Soft feathers rip through the reflected city lights
A bowl of blue gone dark with old blood
A concealment of choices unmade
Shivers, needle sharp
Soft flesh yielding to oblivion
Flash caught the light
Specks of existence melting
And depths are beckoning
The blade drinks
Day drinks the night
And nothing now matters
Some like to think that there is a demon inside. A darkness that desires wicked things. That wants things. Craves things.
But, oh, I know the truth. It is nothing so easy. So…simple. No demon would want the things I desire sometimes. That outer edge of behavior beyond the outposts of commonly accepted and slipping into the beautiful nightmares of the darkest recesses of my too human, too jaded mind. The things I keep hidden. The scenes that I play out only in the playground of my mind. Because to realize them would take a partner who wanted that darkness. Who was unafraid of both the desires and the dark romance of my heart. Of rose pedals and paddles. Hoods and control. My heart and mind is a labyrinth of doors. What is seen is only what I have judged is acceptable and I will live with that half loaf or crumbs. Rather than break and take all without permission. I know the depths of the monster within. But I have no illusions that it is a demon. No. It is merely my self. Without leash. Without doors. Without mercy. Only tempered by control. And love.
I am tendrils questing out
reaching for connection
straining to directions
which once were home
just a hothouse bloom
slowly slipping into quiet
a last goodbye
a last hurrah
before the final cull
I am tendrils reaching out
And finding only
I used to wake up and be excited to go to work. I know, insane right? But it’s true. I used to get up and go to work and I’d solve problems and help people all day. I’d come home tired but happy. The work was always varied and, more importantly, I had the tools and access needed to actually fix things. And, if I couldn’t fix something, there was a team of professionals who had a deeper understanding of the systems who could solve it. At most, it would be a few days. We knew each other and respected each other. Our lives intermingled and we knew each other.
A few years later the group split to better dedicate to specific, complex, and separate projects. I had worked both sides and was working on the complex side because I prefer complexity. Still interesting to go to work but I had little interaction with the professionals with the deeper access. Rifts and rivalries began to form.
A few years go by and it’s decided that what’s needed is a middle team who will work with both teams and bridge the gap. Still ok as I personally knew the people there. They had come from my team. But others did not have the same experience and the gaps were beginning to show. It grew to us vs them. And that’s never a good thing, when all are supposed to be serving the same ends.
A few years later and all of those small personal teams are merged under a shiny new department. And that department is headed by? An outsider who knows no one and regards people as numbers and cogs and has no idea how the company and its services function. You’d think he’d learn and adapt his style to suit the existing environment. Meld two into a more cohesive whole. No. Instead he begins to implement policy that imposes his structure on the existing one. And each step he carries it forward is another step that twists the original teams away from capably serving the companies customers. Treating those customers like a given input rather than a fickle variable.
A few short years later and my boss. A hardworking, caring, professional, and personable man is forced out of his position and moved to a window office. Watching the world go by with no power in preparation of forcing him to retirement. I’d seen exactly this before. This is what the company does to competent troublemakers who have the foresight to tell people that their idea isn’t going to work.
And who should appear but the micromanaging numbers guy. The guy who knows what asses to kiss. The guy who’s all smiles while he’s stabbing you in the back.
And he proceeds to do the same twisting of the section I work for that he did with the other one. And by this time, we have multiple systems that are breaking due to neglect and a new system that was created by people who don’t understand what they were creating or who would be using it or, really, how one complex piece needs to interact with these 10 other complex pieces.
So it’s a shit show. And not the fun kind(if you like that kind of thing). I still like my job. When I’m allowed to do it. But now there’s layers and layers of bullshit to wade through and even then, a simple fix to one table variable can take a week because there is this ignorant bureaucracy between what is needed and what is happening and the ones doing the fixing have never actually used the system. It’s like trying to fix a car when you only work on boats. There is some crossover but not much.
So I wake up and I think, I don’t want to go to work. But, I’m high level by now in a specialized field. I’d have to completely start over. And I’m not sure I want to do that. Or even how to.
I find myself constantly wishing that I could do more for the people I love. That the bits that I do, the bits I am allowed to do, are not enough. I want to swoop in and help out. Even if that’s just being there.
I can’t decide if that’s egocentric bullshit or some impulse to be the hero or if it comes from genuine compassion. It may come from a place of profound pain. And by helping them, I get to feel connected for a few minutes or hours.
This may be the tragedy of self inspection and healing. Every time there is a plateau and you think you are good, there is another yawning pit from which demons claw out. They may be polite or you may realize that you want nothing more than to start crying and you don’t know why. Only that it’s easier to do that than to be hurt.
I want to help, to fix, because I am broken.
Hopelessly cliche, I am aware.
I’m not looking for a person to fix. Or who will fix me. But I can’t help but feel that their is a person shaped hole in my heart, and if it were filled, this… All of this life and wondering and pain, would be a bit easier.
Regarding the Valentine’s Day story
I think it is pretty common in stories of an erotic nature to present as if all parties are mind readers. And there is a bit of that in this one, mostly between a couple who have been married for years.
But I think that there is also a assumption beyond the story that a master or top just somehow knows what to do. And really what is involved is planning, forethought, and really a lot of work.
Gear, specialty clothing, and other accessories don’t just appear. Spacial planning, especially when juggling two submissives is key. In general, a submissive will see the outlines and will know, basically, what’s going on. A master will plan it all out. And will walk down a list of if/then to keep things flowing. But even a master can fool themselves. We are human and we make mistakes. And when that happens, even someone like me who likes improvisation, will be thrown for a loop.
That means we end up taking time. A submissive might then experience a extended scene where the master is not present. A game or thought experiment or deprivation. Something that gives us space to reconsider and plan.
In the story, Pel has a partner who understands his mindset and she helps him to work through the process of finding a suitable solution. Just by being there and suggesting something.
I’ve never punished a sub for a good idea. Even if that idea is we halt play for a time to refocus. And halting play when you are on tilt is smart. Especially, when considering edge play. Which is what the character, Sara, desires.
So, we see uncertainty and a master who has been on tilt and struggling to catch up for the last few installments. Because we are human, and these stories are about more than just sex or play.
It’s easiest to say that we fell to a comfortable sleep. But it’s just the barest hint of the truth.
The truth is, tired as I was, I spent a good long while thinking before I slipped into the vale of sleep. Sara was facing away, buttocks pressed against me. Her soft blonde hair a bit frizzy and stirring in the eddies of the air conditioner. The muscled form of her all safe and safety. And snoring like a baby bear, soft and rumbely.
Sara would never come out and say it but she is giving me time to sort my feelings. Of the two of us she is the more practical whereas I am the more ruthless. She would say that I should just give it time. That if we push, we’ll cause problems. She’s not wrong. But I am almost constitutionally incapable of not pushing, so she gives me the gift of time.
I had planned this whole elaborate honeymoon scene. Rose petals and whips, sensation play and edge. And I just can’t work my head around it not being a true honeymoon. But laying here, with Tara curled into me, I can’t help but admit the truth. I could adapt the scene, more black leather than the specially bought white, cinnamon instead of vanilla. But I can’t seem to let it go. I had my heart set, I believed that Tara would say yes and, I’m not a fool, I can see that she’d run or break and undo everything we’ve done if I push. And I don’t know how to not push.
The fear says let it slide. Get up. Make dinner. Do some chores. Watch a movie. Just be for awhile. And it’s terribly tempting. But I’ve neglected Sara trying to be primal for Tara. She deserves better from me. And how do I reinforce that we value Tara without ignoring her while I serve Sara’s needs. This is the dilemma. If it were just Sara and I, I would tie her up and use gentle touches coupled with slaps of the riding crop as foreplay. And so an idea forms. Of how to incorporate all of us together into the scene. All serving our individual purposes.
A slow smile breaks across my face. Tension pours out of me and I cuddle down next to Tara. And reaching my right arm behind me, cup my hand on the smooth soft of my wife’s thigh. Somehow, this always soothes me and I drop off to sleep.
I complain, in my head, about people not being upfront about their intentions. Right up until the time where I catch myself doing the same thing. Saying too much seems to be worse than saying not enough. And I have a history of saying way too much too soon. And even when I’m talking to someone who knows how I feel, I wonder do they really? My hearts a bonfire. Flaring when I talk to those I love. And settling down, the heats still there and it’s sudden lessening feels like pain.
I suppose it’s the curse of loving. Ultimately, all you can do is be who you are.
I would do more than be available and talk. If I received the go ahead. Consent.
Sometimes, I feel trapped in the cage of my honor. Which, I suppose, is the point.