Lost

I can't sleep.

(CNC play, possible triggers) 

(Fiction...or not) 

(unfinished) 

She bowed her head low to the floor, felt the resilience of the lacquered wood surface under her knees as its chill sank into her skin. Her loose hair fell forward to cover her face, her cheeks, her eyes, but that didn’t matter. She was still exposed, ass up, everything available to see.

Later she would realize she hadn’t closed the cracked window she kept open for fresh air. It had remained open, like the shocked gaping mouths of her neighbors. Were the blinds open, too? They had been, hadn’t they, to let in the sun, the way she liked it in the morning and the curtains too, so that she could look out at the street.

Later.

But right now, none of that mattered. Right now, she was lost, lost to a voice, a rumble, a taking, a feeding. He was making her wait for it, wait on his bite, his teeth. Wait on the lashing and churning. It had been more than a week, and he was still making her wait.

Her hair trapped her breath. Made her face hot. Made the room small. The afternoon turned humid.

“Turn so I can see. Rotate,” the voice on the computer speaker said.

She did. A scooting, graceless movement. He didn’t say anything about that; for all his thousand little cruelties and humiliations, there were lines of truth he never crossed, and that made her ridiculously grateful.

“I want to see all my holes. Look at that. Look at my slut. You are a lovely girl, aren’t you? Very wet today, also, yes?”

She didn’t answer.

“Aren’t you?”

The question stung like a prod. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to do this. But she was doing this because she had made an agreement months ago and still refused to use the one out he’d given her.

When she said stop, he would stop. But then, he would stop everything, and she would never have this, have him, again.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Yes what?”

A small delay, as if she was thinking, then finally, “Yes, Sir.”

He laughed. “You want to play with me? When you’re showing me your wet pussy and your asshole like a bitch in heat? You want games, Princess?”

“No, Sir.” She didn’t wait to answer. She wasn’t trying to be a brat, but the split in what she wanted and what she hated was a real thing. She’d do anything to get to that point where she stopped caring about what he wanted, that sweet, empty space of possibility and pleasure, and he knew it.

He was a faceless voice on her screen, who could see her, but she saw nothing, not since the very first video call. Then, as if turning out a light switch, that was it. All she got now was darkness. Two months later, and she still hadn’t seen his face. Just his voice.

His voice that he poured into her veins and left behind to boil and cook her soul.

“Are you sure? Did you get the packages I sent? Maybe you are ready for the real games? Turn and sit up, show me those big tits. Shoulders back. Hurry the fuck up, you really don’t want to make me wait again.”

She moved. Followed directions. But her insides quivered with the demand, stars of want bursting from the seed pods where she’d tried to bury and forget them. He was right. She was wet, getting more slick and more swollen by the second.

“Grab your left nipple hard. Pinch. Lift, pull. Do it like a man is touching you, slut. Now.”

She did it, not hiding the grimace on her face.

“Do you like that?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Sir.”

“Are you sure? I can see how the color on your face is changing. I fucking love how you blush down to your tits, how red you get when you are aroused. And you are very aroused, aren’t you, Pretty? Very fucking aroused. Spread your legs apart, show me that little fat cunt of yours. Do it. And look at that, even your clit is swollen.”

He narrated her condition as if she wasn’t there experiencing it, seeing everything about her that she couldn’t deny. But she was sinking deep now, into the place where she forgot how old she was, how her body looked after carrying four children, how she wore time on her skin like a map of every life choice.

All of her reality evaporated in the addictive, intoxicating fumes of his voice.

In this cruelty, where she was made ugly, she also was made beautiful. Desired. She didn’t understand why or how, only that this profane, humiliating journey had made her whole in ways she had never been before.

She hated it.

But how could she walk away from it?

If I were to place a personal ad- update for what I'm looking for in the lifestyle
(not currently looking for a dominant,)

I am an experienced sexual service submissive who understands protocols like kneeling.

I serve one Master with no other women in the household. I will not compete with others.

Me: Over 50. Adult children. I’m looking for a D/s, M/s dynamic. I’m a nonsmoker. Non Drinker. Willing to relocate. I want to be owned, and give everything I am — capable body servant. Capable domestic service. Writer/Reader/ sapiosexual. I want to open myself up to deep revelations and intimacies, allow my Master to feed on my light so that I ease his dark. I want to give everything so that I don’t have to think about anything but my Master. I don’t want to carry anything. I don’t want to be in control. I don’t want to have secrets. I don’t want to be afraid to be vulnerable. I want, badly, to feel whole, honest and safe.

Safe. Free. Owned.

You: Over 40. Adult children or no children. You have your crap together. Organized. Clean. Established. Leader. Or Retired leader. Non-smoker. Non Drinker. My Master is the anchor in the storm. He will not be the cause of the storms in my life. I will be proud to serve him, and he will be proud to own me.

A Master should not only know how to use me and keep me physically safe, he will know how to keep me mentally safe. He will learn me as I learn him, learn my moods, my wants, my needs as I yield to every one of his desires, wants and needs. He will know when to hold me, when to carry me, when to discipline me, when to punish me and when to prod me.

He will be a place of calm. At his feet, there is peace. When he clips on the leash, I will sigh and know that everything will be okay.

My Master will be in a position to pay for his household, his toys, and me. He will only require my heart, body, and mind in return for full service.

My Master will be a good communicator. His rules and expectations will be clear from the start. He knows what he wants. He knows what he needs. He knows where everything in his household is. He will set his own limits, boundaries, and stages for growth. He will not be in a hurry. He wants long term, and he knows that long-term relationships must build a strong foundation. He will write and he will read and be able to explain all of his needs and desires.

I want to fulfill all of my Master’s fantasies that I can be the woman others are too afraid, or too bratty, too lazy, too weak, or too selfish or too dull minded to be. My biggest fantasy is being this for my Master. (Read this again. This is the – what is her kink? That you are looking for)

He can chase me in the woods, we can play hide and seek and he can drag me to the bed by my hair. He can give me a bath and soothe my hurts one day and the next demand I act his servant, his cook, his footstool.

I am not young. I am not stupid. I am often foolish, impulsive and generally too kind. I do not need a Master for orgasms. I need a Master who is a wall I can break myself on and a cushion where I can find healing. I need a Master who will let me take care of him when he needs it, serve him when he wishes it, and be there for him when actions matter more than words.

I am looking for a Master to live the rest of my life with. Who has dreamed of a cage and a tail for me. Who has a collar and a leash and a bench on which to prostrate myself. A master who wants me to dress to please him and but who lets me wear a princess crown and dance for him when the mood strikes me. I am looking for a Master who wants a lady in the living room, and a slut in the bedroom—but who will test them both in the most delicious of devious of ways.

For a long time I thought I was not worthy of this type of Master. Now…now that I have let my life be burned down to nothing by the wrong kind of relationship, now I am no longer afraid to ask. What have I left to lose?

So, you want to enter the world of BDSM and 'learn' to be submissive.

First let me ask some important questions. On a scale of 1-5, how much do you like doing what you want to do, when you want to do it?
How much do you enjoy choosing what and when to eat, what and how to dress, how you wear your hair, how to wear your make-up?
How willing are you to share your darkest, most shameful secrets? How honest can you be about your deepest desires? Are you willing to share things that will make you vulnerable?
How much do you value your me-time or your girl-friend time? Do you have friends that are male and are they important to you?
How much do you value your body autonomy, your freedom of choice, your independence, and your privacy?
How much do you enjoy choosing, controlling and navigating your own pleasure and sexual experiences now, in your 'vanilla' life?

These questions aren't just rhetorical—they're essential to understanding what your consent actually means and choices you will face in relationship.

The Nature of Submission
We know that sex is more than just a physical act, but how often do we really think about how it connects with our brains, bodies, and our feminine/masculine identity? To submit to another person—one who holds you accountable for all of your actions and then—incorporates expectations for a posture of submissiveness with accountability means you give yourself over to a new identity. One that is, by many dynamic definitions, not independent.

Not autonomous.

Instead, you become dependent.

Are you ready for that?

Whether you're with a "real" Dom, some version of fake Dom, or you are just role-playing, diving into D/s can a change you. You are opening new doors of desire and you don’t always know what is on the other side.

Learning to be submissive will and should change you. I'm talking a whole new you – different emotions, a different way of seeing yourself, including changes in your brain make-up. That is right. Your brain patterns will change. The actual ridges and valesy on your brain, change. Your thought patterns will change.

Some studies show that people in D/s relationships feel more self-aware and authentic, like they're finally becoming who they're meant to be. But it is like opening a door that once you've walked through, it's impossible to go back. If you invest in this lifestyle, mixing your submission with sex, (and a dose of behavior modification, positive/negative reinforcements, and other common Dom training techniques) it will become a real part of who you are.

Those feel-good chemicals released during D/s activities—dopamine, endorphins, oxytocin—make the experience nearly addictive, (even though it's not officially classified that way, those are the same chemicals released in porn addicts and sex addicts brains and bodies.)

The Reality of Daily Submission
I have yet to meet one dominant who was willing to let me make my own choices about getting my hair cut or changing the color. That’s really a simple thing, isn't it? I'm a 56 year old woman. I spent most of my life making those choices. At times in self-expression, at others in full-on empowerment, and others just because it needed to be done but always, I decided what I wanted. It’s my body after all.

In submission I give up that choice, among many other choices about my body. I now dress to please my Sir or Master. Depending on a dynamic, some Sir's are more involved in those choices than others. I don’t mind doing this. It actually makes me happy to please my Sir and every day, when I get dressed, having someone see me, acknowledge me and tell me that I look good has become an embedded affirming practice.

Not only is having a Sir in my life my reason to daily make an effort, no matter what my plans are for the day, getting his approval is as natural as making him a cup of coffee before I make my own.

Daily routines make up my week, my month, my life in countless ways. I am now accustomed to someone knowing where I am at all times, daily check-ins and and phone calls that I must answer. (I was not before. I never did any of that in twenty years of marriage.)

Some things challenge me more than others.

Once upon a time I went to the movies by myself and splurged on popcorn, coke and candy. No more.

The act of doing as I'm told and behaving as I'm expected has become embedded into my being. Now learned, I will not suddenly wake up one day, say fuck off to this lifestyle and be able to embrace an independent feminist battle yell.

And for a dominant, don’t estimate the connection created when he is the one to do all of this for and with you. It’s not just about teaching you to give a good blow job.

The Pain of Loss
Losing this connection and affirmation, this grounding practice—will create a hole in my life. There will be an absence, a loss.

It will hurt. I've heard it described like a death.

I've written it in poetic form, like this:

I'm not afraid of being alone
I'm afraid of the ache
The dull, painful throb
Of a major artery cut open
And pulsing, pulsing
Down my belly
In desperate red heart beats.
I fear
The bone squeeze emotion
Of my suddenly raw knees
Scraped open
And hollowed out with no one
There to yield and bend for
And the cracking vertebrae
As my holiest of love offerings
Becomes just another
cheap little sin.

A dominant has been a part of my life and taken daily center stage in it. When I lose him... if I lose him, I lose my routine, my habits, the voice that cheers me on, that corrects me, that confirms me. I lose my reason.

There is a chance, if I have engaged in specific orgasm training with a dominant, that I could also lose the ability to do that, too. I’ve seen people on reddit and on fetlife, talking about how long its been. For some…years. Has anyone told you this yet?

The Vulnerability After Loss
For me, who always had a tendency to yield to authority, it has become difficult to even say no to any persuasive, pushy man. I know this because after my first D/s relationship ended, to my horror, I experienced it. I obeyed when I should have ran. I responded when I should have ignored or blocked.

Why? Why did I let myself be a victim?

Because I craved. There was this great need welling up in me, an aching, and hurting, with so many wordless, dangerous, moans. I could be alone, by myself. But I wanted to be commanded more…I wanted to feel those commands against my skin, more, and I would let that desire take me down roads that shamed me, and created a risk for my family. What risk?

I played like an addict. Recklessly. Giving my name. My address. I made a fool of myself. (Those fake Doms…) Allowed myself to be used and treated like trash while chasing after a feeling I gotten from deep, vulnerable trust and relationship. Trying to fill a hole that felt like the open mouth of a grave.

The Power Dynamic
Before D/s I spent most of my life as the decision maker with my ex-husband and my kids. Back then when some decisions didn't go my way, I got angry. I shared how I felt, loudly and often. I pushed back on what I thought was the right way to do something and proudly maintained my right to push and have a say or make things go the way I thought they should. I played all kinds of passive aggressive games. I did what I wanted to, spent what I wanted to spend, and went where I pleased.

When a submissive engages with a dominant man she must know, now, that he is going to have his say. Many good men will give a sub a right to discuss something, but most if not all reserve the right to make global choices for the couple. When, where, what type of choices including the when and where to have sex or play, what happens during that play, and what happens after.

Sometimes you might really be in that sexy mood. He can and will tell you no. Sometimes he will be in the mood and you are not.

The dominant leads. The sub follows.

I think in the hot, steamy moments of our imaginations sometimes a submissive, or someone who wants to learn to be submissive forgets the follow part. We can hang our faith on consent, and expect that we always get a choice.

I guess that can depend on the dominant, but most of the dominants I have had conversations with choose the role of Dominant because they need/want to be in charge and in control. It is not only their relationship style, it is often their entire persona. They aren't going to waste time arguing or with power struggles over who gets to make the decisions when they begin to the relationship or encounter or whatever, in this state of mind.

Never has 'let it go,' meant more than it does now as I live out a submissive lifestyle.

The Deeper Implications
Relationships with a dominant might help us fully live in our feminine energy, but it often becomes co-dependency, where we rely on the Dom for validation, or the Dom depends on our presence and service. We become his reason, too.

There aren't a lot of studies that really dig into how D/s, the addiction-like natural cocktail producing chemicals in our bodies, co-dependent behaviors, and submissive people-pleasing attachment styles all mix-up together. There should be. But there are not.

Even good, sexy things have a risk. If something is going to change you, change your brain patterns, then that risk extends to your body and your spirt. Your entire being will be changed, should be changed in submission.

Embrace submission knowing that you will never be the same and that a consent clause will not save you from doing things you're not in a mood to do.

A Final Warning
Before rushing in, remember.

You will be changed.

You may be changed in ways you are not currently prepared for. You cannot undo the change without intense new conditioning and therapy. Feeling seen, experiencing trust, the sweet blank of subspace and the euphoria high of being in-love/lust and totally-physically-satisfied create chemical cascades in your body that change your brain. I realize there are no good studies on this but I know how sex, porn and the brain work and there are plenty of studies on that. Now just add real bodies, real people and real feels and tell me you can walk away unchanged.

You may want more and more sex and attention.

You may feel extreme pain at the loss of a dominant and go hunting for anything to replace that feeling, like an addict searching for a fix. The loss will hurt.

You could be trained into someone you don't want to be.

You will have to do hard things. You will be challenged. You will have to let go of your own will and inherent right to independence and let another decide things for you.

D/s is way more than just a kinky scene. It's a journey that changes you inside and out. It unlocks authenticity and mind-blowing intimate connection, but it also comes with risks like compulsive reactionary behaviors, co-dependency, and identity shifts that are hard to undo. By hard I mean months and months of learning how to think and feel again.

Understanding all of this and going in with your eyes open is essential.

If you are like me, even knowing that, you will rush in, hungry, ready, in-love, determined.

Sing along with me, 'let it go, let it go," and know that if you are still attached to doing things your own way, or you are afraid to share all your darkest secrets, or you aren't ready to take responsibility for saying yes and not knowing what is on the other side…then maybe you aren't ready to learn to be a submissive.

The truth is...

I’ve loved you since I said the words.
And loving you
Loving you means a carving knife
That digs in deep
Cutting at parts of my stubborn psyche
Again and again
To change me into the person you need
Until my hands are sticky
And red fingerprints stain everything.

Loving you meant breaking promises to myself
Meant digging deep into every treasure,
Until that knife scrapped the old box wood.

Yet there was metal there.
Metal you wanted.
So I dug at that too,
Pounded it, cut at it,
Offered it
Hoping it would make you feel
All the things I believed you deserved to feel.

And now I’m barely holding it together.

I knew that I shouldn’t take out
that knife.
But when we met
When I loved you
I was still the corpse of another relationship
Still the walking dead thing
Of other disasters
And parts of me had become twisted up and gnarled
By other hands I invited in.
I thought if I took out my loving knife
And cut, cut, cut
That loving you last
Would help me never love again.

Honestly,

I catch myself thinking, just tell me what you want so I can give it to you.

As if that is how to start a relationship, as if that is the normal way people get to know each other, as if that will make him love me.

I asked a friend once, after he got to know me, what he thought my deep, dirty why was, and he said I seek validation from men because I don’t like myself.

Well. He’s right. I don’t like myself. I just thought that was how most women of a certain age live. They either have heard the feminine mental health gospel about me-time and spa days and embraced self-love and self-acceptance or they actively reject that message as unworkable with their current life and instead accept that there are parts of themselves that they do not like. Parts that are like that one friend that we really should leave behind, but instead we still go out to coffee, occasionally. Later me and my sister are going to talk shit about that person, break out all her flaws while ignore our own, and then pretend-smile next time we see her.

I don’t think that is why I seek validation. Men do telling me I’m sexy and calling me good girl do not give me validation. They give me attention. I love attention, but there is a difference so I don’t think that is why I am submissive, a pleaser, and a lover of co-dependency.

I think it’s daddy issues.

I’m sure it’s daddy-issues. Although to be fair, I have only dated one older man and he wasn’t old enough, nor fatherly enough to be my daddy. If I remember right, I bossed him around quite a bit.

But knowing that my adult relationship issues are related to my childhood relationship with my father doesn’t auto-fix me. There’s no button to push or pill to take and I highly doubt another shadow work journal is going to do the job.

I can go without male validation, I told my friend. I have done so. I can go places by myself. I enjoy the freedom of it actually, a lot. That type of alone-time recharges me. I can be alone. I have done so, in various forms. In spite of being married, I feel like I have navigated many hard things alone, without a man.

But to have purpose, when purpose gives me value, to have a reason to rise and a reason to go to bed, I have discovered I need someone to love, to desire, to serve. Otherwise, I lose myself in this cognitive noise of distraction and wild imagination. Otherwise I lose my way.

I have served the cold man. I have served the warm but poor man. I have served the weak, nice man, who couldn’t say no to another woman, and I have served the self-involved man. I have nothing left. I’ve given pleasure, resources, time and energy. Given too much.

I just want

I just want to be taken care of, now. I want someone to provide for me.

I want to give everything so that I don't have to think about anything.

I'm tired of carrying. I want to be carried.

And I didn't know how much, how badly until the needy ache of it sank into my bones

and cracked them open with its disease.

But I’m not young. I’m not a sweet, house-wife creature. I’m not helpless. I’m not needy in that kind of way, I’m not emotionally dependent. I’m not anyone’s baby girl. I’m heifer in the china shop. I’m the old plow horse who still leans in. I’m the hag next to the grave of the dead horse, still chanting prayers and benedictions to see if I can make it rise.

I am guarded, insecure, manic and impulsive. I am a little bit crazy and a lot recklessly fearless. I don’t just ignore red flags, I wade into the middle of them so I can understand why they are red flags, who they are red flags for and then I collect the prettiest ones and bring them home to decorate my bedroom.

After burning down my life I can only bring me to the table now and I’m so well adapted to making me into what he (you) might want, that I don’t even know what else I offer.

And after this last go around, where I’m not sure there will even be that kind of energy left to bring to the table.

No one is going to want to take care of me. I'm sure of it.

Maybe in a week things will be clear again. I'll stand again. I will be myself again, and ready to carry the world for him again.

Maybe.

I want to be taken care of. 

I want to give everything so that I don't have to think about anything. 

I'm tired of carrying. I want to be carried. 

And I didn't know how much, how badly

until the needy ache of it sank into my bones

And cracked them open

With it's disease.

I was raised by strong women—my grandmothers, my mother, my stepmother. Their ideas of womanhood, identity, and ownership came from working full-time while caring for families. They always had their own money and decided how it was spent. They honed can-do survival skills, each determined and powerful in her own way. My grandmothers were children of the Depression, carrying its lessons in their bones. My mother went to beauty school but worked countless jobs, eventually teaching herself bookkeeping because that’s where the money was. My stepmother, taught by her father to work hard, was a teacher who later built her own successful plant business.

They earned every victory, every pleasure, every moment of joy in their families and relationships. But they didn’t share their domains. My grandmothers opened their homes to me, but I had to do things their way. Every item in their houses had a history, and I touched it only with their permission. My mother’s home was the same—my bedroom was my only space. I didn’t share in the household because I didn’t pay for it. My stepmother was the most territorial. Even if she and my father bought something for me, it was still theirs because I hadn’t earned it.

By the time I had my daughter, I saw my own territorial streak. She was two, with her own way of doing things, and it wasn’t my way. I wanted to fix it, redirect her, control her so badly. Sometimes the urge was so strong I had to leave the room. I refused to become her oppressor, her enemy, her warden. My home would be her home, and she would be free in it. But it was hard.

The kitchen was the worst. The best choice was to let whoever was cooking do it alone, then handle the cleanup after. I was taught to own my territory, to keep it, manage it, protect it. If I connected with a dominant and entered his home, I could treat his things as his. But if a dominant came to my home, it would be a struggle.

That’s what happened.

A dominant entered my territory, bringing his wife of 30 years with him. In a way, that was the first breach of trust. They were never supposed to live with me in my house.

But I’m getting ahead of the story. After breaking up with my first dom, I was a mess, chasing every self-destructive red flag to fill the voids he left. We had talked daily, sometimes for five hours. He grounded me while I explored new sides of myself and gave me purpose after my divorce—a divorce I sought because my marriage was dead. Without him, I was in free fall.

I was honest about my state of mind and my life with every person I met. Until I met a man online who lived to fix things, who loved my honesty, who desired my submissive side, who was strong enough to steer me away from some of those red flags. His energy could fill my empty spaces. He promised commitment.

Sir had a submissive—his wife. I told him I wasn’t poly, that I had issues with sharing, that I wouldn’t want to share him. We talked about what life would look like: privacy, ownership, how he would own me and everything about me.

I was desperate, breaking, leaking from emotional wounds, and impatient for stability.

What followed were relationship and character red flags I saw as challenges for my selfish, judgmental self to overcome. If it all went badly, my self-destructive impulses might be satisfied, maybe enough to end my desire to submit to any man again.

My Sir is a wonderful Sir, and I love him very much. I wish it was just him. He has worked so hard and is doing everything he can for our future. But there have been many truths since I hastily accepted his collar. He’s honest, but not fully. He’s in charge, but not always. He’s a Dominant, but not entirely. He’s a man who’s survived storm after storm, carrying his trauma, doing his best to navigate it.

He thrilled the part of me that wanted someone worthy of service.

Monogamy and polyamory are discussed in many ways, but rarely through the lens of territory. For me, as a woman, conceding my space, possessions, and territory to the one I serve is one thing. Conceding them to his wife or children is another. I’m good at compartmentalizing. I could see his wife as a roommate, even a friend, and there were moments of happiness.

But there were also moments of friction, like realizing she wasn’t a good roommate and never would be. A good roommate cleans up after themselves and shares tasks. She didn’t. Why didn’t the Dominant in our lives manage that? It’s complicated. He didn’t, he couldn’t.

Three years later, he still can’t, and I can’t deal anymore. Love isn’t enough. Devotion isn’t enough. Submission isn’t enough to outweigh the constant rub of sharing my territory with another woman I can’t direct, hold to a standard, or expect responsibility from.

How do you balance personal boundaries with sharing space in relationships, especially when territory feels sacred?

Old man Fear

With his beard down to his knees

Came a creeping and a crawling

Down my country street.

He carried gunny sacks in knuckled hands

The two weights, heavy and death laden

dragging deep furrows in the dirt.

I watched him stop and open one

pull a rock from that internal hell.

A grey and ordinary river stone,

As big as a human skull.

He passed it to my neighbor

Watching him from her yard

She froze to see his offering,

Her curious hands went a reaching.

He handed her the dark round rock

As if she’d been waiting this special treat.

She took roundish boulder into both her palms.

I saw her make a gaping silent scream.

She brought the burden to heart and chest,

And bowed around the simple stone,

As if he’d given her his gold and treasure best.

She clutched it tight to her breast

Instead of letting loose.

Didn’t sleep, or eat, or answer calls.

Day and night. Weighted down and heavy.

She refused to release its draining toll,

The weight of it a burden to her soul.

She held Fear’s gift with all her might,

Could see no other way.

Frozen in her garden now, her family watched her there,

Confounded why she would not come in,

To hearth and home and family warm.

That old man Fear, he had no shame

He came by to check on her,

Daily with his hungry creeping and a crawling glee.

Watching this unfold, the pointless agony of it all

I could stand no more.

I crossed the boundaries of our yards

An idea to free her of her burden.

I prized her rock from weakening arms,

I forced Fear’s gift she held from her hold,

She screamed at me in rage and woe,

Warned me she would die.

Standing in her yard,

Not moving forward or backwards,

Forgetting all the life around her,

Garden, joy and family.

The stone she held, froze her and stole her

From all the life she’d ever lived.

My neighbor had forgotten freedom

Didn’t know what that old man Fear did.

I forced that heavy rock from her hands,

Could see the ugly scar it left behind.

I threw the rock as far as I could

Not wanting to be caught up in its horrid bind.

I told her Fear gives no gifts and leaves no treasure.

Only aches and pain behind.

I warned her never take his gift againI charged her find her life, her joy, her family.

She wept and thanked me,

Went right to her home.

Found all that she had given away,

While standing there holding Fear’s big stone.

Until old man Fear came down the street again

With his beard down to his knees

Came a creeping and a crawling

With his bag of grisly treats.

New each day, these heavy weights

Skull shaped stones made to drain away the day.

And freeze a person in one place

(Story, Fiction, Erotica) 

Arms criss-crossed over my chest; we sat in the car outside of the restaurant. Raindrops pearl on the windshield, spotting the streetlight across my knees and thighs. Sitting down, my skirt is almost too short, just meeting the tops of the pretty sheer stockings and garters I dressed in earlier.

Earlier, when everything was going right.

I don’t know where it went wrong. Not really. I’d anticipated going out to dinner with Sir and his friends all day long. We hadn’t been on an outing for weeks, and this restaurant was so high-class that you had to know someone to get a table.

Sir knew someone, and I was thrilled.

I’d perfumed and glossed myself to a high shine in preparation for the evening, getting everything just so and just right. Before we left, I twirled for Sir, showing off the gauze and silk of the skirt I wore, giving him a peek of the white milk skin between my thighs and my sex.

I’d bought the skirt at a discount. It was nothing special. After fifteen years of hiding in my closet, I considered it precious, precocious, and vintage. I loved it and loved that I had a place to visit worthy of its gossamer layers, full swing, and delicate black-on-black embroidery.

Feeling cheeky, I slid a hand under my skirt, shimmied out of the fine, thin panties that went with the black lace and lingerie set Sir had bought me for my birthday, and offered them to him.

“Very good, Pet, but make sure no one sees what is mine,” he took them, kissed the little bow, and tucked them in his pocket.

We stepped out into the wind and rain of early evening. I held my skirt down, minding the flare, and I laughed. The storm kissed my cheeks and played with my hair, and I basked in my beloved’s indulgent smile.

During the forty-minute drive, we talked mostly of what we would eat. The restaurant was known to have an eclectic menu, and I had it called up on my phone so I could discuss some of the combinations. Cinnamon and cayenne. Oysters and apple, black cherry, browned butter, and buffalo. Things that would melt in my mouth and stay in my memory for years to come.

I gasped as we stepped into the round, fruit-shaped mouth of black and red that was La Grenade, my short heels tapping the onyx floor of the entryway. Juicy, sensual aromas assaulted me, dared me to adventure. I inhaled like a child welcoming a Christmas feast, basking in the steam of it, forgetting that we were surrounded by posh and pricey.

Then we turned and greeted the most perfect couple I’d ever seen.

A man and a woman. The man was younger, early forties, with a close shave that gave him a baby face, and the woman was my age or older. Thinner. Smaller. They appeared so pressed and refined that not even the weather dared muss a single fiber of their expensive, designer clothing.

The sight of them startled me into sudden awkwardness, an errant leather strike against my cheek. I tried to fill the sudden, ugly space with noise, with anything but comparisons, and interrupted Sir’s greeting while I was doing it.

The woman saw my error. Her sparkling green-granite eyes flicked to my titanium O-ring collar and back to me as her sensuous lips lifted at one corner and a paint-stroke single eyebrow curved up with feline and superior grace.

Next to me, Sir corrected me. Gently but deservedly so.

But it all fell apart from there. Until we now sat in the car after dinner, and the invisible strike I’d received when I saw them now burned like an obvious red welt.

"I have never seen such behavior," Sir said between his teeth. "That was not bratting. That was rude. Obnoxious. And. Ungrateful."

I hung my head with shame. He was not wrong. I’d wanted to smear that woman’s perfect lipstick and erase the high arch of her perfect eyebrow. Arabella was her name. She’d had the daring to reach out while my Sir told a story of a work event and playfully tap the top of his hand.

I kept seeing the lacquer of her manicure as it mirrored my insecurities.

The raisin, cinnamon, and goat cheese of the spread I’d chosen for my pre-dinner bread turned sour and old in my mouth as I watched her building until I was spewing the pig shit from the stye of my life experiences out onto the table for my Sir’s friends to see.

I could still smell it, overriding other, better smells, still misting from my breath as I held back my tears.

“Look at me,” Sir commanded. “You are mine. I want you. You are smart and beautiful and fun, and even though we are both closing in on sixty, you are as alive and sexy to me as a girl of eighteen. Open your legs now. Show me your pussy.”

He said it as a car door slammed in the lot behind us. Our windows had fogged some, but anyone who decided to peer in would see. But Sir’s tone, the burr of demand in those naughty little words trilled over my nerve endings and made my breath catch.

He was going to punish me.

I opened my legs and dragged the soft material up, bunching it in my hands. It felt so soft in my hands, butterfly wings and flower petals and youth.

“Turn toward me, legs open as wide as there is space for.”

It was a small car. Our seats close together, with the thin bar of a drive console separating us. Sir adjusted his steering wheel up and turned toward me.

“Lift up. What do you say when I give you a command?”

“Yes, Sir.” I lifted, watching him, not sure what was coming.

“Count to five.”

“One.” The number passed my dry lips before I registered that this meant a spanking. On my pussy.

He slapped me between the legs, sharp and fierce, in spite of the position. The sound made me flinch; the pain hovered, a sizzling, hot coal, right at the top of my slit.

“Two,” I said. I wanted to moan and groan, but we were in a parking lot, and noises like that would mean more spanks and a longer time spent exposed like this.

He smacked me again, right over my mound. A gasp escaped as the sharp, high blow penetrated deeper. As if turning a key, that thing inside my pelvis that lurked like a hungry siren behind my clit woke up and sang.

“Three.”

Smack.

“Four.”

Smack.

“Five.”

Smack.

It burned. My shame and pleasure felt like cream, rising to the top of a bucket of fresh warm milk, thickening where he could see it, where he could touch and taste it. Five spanks to my pussy without a drop of pleasure. All his attention was on me.

The halo of his energy merged with mine, light and dark, until the two touched and rubbed. Caressed in untangle waves of soul against soul. I was wet and aroused from his discipline, my center humming and weeping, and we both knew it.

“Why were you so rude and disgusting?” he asked.

“She was perfect.” The words were a whine of complaint.

“She is $50,000 of plastic and melting from the inside out. Everyone knows this. Why would you compare yourself to that? Did you think I want her? Did I do something to make you think I wanted her instead of you? Whose fucking underwear is in my pocket, pet?”

“Mine.” The answer made me feel small and stupid.

“Whose collar is around your throat?”

“Yours.”

“Did you look at me at all during dinner? Did you ask for help? Did you let me know you were uncomfortable?” He shot out the questions in gun smoke blasts, harsher than any spanking.

“No,” I answered in a small voice.

“No.” He echoed the word, meeting my eyes until I could feel the twist of his disappointment. Reaching out, he traced his pointer finger down the fat seam of my exposed center.

As if to remind me where we were and of my misdeed, a car pulled in next to us. I looked away from him at the noise. There was a space on the window that wasn’t fully fogged. A space where anyone could look in and clearly see the pale glowing swell of my femininity being played with by my Sir.

My legs twitched.

“Don’t you dare.”

I bit my lip to keep from moaning.

His finger played up and down, teasing, aggravating. “Beautiful, sweet. Juicy. Do you think that woman you are comparing yourself to of gets like this so easily? Did she look soft and ripe to you?”

It was hard to think. I knew that was a question that I should be able to answer, but his words were incongruent to his touch. Who was soft and ripe? That other woman? Me?

He played. Touch sinking deeper and deeper toward where I vibrated in frozen need, where my spirit trembled in anticipation.

“Did she?” he asked, starting to tap.

“No.” I pushed out an answer through the building disorientation of carnal desire.

“Who wears my collar?”

“I do.” I said, breathing through my mouth, keeping myself elevated, trying to deepen the touch.

There was more noise outside. Laughter. Exclamations. Did someone see? Did I care?

Sir touched me, teased me, spread my leaking desire all over my clit until the tiny bit of flesh swollen, and stiff with desperation. He touched me carefully, as if he had all the time in the world. Intent, watching my face, the way my thighs trembled, asking the same questions over and over. “Look at me. Who wears my collar, who do I own, who am I touching, who is beautiful to me, who do I go home with?”

The car heated as the humidity of breath and desire changed the temperature. Like perfumed oil under flame, I inhaled leather, Sir’s work cologne, my vanilla perfume, the tang of expensive, creamy cheese spread over bread from dinner then exhaled a mist of sex and pain.

Wait he says,

Wait for me

To make

All your desires come true.

But I am breaking

Under the pressure of time

Cracking beneath the weight

Of responsibilities

His hopes can’t solve.

Wait, he says

And I’m crying into

The earnest love of his eyes

As my future becomes dust and ashes

In all the impossibles

We tip toe around

Every day.

Wait, he growls into my ear,

Stop, hold for me.

Don’t come. Don’t you dare.

As I clench and whimper

On the sharp edge

Of his promises.