Perception

Anticipation. That is the land of the mind fuck. 

When the blindfold is on and you hear him

moving about. Picking things up,

and then putting them down again. Making you

guess: was it the flogger, your favorite, or

the paddle with the holes, your nemesis? 

It's the slow slide of rope around your thighs, 

drawing them apart, until you feel the strain. 

Your hands tied up by your head, your hips pinned.

Your cunt, exposed. And then the high, high buzz

of the wand on maximum. The scream 

prepares itself in your throat, your nerves brace

for the onslaught of ecstacy turned agony. 

The glow of the candle as the wax heats, softens

and then pools, ready to drip onto tender skin.

The endless moments where you stand, naked, 

in inspection pose while he prowls around you, 

looking for something to punish you for. 

It's standing in the crowd in the dungeon, watching

as another submissive is reduced to begging, 

and he whispers in your ear that you will be next.

It's every beat of your heart as you scurry 

through the dark, glancing into every shadow, 

waiting for the moment that he takes you down. 

It's the slow, methodical movement of his hand

and he attaches the zipper a peg at a time. 

It isn't the strike of the came, 

or the pinch of the clamp. 

When he thrusts inside you too deep,

or when he cuts off your air. 

The mind fuck is all in the waiting. The moment

before.

I had an epiphany last night. You wide boys

who come into my DM’s telling me all the

filthy nasty things

you want to do to me, and all the

nasty, filthy things

you want me to do to you, when

I don't know you 

and you don't know me,

and we are strangers behind two different screens,

I have never understood why you'd think

that that was ok. Acceptable. A way to act

with a woman you hope to get to know. 

But I think, perhaps, now I do. Just maybe. 

I like porn. Who doesn't? My personal flavor 

is sub torture. A me (let's face it, younger, thinner,

prettier) with make up smeared down her face

as she tries to please the master in front of her,

as she tries to take all that he has to give. And

a little more. I see that and I know she loves it,

really. That after all the crying is done, 

when she's wrapped up in a blanket with 

chocolate and tea, she'll smile. Melt into him. 

I can see it, in my head. Just like I can see

what happened in the before. Slow moments

of connection. Slow moments of building trust. 

Communication. Negotiation. Starting small, 

and soft. Check ins. Calling red and then long talks 

into the night. Brick by brick building the trust

that tells her he will hurt her, break her, 

make her bleed 

and make her cry

and then he'll hold her and tell her she's a good girl.

I know how it goes, from beginning to end. But

you don't. You don't see the journey, the tiny steps

that were taken on the way to that moment,

where she's bound and spread, head back, 

screaming, and he's calling her his whore and

whipping her, slapping her, fucking her, spitting on her.

You only see the climax. You only see who he is 

in that moment. And so, perhaps understandably,

you think that's who he is. All he is. 

How do we learn? By copying. So you copy. 

You come into my PM’s and tell me I'm your whore

and that you'll have me, bound and spread and

screaming. But you won't. Because 

You joined the dance right at the end of the song,

and all you know how to sing is the chorus. 

You don't “lean” Dominant, like 

the Tower of Pisa,

Sliding slowly over to the left

side of the slash. You aren't switch,

mostly Dom but will sub for 

the right person. It's not a role 

you are playing, or a person

you become when the bedroom door

is closed. It's just you. Who you are.

An innate part of you. A leader, 

confident but not arrogant. 

A safe space for lightning in a bottle

with no earth to ground it. 

A sponge, absorbing anxiety

and neediness and bratty pushing,

because you understand that I need

to feel your strength. To lean against 

the pillar of you. You are a patient hunter,

much more so than your prey, 

who is tired of wait

ing to be caught. 

It says something about you, your name. 

Not your real one. Not the one 

your parents gave you. That was a gift,

or a burden. But when you tiptoed in here -

or let's be fair, some of us stomped -

you chose a new you. A moniker that said,

Hey. This is who I am. This is who 

I chose to be. Me. 

To the right of the slash we have the petting zoo.

It's filled with kittens and bunnies. Pandas, too.

Little this and baby that. To the left, beware.

Masters and Lords and Ladies. Goddess. Mistress.

Grand Poobah III. Waving our flags, pinning

our labels to our chests. I'm here, find me.

And I'm no different. Charli_girl, Char_bunny, 

Charmander and the infamous bitch, Lady Char. 

It's important, a name. It can tell me at a glance 

Dom, sub, switch, little. It tells me you don't care, 

Denver4571, and that your profile will be blank, 

London467. You're not serious. You're not here 

for the long haul. I avoid you, I judge you. 

But don't worry, you're not the bottom of the pile,

you're not the least appealing card in the pack.

Enter, Well_Hung, and his dance partner, Slut4u.

They be taking the stage right after BenDover

performs with MrJizz and KittyLicker2000. 

The crass accounts, who are “ just here

to have fun” and are “looking to drop a load”.

Playing the part of the gimp in the corner 

of the porno. Furtively rubbing beneath the suit

and wondering why no one invited them to play.

Let me tell you the story one day of my friend

EatAndFuckYourAss, who walked in a wide boy,

and walked out a Dom. It's never too late

to change your name. 

(Unless you just changed

it, then it's 30 long days 🤣)

All I have to do is lift the lid of the box

and I feel it. 

That heat in my cunt. Anticipation. 

Fingers dig into lace and silk and leather,

pull out a basque, then, delving further

panties to match. 

My clit is pulsing now. Memories are woven

into each and every piece. This skirt, 

Lifted slowly over my skin, in front of everyone

revealing my ass an inch at a time. 

This bra, tugged down until my breasts spill

free, then teased, tugged on. Clamped. 

I slide a corset around my middle,

tighten it. 

Remember the shortness of breath

as it dug into me, painfully, while I lay 

sprawled, face down and ass up, on the bed.

I wrap a collar around my neck, feeling 

the ghost of strong fingers. Heels complete me. 

I stand in front of the mirror and look at her,

the other me. 

She's beautiful. Tucked and tightened here, 

exposed there. A carnal being, a fuck toy

ready to be fucked. All it would take would be

a moment

with the vibe, and I'd explode. Not yet. Not

by my hand. On shaking legs, I walk out the door.

The submissive has the power. I hear that 

repeated over and over in conversation.

Everything only happens because the sub

says so. If they say stop… everything stops. 

I don't disagree. This is all true. However

if the Dom says stop, everything stops.

If the Dom says it isn't happening, it isn't. 

Both are there out of mutual need. One cannot

exist without the other. There is no Dominance

with out a sub to Dominate; no submission 

without a Dom to submit to. We come together 

in mutual need. You have a sadistic streak

that demands to be heard; I crave the wash

of pain. I want to serve, to know that I am 

useful. Desired. Needed. You want to be served, 

to have someone make attending to you

their whole world. I want to obey, to have rules 

that make a cage I can safely exist within; you

want to be obeyed. Give and take, yin and yang. 

It's symbiotic. The power exists between us. 

The sub has a kill switch. Nothing more. 

It starts with your wrists. One and then the other 

collected and pressed together behind your back.

Instant vulnerability. If his hand lifts to your face, 

you can't stop him. If he pushes you down, 

you can't break your fall. It's so simple, but already 

you are reliant on him. Next, he lifts the gag. 

Obediently you open your mouth. It's large, 

larger than you remember. Your jaw stretches, 

your tongue feels out the shape of it in your mouth. 

Hands work behind your head, tightening it,

until those straps dig into your cheeks. Is that ok?

he asks you. You can nod, or you can mumble,

but you can't speak. No, stop, please, more, mercy.

They're all gone. The only thing escaping your lips

is drool, sliding undignified down your chin. 

He kneels down in front of you, but not 

in submission. Warm hands wrap around your ankle. 

Squeeze for a moment. Then cool leather 

replaces his touch. Spread, he tells you. No, wider.

You shuffle awkwardly, off balance. Not enough.

He forces your feet far enough apart you fear

you might topple over. One click and then another.

The spreader bar holds you in position. Like

a puppet on a string, you are now his to maneuver.

One last thing, he muses. A blindfold drops

over your eyes. Can't move, can't see. Can only

listen as he moves. Footsteps. A low clanking.

An arm around your middle makes you gasp.

When did he move behind you? He propels you

across the room, until your shins hit the bed. 

A hand between your shoulders moves you down.

Down. Until your faces presses into the covers. 

Off balance. Your legs stay straight, your ass

is higher than your head. Can't get up, can't move.

Can only wait to see what he has in store. 

Between your legs, your cunt is soaked. Pulsing.

A helpless plaything who loves n

othing more

than to be played with. 

The submissive Spidey sense. It tingles

when the things you say to us don't quite add up.

When your age is 52 on Feeld, and 50 on FetLife. 

When you say you're 5 ft 10, but we meet 

and strangely, we're eye to eye. When your pics

span a decade or more, and it's the recent ones

that hide your face. When you tell us we can't call 

once the work day is over, like a Gremlin 

you can't feed after midnight. When you say

you're not into DDlg, or much younger subs, 

but in your FetLife we see the groups you joined. 

When you ask us for aggressive truths, but 

hold your own close to your chest. When answers

change, from Tuesday to Friday, from month one

to month six. And more fool us, because we see

that first red flag. The little inconsistency. 

And we brush it off. Even as nagging doubt

plants it's flag in the pit of our stomach. We wait, 

we watch, and pretty soon along comes issue

number two. Something sideways. We know then.

The honestly, the transparency we were building

is a one-sided endeavor. Shame on me, because 

I'll probably let you fool me twice. For now.

The doomsday clock is tocking. Three strokes

and your out. Foiled again. The drawing board

dragged back out into the living room. 

I knew it, well confide, quietly, to closest friends. 

That Spidey sense.

The gut. It's never wrong. 

(Written for a shy friend to give her naughty ideas 😏)

You're not there to be spanked.

You're not there to hang from the cross.

Exposed, for all eyes to see. A feast 

for the voyeurs loitering around the room. 

You're not there to play. To moan. To cry out.

You are there because he says so. 

You are dressed more demurely than the rest.

Heels. A skirt to your knees. A corset.

So that all can be envious of your figure, 

but none can look at that which is his.

And you are his. No thick, heavy collar for you.

Just a simple silver chain that claims you. Owned.

You are there to watch. To stand with him 

and see all of the things people do to each other.

Reddened flesh. Tears. Humiliation. Degradation.

A woman on a spanking bench, begging

for mercy. A slave in a cage, waiting for pain.

A submissive on her knees, gagging on cock.

A hand lies warm on the back of your neck.

A voice, smooth as honey, whisper in your ear.

Look, he tells you. Watch. Listen. Tell me,

what would you like me to do to you?

Face on fire, you can't speak. He won't have that.

Tell me, he demands. Tell me what you want.

You point. Your hand trembles. The woman 

on the cross. The woman on her knees.

The woman dangling from chains, her face a mask

of bliss. That isn't good enough. His hand tightens.

Speak, submissive. Cornered, you tur

n to him. 

All of it, you say. 

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.