Thursday, March 1, 2012

On Being Owned

I'm a fairly independent woman. Few, if any, who know me in "real life" would categorize me as submissive in any way. Outgoing, loud, bold...all of these would be words used by others...but submissive is not one of them.

Yet, I am. I am to those who have earned the submission.

In all of that is the question of why...why in the hell would I want that submission, crave that submission, need that submission? And what about when just being submissive is not enough?

The answer is fairly simple, for me anyway. It is simply that to be conquered by one who has the ability to do so is...the ultimate. I am not easy to conquer. Hell, I'm not easy to talk to most of the time. But once conquered, I am putty.

Ownership, or being owned, is a step beyond submission. Submission, to me, implies a finite period of time. A scene, an evening, an But ownership...ownership is more. There is maintenance required in the ownership of anything. A responsibility taken by the owner. It is a deeper understanding of submission. All of the talk of being "just an object for desire" becomes real. The owned becomes that object, an object, a thing to be possessed.

Yet, as much as there is objectification on the surface, there is a deeper humanity underneath. For what is more precious than to own a human being, one who is willingly giving herself to be owned. What is more connective than to hand yourself over to another for complete control. It is the ultimate display of trust. And it is the ultimate connection.

It surpasses the physical, and becomes solidly spiritual...emotional...psychological. It is the ultimate.

So I've been told.

Thursday, June 30, 2011


Sometimes the world is a difficult place. The stress, the daily grind, the mundane, the tediousness of simply moving from place to place - it all becomes overwhelming.

It is in this time when the submission is needed more than ever. And it is in this time that submission is the most difficult thing to achieve. It's too simple to simply say "no", because it's just too much to add to the plate. It becomes too easy to simply mouth off and walk away, because it's one more thing to think about.

But that is the error. It is through that word, that touch, that look, that feeling that all of the difficult world things are able to melt away. It is in the space of the blood pumping, and the belt wooshing that the stress disappears. It is in the space where - for a moment - life is boiled down to one singular purpose.

This is the salvation, the oasis, the peace that allows ones mind to reboot. The simple things become the only things. This moment. That is all.

Thursday, June 23, 2011


Dirty little things, whispered in my ear, often have as much of an effect as the dirty little things.


Tell me how you're going to spread my legs wide so you can see how wet you make me.


Tell me how I can't move. Tell me how soft and wet and warm I am when you touch me.


Tell me I'm a dirty girl because two fingers are never enough.


Tell me how my ass is bright red and you can see the outline of your fingers from where you spanked me.


Tell me to relax, to breath, to push back against you slowly as you slide in to my ass.


Tell me how it might hurt, but you want to fuck me like the little whore I am.


Tell me how you can feel me cumming when I grip you tighter and tighter.


Tell me I'm a good girl.


Monday, June 20, 2011

Not Here, Not Now

There are times when the thoughts of him are so overwhelming she can't help but touch herself. The thought of his mouth, his hands, his fingers, his tongue, his eyes, his body pressed up against her...they become so much that it aches.

It is in these moments when she can spread her legs, slide down into her chair, and close her eyes. Moving her hand between her legs she finds how wet the thoughts have made her already. She can see, in her minds eye, the wet dripping down the folds, pooling and waiting for his tongue.

With but a flick of her finger she brings out a moan. Knowing that now is not the time, now is not the place. She brings it to her lips for a taste...the taste that is so like his kiss.

With the taste on her tongue she closes her eyes and refocuses on the task at hand. The ache so raw, bordering on painful. Now is not the time. Now is not the place.

Saturday, June 18, 2011


"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet". (Romeo and Juliet; Act II, Scene II).

Labels have been an ongoing topic of conversation this week. Which naturally leads to the thought of what the labels mean in TTWD. Labels are simply a means of making a snap judgment for purposes of categorizing, and without definition have no meaning. At least this is my own personal theory.

Let's take, for example, the labels of bottom/sub/slave. As a general category, one can make a snap judgment that one holding this label is not a top/Dom/Master (or top/Domme/Mistress but for ease of thought I refer to the masculine as the controlling personality, and the feminine as the controlled). Other than making the distinction of what one is by defining what one is not...the label gives no further insight...not really.

Furthering this example, what is the label associated with a girl who enjoys the occasional spanking in the bedroom, likes to kneel during play, and gets wet at the thought of having a dick shoved down her throat? Sub? Bottom? Slave? Generally, she likely falls into one of these, but which one is irrelevant to the one pulling her hair.

So, what's the point? The point is this...the label, at least for a bottom/sub/slave, is entirely dependant upon the top/Dom/Master. If he wants her to be his dirty little sub, then he will treat her as such, and this is what she will be. It is HIS definition that is relevant.

Which logically next brings to mind...if the definition can be defined by the top/Dom/Master...then who determines that definition? Again, I assert, it is defined by him. If he wishes to be a top for the moment, then it is by his thought and will that it is defined.

So why all the rambling about the labels? Because this, I believe, is yet another sign of "submission". And by submission I mean the willing mutual exchange of power and control. When one gives up this power and control it is through negotiation and action. To cling to a label and have the expectation that it will fit within a predefined construct is an attempt to maintain a certain amount of power and control. If there is a true release of control, then the predefined construct cannot exist.

Thus, when asked whether she is a bottom/sub/slave, the correct response is always "I am what my Sir wants me to be."

Tuesday, June 14, 2011


Hand between her shoulders and he pushes her down on the bed. Face down, ass up, she kneels waiting for his next move.

"Are you wet, pet?"

He can very well see she's wet. He's been teasing her for hours, for what feels like days. The look in his eyes enough to make her writhe. She can feel the moisture between her legs as the cool air from the fan blows softly against her skin. Yes, she is wet. She is dripping.

She can hear him undress. Sense that he is stepping closer. Hands cup her ass and squeeze. His fingers spread her for inspection, a cold drop of moisture running down her thigh. Slight pressure and his fingers have penetrated her, she tries to stay still. She tries not to moan. She tries not to press back against him. But she fails. She needs to feel him.

"Rub your clit, pet."

Slowly she runs her fingers down her slit. Showing him how she touches herself. Fingers on each side of her clit, squeezing slightly, rolling and pulling for him to see. She feels the head of his cock rested on the top of her ass. His thighs pressed against hers. One hand reaching to take her hair.

"Fuck yourself, pet."

One finger slowly dips between the folds. Slowly in and out she moves her finger, trying not to make a sound. The impact of his hand on her ass startles her, sends her jumping.

"No, pet. I said fuck yourself."

Two fingers, moving. Quickly pumping against the building pressure. She grinds her hips against her hand. Rubbing her clit against her palm as her fingers pulse faster and faster. She feels it build. Knowing that her self control has a limit, and that was breached by his touch. She needs to feel him.

In a flash, he appears at her head. His cock bobbing in front of her mouth. Hands pull her hair up to position her head for his entry. His thick swollen head teasing her lips, guiding past and into her mouth, further down to her throat.

She panics, the loss of breath taking her attention from her clit. She tries to wrap her lips tighter. She tries to run her tongue up the bottom of his shaft.

"No, pet. Open wide, you are just a hole for me."

Her jaw drops, and he slides in further. Taking her head in both hands he drives himself into her mouth. Spit drips as she opens herself fully for him. Faster now, his balls slapping on her chin, her head arched back to take him.

With one ferrel grunt he drives himself deep down her throat as she fights the gagging reflex. She feels his explosion as he buries his cock farther than she thought possible. Spit and cum dripping past her lips she holds still while he releases every last drop.

She is on edge. Ready to cum with the sound of his voice. Pressing her fingers as deep as they will go, waiting for her own release.

"That's a good pet. Now stay there and wait for me."

He has left her mouth and her cunt drips with anticipation. To feel him, his fingers, his tongue, his touch...please...just to let her cum.

And the sound of the door closing behind him brings a moan to her lips. She is left waiting.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


The heat radiates. From the sidewalks to the buildings to the streets to the poor saps schlubbing along on their way home from work. Radiates. Pounding in it's intensity, an ominous weight holding everything in place.

Moisture drips. Running down between her thighs. The heat coming from within, wanting, waiting, holding, reaching for the touch. The cool tender tongue on her thighs, spread open to catch the breeze. The soft whisper of breath as fingers part her flesh. The sweet caress of air against the moist folds.

Hot, wet, dripping, and waiting for the break in the heat.

Monday, June 6, 2011


Sometimes there is something that will jog the memory of your touch, of your skin, of your smell, of your presence. A song, a picture, a word...they hold the memory of you like a bomb ticking and waiting to explode when least expected. Most of the time I'm fine...most of the time I've learned how to deal with the disappointment brought on by my own making. But that doesn't mean I've figured out how to get over it.

I heard me say I'm going away
But now I write you everyday
You heard me say I'm going away
But I'm on the floor outside your door

You've ruined me now
You've ruined me now

You've ruined me now
But I liked it but I'm ruined
Do you have a plan?
'Cause I'm in your hands

Sometimes it smacks me upside the head just how much you've ruined me. I loved every minute of it, and I'd do it again without regret. The only true regret is that I want more.

(Lyrics by Nora Jones)

Thursday, May 26, 2011


Don’t move: I want you to look into my eyes the whole time I hover over you like this. I want you to remember my face, and I want to remember yours, at this moment, as I push myself deeper into your wet and willing mouth.

Total trust has been met, something as erotic as the act itself.

Gratuitously ganked from here

Thank You, Sir...may I have another?

Monday, May 23, 2011


It is so hard to open my eyes when I am spread open before you. To see the look on your face, the predatory gleam in your eyes, the set of your jaw...the grin. Tied up and immobile, I cannot turn away. I cannot bury my face in the pillow. I cannot hide.

To watch your eyes taking in the scene. My legs spread and bound, my thighs tied open, my hands above my head. Nothing to protect myself, nothing behind which to hide. I am exposed, vulnerable, open to you.

But to open my eyes I can see...I see the look...the longing...the need to make me yours. Until I see that look I can be calm and collected. Once I see that look I know how little control I have.

With that comes the realization that my vulnerability has nothing to do with the bindings. My vulnerability is entirely because I have given myself to you...for your enjoyment and pleasure, to do with what you wish. It is this that truly makes me vulnerable.

And I can't get enough.