I have a confession. The kind that doesn’t need a church. Doesn’t need a priest. No. This is an admission to you Sir. Perhaps even an apology if you will. But before I delve into that head first, let me start off with…it’s your fault. It’s your own fucking fault. With your cursed/blessed fingers of … Continue reading Flawed.
Category: Perspective
Tie Me.
Tie me Sir. It’s when I’m most vulnerable. When I’ve been the closest to uttering that two syllable word we’ve agreed upon. And it is when I’m at my most vulnerable where the magic happens. When all choices have been handed off to You. When all trust has been placed into Your hands without hesitation. … Continue reading Tie Me.
A Whole New World.
the-romantic-dominant: Submitted by @uncensoredeloquence I don’t remember. I can’t recall the induction. I can’t recall the snap of your fingers along with your command. “Sleep.”I don’t remember your words whispering in my ear, painting a whole new reality. One where you are not you.I don’t remember how I got here. Standing on this street … Continue reading A Whole New World.
The Power Exchange.
Today Sir, I am in a mood. A sauntering, swaggering kind of mood. I want to seduce you. I want your eyes glued to every movement of my slinking body. I would don your favourite pair of lingerie. I would keep my hair the wild, untamed mess that it so often is. I would paint … Continue reading The Power Exchange.
Docile.
You know I’m obedient. You know I’d follow your every command. Your every whim. My submission runs deep. It’s innate. And yet…something else mingles in my blood. Something else demands to be heard. Demands to be noticed. Break me. I want to be mindless. Dumb. I want you to take the very notion of a … Continue reading Docile.
The Artist’s Muse.
My body is his canvas. His mound of clay. His blank slate. He can colour me, shape me, however he wants. His rough hands mould me into what he wants. Train me to listen. Train me to obey. His rough hands leave their mark. Their bruise. Their stripes. It’s a beautiful thing. To hand myself … Continue reading The Artist’s Muse.
In All Its Entirety.
It’s not all about the rough sex. It’s not all about bruises and stripes. It’s not all about the aching need between your legs. This is part of it too. The gentle, tender moments. The whispered reassurance of everything being okay. This is part of it too.
One Hour.
One hour. Sixty minutes. Doesn’t seem that long, does it? Say that again when you’re tied to a bed. Tied spreadeagle to each corner. Without permission to cum. Your legs kind of hurt from being stretched so far apart. But you love it. You love the ache, the dull pain. You stay this way for … Continue reading One Hour.
The Heat of the Rope.
There’s nothing like rope biting through your skin. Heating up your wrists. Ankles. You don’t struggle against them because you want out. No. You struggle against them to be reminded of how tight they are. To be reminded that there is no escaping. To be reminded just how helpless you are. Just as a toy … Continue reading The Heat of the Rope.
The Sweetest Torture.
Your breath is hot against my skin. Your tongue flicking embers onto my olive toned, slender neck. My back arches as the sensations slither down my body; my nerves crackling to life. My toes curl as your breath cools the thin trail of saliva left by your tongue. I lift my eyelids to reveal glazy, … Continue reading The Sweetest Torture.
Uncensored Eloquence 