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| Only one sub/slave needed here. Must be willing to learn, relocate if needed, and have a desire for emotional stability. Be in decent shape, appealing, and ready to go the distance.
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Just returned from Detroit where the cold rips at the heart like ice chopped with an axe. I need warmth, red veined loving, pulsating loving, all around loving again and again. |
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Back after short respite. |
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The slow sweet agony of my torture ....you will ride the wave from your belly to your soul.
Again, time stops. The magic is white rain on the Black Sea. Thunder is everywhere. |
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she had that Amy Winehouse thing going,
nervous,
squirming to some music in her head,
her black hair teased and swept,
waiting for the flight to take off,
her ruby lips moving
to the song she sang within herself,
and I wanted to give her a shot
to ease her pain,
and then the plane rumbled,
we both closed our eyes
and she dug her fingernails into my arm
for a brief moment,
and then we went back again
into two strangers, on a plane,
and for a moment I smelled her sweat
and I inhaled and looked over her
and out the window. |
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I want the fire in your soul.
I want to capture the moment just before you cum.
The frenzy,
Time and space stops.
You would give anything,
Be anything to release,
To finalize your desire,
The she wolf is in submission,
Head lowered, ass up,
Surrendering
For three thousand years
The same always,
Again, and again. |
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The yin: the fire of deep truth. Consummate hunger.
The yang: the wave of emotion. Wet addiction. |
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I want her breasts on a platter.......to feed the hungry. |
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Cry tears, cry release, cry all that is within you. The means to this end is my choice, and I will pick wisely. It will not be easy, but attainment is reality for you. Yes, and yes.
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The truth is less powerful as most people do not listen or seek the truth. They seek their advantage. I have no problem with this, as the hunt is following the scent, and then, the truth will avail and become prominent because at the point of time when the hunter meets the hunted the Master will prevail and that is the power and the truth combined and surrender will be bliss. |
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Humiliation
The art form for collectors of depraved theatre. |
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Sometimes you have to tear the whole thing down. Destroy the past. Take it all away and give it back slowly. |
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I was in Tel Aviv. She was dark haired, slim with bedroom eyes and a soft husky voice. We were at dinner and a bomb went off somewhere close to us. Every cell phone rang at the same time and within ten minutes the restaurant cleared and we were walking down the street towards the sea, the sound of sirens multiplying the closer we got to the sea. Ahead I saw the Hilton, my temporary home, and she took my arm and held on tightly as we walked. The streets were crowded and we were pushed against a wall by the throng of people going in every direction, and she ripped her stocking and lost the heel of a stiletto so we hobbled into the hotel. We went to my room, and I ordered brandy. From my balcony we could see the carnage, and I held her tight as she sobbed uncontrollably. This was her city, her people, her life. I was just a visitor, and man from another country who had taken her to dinner. She cried and I held her most of the night. At dawn, the sirens had died down, and all we heard was the tide from the sea rolling in and rolling out. She was calm now. Without saying a word she knelt in front of me, unzipped my pants and sucked me off. My hand rested on her head as I did not have to lead her, command her, or force her. I held off as long as I could and I came violently in her mouth. She swallowed, and kept my cock in her mouth for a long time. It was soft and she still sucked. The sun rose, and she quietly left my room, without words or goodbyes to go out and face the world. |
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Surrender is to mind float in the clouds while your kneeling on earth. To stop time and space and just let him capture your mind and then your body follows. This is where the primal addiction lies, in stopping time and space. The moment this happens you are owned. The trick is to extend this so that you have a livable situation, where you can blossom doing regular things and still maintain the cloud cover. |
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I am the shot of love.
I will impale you,
I will take you down,
I will run in your blood,
I am the shot of love. |
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To crave: to feel a physical addiction, and then a withdrawal, an obsession with certain styles, symbolic gestures, and actual gratification of said craving.
You either have it, the craving, or not. |
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In the end, the pain given is a reflection of the need of a cleansed soul. The movement of the whip is timed for breath in and out. The rhythms dance across the body, a Gorian chant the supplicant sings, in space silence. Heat and warmth are given after. Some balm may be applied, or just the quiet reassurance from a strong quiet voice that vespers is over. At this time the candidate may notice some uncontrollable shaking and shivering as the body rises slowly back to room temperature. Loving should occur now. |
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We want to own, to control, to possess. It is in our nature. Wars are fought, friends banished, sides changed all due to the nature of hunting, possessing and controlling. I follow the scent. I inhale the scent. It is natural. |
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Over my French Roast some thoughts: Sometimes you have to thrash your way through the bayou to find that one wild flower growing solitary in sunlight. Past the muck, the gators, snakes, reptiles, to gather that one beautiful flower. Why would anyone work so hard for this singular bloom? The answer is in the hardship, the patience, the lack of fear to do so. When you find it, it is yours, only yours. |
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The circus has left town. It is time to get serious. It is time for you to cum so hard you will cry. |
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The time comes when the worm turns in the bottle, and you have to drink it down. To cross that threshold, to offer that amount of trust is where it all starts and time stops. You know that I know that you know. The flower is ready to bloom. Flora Palinda. |
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Let us create our rituals.
There is order in worship.
Many needs must be met.
Many gifts given and received.
Life is sustained by ritual.
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Humiliation is an art form. To push that limit is like landing a plane through the clouds. Will you make it to the ground? |
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The Knight Errant: The vital source of the honor code, the responsibility of all those who own and plan to own, first and foremost is protection, in real time life and death, to guard steadfast, taking no prisoners when it comes to the woman impaled with this rare love and caring of this love. It is not take and leave, steal and throw away, but it is a system of nobility, a house of honor, and all burden's will be lifted by the shoulders of the Knight Errant. He is steadfast, he is there at all times, watchful in anticipation concerning what he owns. This takes time, this takes depth, and this takes skills of all senses, acumen, he is after all: the Knight. |
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A sensuous mouth, darker lipstick than normal, and I see you across the room, your mouth drawing me near, and then when I get close enough, within breathing room, your tongue flicks as you smile, knowing that your mouth is a beacon, a love radar, and suddenly you laugh, your mouth opens wide, and at the peak of your laugh you look me directly in the eyes, and we hold eyes for a moment too long, and you know that I know what your mouth is for. I sip my cocktail, my eyes zone back to your love radar. |
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Over my French roast before I head for the gym, I seek the "look". This is not a pose, but the ability to know what you are and you love that. Passing you on the street our eyes will meet in a thousand of a second, you will lower your eyes for a moment, and you know that I know and vice versa. Magic some call it: I call it for what it is, a very small power exchange for seconds. Sips my coffee and remembers the last time this happened when I was walking somewhere.............Powerful magic. Yes. |
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I search for the look, for the savior faire. |
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And so, you are a class dame, all dressed up and no where to go, or to go off with meaningless relationships, when you want deep and intense, intelligence to rule the body, and the ache in your cunt whenever he speaks. It almost annoys you that you have no power over this ache but it is life and life is good some times, and great in rare instances. |
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The muse: she realizes this is her destiny. He will use her in his creation. She will offer her back to stripe, her breasts to milk, her soul to mix with her heart to find new colors, new words, new meanings. Few are called for this. |
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Over café con leche and Cuban toast I dip the toast into the rich sweet coffee.
I watch your eyes, and offer you some toast, and I will feed it to you.
It is the simple things that are the most erotic at times. |
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Simpatico. Scent. Unveil. Yield. Cum. |
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I will meet you, dressed to go anywhere. you will find me better looking in person, my voice melodic, my eyes only on you. I will order for us effortlessly, again focusing only on you. At this time you know I will demand your best, and, I will not have to ask for it. it will be done, willingly. I will teach you something new everyday, I will listen, and when I call you will come. Your nipples will be sore, your body well used. There is no place we cannot go. I will create a perfume for you to wear for only me. We will have to go to Paris to get this. |
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The edge is thin, veiled, and oh so close. It is just a few steps forward. The sky is gun metal gray. Your heart is beating slowly. You have arrived. |
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It always eventually evolves into the need to give the pain and the love that flows with this need is something written in a different language, a strange euro language, guttural, primal, and the intoxication of Dom space, sub space, all space moving yet remaining on firm earth is amazing to me. It is not limits that most speak of but rather the gift of understanding, that the truth is humiliating yet honorable, uncontrollable desire that must be controlled, and to listen to the melody that is playing, the music of owning a moment in time, the dancers swaying to this dance; creation. |
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If I could paint it would be like Degas. Maybe even Goya.
Matisse has too much red, Picasso has just enough meanness, and Monet never got past the flowers. |
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A cruel beauty. The look in your eyes when you lie down and see the crop in my hand. My whisper is an echo in your desire.
It is a metaphysical haiku. |
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Like a Spanish Fly it gets under your skin and your body is uncontrollable and yields a hungry mouth craving to suck, your head a frenzy bobbing up and down, not getting enough, never getting enough. |
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I have spent a few moments reflecting upon my time in the Musee d'Orsay. I was spellbound standing in front of the work of Degas. I must have spent an hour feasting on his paintings. I then left the Musee walking into a pouring December rain, seeking shelter and I came upon a small café, its windows steamy from the early evening dampness. I squeezed into a table between two sets of lovers and had a bowl of soup and bread with a glass of red table wine.
The man next to me was caressing his lover's thigh his fingers inching towards her mound. She was wearing a skirt and camisole blouse. Without shame, she spread her legs as he continued to caress her inside thigh. He knew I was watching. I am not normally a voyeur, but as I dipped my bread into the onion soup and ate, he slid his hand into her plain white panties. He began to finger fuck her. I drank my wine. Paris. I thought: Paris. Her eyes closed and I smelled her from where I was sitting. Paris, I thought. I asked for my check. |
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It Happened One Night.........Clark Gable spanked Claudette Colbert. |
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Reread DH Lawrence on plane ride home. He introduced me to the life form of the cunt, the flowery imagery, pistil and stamen, the woman's cunt, they mystery behind men killing each other, marking of territories, duels, it goes back to the word cunt. In a fresh field of flowers the woman lays down and opens her skirts, sheds her underthings, and reaches for the cunt, the driving force of sweet nectar that we men hunt, seek, and must find. Nothing changes. Say the word out loud: cunt, and more cunt. On your cock, fingers, face. We never forget a woman's smell; cunt. |
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The Flight back from Houston was with moderate chop, precipitation was expected.
It was one of those nights I could have used a well dressed dame to meet me at the airport, a cold bottle of Mo?chilling in the limo. We could have driven down Bayshore, the magnificent Sago palms dripping from rain, the road slick, the champagne wet on your mouth, we would drive into the night, my hand gripping your hair, mouth on mouth. I instruct you to ride my leg, grind your cunt on my thigh, the limo driver drives on the the winding road to harbor island. |
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Sonar: The ability to smell you when you walk into the room. Radar: The ability to feel you when you walk into the room. |
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The beauty I seek will have imperfection. Only then can you bloom. I will finger your scar, unearth your smell, trace your history, wet your inner thigh, and listen to the languages you have spoken. There is nothing plain about desire from the soul. |
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Unleash the power of mind into the soul. She is to understand and merge emotions, lust, and her dark side and this is accomplished by his structure, his abilities, and his touch. He wants everything and will take everything, over time. Stripped naked and wetness dripping down her legs comes from the fire in her belly that he lit, with work and work inside her mind. There is no such thing as humiliation, there is only the need to show the world he owns her,
and he claims her cunt, spirit, and yielding body. she will kneel in Times Square, she will always be prepared to take his pain, to beg for his release that he creates exactly for her. He is the artist, she is the muse.
She will lick his boot, and he will comfort her when she is in need.
Yin and Yang. |
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After touching your beauty, I could slay a muster of peacocks. |
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When the knock is on the door,
And he is standing on the other side
her pulse quickens, as always.
when he enters the room,
she can tell he is hardening,
as it is in his eyes, his desire for her.
she feels her eyes lowering,
but she glances up once
at he softly smiles,
yet he is silent,
saying everything with his eyes,
she is so hungry to reach out to him,
to caress his face,
to reach down to his pants,
but more than anything
to feel that he is real.
he speaks softly,
she leans instinctively towards him,
in desperation she needs to yield,
now, and yes,
and yet, her forces her to wait
which seem eternal,
and upon his signal
she moves and he places his hand
on her head,
and she knows he is bursting
as she lowers herself
to the floor. |
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you wear your heart on your sleeve, you ache for the phantom, the One you need who will take you away, and will collect your body, and will use you in so many different ways, feeding you his desire to take your hunger away. This can be real if you pay the price, come to him with little shame, come to him with faith in his powerful hands. The phantom does have a name, does have an address. His voice is your wind, and you will repeat saying his name many times as you brush your hair, apply your makeup, viewing your self in the mirror for his meeting, and if you look close enough you will see his imprint on your body and soul, so find him now and pay the price you need to pay. |
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Book to read: Paul Coelho, "Adultery" |
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I have no desire for the normal beauty. I love the small imperfections, the scar, the too full lips, the differences. Style interests me. The genesis of lust : to ravage, to milk, to swell. |
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She has a proclivity for minefields. On the edge, she has learned the difference between hunger and taste. She knows it is now what you say but what you do not say. When she submits she holds something back, something deep inside. She is ready for the explosion. She has waited, her waiting nearly over. The heat will rise and set the sun on fire. |
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As Bukowski said: there is a hell of a lot of poets, but not much poetry. |
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In Aix-en-Provence the light is better for painting than anywhere in the world. The Masters all worked there. |
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