The Hard Edge of Truth

We have all truths.  Are mine the same as yours? After all, we're all seeking our own truths, aren't we?  I don't find it at all unusual or inconsistent that my truth can be articulated by a submissive woman, so here is one version of it, like looking into a mirror and seeing yourself reflected back, the same, only the image is reversed. The ass-fuck can be literal or it can be a metaphor, you get to choose.  I did.

"Ass-fucking is the great anti-romantic gesture - unless of course, like me, your idea of romance begins on your knees with your face in a pillow . . . Ass-entry involves the hard edge of truth, not the soft folds of sentimentality inherent in romantic love . . . If you can let a man ass-fuck you - and only the truly sensitive lover should have that privilege - you will learn to trust not only him but yourself, totally out of control.  And beyond control lies God.

"Humiliation is my greatest devil, but when the eye of my terror is entered, I experience my fear as unfounded. It is through this physical surrender, this forbidden pathway, that I have found my self, my voice, my spirit, my courage - and the cackle of the crone . . . This is the truth about the beauty of submission. The peace of submission. The power in submission. To me, you see, I have happened upon the great cosmic joke, God's supreme irony.

"Enter the exit. Paradise awaits."

-- Toni Bentley, The Surrender

Pretty Things - Yoga

"When the body is cleansed, the mind purified and the senses controlled, joyful awareness needed to realize the inner-self, also comes." - The Yoga Sutras of Pantajali

"Nudity is a woman's natural state. It is the best reflection of her beauty and submission." - Airudyte Dom

The Other Side

 
"I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, fucked, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding."


Anais Nin

A Light In A Dark Room

I had this dream recently.

I am walking down a hallway with a girl and in the dream I know she is my submissive. The ends of her brown hair curl out from beneath a black latex hood that is tucked into a high leather collar and she is cuffed at the wrist and ankle, a rope looped through the D rings binding her hands behind her back. The ends are snubbed tightly at each ankle. Another rope connects her feet together, with just enough slack to allow her a slow, shuffling walk, like a hobbled horse. I am holding her upper arm, guiding her. The girl is nude and her tan is dark and even except for the faintest traces around her ass where she must have worn bikini bottoms recently. I will have to speak to her about that later.

The corridor is in darkness, lit only by a spill of yellow light from an open doorway ahead of us. As we get closer there are muffled sounds coming from within. I can hear them but with her own hearing muffled by the hood I don't think she can, not yet. There is rhythmic thrumming, unmistakably leather on flesh and as I get closer I hear soft exhalations keeping time with the louder blows.

We move forward slowly. The girl hears them now. Her lips have parted and I sense the slightest faltering in her step, the merest suggestion of a hesitation, before she resumes her awkward stutter step.  We are just outside the door now and there is no doubt: someone is being flogged vigorously, a steady metronome that marches forward relentlessly, the exhalations now turned into mindless grunts as the intensity increases.

We have stopped in the doorway and I can see inside. It is all darkness except for a high table sitting in a wash of bright light. The table is black and a girl is stretched out on top, long and pale, stretched impossibly wide and vulnerable. They haven't blindfolded her but with the light directly overhead I doubt she can see much more than shadows. From my vantage point, though, I can see the people gathered around, hovering in the darkness at what would be the edge of her vision. There must be 8 or 9 of them, both men and women, dressed in leather and latex, some masked, a pair of bare pierced breasts, high heels, vinyl dresses, torn stockings. The audience is murmuring approval as a shirtless man in leather pants and motorcycle boots plies his trade. The girl's skin is red and striped - tits, stomach, calves, thighs. He has been working his way up her legs and as I watch strikes the first blow on her yawning wide pussy.

She cries out sharply and the girl next to me flinches. I tighten my grip on her arm, small and soft in my hand.

As the pattern of blows picks up the grunts of the girl inside the room become a series of cries, punctuated by the wet impact of leather on skin. He finds a particularly sweet spot and she shrieks piteously, body arching up off the table, reflexively seeking escape. There is no place to go.

The girl beside me moans and pulls away but I don't let her. The sound from inside the room has become a keening wail. From the watching crowd there is laughter of delight and applause; they revel in her torment and surrender. She will break soon, I think, while they watch and enjoy. There will be nothing left of the girl on the table, just a raw, clenching animal, untethered from her rational self, floating free. It will be breathtaking to watch.

I grab my submissive's pussy roughly, probing with a practiced hand.   As expected, she is wet and ready. I let her taste herself on my fingers.

It will be her turn on the table shortly. I drag her forward into the light. 

Pretty Things - Thank You, Tom Ford

Some of the best erotic photography these days is high-concept fashion advertising. The designer Tom Ford, in particular, has explored a theme that is near and dear to my heart: the vulnerability and beauty of the nude female form coupled with elegantly-clothed males. My favorite in this set is the wedding picture on the stairs. So, thanks Tommy.

Relish Her Tears

"Keep me rather in this cage, and feed me sparingly, if you dare . . . It is only when you make me suffer that I feel safe and secure.  You should never have agreed to be a god for me if you were afraid to assume the duties of a god, and we all know that they are not as tender as all that. You have already seen me cry. Now you must learn to relish my tears. And my neck: is it not charming when, filled with a moan I am striving to stifle, it grows tense and contorted in spite of my attempts to control to it? It is all too true that when you come to call on us, you should bring a whip along."

Pauline Reage

The Plastic Maiden

Once the ropes are set I stand back to admire my handiwork.

She is bent over the end of the table, cuffed at the wrist and ankle. It is a big, sturdy country-style supper table, painted and stained lacquer black. Ropes tie each of her limbs to the four legs, pulled taught, unyielding and pitiless. I can see the strain in her shoulders, back, the long quadriceps quivering. I have positioned her high on the table, the edge bisecting her perfectly at the hip joints and pussy. She is long-legged but can barely reach the floor and only then up on her toes.

She has worn a black latex hood for the past hour while I spanked her and warmed up her nipples with small hair clips.  When I led her blindly into the back room she knew what was coming and trembled visibly while I prepared the ropes.

This table is my own special creation, custom-designed for suffering and pleasure. When I made it, I went to an office supply store and bought a simple plastic office floor mat, the kind with a flat surface backed by sharp teeth for gripping carpets.  I cut it into strips and then glued them, teeth-up, onto the table in two spots: the edge at one end and then another series of strips at the midpoint.  Craftsmanship is important; I carefully measured my submissive and the table to make sure she would feel exactly what I wanted her to.

And now, as I watch, she lays with the weight of her body hitting the rows of cruel points at her pussy and hips on one end and her tits on the other. She whimpers with the effort of trying to keep herself off the teeth. It is impossible, of course. Her arms are stretched so far in front of her that she gets only limited leverage with her elbows to ease the agony in her nipples.  Only when up on her toes can she bring at least some relief to her pussy and even then in only short bursts before her toes slip on the tile floor and the full weight of her hips drops back on top of the torture strips.

The Plastic Maiden, I call it. The mere mention of it brings dread into her eyes and quickens her breath. She fears it and craves it in equal measure.

The sides of her pale breasts as they pillow out from beneath her are stark contrast to the ice-colored plastic teeth and I know that her brown nipples, so prominent and sensitive, are trapped beneath her. It feels like being stung by ants, she had told me. I admire the calf muscles cording with effort and that ass, already striped red, bobbing as she tries to keep her pussy off the cruel points. She moans with the exertion, then cries out when she falls flat.

Her pussy? No. My pussy. Just watching her torment makes me hard.

Eventually I will flog her again but for now I don't want anything to distract from the stinging in her pussy and tits.

And after she is flogged and the burning in her shoulders, cheeks and thighs have begun to distract her from those endless, infinite rows of needlelike teeth, I  will lean over and whisper into her ear what's going to happen next.

"I'm going to fill that ass," I will whisper, tender as a lover. "I'm going to fuck it and fill it completely and I'm not going to stop."

But not yet. Right now I watch her squirm and sob softly in her helplessness and feel the blood rush into my cock.