Perception

Disconnect. The outside looking in.

Watching bruises fade without being replaced.

Watching updates and RSVP's pop up

that don't include me. Jealousy. It's an

ugly color on my ugly face. Unnecessary, too.

I know that. I'm not alone, I’m not cut adrift, 

but knowing and feeling are two different things. 

And I'd cut my arm off before I'd tell you. 

Deal or don't deal. Accept it or not. This

is poly. This is what you signed up for. 

This is the medicine you signed up to take.

So don't complain when it sours your stomach. 

Don't cry when there's nothing to cry about.

Stop watching. Stop comparing yourself. 

Is that one prettier? Is that one better in bed?

They're both younger. Can't fix that. 

They're both skinnier. Can't fix that 

while you're shoveling comfort cookies

in your face. What does he see in you?

Something. So give it up with the fucking

pity party. Ride it out, go to sleep. Send 

a text and wait for the agony until he

texts you back. Pathetic. That's what

you wanted, right? To need. To want. 

To yearn. Well, here it is. You want. You

need. You yearn. And you have to share.

That isn't his fault, or yours. It's just

the way it is. Do you want it, or don't you?

Have you learned them, all fourteen?

Let's find out. He smiles and your heart races.

You did learn them, all fourteen, and,

in the silent seconds that follow, 

the most common ones race through 

your mind. Nadu. Table. Sex doll. 

You work to keep the wince from your face.

Please not that one. Roadkill. Lying inert,

staring up at nothing, a vessel to be used.

About as sexy as a store mannequin.

Modest kneel, he whispers, and you drop.

On your knees, thighs wide, hands placed

strategically to maintain your modesty.

Eyes straight ahead. Resist the urge to look,

see if he's impressed. He won't be,

not that easily. Collar me, he tells you.

You keep your thighs where they are, lift

your arms and place them behind your head. 

Keep your chin up, accessible. Very good.

You smile at that because… praise. Now, 

humble. Fold forward, hands out in front, 

ass in the air and everything on display. 

You hold, wait. A quiet tut fills your ears, 

a hand pushes between your shoulders. 

Lower, lower still, until your face is pressed

to the carpet, bristles scratching your cheeks.

Better. The hand strokes down the length

of your back. You stay, waiting for the next

touch, or the next command. Inspection.

Up. Quickly. The need to show you know 

beating over the desire to be graceful. 

Legs apart, hands up behind your head. 

Back arched. Tits out. Chin up. Eyes front.

Your favorite. His favorite, too. He comes

up behind you, heat all down your back.

One hand cups your throat, pulls you back, 

harder into him. The fingers tighten

until you feel the whisper of fear. Whimper.

Feel a warm breath of air against your ear

as he laughs silently. His second hand

sneaks up and cups your breast, pinches

a nipple. Hard. Harder. Until you want

to lift up on your toes away from the sting

of it, but there's nowhere to go. You moan,

he pushes you forward onto the bed. 

Barks out, crawl. You scurry across the bed, 

into the center to wait. A peek back 

shows he's unbuttoning His jeans.

Guess you passed…

No drama. Just reflection. (And wine.)

Let's start with the good tears. The ones

that come when I take you deep, when

I push down the urge to give up, lift up, 

Your hand in my hair, your hips lifting, 

challenging me to take all of you. Can't 

see, can't breath. Can't think about anything 

except the need to take what you have to give.

Then there are the harder tears. The ones I try to hold back, along with my cries. 

The ones that come to say please. Mercy.

Squeezed out of me like drops of blood

from the harsh kiss of a whip. An outcry

of helplessness. Surrender. Those tears, 

I'm proud of. They say I held until

I began to break. And even then, I didn't say stop. 

Finally, the tears that come with a knife

to the hard, crushed glass in my throat.

I've given you those tears, too. Sometimes

secretly, sometimes with my heart

on my sleeve, my vulnerability on my face.

Those tears say I care. I yearn. I want

to be a good submissive. To be your

good submissive. And I'm scared 

I just might not be enough. I've given 

all of these tears to you. Gifts. Evidence 

of my eagerness to serve, and my willingness

to lay myself bare. Naked in submission. 

Toys are meant to be played with. 

What is the purpose of cuffs

that don't have wrists to bind?

Of a paddle with no ass to smack?

Don't leave them on the shelf, 

gathering dust. The vibrator

whose charge has slowly leached away

as it waited, the bottle of lube

whose cap is fused down from neglect.

The dildo left exposed to the cold air

when it should be snugly warm 

in your mouth, in your cunt, in your ass.

Toys are meant to be played with, 

Buckles fastened tight, flogger fronds

stroked through strong fingers. Clamps

pressing flesh until a gasp escapes

your lips. Subs, praised and spanked 

and kissed and used, so they know

what they are good for. What they 

are worth. Play with your toys. It's 

what they live for. 

(This toy is hoping to be played with tomorrow... providing the bad snow stays away!)

Disappointment. Not yours, but his. 

There is no whip that cuts as deep,

no punishment that burns as hard.

A miscommunication, a joke gone

wrong. The prank you thought 

would make him laugh. And didn't. 

The rule you thought was bendable, 

and wasn't. A misread word, a misheard

tone. A defensiveness you though 

you had a handle on, that raised 

its head in the moment you were most

vulnerable. It breaks your submissive 

heart. A crack that trickles all the way down 

and bleeds apology. Regret. The visceral

need to press yourself against him and beg

forgiveness. For a smile and a return

to favor. Praise. Good girl. In the end

it's all we want to be. 

What do you mean, you're not 

looking? Don't you know that this 

is a dating site? More importantly, 

I am looking! And I looked at you, 

at your corsets and your boots, and

woman, those tits. I want, so you

should, too. Take my demands,

my commands, and bend to them. 

What am I doing here? Not 

looking. Not dating. Learning, 

about what arouses me and what 

scares me. What arouses and scares

me. How deep I dare to swim, what

waters exist that I haven't explored. 

I'm finding people like me, and people

not like me. I'm sharing, and listening.

Watching and absorbing. Becoming.

You do you. I will be over here, doing me.

But no, I don't want to see your dick ?

Red lights turn the center of the room

into a stage. She stands tall, legs straight,

buckled into the confines of the spreader. 

Her arms reach up the heavens, to 

chains and leather cuffs that hold her

open and exposed. He prowls. In sight 

and then out again. Along the wall hangs

his collection of toys. Some fun, some mean, 

Some frightening. She hears a scrape

as he selects one. Time to begin. 

Her breath comes a little faster. She wishes, 

for a moment, that he'd blindfolded her.

Better to see what's coming, or not? 

Its too late anyway. Swish. Splat. It's the 

flogger. Her favorite. On the bench

it makes her mewl and arch her back

like a cat. Here, standing, rawly exposed, 

it curls around her hips, whips at

her belly and the underside of her breasts.

One rogue strand catches a ripples

and she cries out. The response is 

a low laugh that promises more. He returns

to the wall. Chooses something new, 

but he holds it low, down by his hip

and his cock, straining against his jeans.

She can't see what it is. That's… not good.

He appears in front of her, takes a firm hold

of her throat. She yields into the kiss, 

pressing hard against him, pleading 

for mercy with her mouth. He pulls away,

strokes her face with the smooth edge

of the paddle. Her breath catches: not

her favorite. He smirks at the big Bambi

eyes, the drawn eyebrows. As he walks

around her, gliding it over her breasts, 

her ass, she trembles, then straightens

her chin and straightens her back. Mark me, 

she thinks. Take me to the place where

I want to cry and kiss you, all at once. 

Splat. 

Some people seem born 

with the ability to love themselves. 

Their curves and their edges, 

their smile and their ears. They wear

their skin like a designer dress, 

confident and proud. They know

who they are, and they love

how they look. These people 

are aliens to me. Mystics, who have

discovered a place I can't go;

who speak a language I can't speak, 

no matter how many lessons I take. 

Do these people not feel the crushing

sense of doubt? Not pretty enough,

not thin enough. Not good enough.

They weave in and out

of conversation and relationships

while I fight the traffic on the freeway.

They touch each other the way I want 

to touch another, if I didn't always worry

about everything. Anything. If I could

just be. Free. Like they seem to be.

50 shades of masochism. A spectrum

that unfurls all the way from fading pink

to the dark, foreboding hues of black

 and purple. It’s a badge of honor,

marks worn with pride. A label 

you wear beaten into your skin. But

what if you don’t live at the edge, if 

you don’t revel in a painted canvas

of welts and bruises and bloodied skin?

What if you like your pain to bloom 

then fade. To take your breath away,

then give you a moment to breathe? 

A handprint that says mine, enduring

for seconds then becoming a memory?

A cane or a paddle or a tawse or a whip

that makes you cry out, plead, pant and

whimper, but not bleed? Are you out

of the club? Are you not hardcore enough

to say masochist. Pain slut. To plead:

hurt me. Humble me. Turn me into 

a creature who begs for your mercy.

Is it not enough to want it, to offer 

your flesh as a canvas to create art? 

Acrylics startle with their vibrant colors

but watercolor offers just as many shades.

And there is beauty in both, I think.

Stop up my mouth. Switch off
the apologies and the nervous
chatter. The words that come when
I can’t stand to be silent. When I’m
waiting, in anticipation, and fear.
Turn it into a hole, for fingers or
cock. Your spit. Make me take
you thumb, let my tongue helplessly
lathe at it, my lips quiver in frustration.
Give me something to bite down on
when your hand and your tools
turn my flesh to shades of pink
and purple. Stretch my cheeks,
make drool slide down my chin.
Make me uncomfortable. Make me
suffer for your pleasure. Gag me.
I’m begging you.