Indecipherable Scrawlings

The conversation is really nothing more than a pleasant buzzing noise sustained by certain proper responses that require no more thought than breathing.  Inane questions and answers filled with things I don't know and people I've never done.  And I am so bored I don't even bother to get those two straight.  Thankfully idle hands are the devil's playthings.

Next to me she nearly jumps.  She hadn't noticed my hand disappearing from the table, no one hand.  Bright blue eyes flash at me before returning to her friends across the table.  Really all that is required to register her surprise at my fingers innocently resting on her knee.  Or not so innocently tracing the joint's outline through her jeans.  I toss out another inane joke as my nails trace over the top of her thigh.  Falling to the side, my fingers pressing into her, my knuckles pushing her legs ever so slightly apart.  Her laugh covers another more serious look.  I lean in to off a quick kiss on the cheek that covers a quick question my assured tone reveals we both know the answer

A quick scooch allows me better access as I explore her thigh.  My fingers questing for little mole I know is there, the pressure just hard enough.  Color leaks into her cheeks as the conversation drones on.  Pearly teeth flash for just a moment as she bites her lip, my search running out of thigh.  I search for definition amidst seams and stitching.  Powerful, confident strokes reddening her face showing some effect.  My strokes rub a well remembered outline as her friend gets lost in some story I don't hear.  I don't the owner of those needy blue eyes did either.  The two of us share a new secret, one born in shadows right before searching eyes.  The sheer brashness of it sparking something in her.

She opens her mouth to suggest we leave.  I preempt her with a question.  The conversation continues.  My fingers start to dance, insisting on every bit of her attention.  Feeling the heat through the jeans, desperately holding her hips in place, eyes sparking with mirth.  I go on.  Never letting up my attention or allowing us leave.  Pushing her closer and closer to the edge, watching her concentration slip as pleasure threatens to take her.

Finally with a yawn I get up and stretch, announcing it is time to call it a night.  Never has she been more eager to leave her friends.  Practically dragging me to the car we head out.  One final wave as we move down the driveway and her hands fly down to push away her jeans.  I barely have time to park before her leg is over me.  In one movement she impales herself, screaming in pent up release, fingers digging into my shoulders.

Collapsing against me in a quivering mass she whispers, "You're a real son of bitch..."

"Yeah."  I pant happily, "But next time you won't make me stay for coffee."

Her back arches, mouth flying open in a strangled scream of unadulterated pleasure.  One hand cups her breast, fingers carving into the flesh.  Another assaults the glistening slit between quivering legs.  Curled toes grate against the carpet as she switches breasts, taking another nipple between her fingers and twisting till the skin turn ghostly pale.  This scream resounds with pleasure and pure primal lust.  Emotions that roil and burn behind eyes locked on me.

I stare back levelly.  Leaning back into my chair I keep my posture relaxed.  Casual interest plays across my face as I regard her with an expression of polite interest, my lips quirked into an indulgent smile.  One hand rests on my knee the other idly swirls a drink.  For all the world I seem to be almost disinterested with the sight in front of me.

But she and I know it is a lie.

We are locked in a battle of wills.  Her to crack my facade.  To break down the barriers and unleash the torrent of need and desire coursing below my surface.  Snap my careful restraint and send me charging forward to take her, to make her mine.  Meanwhile I seek to maintain my control, restrain myself.  Knowing that restraint is driving her wild, pushing her to greater depth of depravity and heights of pleasure.  My feigned disinterest pushing her on.  Prompting ever greater displays on her part and fueling my bemused grin with malicious glee.

She kneels and I sit, but we dance.  We struggle and push.  Testing each other's resolve.  And yet.  It is a contest with no real bad outcome.  Though I will not lose.

Back in college I was discussing my sex life with a slightly drunken friend as men do.  He was shocked to learn my sub at the time was submissive to me.  It was not a vibe he'd ever gotten from her and of course prompted a whole string of questions that mostly suggested she was easy.  Being slightly drunk myself, and always kind of evil, I encouraged this thinking.  Suggested he just go up to her and demand a blowjob.  Being the fool he leapt at the opportunity and almost ran over.

She listened politely to him, looked at me, rolled her eyes, and proceeded to pour her drink over him.

Confused he looked down at this phone to find a text from me, "Just because a she-wolf can be a bitch doesn't meant she is not a wolf that will tear you limb from limb as soon as look at you."

I then took the she-wolf to appease her with the ritual offering of chocolate and cinnamon schnapps.

She sits along at the bar, stirring her drink, and staring off into space.  Her hair done up neatly, her dress immaculate, and her expression bored.  One by one men approach her and one by one they slink away.

I slowly approach, letting her get a good sense of me before I say, "Hi, buy you a drink?"

She smiles sweetly and speaks blandly, "I have a boyfriend."

"I minored in comparative theology."  My reply doesn't miss a beat.

"What?"  She blurts out in clear confusion.

"I'm sorry, I thought we were talking about things that don't matter tonight."  And our grins are equally impish.

My fingers follow her spine.  Nails just brushing the skin to either side in a gentle caress followed by soft kisses.  Moving down, pressure building.  Till by the base my fingers are raking down across her bottom and onto her thighs.  Tracing along the muscles of her calves.  Callous hands closing around ankles.  Deep purposeful probes moving back up.  Exploring across skin, searching tense knots with tender lips then massaging them away with strong fingers.  Moving slowly back up above the hips.  Rough palms gliding over her smooth stomach.  Pulling her up, pulling her open.  The nails returning, running down along the inner thigh to the knee.  Then slowly, glacially, moving back up.  Hot breath washes over her ear, lips testing her ear lobes.  My fingers inching ever closer along skin afire.  Just barely brushing against it.

Then I whisper, "Well that was fun, I'm off to the store."

I am of the opinion you should always be honest.  This of course leads to several complications in life, the classic example of this being a question feared by all men involved with a woman.  What do you do when your sweetheart asks if her ass looks fat in those jeans she sort of wants to buy.  Thankfully I have developed a fairly good response to such crisis.  Crises?  Crisisi...whatever.

When she asks merely respond with, "Of course they get in the way of me properly appreciating your butt honey.  Anything but shadows and light hide the remarkably beauty of your derriere."

Then kiss her fondly on the cheek and run the fuck away before she realizes you haven't actually answered the question.

There are indeed no answers at the bottom of a bottle.  But by the time you've gotten there you've forgotten the questions.

There is no problem in life that cannot be surmounted with a sufficiently large quantity of high explosives.

Life is like wine, it improves with age and is better with cheese.

Some people are like classic cars.  Really only valuable for their parts.

Whiskey is proof god loves us and wants us to be happy.  Hangovers are a reminder love hurts sometimes.

Any idiot can fly but it takes a special person to land correctly.

All things in life can be fixed with either DW-40, duct tape, or a hammer.  If it doesn't move and it should, DW-40 it.  If it moves and it shouldn't, duct tape it.  If it becomes excited at being tied down with tape, hammer it all night long.  I may have mixed my metaphors here...

I watch goosebumps slowly spread across her skin.  The silken sheets doing nothing to keep her body warm, bare as it was for me in all its naked glory.  The softly rumbling air conditioner set to max admittedly might not help.  As it was sending out waves of cold air that caressed skin flushed with the heat of excitement.  The four point restraints grown as their tight grip is tested, limbs flexing against an iron grip.  Her head moves from side to side, the thick black band of the scarf helping the blindfold hide her eyes.  Chopin drifts out of the head set clamped over her ears, something light yet deafening all the same.

I smile to myself, I'd taken away her senses.  Reducing her world to that burning skin, suddenly more alive than it has ever been.  The brain searching the only sensory input left to it in search of a threat.  Parsing over touch.  Making her painfully aware of the passage of each breath of cold air.  The exquisite smoothness of the sheets beneath her.  The flick of a feather across her nipple.

She gasps.  Her entire body straining towards the flickering touch.  A soft half-felt thing that dances across her body.  Swishing across her nose.  Sliding along her inner thigh.  Ticking her little toe.  One touch breeding a hundred other imagined echoes that jolt her body until the next true caress.  I puppet her into a dance set to the music of building passion.  A quick flick of my thumb conjures a flame from my lighter.  The remote and small heat so sudden that she yelps in surprise.  Fingernails glance against her inner thigh.  Hot breath flows across her neck.  The world expanding as I add input, drawing her into a world of my creation.

Now where did I put that vibe?

Once upon a time in merry old England there was a terrible highwayman who terrorized any who dared to take to the roads.  He robbed from the rich, he gave the poor bruises for having nothing worth stealing, and eventually he was captured.  Needless to say the entire countryside turned out for his hanging.  Dejected, bruised and broken the highway man was lead to the gallows where his dead eyes slowly surveyed the baying crowd.  Yet as he reached the edge of the crowd light rekindled in his eyes.

Standing straight he stepped forward and demanded to deliver his last words.  At the hangman's nod the highwayman implored to crowd to remember he was from a small village raised in a thatched cottage, that his father was a tanner of mediocre skill, and his mother one legged.  On and on he relayed the details of his life and the hangman's patience grew thin.  In the middle of the a tale of the highwayman's amorous pursuit of Bessie, either the milk maid or the source of her produce, the hangman snapped.

"Is there any point to this diatribe?"  He snarled

"No."  The highwayman grinned back.

"Then why have you been blathering on?"  The hangman wanted to know.

"I noticed that storm cloud on its way,"  The highwayman said helpfully, "And I wanted to make sure you all get drenched."

I enjoy metaphors.  I feel they help put things in perspective like...well, you get what I am driving out.  So its hardly surprising I have a metaphor I drag out whenever I am asked to explain my view on what a Dom/sub relationship is like.

As the title hints I compare it to the creation of art, specifically a painting.  Two things are necessary a painter, the Dominant, and a canvas, the submissive.  Without the other one is unfinished and the other is a crazy, starving figure smeared with odd streaks of color and possessed of a tenuous grasp on reality.  Together they can create something wonderful and timeless.  It may seems the painter has all the power, that they can simply impose their vision on the canvas but its not true.  The boundaries of the canvas define the limits of that visions and its composition guides what kinds of paints can be successfully applied.  It is only with full and harmonious understanding on both parts that anything good can come.

Not exactly perfect, but I think it covers the basics quite well.