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Nightmares are also dreams: A Pel and Sara story: Part 2: Sara

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The office is warmly lit by recessed lights along the wainscoting. A mosaic of wood tiling depicting a woodland scene, the knots placed around to seem like eyes of a predator looking down, adorns the ceiling. It’s the one concession I made to Pel’s ascetic. The rest is ultra modern chic. Curved lines and bright colors. Chrome fixtures and elaborate chairs. All made to be a bit jarring to the senses. For when a client wants to complain about how their portfolio is doing and I really don’t want to talk for long. This room will make you uneasy. Not uncomfortable, the chairs and lighting is comfortable but everything else just feels subtly off. Pel calls it the paranoia room. Everyone who leaves it has a almost panicked relief when they exit. He says his security team likes to place bets on who looks the most scared. There’s not much sympathy for multimillionaire’s and their stock options.

I’m working at my 6 monitor Bloomberg Station, tracking the trend line on palladium. I hear the doggy door swing open and close. Our little fox turns about her bed three times and lays down, curled up with her little Mr. Fox we got her that she can carry in her mouth.

Our Tara is almost always a Fox at home now. She prefers it and we are indulgent. Plus Pel is wracked with guilt over her break with reality. I and her therapist have both told him that it was inevitable and that it’s lucky we had her when it happened. But all he hears is his failure as her friend, lover and Sir. Pel is amazingly serious about all of this. You should hear him talk about correct and incorrect actions and how honor must be integral to the BDSM experience. For a non-Pro, he does go on.

I have been through some terrible things. Things no one should experience, even nearly dying from one incident. Even so, what happened to Tara gives me the shivers. That monster tortured and killed friends of hers in front of her. He broke her down and built her back to what he wanted. And then set her loose, expecting her to come crawling back in some kind of sick dominance game. I know Pel killed him. But whatever he did, it wasn’t enough. And now there’s some kind of ring of these people who have been doing this for years. I can’t even. A frisson of fear runs up my spine. I could have fell prey to one of them. Easily, could have went out with one. We think we’re safe and we just aren’t. Maybe Pel takes our security a bit far, with tail cars and a security station in the house but seeing this…is anything really enough?

Pel and Sara Stories

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To those who don’t know, I write a series of Erotic Fiction centered around 2 specific Characters.  Pel and Sara.

The first 3 stories are available on Amazon for free if you have Kindle Unlimited.
Otherwise the cost is 1$

If you would like a preview: the first story is available on audio at the top of the page: under Ballroom

The third is found at the top in it’s own Page: Valentine’s Day

I am starting a New story featuring those characters.  There will be some erotica but it will center around more drama than sex.

I hope you Enjoy the new story: Nightmares are also dreams: A Pel and Sara Story.

Look for it Every other Monday. Starting today.

Nightmares are also dreams: A Pel and Sara story: Part 1

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The gold embossed Swiss inspired mini grandfather clock ticks its slow way through the morning. A double insulated steel mug chills to the side fizzing with the just poured in Diet Coke. A wide shouldered, slightly overweight, just over six foot tall man sits. Back hunched over looking at the computer screen.

That’s me. Pel of Darkling Spire Security. It’s ok. I’m sure you’ve never heard of us. We provide discrete services to discerning clients. Discerning mostly meaning willing to pay at least in the low six figures. Don’t let the mahogany desk or wood paneling fool you. This isn’t the office of a country lawyer or a conservative think tank. What we mostly do here is protect people from being killed or very rarely protect someone by killing someone. Though the latter service is not one we generally advertise.

I’ve been doing this for twenty years. An eternity in this kind of business. Especially for a small firm. I am both the most dangerous and least dangerous person I employ. I can put boots on the ground in any country with a name and a few without in 36 hours. Every person here is a heart breaker and life taker. Even my secretary, Janice, has a body count.
I’d put my secretarial pool and the mail room boys and girls against most branches of the armed services worldwide. Where numbers were equal, that is.

I handle the contracts and the glad handing. The political situation and the personnel. And a few special projects.

One such project is sitting on my screen. The remains of a dozen or so men and women. Tortured and murdered over the last 5 years. Not in some battlefield shit hole, but in my city. Among people who should have been treasured and protected.

There’s even a little video. It’s a cross between the Saw films, Hostel, and some fucked up eastern European sex trafficking thing.

Why am I even looking at this kind of thing? Don’t I have analysts for this? Sure I do. And they are combing over this, looking for information. But there are a few rules for this kind of life.

One, Never give an order you know will not be followed.
Followed closely by Two, Never ask your people to do something you are unwilling to do.

As to why am I looking? Other than rule two, my girlfriend Tara almost fell prey to this very thing. The only reason she is alive now is their methodology. It seems that they break their prey. Making them crave what they are doing. Then they release them. Until the person comes crawling back begging to be taken back into their care. It’s a power trip and a way to torment the people they enthrall.

In that brief window, I found Tara. And failed to find even the hint of this in my preliminary background checks. Beautiful, inexperienced, and adventurous, she fell for her Masters Fetlife profile hook, line, and sinker. That’s right, she is a submissive. From what I can gather she was a Pet. Animalistic and fox in her fursona. And he seduced her and damn near broke her.

Beware of people calling themselves Master, at least without contactable references. It’s never a good sign.

I glance over to the picture of Tara cuddled up with my wife Sara. I close my eyes. The horror of these pictures. Against the thought of either of my girls in that situation… Yeah, a little exciting. But only if we talked about it and only with consent. And only Sara. Tara is far too fragile for that kind of game.

And that’s the other shoe, I fucked up pretty badly recently. Sending Tara into a full blown ptsd flashback. Sara is helping as best she can but we’re not equipped for this. And therapist that knows the lifestyle as a positive thing and sees polyamoury in a good light who are equipped to handle Ptsd and other traumas, not as plentiful as you might think.

But this, finding the ring of people doing this and shutting it down, hard? This I can do.

Declarations(NSFW thoughts)

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Just because I love you and want all the good things for you doesn’t mean that when you give consent that I won’t brutalize you. That I won’t whip you, hurt you. That I won’t fuck you with my hands, mouth, cock and toys. That I won’t make you scream in pain and pleasure. That after I’m spent and can’t use you anymore, that I won’t tie you up and set toys in you, on you, to keep you cumming because I like to see you this way. That you won’t crawl and obey.

I love you. I see all of you. I know that you crave the darkness. And though it may seem otherwise. That my praise and heart felt love may make you feel like I am not up to your needs, you are wrong. I just choose to be more than one thing.

I can be the kind and loving partner. The stern and commanding caretaker/Daddy. And the hardcore sadist. I have many sides. But I will always be yours. Your Sir. Yours as you are mine.

Innerspace soldiers (gross, illness)

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I do this thing where I anthropomorphise my immune system. It started a few of years ago and I’ll need to explain the circumstances.

So 2 years ago, at about this time, I was dying. I didn’t know that I was dying. I thought I had the flu. And to be fair, I did have the flu. And because of my weakened immune system sometime in the midst of the flu, I think on Sunday, so about 2 days into hardcore symptoms. In that time frame, a old wound that my body had sealed with a hard lump, probably around a object, grew swollen and popped. It was oozing a mix of pus and blood. It was whatever, I have a number of wounds on my legs that will do the same thing from time to time. I wash the wound site and it scabs over, no big deal.

Not this time. I’m so deep in fever that I just wipe the site clear then stumble to my bed and collapse. I feel I should point out that I rarely get sick and when I do it is rarely for more than a couple of days. And it will be something that is harvesting people at work like wheat in a field. They’ll be sick for weeks. Me a handful of days with only 2 or so being rough.

So I have the flu and this wound on my leg. The fever from the flu gets worse. And I start getting fluid buildup in my leg. I call out sick on Monday. It gets worse. While I can walk the 10 feet to the bathroom, I don’t want to. It hurts and takes time because I’m lying down. And when I go vertical I can feel the fluid sloshing down my leg internally and it is about a 7 on my pain scale. Note: I can completely ignore a 4-5 and a 6 I can push down to 2. And if the pain is persistent instead of sharp, I can convince my mind it’s pleasure.

So a 7 on my scale is rough. I once broke my ankle in a fall. I got up, walked into work, worked my shift and went home, using it to drive. I walked on that ankle(I thought it was a sprain) and 6 weeks later rebroke it. I continued to walk on it and it healed and I have the ability to bend my right ankle so that it touches the ground. So, I have a weird scale.

So I’m at a 7. And I don’t want to walk to the bathroom because it will be blinding pain for several minutes cause of my leg and the flu. Now clearly I’m not thinking straight cause who associates fluid in the leg with the flu but I had a high fever so problems. I piss in my trash can. Cause it’s big and right there and fuck it. And now it hurts to pee

Then Tuesday and my flu is better but I still have this fever and leg thing and I think, one more day and I’ll be fine. I stay home. I feel like shit. Repeat of the last night, it still hurts to pee, leg is even harder to stand on and is swollen enough and hot enough that I have trouble putting on pants. Which I do because shorts are for children and the gym.

Wednesday rolls around. I’m not better.
My work has a new policy that if you are sick for a third day, you need a doctor’s note. I call my mom and ask if she’ll take me to urgent care because they can sign off on this. She says OK and after taking 10 minutes to walk from my front door to the curb, we’re off. Yes I can walk on it, yes it hurts but remember pain is something I’m good at. Waiting in urgent care, 2 hours. People who are clearly less sick than I keep going back. They finally see me. Take one look at my leg which is about 2 times it’s normal size, muscular about 20 inches in diameter. So it’s ballooned to 40 inches and sloshing. They take one look and say uh uh, you need the emergency room. So away we go to the emergency room with their initial prognosis.

I choose a hospital based on the emergency room reviews. Because, duh. And we end up at Thunderbird Hospital. I check in and things start to go quickly. They look at the diagnosis and put me in the little area next to doors going back while they set up my area. They weigh me and do the rigamarole and then I walk back to my partition. The doctor takes a look, draws blood and I’m polite and smiling and joking. I point a couple of the nurses to my blog cause I do that all the time. They send me off to pee in a cup and it sucks and takes forever and is really far to the bathroom, it has to be 20 feet.
I take off my clothes and have put on the gown and tied it, and I find I’m not self conscious and I’m joking with the nurses, half hinting at my private life. Nothing crude. Just very comfortable.

They say that they are going to need to get antibiotics into me. And I know that means I’m going to lose a bunch of my immune system because it’s going to kill the good bacteria too. And I set up in my mind shelters in my intestines for the bacteria to retreat to before this happens. I talk to them and appoint one of the ones who has been fighting the infection as leader and general.

They have me on 3 different bagged IV antibiotics. One of which they have to monitor because it is strong enough to potentially collapse my veins.

I’m diagnosed with cellulitis which has not reached the lymph nodes in my thigh, (my immune system rocks) flu, and a urinary track infection. Basically, it took 3 major infections all at once to sideline me.
They tell me once the cellulitis reached the lymph nodes it would have begun reproducing in my bones and that would have been it. Probably a day or two if they hadn’t caught it.

I spend a couple of nights in the hospital. I’m bored out of my skull. Nothing to read, phones dead that first night. Sucks. Plus they are checking on me every 3 hours or so and changing IV bags. They switch arms because after 2 changes with the major one its either switch veins or collapse.
I’m still on antibiotics the next day.

I have to say that my ER doctor was amazing. She was calm, cool, collected. She marshaled that place like a 3 star general. She got me a room in hours while I was waiting for tests. The nurses were in awe of that. She was great. And because I’m me and I like strong women, I noticed a wedding ring. Damn.

Anyway, I anthropomorphise my immune system and it seems to work. After the antibiotics I were done, I let the army and families out of the shelters and they were mostly OK. My immune system is led by the hand picked chosen of the initial General. All honors to him for fighting in the Great cellulitis war of 2015. And I view my immune system as honored soldiers and friends.

You can say it. That’s odd.

Regarding the Valentine’s Day story

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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.

Valentine’s day post 

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I apologize, belatedly, about not posting the 12 installment of the Valentine’s day story. Real life put me in a headspace where writing that particular story was not possible. At least not possible and to do it correctly. But tomorrow at 7AM the 12th installment of Valentine’s day will post. If it’s any consolation, it’s three times longer than a normal installment. I hope you enjoy it and if you haven’t been reading it and want to, today is a perfect day to catch up.

A story of four silences

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It wraps around me, the soft silence of a morning just waking, of a dawn just breaking, a hopeful silence, a silence of beginnings

But I, foolish creature that I am, break silence and say good morning to people who might be but aren’t quite mine. Not to you, my goddess, you have wandered away and I know not if you will wander back. No, to others who began so promising and are now this silence.

A silence of waiting, waiting for a reply that never comes, for the ease of conversation that began us. The echoing silence of a moment that cannot be recaptured and the tortuous efforts to spark anew.

The third silence is a thing of noise and speech, of nothing, for nothing. The meaningless babble of days passing without meaning, pointless how are you’s and empty Fine’s. A silence that fills the empty spaces and still rings hollow.

And a fourth silence, a silence just for me. A silence of the heart. A silence built of pain, off loss, of need, of dreams. A silence of tears and soundless screams. A deep abiding silence. Whose only cessation would be found on your doorstep.

A knock on your door to break the silence of dawn, holding you close to break the silence of waiting, a whispered “I love you,” to break the meaningless silence, never letting you go again to break the bleak silence of the heart.

Times passage part 1

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The soft wind rolls pulled by gravity and a love for the touch of earth. Swept through mountains whose fingers caress the sky. Reminding the deep blue of times gone by when they were dust and stars together.

A darkling spire

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His darkness spilled out and stained the sky around him. It burned and shone brightly, somehow a star and its antithesis. This dark brilliance illuminated a path few could follow but at the end all desires would be granted. Out of such things are legends made.

A man, black skin reflecting the moonlit night, stalks through the grass. He moves quietly, the soft wind hushing across the plain. The journey is one of moments but has the ponderous feel of eternity or perhaps it is fear that strums the man’s heart.

The carved head of a wild beast rises above the sea of blowing grass, emerging from the horizon. The man stands at the edge of a deep bowl. The edges are sharp and clear. Steps are carved into the vitrified stone, worn down by the endless procession of practices and madmen.

There is power here, like a beating heart, slow and steady, calling out to the night sky. It curls round, enticing. The man steps into the bowl. The air shifts around. A living thing whispers over cool skin, spirits or something greater almost… The murmur of words spoken here echo down the skein of time. Until, lost, they find their way to the mind of a seeker.

The man stands before the basalt pillar. Carved from the wind alone it rises the length of ten men standing tall. The figures carved there seem to dance. Each shift of the everpresent wind reveals the verge of a revelation.

The man is desperate. His tribe dwindles as the foul darkness consumes mother and child. Each night bringing a new chance to breathe one last breath. Before the ancestors are cast adrift and the people are no more.

The spirits speak of this place where the sky burned and the earth was shattered. This place where the sky wars with the earth. Where all that is known is made hollow and only the birds who circle here, are fed.

This is the last chance. The last hope of a dying people.

The man picks up a piece of the sky stone. Made jagged from the ever moving wind. Dragging the surface across left palm, the stone parts flesh. The blood pool and the man calms his heart. There is no other choice.

The man places his hand against the stone.

A voice young and deep reverberates through the man.