Life, in all its splendor

I watch. I see the way your eyes go wide, dark, hungry. I hear your breath get deeper, the desire rising to your chest. I feel you,  the blood surging, concentrating on my favorite thing… to conquer my body. I smell your need, taste your sticky caress. I know you..I know every inch of you….ah fuck..how you know me too.

My body responds to your touch like the addict it is. You always take your time – starting with tender pleasure. Kissing..licking..blowing..so slow, so gentle.. every part of me arching into you with need, a need so strong it shudders through my whole body. Today, I have to be quiet..so I struggle to contain the moans, the squeals, the giggles…I bite down hard on my fingers to stifle the sounds…I am going to be quiet.

I try to think of something horrible, I don’t want to be too wet..you will be angry if I am too wet. You arouse to the point of insanity, electricity running through me – I am too wet. You slip a hand between my legs and bring it to my lips. “This won’t do…you are a mess…” I shudder…you grab my panties and throw them at me… “Put them on…you are going to clean up your mess.”

I slip my panties back on. You laugh… “Dry out that cunt..” I look away, ashamed, but reach down to my aching warmth and push my fingers down over the panties, pushing them into my pussy. “Deeper, I want it dry…” I do as he commands, trying not to moan, pushing the panties deeper and deeper, soaking up my wetness.

Laughing, you slap my hands away and push your cock into my panties. Slowly, you tease, pumping against me. I can’t help but moan..you slap my face..QUIET

You pull away…pain begins. You bring out the small collection you have been curating and smirk. Claws biting into my nipples, while you hit me over and over again..I try not to scream…I fail, you slap me again..You love those..nipple clamps are for chumps, these are real..these are for your little fucked up masochist. QUIET

You laugh and demand that I lay down on my stomach – knowing the claws are going to rip at my breasts. I do as you command, pain blooming all over my chest. You laugh and grab my legs, dragging me towards you. My panties are ripped off..I can’t help it, I scream, you hit me over and over again – QUIET…

I feel you pushing against me, hands firm against my hips. I want it so badly – I will sell my soul for just a moment inside me…you push against me, holding at my entrance, rubbing up and down. I arch, trying to push into you, trying to force you inside…you pull away – I don’t get to decide..I whimper and cry..QUIET

The pain in my breasts growing as you demand I lift up on my knees..My clit is on fire, burning, pounding with my heart. From behind you grab hold of my breast, flicking the claw, I scream out..you hit me again..QUIET

Carefully, you pull away from my entrance, denying my entire existence. Slowly, a finger slides toward my clit, circling slowly. I am too aroused, you know this – you absolutely fucking know this. You push me to the edge and pull away just as the orgasm is threatening. You have just ruined it…it goes off with a whimper, a wave that crashed but receded immediately, didn’t have the power to go the whole way. I cringe, fuck you…You laugh, and grab my hips, slamming into me with rage. You know I won’t orgasm again, you fucked it…but you will take what is yours – your plaything. I scream out in frustration..you stop and hit me again..QUIET

You let go of my hips and demand I fuck you – the rhythm you like..keep it steady. I arch my hips and start moving back and forth, you slip out, I am too fucking wet..you hit me again – THIS WON’T DO.

You wrap the rope around my neck and pull up from behind, choking me – “Now you will be quiet..” You grab my panties and wipe my wetness away shoving your cock back inside of me– commanding that I fuck you the right way this time. One hand is around the rope, the other planted firmly in my back, nails dug in scratching each time I pulse. My breasts are on fire, the pain building..the pleasure screaming.

I move slower this time, slamming my ass against your hips. Every time I miss the rhythm, you pull tighter, I feel my face burning, oxygen receding, the black spots infiltrating.

I can’t keep the rhythm anymore..I am losing consciousness…you pull me up hard with the rope, kiss my purple lips, and let go. I fall, gasping for breath. Denied rest, you grab my hips up and fuck me so hard that I feel myself ripping. I don’t have enough to breath to cry out…you finally achieved it, I am quiet.

I hear your grunt as you explode. You hold yourself there, allowing the full extent of your seed to blossom within me. You tease me more..slowly moving in and out, knowing I want to orgasm again..knowing I need it so badly..denied..you weren’t quiet!

Slowly you pull out and grip my hips, flipping me over. Tears run down my face. Blood is sticky on my chest. You lean down and kiss me deeply, your slick cock laying between us. The kiss is hungry, tender, full of everything you feel for me…One hand slips behind my head, holding me to you, holding my mouth in place. The other hand creeps up to my chest and rips off one of the claws. I scream into your mouth, you force me to keep kissing you…the second follows..both breasts screaming in pain. Once again, you let go, leaving me panting, crying…QUIET

You won’t let my life blood go to waste..mouth wrapped around my nipple, sucking, licking..The pain is exquisite, the pleasure beyond. Slowly..oh so slowly..you slide your cock, still erect, against my clit..moving from one breast to the next..I am quiet..I whine only a little..I try so hard to contain it…the orgasm hits with such power..such thunder, that I do scream..you don’t hit me this time..you just kiss me… “That’s one..we need 5 more bitch..”

And so begins the destruction of a very loud little masochist.

I was recently asked an interesting question…Something we see often is the mention of less than perfect mental health. Scroll through blog after blog to see mention of broken souls hoping to find someone that will save them, brace them, guide them back to life.

If not “broken” now, we see stories of a broken past, dire circumstances, resurgence and healing to become something new and better – but always haunted.
 
The question I was asked: Can you be submissive, if you haven’t been broken by someone else’s hand..today, yesterday, or somewhere in the remote past?
 
_{I don’t appear to have the answer to this. Almost feels like we all need to descend on the therapeutic community (joke…).}

On a serious note – submission tends to be used and abused quite often (as is the other end of the / ). It seems logical that most of us start out ignorant of our true nature and ignorant of a lifestyle that will accept you until you are introduced somehow.

Thus, working your way towards submission is a long and twisted road that more than likely has ended in disaster at some point.

It stands to reason then, that most of us arrive here tired of being brave, tired of holding up the heavens, tired of always being something we are not, tired of holding on to reins we never wanted. We show up damaged, walls up, the inner voice screaming on repeat.

In this state, we hope to find the one dark lord that will see the tenderness underneath, work through the bullshit, and nurture the submissive that was smashed to bits out in the real world.

Hmmm…is that a typical story, is that how we all arrive here? Are there submissives that don’t have a tragic past – they were lucky enough to identify themselves, find what they needed, and walk free of damage?
 
What a delicious question…thoughts?

After all the advice, I am working up to asking Him different questions. I am excited, but nervous.

So today’s thoughts live around the male orgasm. As I am still new to men in general, I wonder how important the orgasm is for men. 

I notice that after long periods of play, at least with my current vanilla partner, an orgasm cannot be achieved, no matter the effort employed. This is said to be OK because the playing was fun enough. 

If initiate the play session, and give without taking, his orgasm can be achieved. 

I find this fascinating, not in like a weird medicinal way, but just..the differences. In my experience, personal and with others, orgasms for women start rolling in pretty hard with the right stimulation and they keep coming to the point of pain (coming..see what I did there 🤭).

So, I guess my questions to all of you, is the experience more important than the orgasm for men? Is it different among you, like each person is different? Is it hard to achieve orgasms? How often can you achieve multiple? Do you get frustrated when none is achieved? Do you lose sensation after extended play? 

With Dominant partners, what is needed is taken…but with vanilla, this feels uncharted. You wonder, is it me? 

I always wonder, when starting with a new partner, how to ask…You don’t want to wound egos, or stifle enthusiasm…so how do you ask? 

Ok, you have the basics down, you get where things go…but now you need to level up. It should be easy to talk about, and I have found with other women, it is. Perhaps it’s easier because as a woman, I can easily understand what she needs when she asks because we share similar anatomy.

With men though…it’s harder to explain what to do, when, how. I almost wish my partners would have asked during whatever is going on. 

Funny enough, I ask for “surveys” after…it’s silly, cute, romantic…but also feedback I can learn from. 

I want what I do to be mind blowing, and I will do whatever necessary to get there. That’s the last bit of submissive in me…the incredible desire to please. 

So my fellow lovelies, how do you navigate asking, explaining, needing something without bruising? 

I am terrified…spiraling..Mr. Vanilla is more than he appears..so much more

I was in my twenties when I started that job and met him. He was older, a little broken, easy to laugh with, and somehow I felt seen by him almost immediately. I worked hard, rose quickly, and for years we stayed in each other’s orbit, careful and quiet about what lived underneath it.

At the time, I was married, and that marriage was built on control, fear, and silence. When feelings surfaced, they did not lead to freedom; they led to pain and distance. So we stepped back. For thirteen years we remained boss and employee, saying nothing, while my life behind the scenes slowly came apart.

When my marriage finally ended, I unraveled for a while. I drifted through a season of self-destruction, reaching for anything that felt like comfort and finding very little of it. Eventually, though, I began the slower work of healing. Therapy, journaling, long conversations, notes on the mirror—the ordinary things that help a person remember she deserves to stay alive inside her own life.

Those years changed me. I became stronger, more self-aware, more deliberate about what I would survive and what I would no longer accept. Then my mother’s life fell apart too, and when her health began to fail, I gave up my apartment, my freedom, and the version of adulthood I had been trying to build so I could care for her. I became daughter, caretaker, friend, and sometimes therapist, because that is what love asks for, even when it is heavy.

Then, out of nowhere, he came back. One text—hey, how are you kiddo?—and something in me split wide open. By then I was thirty-eight, and we had known each other in one form or another for fifteen years. His message did not feel small. It felt like the past reaching forward and asking whether there was still time.

We started dating in October, traveling back and forth to make it work. Then his mother became critically ill, and everything shifted. I stayed with him through those last hard days, and I was there when she slipped away. Grief has a way of stripping people down to whatever is most true in them. He was shattered, and together we carried what had to be carried. In that season, love stopped being hypothetical and became something lived.

This week, he moved across the country to be near me. That alone would have been enough to shake me, but what unsettles me most is not the move. It is how quickly love can reopen every old question I thought I had already answered. I wanted something simple, something gentle, something that did not ask me to stand so close to the edge of myself. Instead I have found something deeper, more complicated, and far less predictable.

So here I am: in love, afraid, and more awake than I want to be. Part of me believes this could become something honest and entirely our own. Another part knows how dangerous it is to mistake intensity for destiny. That is the contradiction I am living inside—the hope that this is new, and the fear that it is not. Either way, I can feel my life changing again, and I am standing still long enough to watch it happen.

There was nothing remarkable about the day. The world itself seemed blank—its sky blotted out by clouds so thick it looked like an empty canvas, waiting for someone, anyone, to give it life.

Moisture clung to everything: the trees, your hair, your eyelashes. It pooled around your feet, mixing with the sodden earth until the ground became a sticky, muddy mess. Even so, there was nothing extraordinary about the day.

You had always loved rain—the harder and more violent, the better. But this was only a cold, clingy drizzle: not enough to stir the blood, only enough to irritate. You kept wiping your beard as wet strands stuck to your face; sweat and rain have a way of doing that.

The earth gave way easily; it was not hard work. The shovel was new, still carrying the sharp edge gardeners dream about. It bit deep into mud and grass with a heavy thud and that tearing sound—the sound you could never quite get enough of.

You kept at it with ruthless rhythm, stopping only to wipe the wet from your face. It had to be done. You had always known this day would come, even if I never believed you. Behind you, the pile of sticky earth kept growing.

Eventually, the work satisfied you enough that you stopped and surveyed it. It would do. It was enough. You set the shovel aside and walked toward the bundle you had hidden earlier. It had to happen. You knew it, and I knew it too, though we had fought it for a long time.

Without ceremony or care, the earth accepted the offering with a squelch and a thud. You stood there for a moment, shovel in hand—in thought, in prayer, in reverence for what you had done? I will never know.

The rain began to ease, and the clouds finally started to break. You looked up with a smirk on your face. You could not let it go; it had to be done this way. The end had always been part of our beginning.

Then you looked down and spat on the unruly mess below you—the only ceremony you would give the occasion. With the shovel in hand, you returned the mound of dirt as rhythmically as you had disturbed it. It did not take long, not in the mood you were in.

When you finished, you threw the shovel onto the mound and walked away. You had bought it for this moment alone, and now that the work was done, you never wanted to see it again.

It was done. I was done—dead and buried. You had always known this day would come. I simply never believed it.

You walked back to the car, sweat and mud clinging to you. That would not do; you could not stand carrying evidence of the deed on your body. You opened the trunk and found another bundle waiting. You kicked off your boots, peeled away your socks, and stripped off your muddy clothes. Wiping your face with your shirt, you pulled it over your head. You did not care. No one who mattered would see.

Sitting there in your boxers, you sighed.

“You are going to get arrested,” I said gently, offering a bottle of water and a towel.

“Fuck off,” you said. “WE are going to get arrested.”

You smiled—the kind of smile that steals my breath and reaches your eyes. With muddy hands, you pulled me on top of you, and we met each other as equals, both of us sighing at the contact. I cried—you cried. And in that moment, the part of me that had lived inside the past was finally gone, buried by your hands.

We had fought my past for a long time. You never gave up and never gave ground. You saw through the lies, the scars, and the silence because you knew I was worth having, even when I could not see it myself. I did not believe this day would come.

So today, as we made love for the first time as equals, I thank you for another seemingly unremarkable day. My past is done—dead and buried by your hands.

I love you.

I…am…dying….:giggle: 

I don’t fail often, I am too highly strung, too focused, too wound up. My world demands more of me than it has a right to. I give it my everything, every day. This isn’t some egoistical rant, it is just the nature of my underpaid and undervalued existence. Add to that my responsibilities as a caretaker, you get tired eyes and quiet acceptance that failure cannot, will not be tolerated.

And yet…I failed a friend. This friend has been gentle, caring, perverted, funny — everything I could ask for. He freely gives and drives me crazy with worry. I love him and his beautiful little. Of all he has given, he asked two things of me—simple, easy things…

I tried, but I failed. The excuses are many but they have no meaning—my priorities were less than and that can’t be. I apologized, I promised it wouldn’t happen again…and then I failed…again. My second apology— meaningless.

I don’t navigate failure well. To be honest, I don’t know how to handle it. My life has taught me that failure is banishment — pack up and leave…get out..you are unwanted. You are useful only until you are useless. So, I did that…I backed away, I banished myself. I degraded myself, I hated myself.

That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t about me, it was about him. I hurt him by failing to prioritize him, and his friendship.

I don’t know how to recover from this, to recover his trust. I wish that I knew, that I could be more…

I don’t know how to do this…

D…I am sorry for not understanding, for not prioritizing, for not caring enough to return the love you have freely given. Help me do this right…

Warning - not for the faint of heart...at your own risk and all that

You know.

You can’t have me. You have seen everything, lived in so many experiences, and satisfied every desire with a lifetime of women. With each new story you share, each revelation about yourself, it becomes clear that your greatest efforts amount to what is mundane for me.

From you, I would demand perfection. I would require absolute control. My reality is uncompromising—I do not seek pain for pleasure; pain is simply an essential part of my existence, as natural as breathing. This demands that you become something greater, the best version of yourself. I will never call for you to stop; my safe word is my final breath. You must walk the edge with me, knowing to stop before crossing into eternity.

You know.

You won’t be able to stop. In your vast history, you have never found someone who would accept everything and still ask for more—someone who turns the safe word into a challenge, pushing you until your rage threatens to overwhelm all control—until sadist becomes dolofónos.

You can’t have me, because I will destroy you just as you destroy me. I can only exist for you as a dream, your greatest unfulfilled longing. But you cannot possess me.

When we are together, we walk as friends, sharing laughter and supporting each other through life’s moments. Yet, you cannot have me; this truth was clear from the moment you saw it in my eyes.

You know.

I will always stand apart from your collection; I will never become one of those who came before or any that come after. Instead, I will remain by your side, supporting you, but always separate. I hate you, and I hate that this is our reality. Still, what a magnificent journey it will be.

For now, you can fully fuck off.

Journal from a Masochist - proceed with caution and all of that <3 

I despise you with every fiber of my being, every twist of my DNA. The mere thought of you causes my fists to clench in anger. Every time you open your mouth, you have an uncanny ability to enrage me. The words you speak fall out uninvited, and while I may understand and comprehend them, they carry no meaning—instead, they are raw, unfiltered emotion. They are laced with venom, sharpened with malice, and saturated with destructive intent.

You feed off my vibrant energy, consuming it with your darkness, your incessant demands, your endless needs. Like a black hole, you persistently absorb, never satisfied, always taking. You take every sound I utter and defile them, reducing them to the lowest form—a transaction for your amusement and satisfaction.

I am left as nothing but the curtain you wipe your existence on after you’ve stolen from my world. Your filth corrupts my grace until nothing remains but a desperate yearning for a mere fragment of your affection.

I hate that you have shared parts of yourself with others. I hate knowing her eyes are so similar to mine. I hate the persistent force you exert, always creeping into my personal space. I hate how you make me compromise my boundaries, how you’ve left marks—visible and invisible—upon me. Do you want to know how much I hate you?

I hate you. I hate your voice. I hate your body. I hate your energy. I hate your intentions. I hate your very existence. I hate the sounds you make, the power you wield. I hate you.

If one more “baby girl” passes your lips……