Nightmares are also dreams Part 25

Tara is padding around, fox ears on her head and fox tail sprouting from her butt plug. She is snuffling and sticking her nose into things and generally having a good time. Her small smile says that she loves the game and wants to play.

Sara is staring in unconscious horror at the elaborate off-white dress. One of those flouncy meringue wedding dresses that shops try to sell to the happy and unsuspecting. She looks at me as if I’d lost my mind. I smile back angelically. Fallen angels count, right?

“You can’t be serious,” she states. Her voice empty with shock. Ah, horrible dress therapy, why did I never think of this before?

“Do you not like it? I had it special ordered just for you. I have it on good authority that your father’s second wife wore the exact same dress.”

“His SECOND wife?! You mean the tramp he left my mother for,” her voice rising in incredulity and anger.

“It could have been his third. To be honest, I’ve lost count. I’m sure it’s in a file somewhere. Would you like me to check,” I reply calmly.

Letting out a low groan, Sara turns to me and whines, “Why are you doing this?”

I look at her for a beat. Letting the silence stretch. Then reply, “Your parents deserve to know that you are happy and married. Just like you wanted. If you are wondering why that photo will include Tara nude and being a little fox…then ask yourself this: would you ask her and me to hide who we are? Is that who you want to be be?”

She looks at me and sees the disappointment lurking, waiting for her answer.

I know that she loves us and accepts us. But to expose these kinds of things to her parents is a completely different proposition.

She knows this is a punishment. She knows that I will not harm her. But still, she’s human. And exposure of secrets is one of the hardest things we do. Especially to people whose image of us is in contrast to the truth.

She turns away, eyes cast down. Almost inaudible, I hear her say, “Ok.”

Then she whips back around to me glaring fiercely and proclaims “But I won’t be doing this in that monstrosity. I have my own clothes and I will pick something I deem appropriate.”

I smile, wryly, and say, “Well, it is your day. You have 30 minutes to find a dress and get into it. The makeup artist will be done with us by then.”

I watch the triumph fade to panic then into something like horror. What am planning flies across her face?! Then she’s off like a shot into her closet.

I turn away and go to the hall closet where my tux is kept.

Moments later I hear a shriek and a cry of “Don’t lick that!” coming from Sara’s direction. Then out pranced Tara looking impish and smug.

This is going to be fun.

The storm forgives us all

Clock spins round
Heart sinking with the sun
Steps away from home
Lost chances to be in your arms
Turmoil storm
Calling
Saying you will do anything
Poor substitute for actually doing it
Each unwilling to take that comprise step
Unwilling…unable
Still stretched arm hoping
Fingers straining
Heartbeat pounding
Maybe…
Maybe…
Sigh
Maybe it’s too much to ask
Too much trust
For someone never seen
Only known
A blood stained Symphony
Hoping there’s time
Knowing there rarely is
Gods and monsters
Telling me to go
Still
I am afraid

My hope for the future

For me, my day to day application of being a Sir is to aid those in my care. They aren’t my claimed submissive. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone who was that. And I do miss it.

But, still, the people in my care receive the watered down version. The guide instead of the commander. While both have their place, I only display the guide without prior explicit consent.

Sometimes that is enough. It has to be enough. Because there is no one clambering at my gates demanding to submit to me. And I’m without romantic relationship right now. I no longer play just to play. I find it empty. I need the care and connection to care. To take care of my submissives needs, even in play. Otherwise it’s just robotic going through the motions, push this button, get this response.

I have no use for that. I don’t feel connected when it’s just sex. For me, that’s not a thing. I am way too far into my head for that to matter. But seeing the delight, the fear, the pain, the pleasure of a partner? Of my good girl or boy? That is worth something. That has meaning. Everything else is just mechanics. And that is ever what I look for. Not just a play partner but a real partner. Nothing less is worth the pain.

The truth about intentions and poetry

What I want is not relevant
I am aware of this
No matter what I do or say or write
Nothing changes
And I don’t expect it to
There is no epiphany point that I can lead you to
No clarity to be had
What truths exist in my work
Exist in yourself
You uncover
You discover
I write out of need
To bleed the poison in my hurt out onto the page
To remove the disaster from my heart
Sometimes that disaster is from other people
But mostly it’s from my emotional state
And even when it concerns someone else
It’s not ABOUT them
The only case where it might be is in joy
In poem as seduction
But even then
You are the discoverer of your own feelings
I can only hold a mirror up to my truth
What you see in it
That’s beyond my control

Covered in blood, blinking, “See everything’s ok”

Resting blank face
Eyes alight behind a mask of unmoving skin
No smile
No frown
Permanent thousand yard stare
“Who are you trying to intimidate,” they ask
No one
No one
This is a defense
The one lie I allow
To hide the pain that courses just beneath the surface
Just under the distraction
Just under the distance
Keeping questions at bay
As much as possible
You learn not to ask how I’m doing
Because that’s spoken true
So instead
Blank mask
Fool yourself into thinking
He’s ok
It’s easier
Even as I drown a little more
History full of lost chances
Dead ends
And silence