Signature of the Whip

(1)

You take my breath away.

Last night i sat on the floor beside You, unable to take my eyes off Your handsome face. You had just played me, and i was purring with submissive bliss, relaxed and exhilarated, and then, i looked up at You. Your temples glistened with moisture, Your eyes gleamed with erotic power, and Your mouth was curved in an irresistibly seductive smile.

Incredulous, i realized that the most attractive man in the scene had chosen me.

You have no idea how much i love You.

Kiss of the Whip

(2)

Sometimes it is so difficult to be all i need and desire to be to You, and at the same time, satisfy my own needs. I want to give You the rest You need, but my body can be so demanding. I lay awake, hungry for Your touch, but unwilling to wake You. You sleep so soundly, that i am envious, but i can fill my time with many things - everything but what You give me.

You are my Master, Dominant, Sadistic Top, and i am Your slave, submissive, and masochistic bottom. We are all these things at all times, but sometimes our worlds collide, our personas emerge in ways that are not in sync. Like, when You need me to be Your submissive, prioritizing Your needs, but my bottom-self drives me, aching for attention, elevation, flight. I have to remember that each moment with You is a gift You share with me, and not a right i have, but it is hard when i am starving for a scene.

Last night i felt that way again, but slipped into my sub-conscious, and eventually my desperation was eclipsed by a soft, contented love, that i have gradually been learning is the uncharacteristic patience that is the hallmark of my submission.

Today You recognized my space, and filled the blank canvas of my desire with pain, laughter, tears and left me with the indelible signature of Your whip.

The Knot in the Whip

(3)

There is nothing like being whipped on a cold ass to instigate almost immediate hate for one’s Dom. The eroticism of the concept instantly is challenged by the intensity of the pain. And the stinging lashes come so fast and furious, there is no time to process what you are feeling.

I am reminded of this type of scene when Master reprimands and calls me to task for words or actions that i know in my heart were well-thought and innocent. I am taken unawares, slapped in the face abruptly without warning, and held accountable for sins i never realized i committed.

But i am His submissive and as such i am supposed to take it. I suppose i have consented to a certain degree of non-consensual pain by becoming His, but what hurts the most is being misunderstood.

Overall, i much prefer the whip.

My body, in the end, remains stronger than my heart.

I have never “flown” as a result of psychic pain, and i doubt i ever will.

I need and want to be ever more compliant, but sometimes, my heart and soul and mind decide for me that i must take a stand, even when agreeing and conceding would be by far the easier, and the “correct” path. Sometimes i feel that there is truly no right or wrong, but only vastly different perceptions. At these times, i feel as if mine is just as valid, and my integrity resists correction. And rebels against the certainty in Master’s voice that i am in error.

How can i apologize to His specifications, when i do not regard the matter as a case of right-or-wrong?

That is the unexpected dilemma that sometimes divides us.

The knot in the whip.

Dances With Whips

(4)

From out of the dark, he dances, casting serpents before Him, a contemporary Greek deity, malevolent and seductive. I am no Leda, He no swan, but the feral mating dance feels much the same.

The crack of the whips disrupt the rhythm of my heartbeat, though i am safe now, distant and watching, i recognize the sound as the irresistible lure of pain.

He comes in black, muscles moving over His torso, contracting and extending the length of His arms, strength in the wrists and hands transporting life to leather.

His hands, that know my body so well, i shiver…

From out of the dark, He dances, spinning and twirling His whips overhead, He comes toward me. I dare no retreat, though i know the demon that He is.

i am His consort, His Bacchante, my body pierced and embellished with the marks of ownership and pride.

Soon i will stand before Him, surrendered to His sadistic desires, relying on His expertise, intuition guiding His hand , as He plays with His trembling target, too proud to beg for mercy. Soon , i will be marked further, with the patterns of His whimsy.

He drags me to the make-shift cross, into His ring of fire. No restraints are needed - i am held there by a passion that knows no bounds.

From out of the dark, He dances. From behind my closed eyes i can see His spirit. i feel the air move, internalize the crack of the whip until at last my skin burns to its touch.

I feel invaded, violated, raw.

I feel loved, comforted, at home.

Taste of the Whip

(5)

It is all i can do not to touch myself when i am bleeding. Infallible, irresistible, sometimes i do. The smell of blood is so strong to me, so evocative, so erotic, as it brings to mind the rare and precious times You Yourself have made me bleed. What used to be the bright red flag of failure, the indelible signature of infertility has somehow reversed its meaning, and now it reminds me ot the completion i feel, a compliant animal offering under the kiss of Your brutal whip.

I like to bring the taste to my lips as i like to inhale the scent of my arousal, and to bury my face in the perfume of your desire. Your pubes are redolent, herbal, spicy, appetizing, and even the bitter pungency of Your ass goes beautifully, with the right wine.

So when i eat You, i EAT You - i ingest Your essence into my body, and it blends with mine.

I am gourmet of all that is You.