Perception

Mind to mind, or hand to throat. 

It seems I can't have both. It's either

the seductive voice that whispers

to me through the screen, words

that resonate all the way down, that find

the core of what I'm looking for, or

it's the breadth of shoulders, the heat

of breath. It's a tightness I'm my chest

and a throwing in my cunt, images

that are exactly what I'm searching for,

or it's the hiss of a whip, the heat

of a handprint. The overwhelm of a cock

filling my mouth and stealing my breath.

One leaves me empty and aching.

The other leaves me sated but never

quite satisfied. How do people find

that perfect combination? The one who 

can touch their body the same way he

touches their sense of self? Who sees

the beauty in their body and the 

darkness in their desires? Maybe the don't. 

Maybe we're all just chasing something 

that doesn't exist. If I have to choose, 

which is it? Mind to mind, or hand to throat?

 

From the outside looking in, it's hard

to understand the pleasure that's found 

in kneeling on a hard floor, just because 

He wants you to. In presenting yourself

for strikes that will raise welts on your skin,

send air hissing through your lips. Opening

your mouth for a gag that will cut at 

your cheeks, leave you helpless to the drool

that slides down your chin. It's difficult

to explain the draw of ropes that pull

at your shoulders and leave you prone

on the bed, at the mercy of his whim.

The posture collar that holds your head

at a painful angle, the mouth that opens

for the cock that's going to choke you

until you gasp and splutter. Until you cry. 

Who can fathom why you tie yourself

into the corset that cuts at your ribs

when your bent over, face pressed into

the bed covers by the hand on your head.

You walk into battle and surrender, you

let him lay siege to your body and mind.

And then, afterwards, you smile, and you

kiss him, and you say thank you. Masochist. 

 

About Me. Your opportunity to let me know

about you. To present yourself, and represent

yourself. And, apparently, a space to create

a fiction. A you you’d like to me, or, more

Accurately, a you you think I’d like you to be. 

It’s trendy to be kinky now. It’s all the rage.

In every app I see a smorgasbord of

“Pleasure Doms”, keen to let me know

how much they love to lick pussy. Or, 

there are the ones who lean Dom, like

The Leaning Tower of Pisa. Just enough

to be off kilter. Not enough to earn a place

On the left side of the slash. They like Ds,

they tell me. The love power play. But only

in the bedroom. Only when we’re naked and

They can fuck my mouth or bind my hands

And press my face into the pillow and do me

Doggy style. They like to spank, with hands

and hairbrush. There isn’t a paddle, a crop,

or a flogger in their collection. What about 

Outside the bedroom, I ask. What then. 

Friends, they tell me. We’ll be friends. 

And I sigh. Because it’s always the same. 

I’m sorry, but you are not a Dom. You are

A top. You like to lead in the bedroom, but

You don’t want the responsibility that comes

with owning a submissive. With holding 

the reins of control over her, when you aren’t

getting your dick sucked. You don’t want that

meld of minds, where I surrender to you. 

Where you hold power over me, but also

the responsibility of holding power over me.

s fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine, 

as the world is on fire. The plates

are spinning spinning and you have 

your eye on every one of them. You are 

teacher, worker, mother, wife, carer.

Everything to everyone. Your to do list

has simply one entry: all of it. And it's fine. 

I'm fine. The world is on fire, the plates spin.

Nothing burns, nothing smashes to the ground.

Except me. Secretly. Quietly. Inside,

where no one can see. All it would take 

would be a single string between Him

and me. A tether. I have you. I see you. 

Come. Crawl. Be free of this for a moment.

Breathe, and let me flush you clean

with pleasure and pain. Let me be the port

in your storm. Let me praise you, care 

for you. Treat you, here, in this space, 

not as the person who carries it all, but

as the person who can be carried. Who can 

lean on strength instead of being strength.

But there is no string. No tether. No Dom. 

 

 

“Keep. Your back. Straight.”

 

I thought I was. It’s difficult to know when you can’t see. I drop my shoulders and my head. Drool slides out from behind the ball gag and runs down my chin. I’m on all-fours, and the plastic curtain beneath me isn’t comfortable. My palms are sweating, making it hard not to slip. I still don’t know why I’m on this cold, slick surface, and I’m nervous about it.

 

You put a hand on my upper back and press down. I guess I’m still not straight. I bend, feeling the muscles in my arms strain. If I have to hold this position for long, I’ll be in trouble.

 

“If you let these fall, I will be displeased. Do you know how I will show my displeasure?”

 

I can’t really answer with the gag in my mouth. I give a little nod and do my best to mumble, “Yes, Sir,” through the gag. 

 

“I’m sure you do,” you say. You’re smiling, I can tell. “Five, for each time one falls.”

 

One what? 

 

And five of what?

 

I get my answer to at least one of those questions. Something rough scrapes along my side. It’s a paddle, the one I don’t like. It’s unyielding, and it has these little pyramids all over it. They leave pretty speckled marks, but they also throb. It’s a deep, pulsing, thuddy pain, and I am a stingy kind of girl.

 

“Ready?” you ask. 

 

No, not really. But my arms are already shaking a little bit and the hard surface is hurting my knees. I’m not moving until we’ve had our (your?) fun, so I give another muffled, “Yes, Sir.”

 

“Good.”

 

I feel you place something between my shoulder blades. It’s very light. I can’t tell anything other than that for a moment, until I feel a chill start to sink into my skin. 

 

Ice. 

 

Slippery, slidey ice. 

 

I take a deep breath and vow not to move. I do not like that paddle. 

 

You place another two along my back, and then one right at the top of my ass crack. I hear you walk around me, then there’s a soft creak of denim as you crouch down.

 

“Perhaps I should have left the gag off,” you muse. “We could have placed another one right here.”

 

You run the ice around my lips, which are already wet and slippery with drool, then slide the ice cube up my cheek, under my chin. 

 

I am glad for the gag. The thought of holding an ice cube in my mouth until it melts makes my teeth hurt. 

 

I hear you stand up. I shift, ever so slightly. Fuck. I feel the slow, cool glide of ice sliding down my ribs. 

 

“Already?” You snort a laugh. “I expected you to do better than that. Let’s just put this back.”

 

A moment later, the ice is back in position. I hardly dare breathe in case it falls again. 

 

“Five for each time,” you remind me. “And we didn’t even get to the fun bit yet.”

 

The paddle scrapes across my ass then THWACK. 

 

The first one isn’t bad. I close my eyes behind the blindfold and concentrate. Don’t move. The second one is in the exact same place as the first, and I let out a pained yelp. Fuck, I fucking hate this paddle. You shift to my other ass cheek for number 3, but four goes back to that right side. Your favorite. I curl my toes, dig my fingers into the shower curtain, as you give me number five, lower, managing to catch the back of both thighs. 

 

“Good girl,” you say. A hand strokes over my ass, but the pain doesn’t reside. It won’t, not for a while. 

 

Fucking paddle. 

 

“Now, the fun part. Hold still.” 

 

I hear a snick. I move to lift my head and then change my mind. The ice is already melting on my heated skin. The slightest shift and it’s going to be back to the paddle. 

 

A curl of smoke drifts through the air. 

 

What?

 

“Let’s start here, on the pretty pink bit,” you say. 

 

Before I can work out what that might mean, I feel a light splat land on my right ass cheek. It stings. I flinch, but catch it fast. The ice cube at the bottom of my back wobbles but it doesn’t fall. 

 

“Careful,” you remind me. 

 

Another tiny sting, and another. It’s wax. Droplets of candle wax. 

 

Relief rolls through me, along with pleasure. I love playing with wax. I love the heat, I love the tiny flickers of pain, I love the pretty, pretty colors. One time we painted my tits in a beautiful rainbow, covering every inch of skin. I almost came when you worked on my nipples. Would have, with just a few strokes of my clit. Then you used the crop to whip it off and fucked me into oblivion, wax splatters everywhere. I smile around the gag, remembering. 

 

And forgetting where I am. 

 

What my task is. 

 

You manage to angle the candle so that a drop of wax hits the side of my tit. Sensitive skin. I shy away automatically and feel not one but two ice cubes slide down my other side.

 

“That’s ten,” you tell me. 

 

I haul in a breath through my nose. Try to ready myself, but you’re faster. 

 

One, two, three, four. Alternating sides of my ass. A tiny reprieve. Five, six, seven. I cry out. I don’t like it at all, but I really don’t like it fast. No time to recover in between blooming flares of pain. 

 

“Don’t move next time,” you suggest.

 

Eight, nine, ten. All in the same spot. 

 

I cry, coughing out little sobs around the ball gag. I can feel the deep, bruising pain down to my bones, and it pulses as it slowly, slowly ebbs. 

 

“Come on,” you say softly. A hand strokes my hair. “You can do this.”

 

I can. I take a deep breath. Steady myself. The ice cubes go back in place and I hold as you splatter my shoulder blades, draw a line down my left side, polka dot my sensitized, tender ass. My feet, even my fingers. 

 

“Next time, you need to be on your back,” you murmur. “I can’t access any of the fun places. I want to paint your pretty cunt.”

 

I quiver, imagining that, not sure if I love or hate the idea. (I love it.)

 

“Well,” you add, “not with the wax.”

 

A hand slides between my legs and I feel how wet I am. You know me so well. Put me in a predicament and I lose my mind. The tension, the anxiety. The determination not to fail. 

 

I hear the sound of a zipper and raise my head a tiny bit. There is a quiet sound that I am almost positive is the sound of the paddle being put down (thank fuck), then I feel a hand on my hip. It guides me slowly back at the same time as your cock impales me. You slide easily inside and I moan happily. 

 

You put your hand in between my shoulders and shove me down until my face is mashed into the shower curtain material. Droplets of drool that have slid from my mouth smear across my cheek. I feel all of the ice slide from my body and shiver. It's like cold fingers stroking over my skin. 

 

Splat. Wax falls on my ass. You pull out and push back in. Splat, splat. More wax. In and out. Splat. I dig my fingers into the shower curtain and hold on for dear life. Wax and your cock. 

 

Fucking heaven. 

 

And it’s about to get even better. 

 

You pause, just for a moment, then I hear a buzzing. Something is thrust into my hand. My wand. 

 

“Play with yourself,” you tell me. 

 

I must have been very, very good in a past life. 

 

I hold the buzzing wand head to my clit and start moaning and crying out in a continuously pattern of ecstasy as you fuck me hard, one hand clamped on my hip to give you leverage while the other continues to coat my shoulders, back and ass in waxy droplets. 

 

I come fast but I hold the wand in place because I know I’m not allowed to stop until you tell me I can. Besides, I want to come again. 

 

My little whimpers become more helpless as you increase the tempo. Each jolt as you slam into me nudges the wand and I cum for a second time. You drop the candle (I hope you blew it out!) and grab both hips with your hands. I drop the wand and brace my elbows on the floor, knowing what’s coming. An absolute pounding. Heaven. 

 

“Fuck,” you grunt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

 

Your thrusts lose rhythm and then you plant yourself hard inside me. 

 

I hold for a second or do, then do what I always do: wriggle and writhe my hips back against yours, almost catlike, pressing against you. Thanking you. Feeling your cock piercing me for the last few moments. 

 

You pat my side and pull out. I hear a sound that has me cocking my head. Was that the … paddle?

 

“Now,” you say, standing up. “Time to get this wax off. 

 

Oh, f-

 

 

 

Tell Me about your toys. What nasty

things do you have that you like you use

on yourself. That you'd like Me to use

on you. Show Me them. I want to see. 

Laid out on my bed, it's a smorgasbord, 

a feast of filthy ways You can fuck me

with things other than Your cock. First, 

the things that bind me and blind me. 

The ropes and cuffs and chokers. Two

spreader bars (because one wasn't enough).

The hogtie and the leather mask

that spells out BRAT in silver studs. 

Next, the things that pinch or tweak, 

sting and thud against my flesh. The crop,

the clamps, the paddles, the floggers, 

the pinwheel. The twanger, that leaves 

those beautiful, agonizing heart shapes. 

And let's not forget those things that go

inside me. My mouth: ring gags, ball gags,

the bit that stretches my cheeks. Spider gag?

Soon. Very, very soon. In my cunt: the wand, 

the bullet, the estim, the g-spot vibes, dildos

of every size and color. Some soft and 

flesh-like, others hard and unyielding. 

The glass, that can be hot and hard, 

or ice cold exquisiteness. Last (least?), 

the ones for my ass. Beads. Plugs. The hook. 

All these toys i cum with, like kinky Barbie.

A toy myself, for You to use. 

 

All fours. Carpet digging into my knees,

fingers digging into the pile. Naked,  

breasts hanging freely but bound by clamps

that pinch. A chain runs from them to

my clit. Pinching harder. I hold still,

because every sway of my tits tightens

the chain. It punishes me one way, then

the other. I can't look down. My head

is pulled back, stretching my neck, 

making my back arch. Rope twines 

through my hair, anchored firmly. It rises up

to a hard point in the ceiling, and then

back down again to the hook thats buried

in my ass. Between the rope and the chain,

I am utterly still.  Frozen. I hardly dare 

to breathe. Which,  of course,  is where 

you come in. As naked as me, you kneel

so that your cock is level with my face. 

You stroke the tip against my face and I

Open my mouth, willing and eager. Except, it's not that easy. You hold your cock, 

fist wrapped around the base, and keep

it just out of reach. You can do it, 

you tell me. You can reach. Be a good girl.

I am a good girl. So I stretch.  My breasts 

swing, tugging the chain. Pain wrenches

my nipples and clit. It makes me gasp. Pause. 

Reevaluate. Come on, you tell me. You press

your cock to my mouth, but it's gone again before I can slide my tongue out to pick

the tip. Motivated now, I ease forward. 

Slowly does it. The chain shifts, but that

isn't the problem now. My hair pulls, tipping

my head even further back. My neck twinges 

painfully. The tension slides up the rope

and down again, pulling at my asshole. 

I open my mouth uselessly,  whine. It hurts.

I'm an inch away. You can, you tell me. 

If you want to. I do want to. Tears stinging 

my eyes, I rock forward onto your cock. 

Pain. Everywhere. My tits, my cunt, my neck, 

my ass. I am rewarded, though, with the swell

of you, surging into my mouth. I moan 

around you. Satisfied.  Clit pulsing. Cunt

soaked. You could fuck me right now, 

and fuck it would hurt but fuck, it would 

feel good. Maybe next time. This time, 

you take my head and haul me onto you.

Your cock hits the back of my throat, 

my asshole feels like it might split in two. 

Can't breath. I gag, choke,  splutter. 

Cry. More, I think. I want more. You fuck

my mouth and I hover, in that space

between agony and ecstacy, yours to use.

 

I was asked yesterday, what is it

you love? Why do you feel the need

to submit? Why do you chase it, why

do you crave it? It took a while

to make a list. To put reasons to

a driving force. A base instinct. A need.

First answer foremost, to belong. To

be someone's submissive. Cared for, 

looked after. Used and abused and taken 

for your benefit and mine. To have someone 

know the things I don't know myself. 

To have someone see me, all of me, and

feed those parts of my soul that I have

starved. That I don't know how to nurture.

To feel seen, as something more than

teacher or mother or friend. Leader. Atlas, 

holding up the world. To be a purely 

sexual creature. A vulnerable one. To be

able to be weak. To crawl or cry. To be

told that I am a good girl. And then, 

darker, it's to find those places inside myself, 

the part that loves pain, the part that loves fear, 

the part that longs to serve, to endure for

his pleasure. The masochist, in body

and mind. She is hungry too. All these things, 

but also, simply, just to offer what i have

in the hope that someone thinks I'm worthy.

 

What is it, to be Dominant? Well, 

it depends on you who ask. For some,

it’s hairpulling and handcuffs. Spanking.

Making her call you Sir or Daddy or Master.

Making him call you Mistress. Goddess. Queen.

It’s tasks and rules and rituals. Wearing his 

favourite lingerie, caging your cock 

on her whim. It’s pieces of a jigsaw, 

placed together a square at a time. 

That’s not my definition. To me, 

it’s who you are. It’s a mindset, a way

of being. An instinct to take the reins

and hold them. To guide, to nurture. 

To mold. It’s control, and confidence. 

To be unashamedly the Master, the 

Mistress, and have her, or him, yearn 

to please you, because they want to 

bask in your praise. Be in your presence.

Because they want to yield to you, safe

in the knowledge that you’ll lead them.

It’s a fantasy, impossible boots to fill.

Perhaps I should have stuck to the jigsaw.

Apropos of a conversation about safety. 

 

What's in a number? Its no big deal. 

If you don't like me, you can just block, 

right? The gaslighting starts right there.

Because what you're really saying, 

in that innocuous little question is:

You're over reacting. Hysterical female. 

Drama queen. Don't you trust me? No. 

Of course I don't. I don't know you. 

If i don't trust you to bind me, or blind me,  

then I don't trust you enough to give you access

to me. To my life. My privacy. The block?

What bullshit. When you have my number, 

you have my number. And I can block yours, 

but I can't block your work phone. Your

friend's phone. The phone in the bar

where you know the barman and it's cool, 

man. There are a million ways you could call, 

am i supposed to block them all? I can't. 

Don't give me your number, because 

There is a question there, too. An expectation. 

Tit for tat. My 393 for your 707. Subtle

pressure. Quiet manipulation. You don't mean

anything by it? You're a nice guy? Trust you? 

Trust me. We've heard that all before.