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| What can I say here. I've had a collarme account for some time now and I haven't had much luck on here. (with some very very nice exceptions)
First and foremost. I'm an artist. A painter, a comic book writer, a cartoonist and a writer. I create. I'm rarely satisfied with my creations but I figure if I was, I'd stop learning.
I identify as a dominant in scene and go by the local name "Chain." It isn't the name I'd pick for myself but it fits and has somehow stuck. (There's a story behind that but I won't go into it here) I tend to be a bit of a technocrat. I like devices and construction. (It is the art student in me) Rope makes me positively giddy with ideas. I have a sort of flair for the dramatic in scene (I do dig mad scientist chic) and I do feel that in many ways, I am performing for the sub. Most of my attention tends to be upon her and taking my enjoyment from manipulating her experience rather than simply treating her as a personal utility for getting my rocks off. (if it enhances her scene to be treated as such then that is a different matter) I like a bit of romance and a touch of humor in the dynamic and want a sub that has an independent streak outside of the scene. I don't want to dominate someone with no presence or identity of her own. I gain much more satisfaction from the submission of a strong willed, intelligent woman who has her shit together.
I don't pretend to be an absolute expert at all the subtleties this lifestyle encompasses. I suspect I never will consider myself to be so and tend to look at this as an ongoing learning process that will continue until I drop dead. I do have my talents and skills but there is always something new to learn with a good sub. I don't consider myself a sadist as I don't specifically get off on inflicting pain but I don't consider it beneath me and I am certainly not afraid to implement it if I feel it is needed in the scene.
So to summarize, I'm looking for a woman who would be as into the deeper cerebral aspects of BDSM as I am. Not just someone looking for a thrill.
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For a lot of people, Valentines day seems to breed resentment and
drunken grouchiness as a matter of tradition. Single people bemoaning
and begrudging those lucky enough to have found someone. I've even been
guilty of it.
This year, I am not bitter. I am reflective on past lovers and how much
they shaped me. With some, I learned who I really was. With others, I
merely learned what not to do. I always learned though. I miss many of
them and find myself looking at old pictures while listening to the
Cure and the Smiths and smiling sadly, frowning happily.
I am lucky to have found the people I have for however brief a time we
had together. They were beautiful and passionate. Smart and kind. They
loved me and I loved them. I only hope they felt about me the way I did
of them. I haven't lost hope and I haven't allowed myself to be
consumed in bitterness. I know I can still fall in love. That is enough
for me this Saint Valentines day.
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Canvas
She stands in front of me on the hardwood floor. The morning sun is
shining through the open sliding glass door that leads to the balcony
and the beach. The light warms her despite the cool ocean breeze. She
struggles to find a comfortable position for her weight but the tie is
awkward despite its symmetry. It snakes across her body in complex
patterns and obscure decorative knots. We spent the morning before
sunrise preparing her. Weaving her into the hemp web. I bind her to the
heavy duty easel in my studio. Now she is ready.
As she
struggles sleepily in her bonds, I lay out the tools of my trade before
her. A small ink well and a few brushes of various sizes. I wet my
brush and with a deep breath I close my eyes letting my mind empty out
of all thought. Only listening to her breath and the sea. The cool,
soft, wet brush glides across her skin leaving an expressive organic
trail through the spaces between her ropes. Quickly I fill the space
with an ornate pattern. She sighs as the goosebumps rise on her skin.
Her struggles have ceased and she has accepted the tie. Her muscles go
slack. Her breathing slows and is still but for the occasional shiver
from the ocean breeze on wet ink. I continue my work upon her. In a new
space between, I create a swift landscape. Bent and gnarled trees and
an ancient stream.
I wash my brush and set it in its place
taking now a pen with a nib and dipping it. She feels the sharp wet
point scratching into the skin of her breast as I write about the first
session I had with her. A few quick paragraphs detailing my initial
impressions, my desires. How I have come to feel about her. Feeling
more playful, I sketch a small cartoon in the space near her navel. A
small caricature of her suspended while I scratch her nose. Still in
other places, I write demeaning things. Criticisms. I label her my
whore. I describe the very things I have done upon the flesh I did it
to. I write the things she has begged me for and in some cases draw
them out.
With each open space between ropes, I find something
unique and new to create upon her. Aztec relief carvings depicting
various erotic images are reproduced. I add Celtic patterns, Lyrics to
a song that reminds me of her. An image in the style of a Japanese
woodcut, Occult and arcane symbols who's meaning has long since passed
into oblivion. I copy "She walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron in a
byzantine calligraphic letters on her lower back.
The surface
of her body becomes an expression of my soul. My thoughts, my
uniqueness inscribed upon her. The penultimate addition, I sign my
work. My name stretches around her neck following its circumference.
Starting just to the right of her throat and coming to rest on the
left. In the center I paint a small closed lock. The ink is dry. I
untie her and let her look upon herself in the mirror. The negative
space formed by the now absent ropes forming a new pattern of its own.
I capture her image in my camera back-lit by the morning sun to
preserve my transitive work before it can fade or be washed away. I
take her there on the balcony. Bent over the railing with the ocean
stretched before us. She feels my blackened stained hands gripping her
about the waist and moans almost melodically as I fuck her. The few
early rising surfers take notice of us in the distance and pause to
watch.
As I come I whisper into her ear that the last bit of
ink has been added to my piece and I feel her push back against me and
gasp. We return to bed and she slides up into the silk sheets. The
black ink that twists and coils around her body contrasts with the pure
white of the bedding. My perfect canvas
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The Glass Between Us
I saw her sitting in large brass cage. Shaped much like the decorative
ones birds are kept in. She was small. Quite thin and compactly built
and she had the frame of a dancer. Her breasts were small and pert, her
neck long and slender with dark black hair that barely reached past her
chin. She lazily sat swaying on a swing with her bare legs barely
bothering to move it. I watched her for a bit through the display glass
of the boutique. There were others harnessed to the wall or otherwise
confined awaiting purchase but the one through the glass caught my
attention.
After a moment of observing her, a cold November
breeze whipped past me bringing me back to myself on the sidewalk. She
looked so warm in the shop despite her being completely stripped bare
but for the silver price tag pinned to her ear. She seemed lost in her
thoughts and sang to herself. I couldn't hear the words, but the
muffled melody was unpredictable and yet somehow familiar. Like a Jazz
musician masterfully improvising and weaving spontaneity into an old
standard.
She must have seen my gray scarf blowing out of my
coat like a signal flag. She looked back at me, now realizing I had
been watching her and hopped down off of her swing and approached the
glass. Her eyes were curious and friendly. Her attitude of idyllic
contemplation now replaced by something else. She reached through the
bars and touched the glass beckoning me to do the same. I reached out
towards her but the number on the price tag revealed itself through her
hair as my glove touched the window. To say she was expensive would not
do her justice. She wasn't the priciest of the available companions but
she was still well beyond my capability for expenses. She must have
seen me frown when I saw it and the understanding appeared on her face.
Her eyes looked downcast for a minute and smiled sadly up at me.
An older gentleman, clearly much more well off financially, pointed to
her and the shopkeep went to bring her out for his inspection. The
sound of the door to her cage startled her and she stepped up to the
two of them her hands clasped behind her back, and her chest out. The
two men began discussing her as the customer prodded and examined her.
The whole time, her eyes flitted periodically over to me out on the
sidewalk whenever she was sure it wouldn't be caught by the salesclerk
or the potential buyer. I don't think she wanted to be his. No doubt
lost amongst his many possessions and trophies, neglected the moment
something new caught his attention.
I thought for a moment
how she would probably change her mind when she learned of the
accommodations she would find coming home with me. A small one bedroom
apartment without much in terms of decor. Just my half finished
paintings and other art supplies. Musty old books and broken antiques.
The smell of oil paints and pencil shavings. The bitter draft from the
need to keep my windows open even in the winter because of the fumes of
the solvents and other chemicals I had to use in my art. At least with
the older gentleman she'd be comfortable.
The sales clerk
guided her back into her cage and she sat back on her swing. Her
posture was very different now. She looked very much alone. I could see
the man putting his deposit down to reserve her. She looked like she
was going to cry.
Brass bars, glass and simple economics
separating us. I felt a lump in my throat as another cold gust blew my
scarf up into my face. As I flailed about briefly untangling the scarf
from my face, she gave a small laugh. I thought about my apartment
again. Realizing that if my apartment was so unsuitable, why the hell
did I live there. I selfishly thought about how much warmer my bed
would be with her in it. I thought about her cheek on my thigh as we
listened to the radio and bundled up. I thought about painting her in a
park when spring came. I thought about picking out the perfect collar
for her to show the world she was mine.
I thought for a
moment about how nice it would be to always have a model on hand. To
have an able assistant in the studio. To have a servant in my home. A
devoted lover in my bedroom or bath.
A man bumped into me and
muttered a brief, "excuse me." before hurrying down the block. It took
me a second for it to register. My wallet was gone.
"ah, no!"
I shot the girl in the window a last glance as I rushed after the thief.
Possibly continued.
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