Emotions and negotiations

Where to start?
The beginning would be a trite response, I’m not in the correct mental headspace to humour that.
My mind is….fragmented.

“Do you want….do you need to sit at my feet more? more punishment? more….?”
He asks, as we hold each other for support.

Observation.
We always communicate better when proximity finds us joined.

In my mind I was screaming, I need it, I fucking NEED it.
All if it.
It’s my oxygen, my nourishment.
Without it, I cannot be.
But paralysed brain covets it’s words.
Inhale, hold breath, release…..and (maybe) with it, syllables connected…
“yes….”
Ambiguity haunts, yes could be in response to any, or all of those questions, even the open-ended question of ‘more…?’.

~

Monologue, examine…

Yes, Sir, I would like to sit at your feet more often, but it’s not just that. It’s being placed,
having a place,
below.
Below.
That’s what I need.
A maelstrom could rage, but that place is my anchor.

Punishment.
My consciousness wraps itself protectively around the sounds the word makes as it ricochets off the walls of my mind.
I don’t desire to be punished, I desire the structure, the impenetrable boundaries, behind which punishment resides. Should I somehow, through graceless act, breach the boundary wall, I need to know…..
stumble
*mind’s whisper*
I need punishment to be exacted.

Nerves, on knife edge, balance.
I can’t tell Him that.
So I hold those words back, let the ‘yes’ consume them whole.

More….?
More.
Define.
But I can’t.
I’m already overwhelmed as emotion rolls down my cheeks.

I need Sir and pet, I need….
*sigh*

~

Explain.
Kink is my oxygen, my lifeblood, it coats my thoughts with colours, bold, vivid, a striking cornucopia of tangible dreams.
But the word dream implies fantasy, ethereal, yet my dream is to achieve authenticity, to live authentically, authentically me, and all that encompasses.
Masochist, submissive, sensation junky. Needer of pain and humiliation, needer of structure and boundaries, desirer of dark, decadent sexual fantasies.

Physicality, the flow of power between sadist and His prey.
I need it.
Connection, as leather bites flesh, as tears cascade, as masochist pleads to crawl.
I need it.

Yes, Sir, I need more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

elust 94

Exposing 40 Elust 94
Photo courtesy of Exposing 40

Welcome to Elust 94

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 #95 Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Always Coming Second

Balance

THREESOME – the card game

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The #500words Project ~ 2

#Pussy Pride

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

No Eligible Posts

*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

Forgiven
Finally A Prostitute
On Display
World Traveller
Red
Ms. Mona’s Online Dating School for Dudes

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

BDSM is Not My Source for Life.
Pure and Simple
Discussing Consent & Scene Negotiation

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

You can
All for one, or one for all…
He haunts me.

Erotic Non-Fiction

Oh no, I’m not.
the shoot begins
Raylene’s pain does not matter

Poetry

-05.05.17_00:21-
White Tee Shirt

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Orgasm Challenge

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

A Kink Couple Fantasize About the Waitstaff

 

 

Elust 88

Saudade ~ Yearning

[soh-dah-duh]

noun

1.

(in Portuguese folk culture) a deep emotional state of melancholic longing for a person or thing that is absent:

the theme of saudade in literature and music.
~
Kink is my oxygen, without it, I cannot breathe. Blood becomes heavy with melancholic thoughts, heart slows, pulse indicates bare existence, visceral, nothing more.

Time is the enemy here;the bated breath holding until the next blow falls, the disconsolate blue tinge of oxygen deprivation creeps deeper as I wait.

Imagery is a cruel master, throwing me titbits of longing, brutally cold to touch.
I shut them down, I cannot look, wrapping myself in memory as I try to keep warm.

It’s cold comfort though, and under the heat of nostalgia, the biting frost remains.
Dust bunnies collect as I paint myself into a corner, deliberately blurring lines that I may become camouflaged, emotions becoming the plaster holding me in place. Layer upon layer of paper placed over to conceal any fracture lines which have the audacity to appear.
Emotion must not leak, lest it’s ferocity thaws the frost, and I drown under the violent cascade.

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.