I love to

feel every moment of hard work

when you stroke your fingertips

over my skin, as you graze my nipples

and sent electricity through my

Body. I love the power I can

Surrender to when you fist my hair

and wrench my head back. When you

slide your hand around the delicate

column of my throat. Squeeze.

Hold. Let me quiver like prey caught

in a trap. I love the feel of your palm

gliding over my ass, a soft precursor

to the strikes that will leave my skin

a glorious shade of red. I love the thumb

you force into my mouth, to make

 absolutely sure you have my

complete attention. I love your hands.

All over my body. All over my soul.

Ennui. When passion,

eagerness and excitement lie

buried

beneath disappointment, dis-

satisfaction and despondency.

When you’re moving forward

on autopilot, reading messages,

posting pictures, and running

potentials through your little

checklist, but your eyes are

unseeing, your heart

unfeeling.

When you want to take a

break, come back fresh, but

that voice inside you whispers,

panicked, that you might miss

that illusive thing you’re seeking

if you take your eyes off the

prize, you finger off the pulse. But

truthfully, with your hope so

wounded and beaten, would you

even see it if it came

walking along?