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I wish I had you underneath me right now. Nothing to disturb or distract us as we explore each other… our gentle movements and touches becoming more and more heated and intense.
Breath, lips, mouths, tongues, fingertips, hands… Skin on skin. Grabbing, stroking… gently touching… our moans uninhibited as we get acquainted with each other’s pleasure spots. Passionate.
Our eyes locked as we relish each other’s expressions… learning… the need darkening your eyes as my tongue draws a map over your skin.
Our bodies heating up, becoming slick… the scent of earthy lust driving us on - desperation and longing dancing with the need to savour each touch and sensation.
Needing more… always more.

COMMENTS

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Cadrewolf2
20:41 May 30 2025

Passionate

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If I could, I’d strip those chains from that shadow. I’d tear off her gag, let her roam where she gazes so fiercely, beyond the borders of unreal worlds she always tries to drag me into. She’s locked behind the doors of the fictions she spins with or for me. There, she can sketch her whimsical landscapes, her illusions, the wild twists of her rawest impulses. I see with her the shades of the impossible, her idealism, her hunger for what eats at her - or us. Though she has that small door to my quill’s world, where I let her wander freely, she tugs daily at those bonds, itching to invade reality. She seizes my hand, spits out words before I catch on, only to torch the sentences and rhymes she carves there.

If I could, I’d shatter her silence, lend her my quill, give her back her voice. I’d let her make the paper bleed, where sometimes my hand scratches out the forbidden, when she clumsily, bitterly tries to force her reveries onto it. She pushes, she tries, and it’s happening more and more. It’s like she’s clawing at my guts, hurting me as she hurts, trapped in a heavy, suffocating silence.

Every day, she makes me feel her suffering, takes her revenge, burns me, consumes me. Her rage is vast, her starvation too. Too often, she makes my heart skip a beat, my stomach churn, a fierce anxiety gripping me. Time freezes for a moment, and I feel her poison seeping into my blood, her fire, her hatred for being the only one who can’t dance freely at the tip of the quill outside of those surreal places where she can hide some of her words.

If I could, I’d set her free and stop tossing into the flames of my restraint all those lines she sometimes forces through my ink, before they vanish, reduced to ash by my wavering will. I have no choice. What she tries to force out is a molten lava that would incinerate what keeps me tethered to this half-reality, the one I sometimes think I thrive in. The one partly built, propped up by beams holding the crumbling roof of my thoughts. But she keeps scratching my face, day after day, trying to break through the walls, the barriers, the necessary borders, hurling at me the raw audacity of what she naively believes could... No.

If I could, I’d let her reduce it all to nothing, let her be the devastating tornado that sweeps away the ruins of the shelter I hide in. But she’s too destructive. What might seem like a new landscape, where fresh hues could be painted in pastel and blood, could also be made of stones too heavy, too jagged. They’d inevitably give way, crash down on me, knock me out, and destroy far more than the ruins I’m trying to thrive in.

Her almost childlike world is too singular, too peculiar, never unfurling beyond her own unconsciousness, her madness, her fantasies. It belongs to her and her only, holding what ravages me because of her very own unreal existence, what I know makes sense only in her eyes, in the threads weaving her solitary, wandering passion. Unsharable, fanciful, foolish.

Even now, I feel that thing, I feel that shadow trying to hijack my quill, trying to slip some banished words, kept in the “never to be shared” file. She's making me feel like sharing my mind, my body, with a double "me", in me. One with whom I keep fighting so fucking hard. And this morning, again, I hold her back but I feel her strength. I feel her flames and it burns. I hate it.

If I could, I would destroy her. But I can't. Because if I do it, what would happen to my quill...

In Devil’s Hollow where the cypress bend,
 And the moss hangs low like sin won’t end ,
She stood in moonlight, soft and bare, 
A prayer in flesh, a breath in air.
Two oaks stood firm like ancient kings,
Their roots entwined in wicked things.
 Between their trunks, I bound her tight—
A sacrifice to southern night.
The leather curled within my grip, 
A serpent’s tongue, a preacher’s whip.
 Not built for wrath, but holy fire,
 It sang upon her skin desire.
No church bell rang, no witness wept,
 But heaven watched as shadows crept.
 Each lash a verse, each welt a psalm,
 Each gasp a storm disguised as calm.
She didn’t run, she didn’t plead,
 She bloomed beneath each sacred deed.
 The sting became her rosary,
 She knelt in pain, in ecstasy.
I marked her not with chains or brand,
 But with the tail held in my hand.
 A blade of leather, thin and long,
 That carved her silence into song.
Between those trees, in dusk’s domain,
 She danced with fire, welcomed pain.
 And when it ended, soft and slow,
 The woods held secrets none would know.

I want to permanently mark your flesh with a symbol to remind you to whom you belong.
A scar.
A brand.
A tattoo.
Something that will hurt. Something that you will see regularly and when you caress it, you will remember the pain and your devotion to me.
You will remember my love and devotion to you and you will smile.
-Steven J. Cavenaugh

COMMENTS

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VivienneXol
12:59 May 16 2025

This is beautiful

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NotesOfDarkness
20:29 May 16 2025

Thank you.

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You didn’t come to me for comfort.
 You came for truth. For discipline. For surrender.
And now, on your knees before me, I see it in your eyes the hesitation laced with need. That flicker of resistance only excites me more. Because I know how this ends. With your will unraveled, your mind silenced, and your body entirely mine. To control, to demand, to consume.
I don’t rush. I never do. I take my time breaking down your walls. Command by command, touch by calculated touch. The collar around your neck is not just a symbol. It’s a contract. It tells me you want to be seen, controlled, owned. And I intend to take full possession.
You’ll beg to be used, to be bound, to be taught exactly how deep your submission runs. When I finally have you trembling in my presence, moaning from both pain and pleasure, you’ll realize you’ve never been freer than in the moment you gave yourself to me.
Every word I whisper is law. Every strike is a lesson.
You obey not because you have to but because your soul craves it. Because you’ll make me proud.
This isn’t play. It’s transformation.
 And by the time I’m finished with you, you won’t remember who you were before you called me Mistress.

The garden still lingers in its soft gloom, though daylight is already creeping in. The world around feels lifeless, save for the spring birds whose songs usher out the last traces of the vanished night. Coffee drips, but I no longer hear it, my gaze locked on the outside. A stray thought curls my lips into a smile and draws my eyes to nowhere. I try to pinch the invisible thread between my fingers, the very one that sometimes snags my toe to trip me but which, over time, I’ve come to cherish. Or rather, often crave. That’s when Gundry’s lyrical chants start echoing in my mind; my soul demands them. I slip on headphones, cue the music, hit repeat. Stepping outside, I glance at the sky, then the garden, where wild grasses climb here and there. They flourish, lending a wild edge next to the one across, mown so close.
My smile lingers, subtle, thoughts fixed on that unreal thread twirling beside me, yet beyond my grasp. The music weaves through the dance of my musings, the quiver of flowers and plants, the scent of rosemary I’ve planted in several spots. I sit and gaze at what stirs within. A splendid mess, tamed yet already craving its touch of chaos. The very same that came, then left, jolting my Quill before setting it back on its own flow. I’ve come to savor it, but the other’s chaos is so much more intoxicating. A craving born in turmoil, one that’s never left me since.
A simple morning, a fleeting thought, a lone melody cradling the wails of my inner shadows, pouting like a child for the flavors, the notes, the supernatural, infernal, dark essence of nearly everything, of so much.
A silent lament that hasn’t yet turned bitter. A delectable venom, rich with savor, drying on my skin, my lips.
My eyes close, searching the dark. I whisper to the ghosts and spirits, blending my voice with my shadows, then together we seize that invisible thread, tugging to tease its energy. So, trying to cast a spell down the veiled paths of the intangible, to draw a little closer what lies on the other side, what’s tethered to it, what sends my spirit soaring at dawn. All this, hoping to taste on my lips a little more of that venom, that exquisite cyanide, which this morning eludes me. Then, perhaps, I could slip away and maybe paint on a fresh canvas the rhymes or fictions my shadows and soul relish, each time the thread tightens between those two worlds, flooding my veins with that fierce agonisingly divine current I crave.

She lived for nights thick with lust and romance and wine and naked kisses. ~ Mason Fowler