Valentine’s day 25

I watch the swaying roll of hips. My wife crawling to the first soft puddle. The sheen of wet on hard wood. Her mouth dips down and red full lips part. Soft pink tongue presses against the wood. She plants her knees far apart, leverage so that she can lick the wood clean. The soft hidden rose if her sex opens like the flower I have cherished and punished.

I fight myself. My cock is raw and pushes against the underwear and pants. Pain flares. There is always too much of a good thing. Still, the thought of my hardness pushing into her. Melding us together. The feel of her warmth around me. Almost, almost I give in. Though, I know it would be more pain than pleasure. Though I know, I risk damage. I still feel myself tightening. Pain and heat spreading.

I push that down. If I am not in control, this could go very badly. There is a part of me that wants to take her and hurt her and see the fear and desire war in her eyes. It’s that part that I dare not show. If we were alone, then breaking her would be a good thing. Something we both want, both need. As long as we put each other back together afterwards, as such a thing takes a toll on us both. But if Tara sees the monster…It’s too soon. Too much like her old master. It would undo everything.

It is this realization that hits me like a pitcher of ice water. It’s why it’s too soon for the handfasting. Why Tara knew that she couldn’t yet. She senses I’m holding the darkest parts of my desire back from her. She is correct. I’m an idiot. I rushed, thinking she’s seen everything that is important. But this, this part that so rarely shows. This part that wants the screams and the pain more than it wants control and pleasure. The part my Sara sees, and knows, and lusts for.

Very well. For Sara, a bit of both. But quietly. I slip out of my dress shoes and pad on naked feet to where my Sara is licking up the juices of Tara. The largest puddle before the toy chest. I kneel next to Sara. Brushing against her. Feeling the softness of her thigh, up her back to my raven, flechted into her skin. A testament to our desires.

“Make no sound,” I whisper.

She turns and looks at me, nodding her head. My good girl.

I run my fingers down her, pinching and playing. I twist her nipple until tears and the soft choke of a whimper. I pull her arm up, pushing her face against the top of the toy chest. Pulling her hand to rest on the fabric over my stiff cock. Her shoulder is at an angle that I know hurts. I unzip and put myself into her hand. I release her. From past games she knows not to let go or squirm. I slide my index finger inside her. Feeling the slick warmth suck me in.

“Only if you can make me cum do you get to orgasm,” I say, pushing another finger inside.

She grips me, trying to jack me off at this angle, but she’s unable to do much more than run her fingers over me.

I spread my fingers apart, making room for a third finger. The sounds of her whimpers making me clamp down hard. The sound of her panting and mewling. I can’t stand it. I’m weak.

I pull my fingers out of her. Reach over and pull her other arm up. I could dislocate her shoulders like this, arms held behind her wrenched back, neck muscles holding her up. Trying to maintain a balance that gives her some control. No. That won’t do. Control is mine. I pull her arms up. She’s crying and pant screaming softly but audibly. I push my cock inside of her. The rawness making me want more. I slam myself into her. The slap of flesh against flesh and her screams pulling my cum out of me. Spilling my seed into her. I keep slamming into her hoping I’ll break her. Hoping for a red. But it doesn’t come. And I’m completely spent and consumed with shame.

I let her go. I pull in great lungfuls of air. Almost hyperventilating with the violence. I see blood on my cock. Mine or hers, I can’t tell. She turns around and sucks the blood and cum and honey juices off of me. Cleaning me up, unbidden. I’m definitely the one bleeding. Her tongue probes the cut and I gasp. Her eyes meet mine. And like a jolt, the last cum in my body spills slow into her mouth. She sucks me down, her eyes never leaving mine.
Just us connected. Just us. And our foxy girl in the next room

Need is not a dirty word

 

When I say I need you, I don’t mean I need you to pick up my clothes. I don’t mean I need you to take care of me. I don’t mean I need you to make me dinner.

When I say I need you, I mean your presence in my life makes the sun shine a bit brighter. I mean your presence in my life makes my days pass easier and not quicker. I mean your presence in my life drives my passion and forces my creativity to new avenues and choices.

My need is a thing of desire and joy and change. I need because wanting is lukewarm and nothing in the context of love should be anything but the fire burning.

I need comfort and safety but I need it not as a person or place to retreat to but to strike out from. To experience the vastness of life and still know that together we are safe because with each other there is a place to be without that shifting chaos.

I need you to feed me oxygen and fire in equal measure as I feed you earth and water. Or let us not be bound by needs but feed each other golden apples plucked from an immortal tree and know that as one desires the other will provide.

I need you to disagree with me and fight me because I believe I’m right but I’m often wrong and I trust you to give me the truth. But I won’t believe it. And we’ll make up and a few months later, I’ll say “You were right.”

I need you to be vulnerable with me and let me heal the hurts that I can and hold you together while you heal the ones I can’t reach. I need you to know my insecurities and know that despite them I am strong and will not fail you when it counts.

Need is not a dirty word. It is passion coupled to desire. Put want back where it belongs. I want a salad. I want to drive. I want to have a comfortable chair.

I don’t need those things. I need you.

Rubbing the sleep from too tired eyes

The problem with hunger is that it never really goes away. We can suppress it or turn it to other things but that taste of the thing you desire is never fully satisfied. Only when satiated is it quiet. My inner Dominant sleeps. Unquiet. Distractions abound. Work, computer games, phone games, great conversations, writing, poetry, exercise. But it’s like feeding a ravenous wolf table scraps, only by shear will is it controlled, and that control is slipping. My wolf plays closer and closer to the surface and soon I will bite as soon as soothe or worse turn the beast inward. I need a person to bend for me, bow to me, call me Sir and mean it, and most importantly, stay. Life and the wheel turns. And the consequence to not being crippled by sadness is that I am awake and seeking and the wolf inside drowses lighter and lighter. If I were better at starting relationships I’d go to local munches but I hold back looking for…someone, something more than a connection by lifestyle. Instead, a connection for life and lifestyle. I could no more have one without the other. The wolf will awake. It will happen. Best to have a safe outlet when it does.

A lovers promise

I can inflict upon you such pleasure that lines begin to blur and only your desires dictate which is pain and which is pleasure.
I can make your mind tremble with anticipation of my touch.
With trepidation and luscious full lips.
I can show you a world where only your limits contain you.
Where nothing is forbidden.
Where all pains become pleasures and all sensation serves its truest purpose.
Give me your hand and I will make you mine.
And becoming mine know safety and sin.

Hearts still foolish, even as they break

There’s a part of me that will always yearn for you
though I know you don’t think of me
a part that always wonders what if
though I’m not who you want to see
a part that spins the possibility
though you’re already walking away
a part made of hopes and memories
though it was never me in your eyes

A madness, a sharpness, a bitter kiss

Loved hard, loved true, loved only

Sitting on a bench at the edge of the road
In the last light of sunset

Simplicity itself

It’s simple
I love you
It’s simple
You’re beautiful
It’s simple
We fit
It’s simple

Except its not simple
It never is
But complicated is better
It’s more real

Simple is a dream
The thing we say that
we want before we know
what we want

It’s difficult and messy and perfect for its imperfections.

 I don’t want a fairytale

I want what comes after the curtain fall What comes after happily ever after

I want all that you are
I’m not delusional, I’m just a romantic

Not so casual

If I were inclined to be casual
I’d find myself lacking
Instead discover wanting
Distance bedamned

Casual lacks teeth
Lacks truth
Lacks fulfillment

Give, instead, the taste of the tongue
Run across skin
Desires bloom
Full blossom

As I sit
In calm repose
Intensity of gaze
Makes casual pose
A lie

The maelstrom calms

And I shall blossom like a star
Firmament made light
Radiation spilling out
Beyond control
Beyond caring

Elation made tangible
Joy singing the choral notes of a universe
Speak a voice, whiskey stained
Answered by another yet unknown

Make fast
A storm is raging
Not of destruction
But a joining

And all else, sleeps

Thoughts on desire and the turning Page

Someone told me today that now that he is grown up and can choose to buy things like candy or toys that would have made him happy as a child(engineering toys) he doesn’t feel excited about those things.

But, he was lying. Or telling himself a lie. Because he lit up when he described the toys. And he said that the thought was about not being able to go back with the same enthusiasm as that child and enjoy it anew.

And I said, “well that’s one opinion.” and left it at that.

I didn’t feel like getting into a lengthy discussion, especially from this guy who gets defensive when his ideas are questioned or folds completely.

But what I mean is this, We can choose to be passionate. To pour ourselves into the people and things we love. We can choose. We live in a time where we have enough wealth to choose to marry or be with someone or multiple someones for love, for passion. We can choose to be passionate about the things we love. (I’m well aware that this is not true everywhere but access to the Internet puts the mean income and lifestyle at a certain level, though there are cultural barriers I won’t go into)

We choose to love and sing and dance, we choose to color or play with building toys, we choose games, we choose books, we choose.

Desire is a burden. But it is also a choice. One that for myself, I choose to make, every time. Though it costs me. I consider it necessary.

Do the necessary thing, no matter how difficult or how much it may personally cost you.
One of my rules. I try to live up to it.

Where my heads at

I don’t want to wallow in misery propped up by others feeling horrible. I want to wallow in joy, exhultant in love. I want to dance with Em, sing with K, hold A, kiss everyone. I want joy and laughter. I’m so tired of things not working out. Of things being so complicated, of distance and acting responsibly, deliberately. It gets old, gets tiresome. Sometimes, I just want to scream my want. Not that doing so does any good but fuck, sometimes, something has to give