Nº. 1 of  6

My Trousers Rolled

It's from T.S. Eliot.

I'm from England.

PICTURES, WORDS, AND PERHAPS A LITTLE MUSIC. OFTEN D/S RELATED, SOMETIMES NOT.

MyTrousersRolled [at] Gmail [dot] com

OVER 18S ONLY.

Posts tagged topless:

Defy my expectations. Bring them to a head, and then tease them away from that climax for a little while longer. Less is more, but once you’ve taken away that less, given me more, take it away, just a little, so that my appetite is whetted without being sated. 
I like the girls that cover up when they’re showing off. An arm across their chest, another between their legs, the splayed fingers each another point of contention I can eloquently argue away. I like to work, and I like to deserve what I work for. So don’t just give it all away when I just ask for it. Coerce me into making it an order. Force me to force you.
Show me that you deserve my Dominance, and I’ll earn your submission. Because anything freely given is freely thrown away; I need that moment of wonder, where I’m not entirely sure whether I can take you, before I have the impetus to seize you by the mind and force you to my feet. 

Defy my expectations. Bring them to a head, and then tease them away from that climax for a little while longer. Less is more, but once you’ve taken away that less, given me more, take it away, just a little, so that my appetite is whetted without being sated. 

I like the girls that cover up when they’re showing off. An arm across their chest, another between their legs, the splayed fingers each another point of contention I can eloquently argue away. I like to work, and I like to deserve what I work for. So don’t just give it all away when I just ask for it. Coerce me into making it an order. Force me to force you.

Show me that you deserve my Dominance, and I’ll earn your submission. Because anything freely given is freely thrown away; I need that moment of wonder, where I’m not entirely sure whether I can take you, before I have the impetus to seize you by the mind and force you to my feet. 

(Source: fairefroufrou.com, via kitty-en-classe)

From the way girls writhe when they masturbate, it’s not a huge leap to write off the biting that they do as just another instinctual reflex, their bodies wanting to grab and gnash at anything in rage, and it just so happens to be another part of them. It’s like biting their lip, but on a grander scale. You bite because you have no other choice; it’s like asking why you chose to flinch when I made a sudden movement towards you. The question is redundant because it implies the choice in the first place. 
But I don’t think it’s even remotely as simple as that. You don’t bite because you just bite. Some girls do and some girls don’t, so to write it off as some instinctual fluke would be to do it a disservice. 
You don’t bite because it’s just another spasm of your body, where teeth meet flesh. You bite because the pleasure isn’t enough. 
You need that heady mix of the two, pain sharpening where pleasure blurs, a knife through the haze of bliss that comes from fingers between legs. To feel that, right there, teeth against your skin, biting down, sharp points of pain cast in sharp relief against the rest, is too sweet a sensation to turn down. It’s the counterpoint to pressure, no matter how violent, and that’s why it feels so damn good. 
You’re a little masochist, and that permeates everything you do. Especially then, when you’re at your most intimate, lost in a malaise of self love. Why not bite yourself, just a little, feel the elastic of your skin between your teeth, the slickness of saliva against it. It’s not all that far from the wetness making your fingers slip against your clit, against your cunt, between those lips. Different, but the same. Two sides to a coin. It’s anything but unintentional. 

From the way girls writhe when they masturbate, it’s not a huge leap to write off the biting that they do as just another instinctual reflex, their bodies wanting to grab and gnash at anything in rage, and it just so happens to be another part of them. It’s like biting their lip, but on a grander scale. You bite because you have no other choice; it’s like asking why you chose to flinch when I made a sudden movement towards you. The question is redundant because it implies the choice in the first place. 

But I don’t think it’s even remotely as simple as that. You don’t bite because you just bite. Some girls do and some girls don’t, so to write it off as some instinctual fluke would be to do it a disservice. 

You don’t bite because it’s just another spasm of your body, where teeth meet flesh. You bite because the pleasure isn’t enough. 

You need that heady mix of the two, pain sharpening where pleasure blurs, a knife through the haze of bliss that comes from fingers between legs. To feel that, right there, teeth against your skin, biting down, sharp points of pain cast in sharp relief against the rest, is too sweet a sensation to turn down. It’s the counterpoint to pressure, no matter how violent, and that’s why it feels so damn good. 

You’re a little masochist, and that permeates everything you do. Especially then, when you’re at your most intimate, lost in a malaise of self love. Why not bite yourself, just a little, feel the elastic of your skin between your teeth, the slickness of saliva against it. It’s not all that far from the wetness making your fingers slip against your clit, against your cunt, between those lips. Different, but the same. Two sides to a coin. It’s anything but unintentional. 

(Source: theguccislut)

"I’m just worried that my oxygen supply might be cut off as your ego creates a vacuum in the room. That’s all." She was smirking, and she was watching him. Hoping for a reaction. 

He sat there for a moment, letting it settle in the air like a bad smell, before he held out his hand, as casual as anything. An eyebrow arched expectantly, and she narrowed her eyes at him, suspicion over confusion.

"What?" She folded her arms, still staring.

"Your underwear." His voice was casual, utterly assured, and a touch too nonchalant. She felt herself twitch as they fell upon her, as if it was the words themselves forcing her to throb. She resisted biting her lip.

"Why do you want it?" He shook his head, and snapped his fingers. The sound made her jump.

"Put them in my hand. Say another word and I’ll make sure you’ll think of me every time you sit for a week." The threat was clear, and the method was implied. It was enough for her to bite down her response, as acerbic as it had been.

Still, she hesitated, if only for another second or two. Then the moment passed, and her hands slid down her sides, catching underneath the waistband of her panties, before she pulled them down over her legs. They were heavier than she’d like to admit, the dampness giving them weight. Delicately, she placed them in his hand. 

Suddenly he was up, moving around her before his free hand went to her face, finger and thumb digging into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. She resisted for a moment, but the pressure was painful, and she didn’t want to see what he would do if she struggled. Her lips fell open, and the panties, balled and damp, went in. Stuffed, gagged, held. He forced them against the roof of her mouth with one thick finger. She squirmed.

And then he let go, moving back to his seat, and picking up his book. Her brow was furrowed, and she could feel the cotton and lace expanding to fill the space of its new home. She could taste herself. One hand started to quest upwards, to touch them, maybe remove…

"No. They stay there until I say so. Once I think you’ve earned your voice back."

She moaned. He smiled, and picked up where he’d left his bookmark.

(Source: letmekneel, via pull-my-strings)

She’d practice, when there was no one else around. Arms above her head, stomach stretched, back arched just so. She’d stare at the ground, think the thoughts that would make her blush, and then let that breath that she’d been holding fall from her lips, only matched by the frustration that coursed through her veins, emotion circulated by her mind, her brain pumping it around like a bitter heart. 
She wanted to feel his hands on her. He being a vague future form, someone who’s just past the temporal horizon, an ambiguous set of traits and ties, shirts and suggestions. The sort of man that would want to tie her up, have her hanging from the rafters, naked as the day she was born, for her to pant and plead and pine for him when he was gone. 
And so she practised. She got ready for him in those moments where she was alone and inclined. She dangled from doorframes, she lay on her back, arms underneath her body, wrists crossed over one another. Her mind created the ropes, held the binds, and made her tingle. Eyes closed, she could almost feel them, if she concentrated hard enough. Or, more accurately, if she didn’t concentrate too much. If she let the idea seize her like she wanted him to. 
It made her nipples hard to have her arms above her head, she knew that much. They were sensitive at the best of times, but then it was something different, like they’d just been properly tuned in to her mind, the white noise fading away into nothing so that the picture was crystal clear. 
Naturally, the picture was of a girl in a ball gag, a girl that looked like her, head down, arse up, ready for him to take her. And then he would. 
And she’d be ready.

She’d practice, when there was no one else around. Arms above her head, stomach stretched, back arched just so. She’d stare at the ground, think the thoughts that would make her blush, and then let that breath that she’d been holding fall from her lips, only matched by the frustration that coursed through her veins, emotion circulated by her mind, her brain pumping it around like a bitter heart. 

She wanted to feel his hands on her. He being a vague future form, someone who’s just past the temporal horizon, an ambiguous set of traits and ties, shirts and suggestions. The sort of man that would want to tie her up, have her hanging from the rafters, naked as the day she was born, for her to pant and plead and pine for him when he was gone. 

And so she practised. She got ready for him in those moments where she was alone and inclined. She dangled from doorframes, she lay on her back, arms underneath her body, wrists crossed over one another. Her mind created the ropes, held the binds, and made her tingle. Eyes closed, she could almost feel them, if she concentrated hard enough. Or, more accurately, if she didn’t concentrate too much. If she let the idea seize her like she wanted him to. 

It made her nipples hard to have her arms above her head, she knew that much. They were sensitive at the best of times, but then it was something different, like they’d just been properly tuned in to her mind, the white noise fading away into nothing so that the picture was crystal clear. 

Naturally, the picture was of a girl in a ball gag, a girl that looked like her, head down, arse up, ready for him to take her. And then he would. 

And she’d be ready.

(Source: suicidegirls.com, via allmykink)

"You’ve had too much time to look at yourself." His mouth was against her ear, and she could feel the stubble on his upper lip grazing against her. It made her shiver. It made her bite down on that gag a little harder. "You’ve stopped seeing. You just look, and you judge, and you move on. You’ve ignored the beauty in favour of focusing on the blemishes.” The back of his hand trailed down her side, her skin prickling in its wake. 
"You’re going to hang there, and you’re going to see yourself again. For the first five minutes or so nothing is going to happen, because your eyes are going to flick to those parts of yourself that you don’t like, that you wish you could get rid of." He paused, tapping a quick tattoo against her hip bone. "But once you’ve finished obsessing over those, your mind is going to start to wander a little, but your eyes won’t be able to. You’ll carry on looking at yourself, and at some point, you’re going to stop looking and you’re going to start to see.” 
This whole time, she’d been trying. She’d squinted, she’d spread her eyelids wide. She’d run them from her forehead down to her belly, and then back up again, tracing zig zags the whole way, to cover as much area as possible. But she didn’t like how there wasn’t as much swell in her breasts, or the way her nipples elongated when her arms were up like this. She didn’t like how it seemed like her nose turned ever so slightly to the left. 
"You’re beautiful." His words cut through her concentration like a blade, and causing just as much damage to that cynical, pessimistic assessment of herself. She shivered, not for the first time, before he took a step back. She could see him, almost, in the edge of the mirror, sitting down in that big chair and pulling out the paper. Putting on a show for her, by not doing anything especially interesting. She wanted to see him, but all she got was the edges; fingers on the paper, knee over knee, tapping shoe. It wasn’t enough to draw her attention away from herself. 
And so she looked. And looked. And tried to let her focus fall away like she was staring at a magic eye. And then she looked some more. 
And then, after a while, she started to see.

"You’ve had too much time to look at yourself." His mouth was against her ear, and she could feel the stubble on his upper lip grazing against her. It made her shiver. It made her bite down on that gag a little harder. "You’ve stopped seeing. You just look, and you judge, and you move on. You’ve ignored the beauty in favour of focusing on the blemishes.” The back of his hand trailed down her side, her skin prickling in its wake. 

"You’re going to hang there, and you’re going to see yourself again. For the first five minutes or so nothing is going to happen, because your eyes are going to flick to those parts of yourself that you don’t like, that you wish you could get rid of." He paused, tapping a quick tattoo against her hip bone. "But once you’ve finished obsessing over those, your mind is going to start to wander a little, but your eyes won’t be able to. You’ll carry on looking at yourself, and at some point, you’re going to stop looking and you’re going to start to see.” 

This whole time, she’d been trying. She’d squinted, she’d spread her eyelids wide. She’d run them from her forehead down to her belly, and then back up again, tracing zig zags the whole way, to cover as much area as possible. But she didn’t like how there wasn’t as much swell in her breasts, or the way her nipples elongated when her arms were up like this. She didn’t like how it seemed like her nose turned ever so slightly to the left. 

"You’re beautiful." His words cut through her concentration like a blade, and causing just as much damage to that cynical, pessimistic assessment of herself. She shivered, not for the first time, before he took a step back. She could see him, almost, in the edge of the mirror, sitting down in that big chair and pulling out the paper. Putting on a show for her, by not doing anything especially interesting. She wanted to see him, but all she got was the edges; fingers on the paper, knee over knee, tapping shoe. It wasn’t enough to draw her attention away from herself. 

And so she looked. And looked. And tried to let her focus fall away like she was staring at a magic eye. And then she looked some more. 

And then, after a while, she started to see.

(Source: simply-black-and-white, via slavesdiary)

I fall hard for a will that doesn’t crumple in front of me. That, when tested, the foundations remain solid, and the chin remains up. When you can take abuse, and remain stoic, the strength of your emotions a turmoil that remains under the surface. When you can slip a mask over your face, and let nothing out.
Because I fall in love with a challenge. I step to that Gordian Knot and I take out my sword. I find the crack in you, the piece of yourself that you keep so well hidden, and that is the thread that I will use to unravel you. 
I fall so in love with you, so quickly, because you’re the one that wants it the most. You’re the one that can’t give up, because the moment you do everything will fall apart. This beautiful illusion that we’ve created, this web of denial and mutual oblivion, will come crashing down and be for naught. You resist because that’s the only way you’ll know if I’m worth it. 
I fall for your will because I want to earn your submission, more than anything. I want you to break, because if you merely bent than you wouldn’t be mine. You’d be able to return to how you were before, and I’m not something you ever recover from. If you don’t give yourself fully, then we’re both wasting our time.
But to do that, you’ve got to hold onto every last shred of yourself, and fight me for it. You’ve got to fight me for it, and you’ve got to lose.

I fall hard for a will that doesn’t crumple in front of me. That, when tested, the foundations remain solid, and the chin remains up. When you can take abuse, and remain stoic, the strength of your emotions a turmoil that remains under the surface. When you can slip a mask over your face, and let nothing out.

Because I fall in love with a challenge. I step to that Gordian Knot and I take out my sword. I find the crack in you, the piece of yourself that you keep so well hidden, and that is the thread that I will use to unravel you. 

I fall so in love with you, so quickly, because you’re the one that wants it the most. You’re the one that can’t give up, because the moment you do everything will fall apart. This beautiful illusion that we’ve created, this web of denial and mutual oblivion, will come crashing down and be for naught. You resist because that’s the only way you’ll know if I’m worth it. 

I fall for your will because I want to earn your submission, more than anything. I want you to break, because if you merely bent than you wouldn’t be mine. You’d be able to return to how you were before, and I’m not something you ever recover from. If you don’t give yourself fully, then we’re both wasting our time.

But to do that, you’ve got to hold onto every last shred of yourself, and fight me for it. You’ve got to fight me for it, and you’ve got to lose.

(via blackleatherbelt)

Look.
I know it’s childish. I know that it’s only going to cause you to be asked, a dozen times, whether that’s a lovebite, or a hickey, or whether you’re using a new fabric softener that doesn’t really agree with you. I know that you’ll blush, cover your neck with your hands, or a scarf, and brush off the question. I know that you’ll silently swear at me every time, and I know you’ll smile when you do it. 
But despite all that, knowing the grief it’s going to cause you, I honestly can’t help myself. When my mouth is trailing that perfect path from the gentle swell of your stomach, over the dramatic curve of your breasts, and all the way up to your neck, I need to take a breather, pause for a moment, and get my bearings. My lips need to hunker down, savour the place for a second. 
I have to make my mark, somehow. Sometimes I don’t want to hurt you; things are softer, more playful. To have something so intimate turn into something so violently obvious is its own reward. A star cluster on your neck, my own personal constellations, mapped out for everyone to see. There’s a galaxy right there, and each little dot, each burst blood vessel, bears my signature. 
I know it’s silly, but I can’t help but love the way it makes you look.

Look.

I know it’s childish. I know that it’s only going to cause you to be asked, a dozen times, whether that’s a lovebite, or a hickey, or whether you’re using a new fabric softener that doesn’t really agree with you. I know that you’ll blush, cover your neck with your hands, or a scarf, and brush off the question. I know that you’ll silently swear at me every time, and I know you’ll smile when you do it. 

But despite all that, knowing the grief it’s going to cause you, I honestly can’t help myself. When my mouth is trailing that perfect path from the gentle swell of your stomach, over the dramatic curve of your breasts, and all the way up to your neck, I need to take a breather, pause for a moment, and get my bearings. My lips need to hunker down, savour the place for a second. 

I have to make my mark, somehow. Sometimes I don’t want to hurt you; things are softer, more playful. To have something so intimate turn into something so violently obvious is its own reward. A star cluster on your neck, my own personal constellations, mapped out for everyone to see. There’s a galaxy right there, and each little dot, each burst blood vessel, bears my signature. 

I know it’s silly, but I can’t help but love the way it makes you look.

(via kitty-en-classe)

Once the collar is around your neck, your palms against the floor and your knees biting into the carpet. Once the leash is tugging at you, taut in my hand, there’s a very clear connotation at play. You get to know exactly what you are. 
You’re a pet. A piece of my property. 
But more than that, there’s a whole mix of things that go along with that. There’s a reason I treat you like this, and there’s a reason you enjoy it quite as much as you do. It’s humiliating, of course, tied in with objectification and diminishing your sense of self, but more importantly it’s doing that while at the same time making it abundantly clear that you’re loved, and cared for. 
That’s the attraction, that duality of purpose, where you can be two seemingly opposed ideas, all at once. It’s why it’s so common, and why you feel that pleasant shiver running down your spine the instant you slip onto all fours. 
That I can call you ‘pup’ or ‘kitten’ at the same time, of course, is just icing on the cake. 

Once the collar is around your neck, your palms against the floor and your knees biting into the carpet. Once the leash is tugging at you, taut in my hand, there’s a very clear connotation at play. You get to know exactly what you are. 

You’re a pet. A piece of my property. 

But more than that, there’s a whole mix of things that go along with that. There’s a reason I treat you like this, and there’s a reason you enjoy it quite as much as you do. It’s humiliating, of course, tied in with objectification and diminishing your sense of self, but more importantly it’s doing that while at the same time making it abundantly clear that you’re loved, and cared for. 

That’s the attraction, that duality of purpose, where you can be two seemingly opposed ideas, all at once. It’s why it’s so common, and why you feel that pleasant shiver running down your spine the instant you slip onto all fours. 

That I can call you ‘pup’ or ‘kitten’ at the same time, of course, is just icing on the cake. 

(via obsequiouslady)

He’d come from a family of poor eyesight. Glasses were  a common feature throughout his life, so much so that when he’d come back from the optometrist with a clean bill of health, twenty twenty vision and the now useless knowledge of which letters go where on an eyetest, he’d felt an outcast within the home. He’d faked the next one, faltered at the third line, just to get a pair of glasses of his own. 
They’d been worn three times, all within the week of getting them. 
It wasn’t until University that he realised that his sight was just as flawed as the rest of his family, just instead of myopia he was afflicted with microscopia. He zeroed in on the smallest details, until they were all he could see, in spite of the actuality of the person or object those details belonged to. He became obsessive. He did not like that he became obsessive. 
In the beginning it was her smile that took up all of his view. Specifically, the slight curl in the corner of her mouth that dimpled in the most adorable way, a playfulness that ran contrary to the rest of her personality, that near constantly furrowed brow, and the perfect smoothness around her eyes, devoid of smile wrinkles. But she was young, and she had that smile. She had time. 
When he’d first seen her naked, it was the surgery scar that suddenly became his visual fascination. That wasn’t just limited to his eyes, though; his fingers knew it intimately, running over it, settling against the puckered flesh. She’d been nervous at first, but time is the great normaliser, and after the third night together she started to enjoy it. 
He liked the mark. And he wanted to give her more. Create something on her he could obsess over. It started with pure colouration, his hand against her, her mouth curling, dimpling, as she lost herself in that mix of pain and pleasure. Contrary. He found new things to obsess over, to turn his lens against. 
They made welts. The raised flesh was something he could see in three dimensions, and sense in three. The first time he ran his tongue over them she shivered. The scar on her stomach fluttered as her breath came in ragged. It looked alive. His fascination flickered, and returned to the welts. Her face looking at him over her shoulder. The corner of her mouth. The dimple.
And then she said ‘I love you’, and he found something else to obsess over.

He’d come from a family of poor eyesight. Glasses were  a common feature throughout his life, so much so that when he’d come back from the optometrist with a clean bill of health, twenty twenty vision and the now useless knowledge of which letters go where on an eyetest, he’d felt an outcast within the home. He’d faked the next one, faltered at the third line, just to get a pair of glasses of his own. 

They’d been worn three times, all within the week of getting them. 

It wasn’t until University that he realised that his sight was just as flawed as the rest of his family, just instead of myopia he was afflicted with microscopia. He zeroed in on the smallest details, until they were all he could see, in spite of the actuality of the person or object those details belonged to. He became obsessive. He did not like that he became obsessive. 

In the beginning it was her smile that took up all of his view. Specifically, the slight curl in the corner of her mouth that dimpled in the most adorable way, a playfulness that ran contrary to the rest of her personality, that near constantly furrowed brow, and the perfect smoothness around her eyes, devoid of smile wrinkles. But she was young, and she had that smile. She had time. 

When he’d first seen her naked, it was the surgery scar that suddenly became his visual fascination. That wasn’t just limited to his eyes, though; his fingers knew it intimately, running over it, settling against the puckered flesh. She’d been nervous at first, but time is the great normaliser, and after the third night together she started to enjoy it. 

He liked the mark. And he wanted to give her more. Create something on her he could obsess over. It started with pure colouration, his hand against her, her mouth curling, dimpling, as she lost herself in that mix of pain and pleasure. Contrary. He found new things to obsess over, to turn his lens against. 

They made welts. The raised flesh was something he could see in three dimensions, and sense in three. The first time he ran his tongue over them she shivered. The scar on her stomach fluttered as her breath came in ragged. It looked alive. His fascination flickered, and returned to the welts. Her face looking at him over her shoulder. The corner of her mouth. The dimple.

And then she said ‘I love you’, and he found something else to obsess over.

(via americanmercury-deactivated2012)

Things move fast. They have to, if you’re going to go from the cute and demure woman I first met to the slut at my feet, gagged and bound. For that to happen, it has to be in your head somewhere, a seed planted and forgotten about, or maybe it’s already taken root, and is just waiting for the right light to bloom. But it has to be there, somewhere. You have to be aware.
More importantly, you have to be curious. You have to be unsatisfied with your lot, of where you are right now. There’s something else out there, and you want to know what it is. Actually, no, you don’t want. You need. It’s a compulsion, a desperation. Knowledge is your morphine, and you always want more.
That’s what drives you to change, brings you to your knees in front of me. Your curiosity is going to get the better of you, and you’re going to need to find out how far you’re going to go. How far I’m going to go, more importantly. Where I’m going to take you, what I’m going to show you. And how I’m going to make you feel.
Because I looked at you with the quiet confidence of the Dominant, when we first met. I regarded you coolly, but there was something warm behind that. That’s what planted the seed, and sparked your curiosity. It’ll be the end of you. I’ll be the end of you.

Things move fast. They have to, if you’re going to go from the cute and demure woman I first met to the slut at my feet, gagged and bound. For that to happen, it has to be in your head somewhere, a seed planted and forgotten about, or maybe it’s already taken root, and is just waiting for the right light to bloom. But it has to be there, somewhere. You have to be aware.

More importantly, you have to be curious. You have to be unsatisfied with your lot, of where you are right now. There’s something else out there, and you want to know what it is. Actually, no, you don’t want. You need. It’s a compulsion, a desperation. Knowledge is your morphine, and you always want more.

That’s what drives you to change, brings you to your knees in front of me. Your curiosity is going to get the better of you, and you’re going to need to find out how far you’re going to go. How far I’m going to go, more importantly. Where I’m going to take you, what I’m going to show you. And how I’m going to make you feel.

Because I looked at you with the quiet confidence of the Dominant, when we first met. I regarded you coolly, but there was something warm behind that. That’s what planted the seed, and sparked your curiosity. It’ll be the end of you. I’ll be the end of you.

(via pull-my-strings)

If there’s anything that holds me in its thrall in this world, it’s music. If you cut me, a treble clef is just as likely to come spilling out as anything red and viscous. And, as the vampire feeds off that life giving blood, so I drain my speakers until they’re dry, and then try to sleep in the silence. I continue only because the bars and melodies, the cadences and beats, the keys and crescendos, allow me to. 
I’ve mentioned before that you need to love music nearly as much as I do for me to ever approach interest, but sometimes I wonder whether mere love is enough. I depend on it. I can’t work in silence, and I can’t travel without a soundtrack. Conversation is interesting to me not only because of the content, but also because of the rhythm of the words, the melodies of the syllables. 
I’ve been trying to come up with a way to properly frame D/s within that kind of context, where the strike of the hand analogises the slap of a drumstick against a high hat, but it’s grown too torturous, contrived and strained. But there is music in Dominance. It’s just not so trite as to be easily contained within the highs and lows of a single scene. It’s more subtle than that, and it’s stretched across the entire relationship. It has to, to make my heart sing so. 

If there’s anything that holds me in its thrall in this world, it’s music. If you cut me, a treble clef is just as likely to come spilling out as anything red and viscous. And, as the vampire feeds off that life giving blood, so I drain my speakers until they’re dry, and then try to sleep in the silence. I continue only because the bars and melodies, the cadences and beats, the keys and crescendos, allow me to. 

I’ve mentioned before that you need to love music nearly as much as I do for me to ever approach interest, but sometimes I wonder whether mere love is enough. I depend on it. I can’t work in silence, and I can’t travel without a soundtrack. Conversation is interesting to me not only because of the content, but also because of the rhythm of the words, the melodies of the syllables. 

I’ve been trying to come up with a way to properly frame D/s within that kind of context, where the strike of the hand analogises the slap of a drumstick against a high hat, but it’s grown too torturous, contrived and strained. But there is music in Dominance. It’s just not so trite as to be easily contained within the highs and lows of a single scene. It’s more subtle than that, and it’s stretched across the entire relationship. It has to, to make my heart sing so. 

(via blackleatherbelt)

Enjoy the bondage. Revel in the restraints. Be thrilled when you’re tied up. I want to see you squirm and struggle, but I want to see you truly thrive as well. I want to see you lie there and grip the ropes that hold you in place, and make sure they’re firm. You have to want to know quite how helpless you are. 
There’s a self destructive streak in all of it, something that it may just be ever so slightly dangerous to encourage. Except instead of throwing yourself off a building, or running yourself off the road, you’re just lying there, helpless. You’re putting yourself in a position for me to take advantage, knowing that I’m all but helpless to do anything but. I might resist for a while, tease it out of you, but eventually I’ll succumb to your vulnerability. I’m only human, after all. 
I want to see your body rouse when I slip the cloth between your lips. Nipples erect, cunt glistening. Squirm for me, but not because you want to get away from the ropes and cuffs, but because of what they’re doing to you. What knowing what I’m going to do to you is doing to you. Let’s start a vicious cycle, you beautiful, depraved thing, and let’s never get out of it. 

Enjoy the bondage. Revel in the restraints. Be thrilled when you’re tied up. I want to see you squirm and struggle, but I want to see you truly thrive as well. I want to see you lie there and grip the ropes that hold you in place, and make sure they’re firm. You have to want to know quite how helpless you are. 

There’s a self destructive streak in all of it, something that it may just be ever so slightly dangerous to encourage. Except instead of throwing yourself off a building, or running yourself off the road, you’re just lying there, helpless. You’re putting yourself in a position for me to take advantage, knowing that I’m all but helpless to do anything but. I might resist for a while, tease it out of you, but eventually I’ll succumb to your vulnerability. I’m only human, after all. 

I want to see your body rouse when I slip the cloth between your lips. Nipples erect, cunt glistening. Squirm for me, but not because you want to get away from the ropes and cuffs, but because of what they’re doing to you. What knowing what I’m going to do to you is doing to you. Let’s start a vicious cycle, you beautiful, depraved thing, and let’s never get out of it. 

(via prettyfollies-deactivated201204)

She was wearing nothing but lipstick, the preparation for a smile. Nudity enhanced, the evolution of the concept. The next step in naked. 
He couldn’t help but laugh to himself at that, his mind moving to the absurd when he had her in front of him, this amazing woman acting coy as her nipples thrust out at him, a pair of miniature dowsing rods pointing the way. 
Her brow furrowed for a moment, a flicker, faltering before she regained the moment despite him, bit down on that finger, let it tug her bottom lip southwards a little, the lipstick gleaming in the soft light of the room. He leaned back on the bed and smiled, somehow happy with things as they were, in this moment before everything happened, the foreplay to the foreplay. 
"Aren’t you going to invite me over?" She mauled the line, grafting it into the scene like an alleyway surgeon. He laughed again, and inclined his head behind him. It was all the indication she needed. 
It was only a few steps to the bed, but she made those feet into a catwalk, her hips swaying side to side like hypnosis, the finger never leaving her lips. He laced his behind his head, propping it up so he got the proper view of her. She sauntered. She slinked. She turned sultry into a form of locomotion. 
"What made you think of the lipstick?" He murmured as she placed a thigh on either side of his, skin against denim, pelvis against muscle. 
She considered it as the finger finally left her mouth, and slipped around his neck along with the rest of her hand, finding a grip so she could press her chest against his. She kept far enough away that he couldn’t kiss her. He liked that.
"You shouldn’t be thinking about why the lipstick is on my lips." It could have sounded like an admonishment, but right now everything was just a tease. "But rather where it’s going to go next." The lipstick curled into a coy grin, and his eyes rolled to the ceiling.
"Oh but the things you do to me." He mocked her lightly, and she bumped her nose against his in return. There was a distinct pop as the fly of his jeans was pushed open. She looked almost surprised.
"You get the idea!" If her hands hadn’t been draped around him he imagined she might have clapped to complete the picture. He just suppressed a smile, and she just slid down his chest, her mouth falling open. 
He was happy, just there, in that moment. Before everything happened, the foreplay for the foreplay. He was happier when that moment passed.

She was wearing nothing but lipstick, the preparation for a smile. Nudity enhanced, the evolution of the concept. The next step in naked. 

He couldn’t help but laugh to himself at that, his mind moving to the absurd when he had her in front of him, this amazing woman acting coy as her nipples thrust out at him, a pair of miniature dowsing rods pointing the way. 

Her brow furrowed for a moment, a flicker, faltering before she regained the moment despite him, bit down on that finger, let it tug her bottom lip southwards a little, the lipstick gleaming in the soft light of the room. He leaned back on the bed and smiled, somehow happy with things as they were, in this moment before everything happened, the foreplay to the foreplay. 

"Aren’t you going to invite me over?" She mauled the line, grafting it into the scene like an alleyway surgeon. He laughed again, and inclined his head behind him. It was all the indication she needed. 

It was only a few steps to the bed, but she made those feet into a catwalk, her hips swaying side to side like hypnosis, the finger never leaving her lips. He laced his behind his head, propping it up so he got the proper view of her. She sauntered. She slinked. She turned sultry into a form of locomotion. 

"What made you think of the lipstick?" He murmured as she placed a thigh on either side of his, skin against denim, pelvis against muscle. 

She considered it as the finger finally left her mouth, and slipped around his neck along with the rest of her hand, finding a grip so she could press her chest against his. She kept far enough away that he couldn’t kiss her. He liked that.

"You shouldn’t be thinking about why the lipstick is on my lips." It could have sounded like an admonishment, but right now everything was just a tease. "But rather where it’s going to go next." The lipstick curled into a coy grin, and his eyes rolled to the ceiling.

"Oh but the things you do to me." He mocked her lightly, and she bumped her nose against his in return. There was a distinct pop as the fly of his jeans was pushed open. She looked almost surprised.

"You get the idea!" If her hands hadn’t been draped around him he imagined she might have clapped to complete the picture. He just suppressed a smile, and she just slid down his chest, her mouth falling open. 

He was happy, just there, in that moment. Before everything happened, the foreplay for the foreplay. He was happier when that moment passed.

(via americanmercury-deactivated2012)

Historically, the ocean has always been used as a metaphor for the subconscious, for the sea of thoughts and repressions that are always bubbling below the surface, a vastly unmapped and unknown space where all our innermost thoughts and neurosis glided ominously like colossal squid and mighty whales. 
It’s that repression that characterises it, that so much is under the surface, in a position where it’s not shown, and it’s actively hidden from everyone above sea-level. That means most of you is never known, kept away from those you interact with, for fear of what they might think, or just to keep your secrets safe. It’s understandable. Hell, I do it more than most, I’d wager.
But I think D/s is a way of wading out of that great unknown, and riding the tide in to shore. It’s a place where you don’t need to be safe and secret, because we create an environment where everything is permitted, because it’s so fundamentally based on honesty and trust. We’re already at the outer fringes of both society and sexuality, that pretty much anything can at the very least be talked about. We’re free of society’s shackles, living Rousseau’s ideals, which is incredibly liberating. And while we still have to struggle with certain hangups and neurosis, there is so much less that is left unsaid, and repressed. 
Thoughts always find a way, in the end. The squid will always rise to the surface and gobble up a galleon, if you push it down hard enough. It’s better to bring it to land yourself, and show it to the world. Show them that it’s nothing to be afraid of, and that really, it’s rather beautiful, in its own way.  

Historically, the ocean has always been used as a metaphor for the subconscious, for the sea of thoughts and repressions that are always bubbling below the surface, a vastly unmapped and unknown space where all our innermost thoughts and neurosis glided ominously like colossal squid and mighty whales. 

It’s that repression that characterises it, that so much is under the surface, in a position where it’s not shown, and it’s actively hidden from everyone above sea-level. That means most of you is never known, kept away from those you interact with, for fear of what they might think, or just to keep your secrets safe. It’s understandable. Hell, I do it more than most, I’d wager.

But I think D/s is a way of wading out of that great unknown, and riding the tide in to shore. It’s a place where you don’t need to be safe and secret, because we create an environment where everything is permitted, because it’s so fundamentally based on honesty and trust. We’re already at the outer fringes of both society and sexuality, that pretty much anything can at the very least be talked about. We’re free of society’s shackles, living Rousseau’s ideals, which is incredibly liberating. And while we still have to struggle with certain hangups and neurosis, there is so much less that is left unsaid, and repressed. 

Thoughts always find a way, in the end. The squid will always rise to the surface and gobble up a galleon, if you push it down hard enough. It’s better to bring it to land yourself, and show it to the world. Show them that it’s nothing to be afraid of, and that really, it’s rather beautiful, in its own way.  

(Source: spliffy-, via elpanteranera)

You get in such pretty messes, when I say just the right words, and do just the right things. You evoke the Russian Gymnast, all curves and stretches, your body contorting into shapes it’s got no right to contort into. Back arched, arms spread, hands grabbing at big clumps of the duvet. All of it impulse, none of it thought out or considered.
And the noises you make, the half uttered words and simpered sighs. The hushed ‘oh’s that spill from your lips like a river bursting its banks, and the sudden gasps, punctuation between this touch here, and that touch there. And then there’s the sentences, rushed, the words blurred together in a slurry, but the meaning oh so clear, regardless as to whether I can make out any specifics. There’s a ‘fuck’ in there, most of the time, and perhaps a desperate call to one deity or another. Not with any purpose, never with any purpose, because, in that moment, you’re a being without purpose, and without thought. Your mouth becomes a direct conduit to your consciousness, all filters removed. 
So twist and turn, mind and body, because you’re oh so pretty when you do. 

You get in such pretty messes, when I say just the right words, and do just the right things. You evoke the Russian Gymnast, all curves and stretches, your body contorting into shapes it’s got no right to contort into. Back arched, arms spread, hands grabbing at big clumps of the duvet. All of it impulse, none of it thought out or considered.

And the noises you make, the half uttered words and simpered sighs. The hushed ‘oh’s that spill from your lips like a river bursting its banks, and the sudden gasps, punctuation between this touch here, and that touch there. And then there’s the sentences, rushed, the words blurred together in a slurry, but the meaning oh so clear, regardless as to whether I can make out any specifics. There’s a ‘fuck’ in there, most of the time, and perhaps a desperate call to one deity or another. Not with any purpose, never with any purpose, because, in that moment, you’re a being without purpose, and without thought. Your mouth becomes a direct conduit to your consciousness, all filters removed. 

So twist and turn, mind and body, because you’re oh so pretty when you do. 

(via americanmercury-deactivated2012)

Nº. 1 of  6