Pierced

My heart is in my hand,
and my hand is pierced,
and my hand is in the bag,
and the bag is shut,
and my heart is caught.

-Jean Genet

Beating Banality

I was speaking with friends of mine about the fact that I have not successfully achieved subspace. Granted, it's not that I actively try...that seems counterproductive. I'm not sure that I believe in subspace, actually, since I only really have faith in something I can feel or have experienced personally.

My friend even said that she has seen me receive quite a severe beating and was surprised that I didn't reach it. The reaction of others was that they could get me there fairly easily, if given the chance.

I don't know about that, frankly. I stay very aware while in a session, and I'm not sure I could break out of that. I suspect that it will take an inordinate amount of pain to chip through my reality.

Generally, my thoughts range across a myriad of subjects and emotions, and go something like this...

'Gah, why didn't I wear the sexy undies instead of the everyday variety?? I knew this was a possibility!'

'Hmmm. My deodorant smells nice.'

'I wonder what this looks like from behind.'

'Oh, what's the name of this song???'

'Ouch, that stung.'

'Maybe you should pull my hair now.'

'Fuck. I need to get laid, this all-whipping thing is making me frenzied.'

'I wonder if he is hard...'

'This towel feels nice and rough on my nipples.'

'Oh, this is good, much more severe now.'

'I won't be able to reschedule that massage until the bruises fade.'

'Damn it, those people are too loud.'

'Sigh. Over already????'

Now you see the problem?

It was only a kiss

It was just that I needed it, so profoundly. I can't be here, read your words, and not. I didn't plan it, but I can't say it wasn't in the back of my mind.

I was patient, I tried to calm myself, tried not to jump there and be first. I watched, as I do. It wasn't enough.

There were hands and voices and yes, there was pain, some...and I shut my eyes and rode it and wanted more and harder and there were watchers and the music and those hands again and must not cum and please fuck me and don't and do and just make all of this in my head go away.

How can I feel better and worse at the same time?

Web Spinner

I do my utmost to be honest at all times. To myself, and to others. I warn people of my propensities to be a certain way, to act out in damaging ways. But I'm always honest about who I am and what I want from them or for them.

As such, when I am misled, I become incensed. Am I not worthy of truth? Am I so judgmental that I would not understand your truth? Or are you just so ashamed that you hide parts of yourself from me? How is there to be open and honest communication if you don't share all?

Through a Glass, Darkly

The note on the bed was clear. "Remove your clothing. Place the blindfold over your eyes and tie it tightly. Stand in the middle of the room." She let her fingers trail over the silk of the blindfold and felt a frisson of fear.

With a delicious anxiety, she follows the instructions. Clothes are removed. Blindfold is tied, tightly. She waits in the middle of the room, nervously shifting from foot to foot. It seems like hours, but likely only moments, before she hears the soft rub of the door over the carpet, and the click as he shuts and locks the door behind him.

Silence, deafening silence. She imagines him nearly touching her, his breath on her skin. Then he speaks, from farther away that she expected. She jumps, startled...she was concentrating so intently to hear that she missed his words. Her mouth opens to ask and her voice falters, scratchy in the blind space around her. She swallows and tries again, "What did you say?"

A quick footstep and SMACK that she hears before she feels. "What did you say Sir," he says. Breathlessly she hastens to say, "What did you say, Sir, I'm sorry Sir."

"I said, you look lovely."

She blushes at the compliment, and is shamed at having to ask for it to be repeated. Her head lowers slightly as she murmurs "I'm glad I please you."

"Stand with your arms slightly in front of you, with your palms forward and the backs of your hands resting against your thighs." he orders. She complies immediately, wondering at the specific placement of her hands.

"I'm going to wrap you now. Be very still."

He begins at her chest, tucking the end of what feels to be plastic wrap beneath her arm, then walks slowly around her, holding the wrap taut. The wrap feels smooth against her, and the tightness of the application seems like a cocoon. Around and around he wraps, carefully positioning her breasts with each wrap so that only the nipples are exposed between the layers. He continues down her body, leaving her hands exposed and then tapping her ankles to indicate that she should spread her legs. He wraps each leg individually, down to the ankle. Thinking he is done, and has left her pussy exposed, she hopes that he means to take her this way, but her hopes are dashed when he begins to wrap again.

"Close your legs." he says, and wraps her from waist to knee, very tightly. The plastic is so warm, she can feel her body heating up underneath it.

"Now, carefully, walk to the bed and turn your back to it."

Walking blindly, she positions herself so that the backs of her knees are pressed against the edge of the bed, and he slowly lowers her until she is reclined. She feels completely helpless. He reaches down and lifts her feet and turns her on the bed so that she is strategically placed in the center.

All is quiet again, her senses are on high alert, trying to feel or hear where he is. Unbeknownst to her, he is sitting on a nearby chair, just watching her, testing how long she can remain quiet. The moments stretch out, longer and longer, and she feels restless in her helplessness. She whispers, "Where are you?"

A sudden pressure on the bed from his rapid approach, and another smack."What did you just say to me?"

"Sir, I'm sorry, Sir, I'm just frightened." she explains, mentally cursing herself for her own forgetfulness.

Feeling the bed shift beneath her as he straddles her body, resting on her wrapped thighs. Her hands feel the fabric of his pants, and the hardness of his legs.

"I think it's time to begin." he says, and places a gentle fingertip on one of her exposed nipples. She moans in response, and feels a pulse in her pussy.

Ever so lightly, he strokes her nipples, teasing them to hardness. He alternates between using his open palm to rub the erect nipples, and using his forefinger and thumb to roll them. She is shameless in her reactions, trying to twist her body to have his hands come in more contact with her breasts. He chuckles and spanks her breast, telling her "No more of that, be still or I'll stop altogether."

He raises himself from the bed, and she hears the telltale noise of him disrobing. The bed is jostled again, as he lays beside her, on his side.

"Now, I think I'll have a bit of fun." He bends down and takes her nipple into her mouth, and sucks strongly. Her body arches, as much as it is able, and she groans in pleasure. Being wrapped, she is incapable of touching him in any way, and the frustration is immense. She feels him thrusting against her, rubbing his hardness against the plastic wrapping her body. She is lost in desire, his mouth on her is steady and relentless. Her body is on fire, the plastic encasing her is holding in her body heat and making an inferno of lust and sweat. Her pussy is dripping, she feels the wetness against her ass, held there by the plastic as well.

It goes on and on, this wonderful torture. She orgasms again and again, begging him to release her, to take her, to do anything but to leave her nipples alone, now, please please please. His response? Suckling more strongly.

After a particularly strong orgasm, when she has dissolved in tears and begged him again to stop, he reaches to the nightstand to collect the large pair of scissors that he placed there before she arrived. She is sobbing, so grateful that it's stopped, and barely notices the slight tug as he pulls up the bit of plastic wrap just at her crotch. She hears the snip of the scissors, and feels the cool air on her heated skin. Then she feels the cold steel of the scissors, rubbing so carefully against the swollen folds of her pussy. The tip catches slightly, and she feels the potential pain, sucking in her breath and hoping that he will take them away.

Knowing that he is smirking at her fear, she relaxes, believing in the trust she has placed in him.

Another test passed, he smiles down at her unseeing face, and places the scissors back on the stand. Then he slips a finger between her legs, and lightly runs it along her pussy. The contact makes her gasp and push toward him, and he lowers his head to attack her nipples once again.

Her legs are still bound by the plastic, only that small slit gives him access to her. She wants so badly to spread for him, to give him more, to feel more of him on her and in her, but she is constrained to just that little bit of barely-there rubbing that makes her desperate for more.

She begins to cry in earnest now, and feels an anger well up at being so incapacitated. Her body heaves as she tries to extract herself from the wrap, or twist away from his greedy mouth. He knew this was coming, and rides it out, his mouth never leaving her sore nipples, his finger continuing to brush against the wet exterior of her cunt. She fights and struggles for several long moments, and then stops, exhausted. He grins around her nipple as she finally submits fully, and reaches his free hand up to stroke her hair. "Very good, my dear, I'm proud of you." he says, and even in her defeat she is happy.

Once again taking up the scissors, he cuts away the makeshift plastic skirt, until her individually wrapped legs are not so tightly bound. She remains still, breathing heavily, waiting for the next torment. He pushes her legs apart and looks at her pussy. It is swollen, and so wet, and red from the heat. His desire has taken over now, and he mounts her quickly. Her upturned palms feel his thighs against her, and her aching cunt finally feels his cock pushing its way in.

He buries herself in her, holds himself there for a long moment, then lies full body against her. As he thrusts into her, steady and relentless just as his mouth was, he whispers in her ear, again and again..."Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Mulligan

I'm not sure if there is a way to convey how well I know that I am sometimes unable to get past the ME-ness of me. Suffice it to say that I'm nearly paralyzed with the need to reach out and make contact.

It's the way it always goes. I find out too late, or nearly so, and try like mad to turn it around. That sabotage so neatly completed and so difficult to take back. But I didn't mean it, I just needed the absence and distance to put me back in a state of unrest.

I find myself thinking it all through again and again, dismayed at how often I turned the conversation. I wonder if you recognized it, if you found me tiresome, if I'm just another failed experiment for you. I'm self-aware, painfully so, and this knowledge that I've been so thick and obvious is humbling.

It isn't that you didn't appeal, it's that I found you too appealing. I had to poke you around in my head and see how you fit there, and now I know...maybe too late...that it's not just a willingness to submit, it's an eagerness.

And I can't save myself.

It reminded me...

I once read a story written by a lesbian about her lover's hands, and how those hands were so intimate to her since they were used to bring her to such tumultuous joy. She describes seeing her lover shake hands with others, and her jealousy over such a casual touch to an appendage that she holds in such high esteem.

I remember the first time I encountered that feeling, watching a friend hold my precious and bend his spine back until it cracked. I had to look away, it was such an offense to both him and myself. I cradled him after, pressing his spine back in place, regretting ever having allowed her to touch him.

And again today, I offered a small taste of another precious to a man who looked at him longingly. I sat stone-faced and disapproving as the man dragged him closer and flipped him over so carelessly. I cuddled him to my chest later, as I walked swiftly away from that man's dirty fingers.

Don't look so shocked...books are my only lovers these days. But every page turned, every whiff of ink and fresh paper is to me a caress from a gentle hand.

Agent Saboteur

I'm a sham. A crock. A lie.

I say here that this is what I want, what I need, yet when something even remotely resembling right approaches me, I sabotage. I disappear. I dissemble. I run away.

I cringe at the thought of giving up my independence...of relying upon, of giving myself over to. Of being weak.

Instead, I embrace what is unsuitable, or unavailable, or unattainable.

Why am I so contrary?

Read this. Save me.

Judge Me

I've never been one for resolutions. Not in the strict sense, anyway. Last year, I decided to become vegetarian, and did...for 10 months or so. I suppose it's more of a Let's Try This Now than a resolution.

Whatever I choose, it's usually in the mind-improvement or socially-conscious category than any superficial "must lose 10 pounds by swimsuit season" type of bucket. Not that I fault those who want to lose 10 pounds, it's just not what I envision for my own personal satisfaction.

Before I babble on about irrelevant resolution-making, I'll get to the point. Today I created one of those Johari windows for myself, where colleagues and friends can select words that describe you. You can see where your perception of yourself and the way they see you overlap, or where they miss the mark altogether.

Knowledgeable. Witty. Those were the two most popular. I was pleased with intelligent and independent, confused by powerful, and almost offended by spontaneous.

But because I'm a very fair and balanced person, I had to give them all the opportunity to criticize me as well. Enter another Johari window, with negative terms. Childish? Unreliable? Foolish? How dare they? Vulgar, yes. Insensitive, at times. Overdramatic, well, yes, I suppose.

Seems I have resolutions to make after all.