Perception

What am I, in that moment? 

A fucktoy, eager and enthusiastic, 

allergic to the word no; wedded

to the word please. And more. 

A slave, ready to crawl. To serve

and to be commanded. To be

hurt and humbled at your whim.

A mindless creature, back arching

and mouth reaching. Tongue 

flickering out, fingers sliding over

any skin you give me permission

to touch. Your hand clenched 

in my hair, tightening painfully,

turning me supplicant. Whimpers, 

writhing; whatever will appease you.

And lastly, a vixen, who know that

this thing between us is fire.

Intimacy at its most intense and 

its most natural. Us, stripped 

to our core. More naked that I 

Could ever be, splayed 

on your bench.

In that place, I'm more animal than

human. More instinct that rational

thought. The me that walks

in the daylight would never, ever

press her face into the bulge

of your cock in your jeans, lip 

helplessly at the head through 

the thickness of the fabric. Arch

my back like a cat, lift my hips

to present my cunt like a hungry

whore. Writhe and wriggle and strain.

That word is yours, and it ruins

my alliteration. Shift forward 

on the bench, reach for you. Nuzzle

at your stomach. In that place, I can be

all reaction and mindlessness.

Mindfulness. I can lean into you 

and let you lead me. Down the 

rabbit hole. Into the darkness. 

(Memories of Monday. )

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.