Saturday, June 7, 2014

On Hold

My life is on hold. I have pressed pause. I didn't do this intentionally, it just kind of happened. I am in instamatic picture, freeze frame, whilst all around me are mobile; in motion, moving forward in the ever transient 'now'.

Love keeps me immobile. It chains me to stagnation. Insidious tendrils curved and caressed my feet, massaged their gentle way up my legs, and wrapped themselves around my body. The warm hug of love infusing my very soul encasing my eyes and making me blind to the fact that I am now stationary.

The subtle shift in condition from flowing and empowering love to being on hold was so delicate that I failed to notice. I berate myself. I call myself a fool and an idiot, loathing my trusting nature.

I disgust me.

Being on hold allows me the luxury of reflection. To work out how I came into this position. It is the same pattern of relationship played out again and again. The cracked record of my romantic life. Same men, Same relationship. Same trusting self. Same mistakes.

I truly despise me.

Love had freed me up and allowed me to be beautiful again. It allowed my natural song to be sung; sexual and wild. Free flowing and expressive, expansive, inclusive. It de-robed me from a tarnished existence and made me shine again. People noticed. They saw me sparkle, become effervescent.

I became curious once more, keen to explore and understand my body. how it worked, how I came. That had always been a problem, my orgasms. From hurried, selfish lovers who used my body and kindness as some form of masturbatory tool. To me being too generous, placing their needs before my own. I found myself in a situation where I could not come, unable to work out why but the ache and the longing of release being ever present and very real inside me.

It was this that pushed me forward; this that drew me to him. He was the key to unlock the mysteries of my body and mind. that old jaded euphemism, hackneyed, common and worn out but so apt here in my situation. A key and a lock.

And yet here I am locked down again with the same desires. It was my lust that made me realise I was chained yet again. It is not a desire or an ache within my loins that stirs in my now. Rather an energetic force that propels me to movement and makes my shackles chafe. I look at people and try and keep my lustful wolfish smile from my lips. Disguise is my friend. That glint of desperate need in my eyes is not so easy to cover and the more astute amongst my friends see it, a few comment on it.

My desire to fulfil my sexual needs is tangible and heavy, both hot and cold. A weight and the price I pay for loving a married man.

I want to break this bondage, to walk away and set us both free. The old adage of you can't help who you fall in love with is hollow and to subscribe to it means that I am a powerless victim. In my mind I recall the powerful, prowling lioness that I can be and claw at this victim stance. Yet when he calls my name I go to him, compelled because of love.

There is no imminent resolution. No quick fix or snappy answers. Time I know is my true rescuer. Time will help me unlock these chains. Time will empower me to allow them to fall from my body. On the other hand, if I blame time for my emancipation, do I also accuse time for binding me again next time, or do I blame love? I know the person I will blame the most will be me and my humiliating inability to learn from my mistakes.


In the mean time I remain on hold.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Trigger Warnings

Rebel's prompt this week is about trigger warnings, and to be honest I have been pondering which way to go with it. I don't usually follow the prompt but this one seems right up my street as I write erotica and illness, necrophillia, domesitc violence, murder etc. so most of my work could have some form of trigger warnings on it. Indeed on some of the ones I feel are more extreme I put something up at the front about people of a delicate disposition should look away.

There were several ways I could have gone with this. I could have written something heinous that set off some people's triggers. I could write about censorship and the compulsory trigger warnings on writing and books. However I was taught that if you are going to comment on things then 'add value'. I think if I went down that route then I would not be adding anything to the argument, just adding hot air.

Thus, I wanted to talk about something that I am passionate about in the frame of trigger warnings. I want to talk about intelligence.

In my working life I come across people if all shapes and sizes and intellects including learning difficulty (IQ of 80-90) and learning disability (IQ of 80 or less), as well as exceptionally brainy people (IQ of 150+). I need to communicate to all of these people, using a variety of different methods. I do not have any difficulty in communicating with them in a way that makes sense to them. One thing that I do not do, I never do, is dumb things down. I treat them like articulate human beings, because they are. Individuals with a unique sense of self and self identity.

I see trigger warnings on things on Fetlife where it may or may not be appropriate. What I find is that the 'trigger' is usually insignificant to me as a reader but of huge import to the author. I find them an irritation because they preclude me from thinking and making my own choices, if I want to read the article or not without explaining explicitly what the content is. I find that mildly offensive at the time and very offensive when I reflect upon it.

We title things to give people an idea of what the contents are. There is blurb on the back of books, DVD's, games and so on to give us more of an idea of the content so we can make an informed choice. That is why they are there so we know approximately what it is all about. Our curiosity takes us further if we want to. What is the point of getting a book if I already know what happens in it?

I am a huge fan of series like Wonders of the Solar System and Blue Planet. They cover topics that I know nothing about but pitch it at such a level so that I do not feel stupid but that it is engaging and educational. It is poles apart from Americana-esqe programmes which dumb things down to the lowest common denominator, instead or presuming that their audience has some modicum of intelligence. Spoon feeding is a huge turn off to intellectual engagement of the subject, at any level and at any age.

So let's examine the lowest common denominator for a second. The average IQ is 100 and I have yet to meet a person who does not want to be considered as an individual, a unique being. From that it is the right to make their own choices, what they want to wear, what they want to watch, what they want to read. They customise social media sites to suite them such as Twitter and Facebook. No one has a Twitter account full of Conservative party announcements when they are interested in elephant riding and not politics. They choose. They are selective.

McDonald's now famous warning sign of 'hot contents' when you buy a hot beverage is not a warning to protect people, it is a legal back covering exercise. I do not know of anybody, including people with learning disabilities, who are not aware that a cup of coffee will be hot. It does not come as a surprise to them. Therefore, it is not out of concern for the customer, it is out of concern for themselves, much like trigger warning where the concern is to relieve the uncomfortable feelings of the author.

I am all for warnings about explicit lyrics and age ratings as there does need to be some regulation; some way of knowing if it is age appropriate or contains offensive material. To be able to read my blog you have to acknowledge that you are over 18 and readers are warned that it contains adult content. I am for correct descriptions of things, accurate blurbs and titles. I am all for individual choices. The UK Mental Capacity Act states that we have the right to make unwise choices (I love that bit about it, it always makes me smile). Trigger warnings take away that right to choose, they take away any level of intelligence to make a judgement whether or not we want to read or watch something.


I am pro choice, pro intelligence, pro individualism.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Love and Scars

"Oh dear." 

It was a statement, a social comment, and a hug all rolled into one. The syntax was slow and delicate with the vowels protracted and soft. The tone inflected in it was critical but playful, telling me off but in a gentle manner. Cosseted, akin to a mother gently berating a child so that they know where the boundaries are. 

"That was silly now wasn't it?"

 The muscles around my mouth twitch into a suggestion of a smile as I ram the remnants of the chocolate biscuit into my mouth, my guilty pleasure and source of chastisement. The swallowing of evidence is not an attempt to hide it, rather a rebellious defiance that I actually have finished the whole packet of biscuits and loved it. My head is held high in mock defiance bordering on outrage at this accusation. 

I cast my eyes down knowing that I have broken my diet, tempted by dark chocolate digestives. I know she is right. Guilt does not consume me because she makes me feel loved. That warm effusive love that permeates everything: your whole being, your hair, your soul, everything around you, rooms and soft furnishings, the sky and birds and cars. All encompassing in the invisible stability of gentle love. 

I turn and inhale to say something, to reprimand her. Witty quips jostle for first place in my brain, tripping to the tip of my tongue like school children fighting to be first in line. 

I look and she is not there. Reality becomes a mirraged haze for a second. An Escher picture where I don't know which way is up. Then it reasserts itself; she is not here, she is dead and gone. Cremated. Memories of her funeral and wake swim lazily to the surface of my brain. Pain stabs at my heart. The quips wither, drying my mouth with their corpses. 

A sigh chokes down the tears and grief. Another sigh calms the sudden ache in my heart. The third deep breath reminds me that I was loved and that it is not the love that has died, just my best friend. A flicker of a smile flashes across my mouth as tears collect in my eyes blurring my vision of the detritus of gluttony that is the empty packet of biscuits. 

Screwing up the empty wrapper I put it in the bin. I smile at the weird juxtaposition of grief and love. Had I not known her I would not be so sad, so empty like a gutted fish at her loss. Her unbelievable sunshine that she brought into my life. It is almost an oxymoron the pain and love combined; that the love she showed me and the love we had for each other keeps burning, never ending. I hear her commenting on things that I am doing, I smell her perfume as I walk in the room. All of these things calm me, they help me through life. I talk to her, long conversations about both the frivolous and the serious. I talk out loud like a mad woman, schizophrenic in nature with only me hearing the response. I know she is dead and it is only my imagination, a construct in my mind but I talk to her none the less. Bollocks to what anyone else thinks, I embrace this insanity of grief and love. 

With her or without her, if I had been given the choice to not know her and not feel this pain; I would choose pain every time. Always pain. Because with it came something special, a mutual love and respect that is uncommon and is the be cherished even if it was cut short.

As always the beautiful Rebel hosts Wicked Wednesday, please check out and comment on the other wonderful entries.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Broken


My lover and I broke up. Mutually for the most part of it but I have never felt so completely broken in my life. The competition said one word....this was and is the only word on my lips and in my mind.


Sinful Sunday



Post script: this image was taken a few weeks ago and I (and my ex-lover) are both much happier now. I promise :D

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

I Promised

When I said I love you I promised to love you forever.

To some forever does not last long and to some of our friends our forever has come to an end quickly.

But for me it is still forever. I still love you and always will. The difference being: because of that love I let you go. Now you are happier, and that calms me and fills my heart anew.


Thank you for loving me and letting me love you in return...because I always keep my promise.





Monday, June 24, 2013

Consensual Non-concensual



Authors note - once again I would like to thank Lord Raven for inspiring me to write this. It is a dark consensual non-consensual tale with a twist. If you are of a delicate disposition, this is not a story for you. However, if like me, you like adventure please read on. I would also like to thank my lover for posing for me, it was very kind of him.


Your arms ache, your fingers are purple due to having the cuffs hooked onto a fixture on the beam I can tell that by the way that you squirm and twist, trying to alleviate your discomfort. I am not surprised that your muscles are seizing, you have been up there a long time. You can see me, and observe that I have been watching you for the best part of an hour but not responding to any of your requests, ignoring you shouting obscenities at me. There is a placidity to my face and you know that because you agreed to come here, because you agreed to this consensual non consensual event that I have the power. Reality dawns on you that it was nice to talk about, fantastic to fantasise about and jerk off to but this reality is uncomfortable. The physical discomfort you can deal with, you are a tough man, it is the gnawing uncertainty that is undermining your usually robust demeanour. I have always been polite and nice to you but there is a coolness in my manner towards you, possibly described as an indifference. That is the bit that is scaring you.

Spasms in your legs cause them to tremble and shake, not out of fear but due to the position that they have been in for so long. Plus you are cold, it crept into your lower back aeons ago and has settled its frosty self there, permeating all your inner organs. If I had been feeling nice I would have let you keep your clothes on instead of slicing them off you, they lay in rags in the corner. They were your nice clothes because you thought, rather stupidly, that I was going to do something nice to you. Fool. With that thought I almost afford myself a little smile but stop just in time.

I notice that the pulse in your neck quickens as I stand up. The beads of sweat, despite the chill in this cellar, betray the fight or flight response of your body. I know it is fear. I understand it is fear because my status goes before me. I am fearful.

Licking your lips in an attempt to say something, anything that will appease me, a plea bargain of some description; no matter how futile, if you do this then there will be some kind of hope. The look in my eye, that dead stare, tells you that there is not hope. Words die in your throat, unspoken. Grieving for death of your aspirations the only thing that you cling to is the hope that you will live to see the another day. People have 'disappeared' after playing with me.

With a delicacy that is unanticipated I place my hand over your heart. It is racing nicely, a good 150+ BPM, any more and I might worry about a heart attack at your age, but it is a strong bouncy pulse, this means that I can have hours of pleasure with you. My pleasure of course, not yours.

Vindictively I rake my nails down your chest and look on with  pride at the welts and the tiny pricks of blood that blossom on you. It was a nice first move. It leaves you breathless and your chest heaving. I cock my head to one side and you look puzzled, uncertain if I am admiring my handiwork and thinking about what is going to happen next or listening to a voice that only I can hear. I enjoy my reputation of insanity, of course I am not, that would be stupid. I hear no voices, see no visions, I am just a sick twisted individual who always knows where the edge is, always is able to see the line...and then step over it.

I slash your body again but this time each finger draws blood and hurts like a bitch. Wild eyed you stare and it takes you a few minutes in the gloom to notice that I have metal tips on one of my hands. I scratch you again and chuckle at your screams. You have tried to be manly, attempted to be brave, so few are once I get down to it. They cry and scream and wail; little realising that it is music to my ears. That I love it. It turns me on. Naturally you have not turned me on enough yet, you will make up for it. Within minutes your torso, front and back, is covered in blood. Pretty crimson patterns trickling one into the other forming a bloody map on your pale skin.

Tsk, tsk. It looks sore. I walk over to where I had been sitting and take a bottle out. I see in your face that you hope it is water, you look thirsty, the hope ebbs beautifully as you blanche because you have read the label. Actually you didn't even have to read it the colour said it all. There is a sweetness to my countenance, I look innocent almost angelic as I take the top off it. Looking you in the eye I reach up and kiss your trembling lips. I wonder if you will cry after this next bit.

The iodine has its own wonderful smell. Cleanliness and sterility. You see it on films being delicately dabbed onto wounds by a loving heroine to her brave hero. Pouring it slowly onto your shoulder I watch it slither down leaving purple trails to intermingle with the blood red ones. I side step to give you room to dance for me, hopping from foot to foot. It really is rather shocking the things that you say to me.

"Do you kiss your mother with that foul mouth of yours?" I ask. It is the only thing that I have said to you since you arrived and judging from your expletive ridden reaction, it is not comforting to you.

Feeling slightly mollified at your poor reaction I up-end the bottle of iodine over you and smile as you scream and cry, coughing as the fumes fill your precious, delicate little lungs. I knew there would be tears, they mix beautifully with the sweat. They drip silently from your face to your chest mingling with the colours, diluting them, making them soften around the edges.

I start stroking your cock. It seems incongruent to the painful delights of the last 15 minutes. I feel you stiffen in my hand, it is an impressive erection and I secretly yearn to lick it but I will delay my own gratification as torturing you is a lot more fun.

Returning to my bag of tricks I withdraw a doubled up loop of string with a strange metallic rod on the end with a flat circular stopper. I make a larks foot out of it and place it around your balls, tightening it. I feel you judder and listen to the moan of pleasure without taking my eyes off your cock and balls. I walk a few paces back and admire the sight of you. A multi coloured delight: red, purple, white skin; beautiful.

I reach and get what look like silver coins playing with them in my hands, allowing the 'chink' noise to resound and become your focus. I look up to see a delicious puzzled look on your face. Wandering up I stand close to you, too close, I feel the exchange of body heat. Gazing into your beautiful face and see the frown as you noticed they are just flat metal discs, no stamp on them and a groove cut into the radius of each of them. Not wanting you to look too dumbfounded for ever I slip the first 'coin' onto the metal rod and let it drop. An unexpected moan leaks from your lips as it pulls on your balls, it is then that you realise that each of these discs is a lead weight and that I am going to add them one by one until you can't take it anymore.

Your sweating and gasping as your scrotum stretches and changes shade is wonderful. Your erection remains because in spite of the pain, in spite of the degradation, in spite of the blood you are fucking loving this. I 'accidentally' brush your cock and see you shudder, bristling with desire to cum. After slipping a couple more weights on I kneel down and place your cock in my mouth. The warmth is infusing and the salty taste fills me. I know you want a blow job. I know you want me to suck and lick you. I am not going to do that, that would be a nice thing to do; I am not nice. Instead I hum, no particular tune, just something to move the vibrations from my mouth into your dick. Playfully I flick the weight on your balls with my finger and watch you wince. Your breathing is tight and your eyes are starting to glaze as I add another weight. Oh dear, it really is getting too much for you.

I would love to hurt you some more. I would love to terrify you but time is against me. I return for the last time to my bag and draw out my hunting knife. It is big and shiny and sharp as hell. I place it onto your cheek and press hard. Your reactions are dulled and slow but I can see you can feel its bite. Grabbing a hand full of hair to focus your attention back onto me works wonders. How dare you let your mind wander? I see you at your physical limit. Scraping the point of the blade over your face and drawing it along your bobbing Adam's apple, I smile as I see that anxiety flicker in your eyes once more. Holding the blade to your throat I grasp your hardness and slide my hand up and down. Quivering I know you are close to coming and you are not sure if it is allowed. Unable to stop your arousal you cum in solid spurts, thick and tactile.

A look of coldness returns to my eyes and an awareness that you have suddenly done something wrong. The ache in your balls where the weight are no longer arousing, they are painful and you really want to get down. At least that is what you are thinking. What you really want to do is to get as far away from that glint in my eye as possible.

Walking behind you I see the thoughts in the air, the hang words; words that are thought but not said. This is consensual non consensual. This is meant to feel scary. It will be ok. It will be fine. Hell that was an excellent orgasm but I will be fine because she will release me.

Wrong.

The last thing you see is the spurts of scarlet blood as I cut your throat. You came before I gave you permission.




Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Second Chance




"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." Brian looked mortified. Fear brimmed in his eyes as they began to water with shame and sorrow.

Looking down at Ali he trembled with dread at the retribution he would receive. It was the comments that he had had from previous partners. Well, not so much the comments as the lack of them. It was the sighs, the silences. It was when the women were polite to him, but then there were the flash back comments:

"It's ok."
"I don't mind."
"Is that it? Fuuuuck."

The humiliation was excruciating. It made his stomach churn, the nausea would follow soon after. The bloom of embarrassment would emerge on his face and flower down his chest. It was the perfect complement to his pale skin but clashed with his auburn hair. He could feel the hot prickle of sweat beading on his top lip and forehead. No matter how much he apologised, no matter how nice the lady was, the mood was broken and it was usually followed by the woman beating a rapid retreat. There was no reason to think that this time would be any different.

"Oh," she looked quizzically at him. "Have you cum already?"

Indignity is a difficult thing to pull off with any kind of aplomb so he opted for honesty.

"Umm, yeah it is. I am sorry but you see I cum quickly, prematurely some may say. It is the noises you make, and your smell, and your soft skin and wonderful curves. It gets me all excited and I can't help it. I have tried everything, the alphabet backwards, all the premiership football teams, tying to name all the states of the USA. I have even gone to the doctor but they just said that I need to relax. I have tried relaxing but the more I do the faster I cum. I am so sorry. I understand that you will want to go now. I can only apologise." He stammered and was moving away from her.

"No!" The shout came from her as she dug her nails into his back to prevent him leaving her precious sex. "No," she said more softly. "Don't go, don't leave. I like you. I like you a lot. OK, it was faster than expected but this whole sex thing does not solely revolve around your pleasure or embarrassment."

Pulling him forwards and delicately pressing her lips to his, she stared into his golden-brown eyes. Her smile reached the corner of her eyes as she kissed him, slowly at first building the heat in them. Allowing the moist pleasure of their moths to seek each other out, they lay there kissing for the longest time. Tongues brushing gently against each other, teeth nipping and nibbling at lips. Melding, two people in love, or at least in lust.

"Please, allow me," said Brian as he pulled out of her and disposed of the condom.

Gazing at Ali's body he revelled in its imperfections. It was the flaws that made her beautiful. One breast slightly larger than the other, a nipple slightly higher. Reaching down and stroking them he discovered that the lower nipple was more sensitive. A fact that he squirreled away in his mind for future reference, if there was a second time. He hoped that there would be, she was beautiful. Ali was smart, sassy, sexy as hell and kind; very kind. She was generous with her time and love and had one of those smiles that made you feel that the world was an ok place and that everything would be alright. Now she was lying here underneath him, wanting him.

Nerves wrapped their tendrils around his heart again and threatened to choke him. Instinctively Ali reached up, touching his cheek she smiled. Brian's world softened, he felt safe again. Bending down he started to nuzzle her neck enchanted as to how she arched her back, how she absorbed the physical pleasure of touch. With his hand he delicately raked his nails over her stomach and watched her writhe underneath him. She obviously liked it not so soft and gentle.

Kissing from her collar bone down, over her downy skin to her breasts, his hands danced over her hips making her twist and squeal. He moved his and lower, in between her soft thighs; wet with lust and desire, a physical confirmation that she wanted him regardless of how quickly he came. Circling her clit, he observed that it was hard and offered delicious resistance to his dexterous fingers. Slowly rubbing, he pushed one finger then another inside. She was warm and wet, fantastically slippery, her soft folds plumped and fleshy with blood. Instead of ploughing on, he changed tempo to something softer.

Listening as she caught her breath, he continued to worry her nipple, nibbling, biting then pulling it with his teeth; a contradiction to his hand gentle delving in her sex. Moving to the other breast, he smattered soft kisses around its dangerous curves. His hand ramped up a gear and started rubbing and fucking her more forcefully. He could see that she was on the brink of orgasm, his hand was delectably wet and the smell was intoxicating, driving his lust forward. She looked beautiful, making soft sounds, giving over to her body's reactions, abandoning any socially enforced decorum.

With a snap she opened her eyes and stared at him as she came, gripping hold of his shoulders and sinking her nails into his back. He felt proud, strong; he had pleasured her. He wanted more. He knew that this was not the only orgasm in that sweet, slick pussy of hers. He knew that there was another one just waiting to be teased out.

Licking her delicious juices off his fingers, he put his mouth on her sex, it was still shimmering and red with excitement. Brian wrapped his lips around her clit, doing nothing, he gripped her hips to keep her still as he drank her in. He loved the way that women can come over and over again, that once they had reached that sensitive plateau their ability to orgasm was just like playing chess. Some strategy involved but ultimately a game where you could win more than once. Gripping tight he loved the feel of her thighs against his cheeks and her tight grip on his hair as she forced his face further into her groin.

Her second orgasm was inevitable. His face smeared in her juices he ate her like a man possessed. The musky smell, the tickling of her short trimmed bush each time he moved his mouth. Wondrous velvet skin of her thighs as they wrapped themselves around him. A sensuous delight.

His desire flared, not that it had ever really died down. Reaching for another condom, he ripped it out of the foil and rolled it on. Pushing his cock into her softness felt like coming home. It was hot and sexy as she gripped his shaft. Trying to go slow, trying to last longer this time he focussed his mind naming the planets in the solar system.

"Fuck me," she moaned in his ear.

"But I will come quickly again," he said, looking worried.

"I don't care, fuck me like you mean it," she breathed lustily into his ear.

Needing no further encouragement he rammed himself home. Fucking her with a violence and ferocity, with passion and desire. He let go, abandoned his worries and fears and buried himself in her. Absorbed in the moment, he allowed his excitement to burst into her with a wolf-like howl that was felt through both their chests as much as heard.

Collapsing on top of her, spent, he smiled. He felt like the champion of the world. A conquer. A hero.

Panting she gasped, "Oh my God, that was amazing. Wow. You were fantastic."

Wrapping her up in his arms and kissing her sweating form he merely stated, "Thank you for giving me a second chance."


Who is joining in this weeks VERY special Wicked Wednesday?