water67


waterboy Male Submissive, 45	waterbear Male Dominant, 37	waterfun Male Switch, 56, HERMITAGE, Tennessee

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	About water67 I am water. I am neither submissive nor dominant, by their traditional definitions. I am fluid, reflective, powerful in my natural order, chaos, not easily contained but containable, for a time, by the one who is willing to apply targeted force, knowing the nature of my character. As a woman I am transformative, transforming. I quench thirst and move mountains, break down barriers and promote life. I am perseverant but malleable, dynamic and difficult to hold. I am elemental, destructive, and in those moments when the sun reflects my surface, the effect is as breathtaking as it is blinding.

Respect the lady,
Use and thoroughly abuse the slut,
Protect the little girl,
And you will own the heart,body,mind and soul of the woman. --Unknown

Another submissive (loveblackck) kindly allowed me to re-post this. Elegantly, simply, it encapsulates the complex balance so many of us seek in our relationships.

My Master has released me; He is moving on to other adventures. This does not mean I am looking for another Master, I am not. If I change my mind, I will make it clear on this site, and open myself to consider Others. I ask that you respect my wishes, until I am ready to relinquish those wishes, and myself, to a worthy Master. I can't say when this will be, if ever. I am, as always, open to making new friends, but if you believe You will be the one to change my mind and make me want to serve You, I'm afraid you will be disappointed.

My Master has taught me much about myself and the nature of submission, surrender. We have shared experiences of which I had only ever dreamed, and he fulfilled many of our fantasies in ways that were intense and fulfilling. He has been a friend and, I believe, he has cared for me in the best way he possibly could. What we shared was meaningful, transformative, and just plain fun. Now it is time for him to meet his needs in other areas, and explore other relationships. Thank You, my Master, for your time and attention, and for sharing yourself with me. I will always be grateful.

The absence of pain is not happiness, it's relief. (Subspace excepted. {#} ) The absence of pain only makes room for happiness, which will be sought, or not, and will imbue the heart, the being, or not. It seems to me that happiness occurs when one's heart is open, not that all the pain is gone, it never is, but the pain no longer fills the heart. Happiness flows into that space, but also occupies a larger, more encompassing realm. Perhaps.

“We need others. We need others to love and we need to be loved by them. There is no doubt that without it, we too, like the infant left alone, would cease to grow, cease to develop, choose madness and even death.” ~ Leo Buscaglia

I can see now that the only way to give and receive the universal gifts, to both love and be loved, is to open one's heart like a child. But when the heart is open, it is open like a door or a window, to both the sun and the rain, the cool breeze and the stinging ice. As with such a portal, one can close one's heart for protection, from the elements that mar and shape it. But the heart that is closed against damage is also closed to the nourishment and beauty that stream in when the storm is finished, and from the quenching breezes when the world renews. Finally, my heart does not fear the rain. It chooses to leap and dance, splash and play in the limpid water, nascent sea, and let the sun kiss the drops away, dry and warm, in time.

It's one of those days when i want nothing i have and i have nothing i want. Of course, when it's not one of those days, i will realize that i have everything i need.

A certain dichotomy strikes me tonight, that a life so full, so blessed, can feel so lonely at times. i often wonder lately if i am alone in my trials because i choose to be, or because there is no one willing or qualified to stand beside me, or strong enough to hold me. Even those who provide moments of generous care do so out of the largest kindness for humanity. i guess beggars can't be choosers, and care comes where it must, where it will. And i am blessed, i know it. Perhaps blessed and tired. The sun brings fresh perspective. Good night, friends.

To be clear to everyone, especially those who have contacted me recently, i reiterate that i am not in the position to consider play with or service to Another at this time. i am fully and totally committed to my Master, and will remain so until whatever time as He should choose to release me. i am here at His pleasure and for His pleasure. Friends, of course, are welcome, with His approval.

Words of wisdom, 2011: Never confuse the Guide, OR the Destination, with the Journey. May the new year bring you all adventure, and peace. xo

Thank You for marking my flesh, for making me burn and cum, cry and ache ... and move closer to wholeness. You are a gift, Sir. A strong and challenging One, as insightful and wise as You are harsh and demeaning, kind in myriad and unusual ways. Thank You, Sir. Thank You.

Note to self: Never confuse the Guide with the Journey.

For the first time in months, I viewed my own profile, and realized that I had left my posts on a sour, wistful, note. Today the trees are glimmering, backlit sun wash, kiss of breeze, the coolness a premature but welcome taste of Autumn. The promise of change is upon U/us! I wish my fellow explorers a season of possibility, the loveliest possible light, and shadow. xo

In the midst of adept, reverent holiday food prep, feast day machinations, I sip my reheated coffee. It tastes like urine, not just any urine, his urine. This connection to debasement, the incongruity, is jarring. M'Lord, what have you done to me?!

There is also a certain comfort in it, celebration of disparate parts, eclectic, that join to form a whole. What does that whole, and that holeness, say about me (besides that I need a Starbucks closer to home)?

Are you a "glass half full" kind of girl, or a "glass half empty"?

The issue is not the amount in the glass, nor its reference point, but that the glass in question is a constant, neither fillable nor drainable.

Perhaps it's time to consider a new, more dynamic vessel?

Rain, rain, go away....

It must be the rain. So many messages lately contemplating the meaning of my name, a name bestowed by another but that I have come to relish as a symbol of my character. One kind insightful traveler invoked 40 foot seas as evidence that there is nothing submissive about water. That may, in fact, be true. I have contemplated the reflective, erosive, transformative properties, as well as the healing properties, life-giving, its role in the cycle of growth, and it heartens me to see my qualities ring true with so elemental a force. I find that in captivity water may, for a time, conform to the shape of its containment, or as a wise person said much better than I could:

"water will take any form you want it to take....if you have what is needed make that happen....and you apply it until the desired result is attained - and not a second less time than that. In such cases water still does not submit to you....but it shows you respect. It does what you compel it to do because you have shown it you can for the moment control it. Therein is the love and the power. It always wants to escape but it cannot if there is strength containing it."

Thank you, wise Seafarer (you know who you are).

I miss him. Then again, I have missed him longer than I have been without him. It took the emptiness this long to overtake the wash of relief in not failing. Then again, the turning away may have been the biggest failure of all.

I did as you instructed, Sir, and rouged my lips with my menstrual blood. I can't recall any task you have given me that has had such a profoundly visceral effect on my sense of myself as your slut. For the first time on my own, I felt what may have been shame, a certain self consciousness at the whore I am so visibly for you. I imagined what I would look like to others, seem like among those who know me and those who don't, strangers witnessing your slut's performance, her willingness. And what I would look like to you, Sir. Would you kiss the lips stained with my feminine waste? Or would you smear my slut face with it, then make me face the slutty mess I am. All this was followed by the salt-metal taste, the scent of my own blood and tissue, the wanton red shine in the mirror, the audacity of harlotry at your command, the color and essence of my submission.
Thank you, Sir.
Yours,
water

Am I a crippled bird you have benevolently caged, bound and splinted, the one you will coax to fly?

Bits of home bestowed in shavings and seed cannot rival the cerulean expanse, just as our shallow dives cannot divulge the ocean's secrets.

If I choose to soar, return to you, will you clip my wings or fling me toward heaven?

"You didn't come here to think for yourself..."

Pressed up against the textured wall, my face became hot, my lip quivered, the tears welled up in my eyes. I blinked them back, sniffled. I stood up straighter. I had disappointed Him. The whip tendrils stinging my ass, his words burning my ears, it finally sunk in, what should have been self-evident. Pleasing Sir is not about thinking. In fact, pleasing Sir is all about NOT thinking, about turning off the mind, surrendering it, along with any concommitant will, to Him. When in that room, he does not want me for my mind, he does not even like my intelligence and intellectual strength, the forces that have served me so fully in every other part of my life. They only get in the way. He wants to possess and use my body, unlock it, undeserving cunt that it is, the weakest part of me. The body that betrays me again and again, the one I override at every turn. I can relinquish my body: my sight, my skin, my orifices, even my heart at times, but the mind remains steadfast, sometimes by a thread, but still, it hangs on, perhaps out of willfulness or fear, perhaps as some vestige of comfort.

Total surrender is messy business. I am sometimes disappointed, and at times repulsed, by my body's reactions, its limitations and weaknesses. It will take regular, relentless training to get past that, but I can, and am, slowly building my body to keep up with my desires, for strength and for pleasure. Sometimes it's so hard. When I'm with him, I want so badly to please him. From where I began, perhaps that alone is progress.

water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink....

Today is one of those gray, blustery days that could go either way. I love the wind, the whisper of the leaves, fluttering of curtains, its cool kiss on my skin. If the gift of this rustling quiet could remain, my thoughts might drift to more lustful, salacious gifts, given and received. But daylife calls, the laundry is spinning, family is spinning, life is spinning its wheels on the track of the day. So I will keep my thoughts of my Sir, our dark shared fantasies, nestled deep within my consciousness, but perhaps not too deep, so they twirl up amidst the dogwalk, the folding, a sweet, hot swirl in the vanilla of this day.

Toying with my grilled salmon salad, listening to the children play twenty questions, I realize I'm homesick for a place I've never been.

Absence makes the slut grow fodder.

Food for thought. I awoke this morning hungry, missing Him, feeling deliciously slutty, having no doubt dreamt of myriad ways to please Him. I am not growing impatient, mind you. In fact I am savoring each day in which He is off building back his life, and I am pulling back from the precipice, working on my own vision of my future, which may or may not include active submission. W/we'll see. But mornings like these are gifts, bestowed perhaps unwittingly by words across the ether, a restored connection, or simply by a burst of torrid optimism. But gifts they are, no less. Good ones.

I have been pondering expectation, the value in those blissfully breathless moments in the days leading up to time with Sir, and the value of fantasy as it feeds that expectation. There is a part of me that clings to those powerful images as anchors, in preparation, but in my depths I crave the utter darkness, the physical, psychological and emotional unknown. Our desires are in synch; Sir and I are ?on the same page? and there is comfort in that confirmation. But my hope, my wish if I am allowed one, is that the tentative fantastic compatibility solidify into a touchstone for exploration of the vast uncharted, not just for me, but for both of us.

My first case of sub drop and a raging UTI beg the question, why am I doing this? Developing feelings of submission and attachment have been met with my own compensatory brand of dominance, reminding that this could go wrong in a few different ways. Why, then, am I checking playdates? Why am I smiling?

The need to walk away is the best reason to stay. And stay I will. Look in the mirror, slut. Look. Don't you dare look away.

Thank you, Sir.

My when the floodgates open, they really open, don't they?

I've been thinking about something Sir wrote that resonated because I had come to it myself just earlier. He mused that being vaginally fisted for the first time must seem like giving birth in reverse, and it does. It's miraculous but not surprising that such access involves pushing out in order to draw in. The body does this again and again, push and pull, give and take, an urgent easing dance that is so much a metaphor for our relationship, this exploration.

So many similarities in practice: the position, legs pulled back, thighs open, the gradual but intense stretching, the partnership. For the first time since my drugless birthings, that cavern resonated with purpose. Even the feel of his fingers pressing against my smooth walls was not unlike the alien imprint of infant knuckles against the taut skin of a 9-month belly. And his voice, with measured authority that wove its litany of encouragement, "keep going, bear down, you can do this." You can do this. If he had conjured the mantra of my name, waterwaterwaterwater, the way the doctor did in those perilous, miraculous moments before the head emerged, I am sure I would have choked on my breath or started crying. And when he was finally in, the pleasure, even joy, was uncontainable, the pride, the birth of a certain bond, a slut, and perhaps the freest of women.

Ecstacy is not easy to receive.

I recall lying on the bed, bound and spread, muted, in blissful darkness and music. There was something decadent about it, and challenging. I was exposed, wide open, but that was not part of the battle. I was willing to open myself to him in any way he wished, desirous of that, in fact, more than anything I have felt in a long time. The battle was with myself in my inertia, his care and effort. Surprising. Lying there I felt corpulent, lazy, and dare I say vaguely unworthy of his ministrations. In the blankness I created in my head for those moments, my mother's lessons crept in opportunistically, buzzed above the thread of music ... don't be lazy ... don't take up too much room, time, energy ... don't let anyone see you ... don't ask for anything, or want too much ... don't be ... too much work. Be grateful, always grateful. The subsequent moments of my own verbal quiet, his bestowed ecstacy, were the loudest, most chaotic of all. Demons and angels warred, brandishing chaotic melodies, and I tried desperately to tune them out, focus on sensation, quiet her voices or raise my own above them. I did, finally, and rose or fell into the moment. I lived there awhile with him, his dominance, my submission, desire, a glimpse of my nature, and that alone is no small victory. It was then that I knew I could do this, and would.

This will be a long road.

He turned me to the mirror, told me to look at myself, naked, tied and chained, noseclips and rope gag, long hair mussed. This was water, slut, submissive. My initial reaction: I abhorred the helpless, doughy, ugly girl before me, and desperately loved the One who had done this to her. He made me look long, and at one point I turned toward the love and away from the disdain, was caught looking away and punished. As his hand hit my ass, I focused on my own eyes, did not look away, but did not react either. As the Corian paddle took the place of his hand, the sting tenfold that of flesh on flesh, and colder, I knew that as long as I looked at myself I would not cry out or even wince. I would not let myself, could not. Not so long as my reflection was staring back at me. Not yet.

I just returned from a walk in the glorious spring evening, the wind strong and cool, the sky clear and full of stars. I took off my jacket, let the air cool my shoulders, listened to the heavy, distant song of windchimes reminiscent of chains. What I wouldn't give to be stripped in a moonlit clearing, wrists tied behind me, those heavy chains around my neck, sealed with "water slut." His breath in my ear would raise gooseflesh, his single-tail welts, the wind blowing across the entire landscape of my body, cooling the heat of my desire, the wetness on my thighs, all the while igniting need. Contrast. How W/we both love contrast. Tonight, the wind whispers like Sir's voice in my ear. "Slut."

This was the first time. The rope was heavy, thick, and white, with a texture almost creamy. Its length surprised me. He placed my hands in front, two fist widths apart, and then placed the rope over them. Here is where it began, the wrapping, the coils lying uniformly against one another, the rope growing tighter with each coil. Here is where it began, the shift in mindset, the first steps to submission. I fixed on the methodical movement of his hands, expert, drawing on memory. With each twist, my fascination grew and something else, desire. He talked as he tied, and there was a quiet authority to his voice and below that a tender intimacy. From time to time his wrist would brush my fingers, and in this context the current of his touch made my thighs tingle. When he was finished he grabbed the cinch and made me kneel. I was transfixed. There was something comforting about the heft and tightness, something sure and steadfast that, it occurred to me then, had been missing from my life to that point. That was the first time, the first time I gave up control, willingly relinquished it in some small way. Even in that first cursory bondage, something opened, with the close of each coil.

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water67

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