The #500words Project ~ 2

About the #500words Project

~

The topic around which today’s 500 words revolve is a pet peeve of mine, namely that female automatically equates to submissive to a male, that the D/s construct is based upon this premise. Tumblr tells me it’s so, therefore it simply must be true.

*dramatic eyeroll*

Fuck off with that shit is my rather crude, and also too succinct for this project, response.

When exploring the notepad in my mind upon which I scrawled virtual words, I duly note the mindmap thus created, the derivative thought branches, the interconnection between autonomous identity as a concept, versus how ingrained it is within society that my identity is
usually
expressed in relation to a man.

I am my father’s daughter before I am my mother’s.
Miss or Mrs denotes that my identity is defined by whether or not I am married(to a man). Recent experiences with a deeply ingrained misogynistic attitude manifested as being deemed defective if, at my age, I was not yet married. “What’s wrong with you?” was the question put to me when I stated that I have never, indeed, been married.
Were I to get married, my father would, traditionally, give me away(denoting transfer of ownership) to my husband.
Fuck that noise. Possessing a vagina does not make me a possession.
Even my primary identifier, woman, contains the word ‘man’ as a constituent part.
I am not anti-men, but I am passionate about having autonomy, as a human being, and as a woman.

I have a massive problem with authority figures, of all genders. You(generic) having a specific title does not make you my superior, or mean you have power over me. If you desire that I show you respect, then earn it. Your arrogance, and supposition of authority, will not buy it from me.
Whilst in my first job, the company offered to pay for training courses, and knowing which course I wanted to do, I put in my request.
Naivety, however, placed me in a corner. The course I was supposed to want to take, due to my gender, due to possessing a vagina, was typing. I had no interest in that…
Bitch, please.
Typing?
Pfft, fuck off!

…yet the male manager was utterly incredulous, and questioned me, twice, for clarity. “What do you mean you don’t want to do typing?”.

Internal response
Oh, sorry sweetheart, do I need to speak a little slower, given comprehension clearly isn’t your forte?

*wry smile*
It seems that Tumblr isn’t the only entity which assumes that, as a female, my primary purpose was/is to simply comply.
Yeah, right.
Fuck.That.Noise

Neither does my sexuality equate to my being submissive.
Heterosexual means I am attracted to, and form romantic relations with, men.
That’s it.
Falsely conflating submission with sex is another of my pet peeves. For me, the two concepts are entirely separate.
Yes, I enjoy being sexually dominated, a circumstance under which the two overlap, but Dominance and submission can, and often do, exist outside of the sexual arena.
Being dominated doesn’t mean I’m going to suck your dick.

So no, I am not submissive because I happen to own a vagina.
My submissive nature is entirely separate from my gender, biological sex, and anatomy.
I submit to Sir because of the way he makes me feel when I’m around him. He doesn’t have to do anything in order for me to feel those things, he purely inspires it.
Submissive is simply who, and what, I am. It is the core of my being.
But automatically submissive
(to you)
on the basis of gender, I am not.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

The #500words Project ~ 1

About the #500words project

~

Write, delete. Write, delete, and I can feel Twitter calling. Reach for the phone, put the phone down. Twitter will still be there, in 500 words time.

4.17am.
I wrote this post, in my mind, at 4.17am.
Well, the post I wrote took on a specific form, subject matter determined, pronounced fricatives collaborating with vowels and consonants to produce imagined sounds….

Fuck, that’s only 63 words.
Maybe I should go and make a cup of tea, I did only manage 3 short hours of sleep.
*yawn*

Take photo to accompany post.
Edit photo.
Upload via the WordPress app.
Decide which version to use.

105 words.
Regardless of the topic, writing is always difficult for me.

I know what’s going to happen. I’ll get to 500 words, and be disappointed that the post I planned at 4.17am isn’t sitting here before me. The cursor will repeatedly blink, pouring scorn on my pitiful efforts.

Avoidance.
It’s what I do.

Yes! That’s what I want to do. I want to sit in bed all day, and write.
Fuck sake, I can’t, I have to go out, circumstance unavoidable.

Trust.
I was going to write about trust, my mind’s walls daubed in affiliated grafity, ugly words crudely crossed through, considered words outlined in gaudy spray paint in order that they be the focus at a later date.
Maybe.
Damn, now I’m wandering into the realm of talking bollocks.
Ummm, yeah, well, no, I don’t mean that I have talking bollocks, because, quite frankly, that would be weird. Especially without a penis attached.
Dear mind, shut the fuck up!
Right, ok, no, I meant that that sounds ridiculous. The analogy, the words, the way they’re linked and constructed. Hmm, I’ll need to rejig that if I find myself exploring that path.

Umm, is rejig even a word?
*checks dictionary.com.*
Yes, it is! Yay, go me…*self headpat with inferred sarcasm*

I peek at my phone;9 Twitter notifications.
What the fuck, I haven’t been on there yet, and I didn’t use it much yesterday either.
Meh, I’ll find out what that’s all about soon enough.
Return to topic in hand.

In hand. Penis. Tease. Wank.
It’s so easy for my mind to wander.
Reason 1,576 why writing is such a struggle.

I look at my notebook, the one I keep for blog post ideas. An informal list(of sorts), currently numbering 7, of topics that sprang to mind at various points over the course of the previous week.

Heteronormative sex script.
Losing sexual identity post hysterectomy.
Punishment dynamics, both the need for, and the destabilising effect upon my psyche if a proposed punishment doesn’t manifest.
Shifting sands, the ambiguity of limits lists.
You don’t choke me anymore.
Validity of sexual desires as a rape survivor(fuck, hefty subject, that one).
Synesthesia:Slutmeat.

Other ideas reside on scraps of paper elsewhere, in other notebooks which were close to hand when an idea struck. I really must collate all that information, all those snippets written, analogies erected, imagery painted by literary means.
Erected.Erect.Cock.Fuck.
‘Sake, now I’m horny.

502 words.

I’d set myself a time limit so as to encourage creating, not procrastination. I finished 12 minutes ahead of time.
I miss writing, I miss becoming immersed in the words, occasionally drowning in them.
Ouch! Thanks for that, mind. I’m acutely aware of my inability to communicate.

549.

I think I’ll stop there, lest this becomes a ramble, losing sight of the whole point, veering away from the intended path.

Tomorrow I’ll be back. Maybe tomorrow I will have time to sit and write more. To create a post on one of the topics above. Or something else entirely.
I’ll worry about that when I get there.

600.
Job done.

elust 93

aurora glory header elust 93
Photo courtesy of Aurora Glory

Welcome to Elust 93

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #94 Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

A dress to die for

Pushing Past

Necessary.

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Kink lite, Kink life
Disturbance

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

The Contract

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Erotic Fiction

The Contract
Speaking Truth to a Submissive Heart
Thunder
Subjugate U

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Jerking off to be banned under Texas bill
That Time Steve Bannon Destroyed Me
How to program a sex robot

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Effortless Connections & Harmonious Energy
Cialis
Playlist…

Poetry

A Love Affair, From A to Z: “A” – Always
-07.04.17_02:43-
Scouting: A Lusty Limericks

Erotic Non-Fiction

Conflict(ed) part 2
It’s All About The Feet
TEASE
Oral Birthday Fun ~ The Glorious Sixty-Ninth!
I Will Do…
The subtle threesome

Events

Eroticon 2017 – I Herd U Lieks It

Body Talk and Sexual Health

photo shoots past and future
Elust 88

Conflict(ed) part 2

I submit, not to an ideal or vision of fantastic D/s, but to the realities of a power exchange which, when it’s constituent parts are under duress, becomes a test of conviction, and faith.

I may not have wanted to fulfill my morning obligations, but there was never a point at which I considered not doing that which He required of me.
I enjoy the opportunity to serve.

Anger had turned to anguish, my mind was a mess of hurt feelings and confusion, but protocol provided for me a lifeline, a focus, and a point from which we could begin to mend.
It isn’t easy to swallow down emotion when expectation takes priority over all else, but protocol isn’t an optional extra once the commitment has been made.

monologue, internal ~ I either submit fully, or not at all. I don’t get to cherry pick the times at which I’m prepared to commit.

I’d felt abandoned, and when sleep abandoned me too, I’d spent those fitful hours beside him turning the pending moment of obedience over and over until it’s sides were worn smooth by my calloused emotions.
Fear of awkwardness and being buried beneath the weight of emotion pulled my nerves in all directions, edges torn and bleeding.

Words are often my nemesis, usually partnered with abject frustration, yet for once I was glad of their absence.
I didn’t want to talk, to be asked to speak;I knew I’d be unable to without losing control of the tears I felt compelled to keep hidden.

Conflicted, I fought with myself.
Honesty requires authenticity, of self and of emotion, yet vulnerability I desired to obscure behind obdurate indifference.

Clarify:it wasn’t submission I was struggling with.
Fact:I always submit.
But when negativity places one in extreme discomfort, mitigating the resultant pain requires considerable fortitude, the weight of which I felt suffocated beneath.

Kneeling is my safe space, where I can be unburdened, and whilst fear may still course through my veins, it’s effects become background noise for the duration.
So I became my most authentic self.
I knelt.

Confession:I wished the time between my kneeling, and his waking, would extend into infinity, so that I may remain unencumbered, and not overwhelmed by the unknown millstone of discord.

But wishes are ethereal, not made of substance or tangibile components which can be moulded into a yearned for reality, they’re shades dancing in the wind.
Untouchable, forever just out of reach.

~

I don’t remember much from this point to that, only that disappointment coated every sporadic word, each syllable laced with frigidity.
The heat of His body, from which I usually drew comfort, burned,
my skin,
my spirit,
my resolve to attempt control over my emotions crumbled.

I knew I didn’t want Him to hold me, I knew I didn’t want to meet His gaze.
I knew denying either of those things would not be allowed.
I knew He’d seek reparation through maintaining proximity, when all I wanted to do was become invisible.

I remember tears, I remember devastation, feeling my voice had no resonance with Him. A deep seated sadness suffocated my heart with each pitiful beat.

Lying next to Him, His arms around me, I felt conflicted.
In that space, He holds me whilst I tell Him my fears, yet outside that space, it appeared that my greatest fear had been played out, and my heart had ceased to beat.

I couldn’t talk to Him, He was the last person I wanted to speak to.

I wanted to scream at Him, I wanted anger to consume me and eviscerate Him in the crossfire. But my throat seized up, words, they didn’t exist in that alternate reality the previous night had created. I didn’t have the energy to be angry, it was all consumed by grief.

He wanted to engage, His own emotions not far below the surface, but I didn’t want to acknowledge them, I was fully consumed by my own.
He abandoned me, I wanted to be pained enough to abandon Him too.

We don’t fare well when we both hurt simultaneously, we retreat into our own furrowed minds.
Our physicality
usually
binds us in those moments of self-recrimination, but I didn’t want it.
I did, however, need it.
Without it, in those moments, there’d have been nothing left.

to be continued…..
Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

 

 

 

 

You cannot punish a masochist

This is a diminutive glimpse into my thoughts on (my)masochism, and punishment dynamics

~

“You cannot physically punish a masochist”

It’s a blanket statement full of holes where threads have snagged and pulled on emotions drenched in shame.

Where tears fall as realisation dawns
I’ve disappointed him.

Pain tolerance has no bearing now, a moot point soaked with remorse.
The masochist, with understanding and respect, leaves, this isn’t her time.

The submissive sits, throat dry, eyes wet, knowing retribution will be narrated onto her skin. The number doesn’t matter, the number isn’t the point, yet counting out reparation as each blow falls heals the rift, penance is given a voice.

Physical pain is the conduit through which shame is filtered, as punishment becomes healing, stripes earned through misdeed tell the story of attrition.

Tears fall before first contact, continuing long after, drenching raw, heaving sobs, atonement offered humbly at His feet.

(my)
Redemption can be found in the welts adorning supplicant flesh, 10 strokes indescribably more painful than 100 for fun ever would be.