A missed opportunity

"I think we both missed out on a great opportunity here." Carrie, Four Weddings and a Funeral.


These words spoken by Andie MacDowell in the film having spent the night with Hugh Grant as she is leaving to go back to the US.  The realisation that something has potential, and yet bad timing, difficult circumstances prevents that potential from growing, from developing.  Of course in the film, they don't miss out completely as they do end up together.

But, it is those few words that echo in my thoughts right now, although it wasn't after spending a night, it wasn't after anything particular, but it's still something that recent events makes me think that yes, there's been a great opportunity missed out on here.

Something which could have been great, something with potential, something that could have been rather interesting and lovely.  But alas, that opportunity has been "thrown away", lost. Missed.

And I think we have. Both missed out that is.

And that is a real shame.

Scissors

If I cut you off, chances are, you handed me the scissors. - unknown

Nothing more to be said.

Need

 

I need.

 

To feel that closeness. That intimacy. The intimate moments that come from such simple moments. Moments of closeness.  There is nothing so precious as moments such as this, when there can be such a beautiful closeness.

 

I need.

 

That warmth. That bond. That connection. I need to feel the depths of his submission to my dominance.  To feel him, and letting him know from my touch how much he is cherished and in return, I can feel his obsession, his passion, his love.

 

I need.

 

 

 

 

 

Mouthful of forevers

 

I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.
And I will not be afraid
of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.

— Clementine von Radics, “Mouthful of Forever”


Just because.

*sigh*

Stolen.

A gentle touching of lips.  A gloved hand tracing his chiselled jaw, cupping his face she looks at him, his lips, wanting to devour them, to devour him.

 

But despite her hunger for him, her mouth softly brushes his, a kiss so gentle it takes his breath away, stealing words from him that he had yet to find.

 

He pulls her in closer, tighter, urging her to take more from him. But in that moment, he realised she had already taken everything, that she had stolen so much more from him.

 

She had taken it bit by bit, she had taken him piece by piece, but in taking it, in stealing it, she had set him free. 

 

He realised he could not let her go, for she had him in her hands.

 

All of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don't . . .

Don't call me Miss
you do not have that right
You fucked that up
You truly lost that right.

Don't call me Yours,
That time has long since gone
You did what you did
And I have moved on.

Don't call me anything
Not even my name.
We are no more.
I do not play games.

Naked.

It’s easy to take off your clothes and have sex. People do it all the time.

But opening up your soul to someone, letting them into your spirit, thoughts, fears, future, hopes, dreams… that is being naked.

— Rob Bell

I *love* this type of nakedness.  Peeling back the layers, delving into someone's mind, thoughts, heart.  Bringing them out of themselves, opening them up, revealing them to their very core.

I *love* the bare honest truth of what someone is, of WHO someone is.  Of all the things that make them "them".  It is easier to strip to be naked, than to peel those layers away, than to allow someone to do that.  To place yourself naked, bare, vulnerable at someone's bidding.  I *love* that vulnerability. I *love* that trust someone places as they open themselves up, trusting me with their words, their depths.

And it is special. And wonderful. And beautiful.

I will wait for walls to be taken down.

A voice that will call to the depths

With precision I pull away the layers

Offering trust, security, letting you know it's ok

to fall. That someone is there to catch.

That I am there to catch. And to hold

you as you lay naked, vulnerable and exposed.

There's a fear that you feel, a fight that you must fight.

But as I hold tight I will never give up

my hold. Holding you tight, reassuring you

that this is your place.©

Stroke

There is something incredibly hot watching him stroke himself. The strength in his hand, in his fingers wrapped around his hardness.

Watching the precise and deliberate strokes, teasing, torturing, tormenting as they take him to an edge that she denies him from falling over. Eyes glazed with a desire so lustful as he fixes his gaze upon her own lust filled eyes.  

Her own hands, mauling his flesh, scratching, pulling, twisting the skin of his thighs, his ass. The pain and teasing only heightening his desire further, he feels the pressure building within him like a volcano waiting to erupt.

Pre-cum drips from him, she knows that it will soon be hers, and indeed his again, but not until she is ready, not until she is ready to grant his body that release from his frustration. She loves to hear him whimper, she loves to hear him beg "please" as she makes his fist tighter around his cock, making him move harder, faster, more deliberate, more controlled.

She loves to hear his low growl of pleasure, of his arousal resonate in her ears.

She loves to watch him struggle to hold that moment, denying him for as long as she is able. She revels in the frustration in his face, the longing and salacious desire that burns in his eyes. Her own arousal deepening at the control that she has over his body, over his cock, over him.

She loves to see his face, his eyes filled with desire, with wanting, with love.  His body trembling with excitement, a sheen of sweat over him that enables her hands and fingers to glide easily over him, teasing him, stroking him, arousing him.

His movements grow with anticipation of that moment, and she loves to watch his salty seed spurt out of his body, over his hand, his groans and screams that escape his mouth in relief. 

And then she loves to give that seed back to him, forcing his fingers into his mouth one at a time as he recoils against the saltiness upon his lips, his mind which hasn't recovered enough to prevent this invasion in his mouth.

He sucks his own fingers, taking in every last drop. She loves to see him hungry for it.

For himself.

For her.

His skin

 

His skin is the parchment

upon which I write

secrets words

with my tongue -

stifled symphonies and

secret sonnets

as he moves only

to my rhythm.

Wrists are bound

by the chains

that bind him

to the easel,

and to me.

Fingers tighten around

his neck, as

he struggles

to breathe against

the confines of

the tightness.

His body is my

journal, my diary,

my blank sheet,

of paper.

His body

becomes my

canvas as I begin

to create.

To write.

To paint.

Filled with a carnal

desire of

brushstrokes

and calligraphy.

Secured tight to

a flatbed easel,

Passions spill onto

skin. With

gentle strokes

and

savage licks.

I want you to

be of my creation.

Painted.

Possessed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Swallow to the root.

" Your mouth is an erogenous zone, no question about it - but in its entirety. 

The back of your mouth, tongue, palate and throat have a different range and number of nerve endings than the sensitive front of your mouth, but they transmit messages of pleasure to your brain and genitals just the same.

Sucking (suckling) and swallowing in an erotic context stimulates nerve pathways whose function is to build on your arousal levels, including the production of the arousal hormone, oxytocin. We get physical gratification from oral stimulation and we get it in spades when we swallow our lover to the root."

- Violet Blue

I wiill remind him of this (amongst other things) when the time comes.

When his time comes.

Awoken

I've been too busy.  Too busy to get the words down, the thoughts out from the mind onto the page.

I'd like to say it's been from lots of wonderful things; that I've been distracted by a sweet vulnerable submissive boy, that I've been teasing and torturing him, loving and hurting him.

But alas, however nice the thought, that would be a lie.

How I wish that it were not.

Distracted yes.

I have been.  Not in the way I want to be or wish I'd been.  Although I have been lucky enough to communicate with some very wonderful new people of late which brought the year to a lovely end, and indeed has been a great way to start the new.

But, it has, in turn served only to remind me of things that are lacking, things that I need, but it has in a way, made me think, made me realise that I have to take steps to stop things being lacking. 

It's not a new years resolution. But yes.  It is. Time.

Unfortunately, the distraction in life has simply been because of life.  The working kind.  The kind that sees you toil through 80+ hour weeks, working at home, in the office, through the night.  A laptop by the bed communicating with people on a different continent when things need to be agreed and closed.  A notepad filled with nothing but meeting notes and lists of things to do.  Lists of lists of things that I needed to do. 

Not lists of things I'd love to be doing, that at times, I ache to be doing.  But lists of things that I have to do.


I miss having the time to write.  I miss having the inclination, the motivation, but more so the inspiration. 

The inspiration to the words, to feelings, to emotions, to life.  

The inspiration that feeds me, fulfils me, balances me.

We enter a new year. 

Many things the same as last apart from the two digits at the end of the date.  And yet, many things are different. 

The want, the desire for that inspiration in a way that hasn't been there for quite a long time.

I feel the beast prowling. 

The emotional sadistic beast. 

He prowls. 

He has awoken.

He is alive.

Balance rather than equality.

"Some people have confused equality with symmetry, making the assumption that everyone should have the same thing…. Sometimes setting the same rules for both partners simply doesn’t make sense because you are different people who want different things.

 

In attempting to give each person equality you could lose sight of what each person actually wants.

 

Work to achieve balance rather than equality." — Tristan Taormino

 

That's it.

 

A somewhat simplistic way of looking at why an FLR works, of how a dynamic, a relationship of D/s, or a TPE "fits".  But as simplistic as it may be, it reflects , for me, so much of how it is.

 

We are not the same. We do not have the same needs, rules that work for one, do not work for another.  I have that need for control, and I need to be with someone who wants to give that control up.  He needs things in the opposite way than I do.  It isn't equal in terms of the power exchange, or in terms of how it works and yet it is so very balanced.

 

And this is why, for me, an FLR with a power exchange works.

 

It isn't about equality.  I don't think or look at my partner, as lower than me.  I do not consider them inferior or myself superior.  I don't. At all. 

 

We are equals.

 

But it is in the depth of the power exchange where that inequality exists, and yet, it is that inequality, which achieves the balance.  Fulfilling both in the way it is needed. 

 

It isn't unequal, it is just balanced differently.  And this is what makes it work. 

 

That is why I love it.  That is why I need it.