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Wild-windswept-north-sea-coast-Shelley-esque-poet-type-writer-Dom.
(with thanks to psm for the description)
Consider the majority here who will insist on you kneeling, calling them Master and typing **under consideration** on your profile all within the first 24 hours.
...That's not me.
Consider the ones who demand you send them naked pictures and perform on cam before they know if you prefer brown bread to white.
...That's not me.
Consider the ones who won't give a picture, won't call and are never online at times when a 'wife' might be at home.
...That's not me.
...So who am I?
I am a full-time writer, of poetry, short stories and novels...there is a day job, that facilitates the writing....irritable? irrational?? moody???...like a thunderstorm that comes from nowhere on a summer's day.
I am the one that will question you about all aspects of you. I am interested in your life, your loves, your interests, your passions, what makes you laugh, what makes you cry.
I am the one that will give you things to read, to listen to, to smell, to touch, to feel. The one to care about your personal growth. The one who knows how to weave romance and seduction into this world.
I am the one that, once I get to know you, will ask you to make a subtle change to your daily routine...something simple but that signifies what exists between us. That's how it begins...
I am the one that once I understand you, will create 7 trials for you...unique to you, handpicked locations, dress codes, each containing new physical and emotional experiences. Each designed for us to grow together...your devotion, my care and domination.
I am the one that will push you, stretch your limits, take you places you never believed you would go...I will show you the light and lead you into the darkness. I will whisper things that will make you shiver, I will use words that will make you blush, I will open you like a ripe fig. But...I will value you as an equal while I treat you like a whore.
So that's me...Passionate, demanding, ridiculously intelligent and intelligently ridiculous...eternally creative and creatively eternal...an enigmatic thinker, a reader of people, hypnotic, a manipulator, patient, on a good day utterly charming; on a bad day distant and aloof.
It's not all maniacally intense, I know how to switch off, I have a life, a child, friends and family. I can be utterly charming with your friends, a pleasure to be with at a family wedding or dinner party...we all have lives to live.
I am just a writer with a wicked sense of humour and a wicked sense of fetish, perversion and deviant imagination.
All I want is all of you, all I want is your devotion.
I do not come here because I choose to be Dominant; I come here because I am the man that I am.
The Writer
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'Her - Trial no.3 - Abduction'
She loved travelling by train, the rhythm of the carriage over the tracks, people-watching…guessing what each was doing, where they were going. Never before had she been the one with the secret, her cheeks coloured quickly at the thought and she turned to look out of the window, eager to hide her blushes. Difficult to describe how she was feeling…nervous? A little…excited? Like a child…’apprehensive anticipation’ was a phrase she recalled Him using before. That described her state of mind best.
The letter had arrived 2 days earlier, handwritten in His neat, elegant script, His unique style…brown fountain pen ink on parchment paper, delivered in a tissue lined envelope. Even His stationery spoke volumes of Him…refined, precise, controlled. Each act deliberate and considered yet overlaid with the most incredible creativity and imagination. Who else could make such a planned act seem spontaneous?
This was to be her third trial of devotion, as usual there was no ‘name’ given to the trial…only afterwards would he reveal it as He had with the first, ‘patience’, and the second, ‘fire’. She felt a tightening deep inside at the memory of ‘fire’. Her mind span, trying to work what could follow fire? Ice perhaps? What would He have in that mind of His, that glorious, sensual, fetish-filled mind? She opened the letter.
The envelope contained a first class rail ticket from her home town to a station she had never heard of, a strip of black velvet and 2 sheets of writing paper filled with His words, His instructions, His will. She read.
Dusk quickly turned to dark as the train sped across the December landscape, industrial backdrop turning to acres of flat fields. A hint of silver moonlight giving a vague blue tone to all her night adjusted vision could pick out. She recognised the station name as they pulled out…her heart began to race…one more stop to Him…’breathe through the panic’…His words came to her again. Fields raced past, it seemed to take only moments, all too soon the train slowed, heart in mouth, not ready...the station name scrolled across her window…she was here…He would be here.
‘Apprehensive anticipation’
As instructed she waited for the crowded platform to clear…for commuters to find their cars and head home for what? Dinner with the wife, Coronation Street and the kids…while she did what? cast herself into the unknown? The last mobile shut off, the last car departed…headlights carving the darkness. All quiet now. She walked into the carpark and stopped…reached into her bag and took out the strip of black velvet He had sent. She tied it, as instructed around her eyes…blindfolded in the dark…she almost giggled at the absurdity of it…but thought better of it.
She stood, and she waited…His patient devotee.
She could tell it was Him approaching by the steady pace of His step, the sound of leather soles on the hard gravel, smelled His Ralph Lauren Polo Black before she felt His fingertip brush her lips. Him.
His voice, ‘It begins’.
She was wet.
He took her arms behind her back, tied them with something coarse, rough rope, it bit into her wrists. Her shoulders were pulled back as He tied her again above the elbows…this didn’t feel like a game any more. Her head sprang forward as He gripped her hair by the roots and marched her across the tarmac, her one involuntary whine greeted with a harder tug on her new haircut. A car door opened, she was pushed backwards …but not a seat, the lip of the boot, more fabric pulled tight to her mouth, stifling any protest, tied tightly behind her. More of the rough rope around her ankles and thighs then, trussed, gagged, blindfolded He thrust her into the boot and slammed the lid shut.
Door opening and shutting, engine starting…jolting her back against the boot lid, something cold and metallic stung her cheek, the rope burning her wrists…the skin now raw. Every twist and turn in the road pressed some foreign object into some part of her body, bumps, grazes, scratches everywhere. She had lost her left stiletto and could tell that the sole of her stocking was shredded. Sadness gripped her…she so wanted to look perfect for Him, to see His admiring gaze. The bumps and knocks blurred time, no concept of how long passed or how far travelled.
The car swung sharply and the metal bit into her cheek…warm blood trickled down her cheek, the ferrous scent sweet in her nostrils. She heard gravel crunch beneath the wheels then…nothing…silent…motionless.
Cold air kissed her cheek as the boot opened, she was shivering uncontrollably now, the shivers nothing to do with the temperature. Strong hands gripped the black velvet of her dress and lifted her from the boot, carried her across the gravel…her nerves calmed by His strength…but her mind in turmoil.
Suddenly she was airborne…thrown…panic…the air was knocked out of her as she landed, the air filled with the musty aroma of straw bales. A barn? His hand gripped her hair and pulled her to her feet…fatigue washed over her, mental fatigue…she just wanted to please Him, that’s all. Momentary relief as He released her hands, only to retie them in front of her…rope on wood…her hands hoisted over her head, pulling her up almost onto tiptoe. He secured the rope…his footsteps left…quietly, calmly. Silence.
Leather shoes clicking on concrete floor, a warm hand on her thigh made her moan against the gag. He stroked her…fingers sliding down her leg, cupping her calf, lifting her foot and replacing the lost stiletto. Prince Charming and Cinderella. The sound that followed was familiar, scissors snipping alongside her ear.
Her beautiful vintage dress, straps cut…peeled away…lay at her feet. He circled her…she could feel his eyes touching her, appreciating her curves, clad in the basque, thong and stockings He bought for her. Snip, snip…her thong pulled away…His mouth at her throat, his hands on her buttocks…lifting, her legs wrapped around His waist…felt Him…where she needed Him.
That voice, that whisper…
‘You belong to Me, My pretty cockwhore, My slut, My toy...your body exists for Me to take and use whenever I want...and that time...is now' |
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'On Writing...'
If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.
Anais Nin |
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'Yearn on'
I want you to feel
the unbearable lack of me.
I want your skin
to yearn for the soft lure of mine;
I want those hints of red
on your canvas
to deepen in passion for me:
carmine, burgundy.
I want you to keep
stubbing your toe
on the memory of me;
I want your head to be dizzy
and your stomach in a spin;
I want you to hear my voice
in your ear, to touch your face
imagining it is my hand.
I want your body to shiver and quiver
at the mere idea of mine.
I want you to feel as though
life after me is dull, and pointless,
and very, very aggravating;
that with me you were lifted
on a current you waited all your life to find,
as though you were wading
through a soggy swill of inanity and ugliness
every minute we are apart.
I want you to drive yourself crazy
with the fantasy of me,
and how we will meet again, against all odds,
and there will be tears and flowers,
and the vast relief of not I,
but us.
I am haunting your dreams,
conducting these fevers
from a distance,
a distance that leaves me weeping,
and storming,
and bereft.
Katie Donovan
(no, this isn't posted for you)
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'Time'
It saddens me to think that so many think that the duration of a relationship can be measured by the ticking of a clock not the turning of the pages of a calendar... |
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'Her - Trial no.2 - Fire'
The bags were stacked neatly on the folding suitcase stand inside the door. Testament to the shopping trip, Christmas nearly sorted, one more week and she would be finished, all bought, all wrapped. She could still smell the roasting chestnuts from the street corner, still recall the starry eyed children pleading for gifts and treats...Mums everywhere uttering the well rehearsed line...'put it on your Christmas list'...the line they started using in September...
He uttered a theatrical cough to regain her attention...she could tell from its source that he had moved again...now off to one side. Oh God, He was going to start again...
She hadn't expected Him today, but this was all part of His routine, to use surprise to disarm her. He appeared from nowhere just as she had kissed her daughter goodbye and headed back to the car park with her hard fought purchases. 'It's time', was all He had to say. He sat, she drove, his directions.
The hotel was already booked, His planning meticulous as ever. He took the keycard from the receptionist, effortlessly charming... understated. In the lift He was silent, touched a fingertip softly to her lips when she had tried to ask...silencing her. He stroked her hair. Smiled.
Room 212. She tried to work out a significance in the number, was there a clue to her fate? A single cool bead of sweat dripped at her armpit, the first time she had become aware of her rising nerves, anticipation...apprehensive anticipation.
The lights flickered into life as He walked into the room, He had a manner about him, a gait that just reeked of control, composure, confidence…so complete, irresistible. She recalled how he paid attention to every detail of their messages and conversations and led her to investigate new experiences, art, music, architecture….life. He made her feel the sole focus of His life…had shown her the light…now the trials had started and He was leading her into the darkness. He turned and with a silent gesture of the hand, instructed her, He sat to watch…she sat on the edge of the bed and took off the tan and gold cowboy boots, the gold & cream scarf she folded by her side, pulled the tan v-neck over her head, folding it neatly, deliberately. He would not tolerate rush nor haste nor slovenliness. She unzipped the jeans and stepped out, adding them to the collection she had worn just moments earlier. A sideways glance in the mirror and she wished she had chosen something more alluring from her underwear draw. Simple plain soft white cotton bra and thong, chosen with comfort in mind rather than display.
He placed a chair for her, she sat. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket He produced a pair of scissors. He cut each shoulder strap then reached behind and cut the main strap…taking the front of the bra between thumb and forefinger he slid it away exposing her…yet his eyes remained glued to hers. She ached for Him to admire her but his gaze stayed fixed. He repeated the actions with the scissors on her thong. Each cut, each action deliberate and controlled. Naked. Exposed. His cool fingertips pressed her knees apart until she was wide open for him. He reached into a small leather bag and to her surprise (and alarm) took out a small sharp vegetable knife. As her panic and wild imaginations reached their height He withdrew a small wooden chopping board, a red chilli pepper, a white linen napkin and a paperback book. (She couldn’t see the title).
Ritual…He managed to make the simplest acts into significant events. He laid out the napkin, placed the board upon it and proceeded to slice the chilli. He approached her, took her hands in His and rubbed the cut chilli all over her hands and fingers. He lifted the chilli to his own finger, then touched the finger to her lips and tongue letting her feel the burn of the chilli heat.
He took the scarf from the pile of clothing, folded it deliberately and tied it around her eyes. Darkness. Bathroom...He washed his hands.
She heard Him manoeuvre His own chair, heard Him sit, heard Him flick through the book to a pre-selected page…and He began to read. His voice washed over her and oh the words He was using! The scene He described! the words reverberated in her head, around her head...making her light-headed, drifting into another space...she felt the involuntary warmth and the wetness He brought simply with His tone and His words. She begged Him to stop, squirmed in her chair trying to find some relief without having to use her chilli infused fingers but He pressed on and on and on…ever more graphic, more descriptive, using the rhythm of His voice to drive her insane, ‘in and out and in and out and in..’ time and place melted away until all the was left was his voice and her ache...and at the point when she could bear it no more He lowered the book and said simply, 'touch yourself'…
…that’s when it started....Fire.
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'Not looking...Finding'
It's such a simple act, a subtle change of wording...but with the potential for remarkable consequences. There are times in our lives and loves when we desire things, we have a need, a craving...and we go looking for satiation, looking for the 'thing', the 'one' that will fulfill that craving. When the 'need' is all consuming we lose our perspective, we become blind to all but the pursuit of perfection.
'The pursuit of perfection'...a noble cause, but how many sit alone as the hands of the clock sweep around its face still desperately, stubbornly waiting...empty and unfulfilled. Though many may pass by, none are chosen because only 'perfection' will do. Better, you may say, to wait, and wait, and wait than to taste imperfect fruit over and over again.
I say to you, hold your head high, defend your standards...but don't sit alone...take a risk, a chance...try a little flawed perfection, it may be less flawed than you thought.
Stop looking...start finding. |
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'Chains'
The chains that bind a woman are in her heart and mind...not in a cupboard |
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'Her - Trial no.1 - patience'
The temperature had dropped markedly, the increasing chill on her skin was the closest she had to a measure of time passing. How long had passed since she heard the muffled thud of the door closing and the car driving away? an hour maybe, two at the most. Where was He? How much longer must she stay like this? 'Patience', He had whispered from somewhere immediately behind her. Seven trials He told her she must pass for Him, to satisfy Him, to prove her devotion to Him.
Him.
Her eyes shielded by the cotton scarf she tried to recall details of the room she was in. White painted floorboards, white walls quite bare...not a picture nor a mirror in sight, nothing. Bleached linen curtains all that softened the room. A paper globe lightshade and a built in cupboard, maybe an airing cupboard, her chair an old wooden carver...painted, inevitably, white. And now she sat. Patient. Her eyes the only colour she could think of in the room. He had said it was 'the white room', his description brief (as ever) but pointedly accurate. The numb tingle in the cheeks of her bottom told her she had been in this one position too long to be comfortable, goosebumps pricked her thighs. She was surprised He had insisted on the white underwear, convinced He would have chosen something more in keeping with her character, 'luxuriant' one might imagine, the black or the dark maroon, or even the ivory corset he so admired...but the white had clearly been chosen with her surroundings in mind. Her nails too He had insisted on clear varnish, no colour; her lips just touched with gloss. She had become as the room...neutral. Flexing her hands and fingers gave some relief from the pressure of her stockings, binding her wrists tightly to the arms of the chair...her ankles held more firmly by His leather belts (surely they weren't white were they?). Every few minutes panic gripped her momentarily, terrified at His absence...what if an intruder got in? what if the house caught fire? what if...? 'Breathe through the panic', He had told her, so she breathed and believed in Him. Him...to whom she had given the one thing she had never given before......control.
(dedicated to she knows who)
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'National Trust'
Soft November rain floated earthwards, chilled air raised the hair on the back of his hands, he waited...she was late...
He breathed deeply and evenly, calm yet with an air of anticipation...the location hand picked...she the self confessed puritan in a cavalier stronghold. Centuries' strong walls, wood panelled, gold leafed, opulent...
Above ground eons passed, ladies had been romanced...below ground, girls had been taken as meat. She would know both...He knew that. The woman would be seduced, yet the girl had a minor punishment to endure...the pulling of a single hair. A prick of pain that spoke volumes...disappoint me and I will cause you pain...in proportion...but pain nonetheless.
Familiar with his surroundings he chose his vantage point...saw her arrive several minutes late...strode to his position. King of the castle, virtually deserted in the autumnal haze.
'Calamity'? He announced as she closed her umbrella and smiled at him, meekly. (He aware by the view from the rooftops that the traffic had been tortuous). She dressed as 'PA' as instructed...pleasingly so.
She turned her cheek to his greeting kiss...he took a handful of her windblown hair, gripped, pulled her head down, kissed her with the full force of his being...dragged her ear to his mouth and whispered in that voice, 'I'm going to make you shiver...'
...and he did.
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'November rain'
November moon crept above the horizon, full, misty-crowned and honeyed. Pockets of storm clouds spilled their guts on the harrowed fields, pressure-switching gusts driving the autumnal leaf debris before them.
Temptation too great to resist; backpack over wax-coated shoulder. Stubborn old door growling its displeasure at being forced into its jamb...300 years of being left behind. Adjusted scarf, the neck's saviour.
Sodden paper poppies reverently embracing those fallen, post office rescuing the milkless fridge, broken gutters pissing on the pavement, have you ever smelt the rain? hair slicked and rain shining. Cold water running strangely warm on the cheek.
Silent by-way, skylit and empty, carving the fields to the clifftop. Pause. Waves on rocks. Shingle singing. North sea remorseless. To the north the sandstone grandure of Scarborough, south the neon tackiness of Bridlington.
Reckless path to the rocks, tightroping the boulder barrage. Coat discarded, the Writer offers himself Shelley-esque to the elements.
White cotton shirt, moonkissed, sodden, clinging tighter than a lover. Crucified in the face of the waves.
Breathe. Heart pounds. Blood surges. Chest swells. The feeling is back...
...The divine muse is back.
This was My night...how was yours? |
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'Repetition'
As an inveterate peruser of profiles it dismays Me to read some young sub/slaves entries.
Monday - looking
Tuesday - under consideration
Wednesday - will do anything for him
Thursday - anal sex training
Friday - looking for 2nd sub fem to join in fun
Saturday - realises he's married or fantasist
Sunday - looking (again)
then repeat...and repeat...and...
The value of a submissive lies not in her ability to blindly fall at the feet of her Master and worship him, it is in her ability to fully display her intellectual and emotional self through the freedom of ownership.
An intelligent Dominant will understand this. He will value a woman on every level, not solely on her sexual skills or masochistic tendencies. He will see the whole person and value all of her facets, providing support, guidance and nurture where and when it is needed.
A true Dominant has self-respect, self-knowledge and is secure in his ability to lead. He will also have failings, which he will acknowledge and strive to improve, providing a moral role model for his submissive.
...unless of course, that's just Me
(with thanks) |
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'Musings'
There is a malaise in our midst. We are the passive generation, the first of our kind. All our needs are met by society.
Food, clothing, time-saving items etc etc are all cheap and freely available...We are not required to make any greater effort than to get in the car and drive to a retail outlet. Even our imagination is fed by the all consuming cathode ray tube...or lcd/plasma widescreens as they are now known. Gone are the days when books or radio piqued our curiosity but left our imaginations to paint the final picture.
What is the consequence of this passivity?
We take for granted.
We walk with our heads down, We have stopped using our senses...
...we are passive.
Tomorrow.
Break out of passivity,
Walk out of your front door...screw your eyes tight shut...then open them to the light...and look, really look at everything you see.
Close your eyes and listen, identify every individual sound that you can hear.
Walk with your head up, greet the day, greet those you meet, look above and beyond the neon facades.
Be a part of your surroundings, feel the first chill of autumn...
...live!
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'Paradox'
"The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider motorways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but worse health.
We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little,
drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.
We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbour. We conquered outer space but not inner space.
We've done larger things, but not better things. We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice.
We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.
These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes.
These are days of quick trips, disposable nappies, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill.
It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the
stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.
Remember; spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going
to be around forever. Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to
you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side.
Remember to give a warm hug to the one next to you because that is the only
treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a penny. Remember,
to say, "I love you" to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you. Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again. Give time to love, give time to speak and give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind"
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