Monday, April 13, 2015

Confession by Doc

Doc rolled over and glanced at the clock, still groggy from a delightful nap that he’d needed.

“Oh, fuck!  OMG!”  The clock beside the queen size bed read 1:20. “Impossible! It can’t be.”  But it was indeed.  He raced up the stairs, glanced at the microwave clock.  It flipped over to 1:21.  He didn’t slow down, logging on to Second Life.  He knew he was late.  He’d agreed days ago to meet at 1:00 local to meet his Domme (one of several) with whom he’d agreed to tutor in Spanish every week.

Worse, they’d exchanged messages and emails to be sure they were talking the same time zone and not SLT.  Worst this was a repeat of another missed appointment, also his fault.  He felt like shit.

As he logged in, he checked the clock.  This one: 1:22.  She was not there.  More ominous: no IM hanging fire to blister him.  No notecard.  Nothing.  He hoped and prayed she was, as had happened a couple of times, running late too.  He sent an IM to her, and then – to be sure – another copy to her alt.  He waited.  Silence.  He minimized the screen, went into Google Chrome to see if there was any email.  None.  It was now 1:28.  He had promised to log on 15 minutes early so they could get a prompt start.  (He had been told to be at a discussion in The Dominion, which started at 2:00.)  After waiting a few minutes, he decided to write a notecard to send to her.  Writing always takes a long time.  He wrote, edited, revised, deleted, added and so on and somehow, when he next looked up it was 2:07.  He dashed off from this closet (one of his ladies had insisted he relocate his SL ‘Home’ to her Victorian wardrobe), so he logged in there to Dominion Beach.  The beach was the best (and most lonely) place to pull out a ‘kneel’ gesture from his inventory.

Landing in the Courtyard required nimble fingers to get into a kneeling position before the brickbats started flying, so he had long ago made it a practice to land on ‘The Beach’. There he could open his mini-map, click on a location near  -- but not too near -- the circle of green dots, and then approach the group.  Fully ready.  Already kneeling.

Today it was especially good that he had dropped into The Beach first.  He realized he was still naked as he landed. (Naked was another ‘wardrobe requirement.’; the lady in question liked to open her wardrobe’s doors – with built in squeak – to see him inside, naked).  Doc clicked on the conveniently located ‘shirt icon’ at the bottom of his screen. Using ‘replace all’ he put on his usual dark suit.  Being sure his cock was ‘turned off’ he cammed in and, satisfied, tp’d over (a bit late but not noticeably) to the discussion.

He never took his gaze off the ‘friends’ menu.  His Spanish-lesson-Domme never came online.  An hour and a half later she still had not appeared.  Nothing.  Again he checked his email in-box as he half-listened to others in the discussion.  Empty.

He still felt like crap.  Nothing at all was ominous.  It wasn't about fault.  It wasn't about anger.  It was about having disappointed.  That was a fact.  Failure, no matter what the reason, is not pleasant.

He logged out and it was at least an hour (probably more) before he logged in again.

His worst fears were realized.  A scathing note with a list of punishments (choose two out of these four).

The real kicker was toward the bottom.  A pending project, previously hanging without deadlines or parameters or shape or form was now once again active.  It was not his idea.  It was hers.  He had no hope that it would turn out well or that it was worth the effort.  That was, of course, irrelevant.  She had decided for reasons unknown that it would be a good idea.  His job wasn't to question orders.  His task was to obey orders.

They IM’d later.  After he’d had time to digest the contents of her message.  After he had made his choices based on the alternatives which she had offered.  It was a tense meeting, but one-by-one things were decided.  The deadline for the essentials of The Project was now set: one month from now.

His head swam thinking of the work ahead, but he calmed down, reminding himself of innumerable projects he’d undertaken which seemed impossible at the onset and which seemed less impossible as time went on.  Nonetheless he had failed several times ‘stretching’.  There was the horrendous end of a friendship when he’d incompetently attempted to build a Charleston-style ‘whorehouse’ for a client. (That was what she said.) After two weeks of work she then told him she wanted ‘something very large that looks like the French Quarter’.  He hadn't had the heart to tell her all his miserable efforts to date had yielded a small Federal-style residence.  She had never had time to look at his build before.  When she looked at it, she simply said, “This is all?”  He gave her back her lindens, but she was still furious.  She never spoke to him again.  He never built anything again commercially. He’d never really cared about the lindens.  It had been about creating something that would be loved.  He’d failed.

Then there was the English lady who wanted to write a FemDom novel which would match the commercial success of “Fifty Shades of Grey”.   Reading the novel itself was a horror but as her vision of ‘commercial FemDom qua house of prostitution’ unfolded, week by week, chapter by chapter, his heart sank further and further.  Her focus was on fame.  Also the money.  He dreaded fame and didn’t see the point of more money than what it took to pay the bills and have a bit left over for ‘fun’.  Worse, he got to hate most of the women that she sketched out. (His job was to flesh out the scenes, ensure continuity, paint word pictures, and write dialog. She briefly described the action).

This project continued for over seven months.  Doc learned he might be physically a masochist – but that he was not and would never want this kind of mental pain.  He finally told her he needed to quit.  He told her he had come to detest her characters and both their motivations and their actions.  Outwardly she took it well (maybe because she is British?) But…. She never spoke to Doc ever again either.  I doubt the project continued.  If it did, I would wish her well on becoming famous and wealthy.  I don’t think either will ever happen.  But then again I’m often mistaken.

Now, not thinking of the past, Doc pondered the future of this new project.  It also involved writings. Perhaps this will turn out better.  He will be happy if his Domme is happy and enjoys whatever she seeks to gain.  That’s what matters: being a positive force. It is scary and dark when one fails to perform and leaves a wake of unhappiness.  Even if unintended.

Last Night by Niki

Last Night
By Niki Songlark

A night like many others.
Casual conversation with people I like but keep at arms’ length.
A hug for a few, a very few, a friendly wave to the others.

Except for one.
A hug for her.
A warm hug, holding her tight and close.
Her arms squeezing me, holding me tighter and longer.
Did I “mmmm?” Did she hear me?

A bubble shattered unnoticed.
“Why are you moving away?” she asks.
“Was I?” I reply, closing the distance, my leg against hers.
Conversation and food and laughter and why am I blushing?

A hand on my leg.
A touch so casual and so intimate.
So welcome.
Does she know what she’s doing to me?
Mmm, tingles.
From my scalp, down my back.
This is why cats purr.

Conversation and laughing and a milkshake.
“Can I walk you to your car?”
Did she hear?
She turns expectantly and we go.

And we’re alone.
Her arms are around me, pulling me close.
And we’re talking and laughing and her mouth is on mine.
So good so good so good.
I’m leaving hand-prints on her windows.

And talking and laughing and it’s so easy.
Her words cascade over me.
They’re so smart and so pretty.
She is her words.
My words feel clumsy and inadequate.
Why can’t I say it?
Why can’t I say how I feel, how she makes me feel, what I want?
She demands it and I do, in small words.
Dribbles through a crack.

My body is against her, and she looks at me.
Does she know how much I want her?
Her hands are on me, so cold, but I’m so hot and it feels so good.
She says she won’t hurt me and I trust her.
Please push me, make me say the things I can’t say, I want her hands on me, her lips, her teeth.
My hands are on her, in her hair. She feels so good.

Her hands are on my chest.
Can she feel my heart beating for her?
There’s a rattle, does she feel that?
I have to walk away and cough into the bushes, at least I didn’t cough in her face.
And we’re together again and the moment isn’t lost.
We talk and laugh and hers is musical and mine sounds like an old man’s and I hate it.

Her hands are on my wrists and they’re behind my back, her mouth on mine.
She’s in control.
So much power.
Does she know?
She looks at me and I feel like she knows what I’m thinking.
But she makes me say it.

It’s time to go and she kisses me one more time and tells me to walk away.
I do, wanting to stay, wanting more time, more of her.
I walk away and we wave and I sigh.
I’m in my car and that can’t be the time.

It’s a short drive and I’m thinking of her and how she feels.
Tasting her on my lips.
And I’m in bed and we’re talking still.
The screen glows and that’s how I feel.
My eyes close and she’s my last thought.

Acceptance by Lady Jericho

I accept you
Exactly as you are
There isn’t a thing about you that needs to change
I don’t need to break you and reshape you or mold you into the perfect submissive
I am going to break you
But it’s not necessary
That’s why I’m going to take my time
So we both enjoy it
So that the brutality of it can be cherished
So that in your darkest moment
In the face of your fear
You can remember what it’s like to feel alive

The Night I Sunk His Fleet by Lady Jericho

I didn't cheat. I just didn't play by rules he was expecting. I admit I'm surprised he didn't expect the duplicity; he's smarter than that. To be fair, it was his first public scene, so while his mind was filtering the typical anxieties of public play, I went on the hunt, pressing his buttons like a matador hooking a bull.

He laid out the scene, a luxurious blanket went down on the dungeon floor - we settled on it, and the box came out. It was still in shrink wrap; he bought it just to play with me. While I slid a fingernail along the seam of the box and peeled the shrink wrap off he watched me, his eyes still smack talking with defiance. I flipped the box right side up and let the bottom fall out of it slowly. It landed with a soft sound, unhearable to anyone but us. We each took out a battle station; he sorted out the white and red pegs while I broke the battleships away from their plastic moorings. When I handed him most of the ships, he stammered, confused, I was giving him an advantage. No, those weren't the rules. He wanted to win, true, but he wanted to win fairly.

I should mention the stakes. We'd negotiated for a scene of Battleship. You know the old "B7" "You sunk my battleship" game. The stakes were as follows: Standard Rules. If I win, he lets me hit him with my belt three times, in the dungeon (my choice). If he wins, he bottoms to me at a BARR munch (his choice). For each battleship of mine he sinks, I kiss him in whichever scenario we end up in (my choice). For each battleship of his I sink, I barehanded spank him in whichever scenario we end up in (his choice).

I insisted he take the extra ships. He tried to give me back the carriers, insisting they would be harder to sink, and I shouldn't give him such an advantage. I smiled at him, assuring him that I wasn't the slightest bit concerned and he should set up his fleet. I waited until he was nearly finished before I pulled out the hood and slipped it over his head. He gasped so loud I'm certain that even the people sitting behind us in the spectator section heard him. It took him a moment to catch his breath and protest softly about how this wasn't in the rules. It took just a few moments in the hood with my hand on his thigh for him to abandon his desire to play by any rules but mine. It was warm in the dungeon, warmer so under the hood. I let him struggle to set the rest of his board up, and when he was done I removed the hood.

I looked at him, long and hard. He bit his lip, looking back at me, expectant. I couldn't let him down, so out came the belt.  His hands went behind his back. I don't even remember telling him to do it - perhaps I didn't. I wrapped it around his wrists, looping, and tying. I leaned in so our bodies touched and with my lips against his throat below his ear I told him "That's the belt I'm going to beat you with" and he let out this soft little moan and leaned a little closer to me.

With magnanimity, I let him have the first move. He missed. I took a red peg, and with my eyes on his, I leaned across and put the peg in the first ship on his side. He let another moan pass his lips; this time tinged with some despair. It went like that turn after turn. He did manage, along the way to sink two of my ships (even with his hands tied behind his back) but I sunk his entire fleet, systematically annihilating every single vessel. I had him clean up the game and pack the blanket away. He approached nervously when he was done.  His eyes darted everywhere but came back to my face and to my eyes where they finally settled. He took a deep breath and looked that the bench next to which I was standing. He looked from me to it and back, and when I nodded he put his hands on it, bracing himself. "Are you ready?" I asked him, my hand gently rubbing along his back. He shook his head no. I shook my head yes, and he repeated my gesture. I took my first swing at him, and the belt snapped hard against his butt. It was a brutal swing, strong, hard. No warm up. His breath came out in a frantic gasp. Once. Twice. Three times and I kissed him then, long and hard with the same deliberateness I had applied the belt. He half moaned, half whimpered against my mouth, and I hit him again. And again. And again. I circled him like a matador.  I'd come in close, lay my body against his, or my mouth on his skin, my teeth on his flesh, and then I'd strike and move away. I weakened him systematically, methodically, and with deliberate brutality. I lost track of how many times I'd hit him or how long we'd been ‘in scene’. I hit him hard enough and long enough that my shoulder still hurts two days later, and my belt has a crease in it that hasn't flattened out.

He was drenched in sweat and shaking. He cleaned up after us - well, I might add, and we stepped outside into the cool night air. He asked to not be in the tent, to be out in the air alone, and I agreed, sitting there on the bench against the wall. He'd planned to sit next to me, you could see it from his stance, but he didn't, he dropped like a stone to my feet. He leaned into me there, like that, on his knees, and I held him. When he could finally lift his head, he gazed up at me. The total trust, adoration, and respect I found in his eyes then must have been the mirror image of the respect, adoration, and total trust he found in my eyes, looking down at him in that moment.

The Night She Sunk My Fleet by Niki

We walked into the dungeon, smiling and laughing as we checked in.
She looked stunning in her suit, my borrowed necklace just visible.
I was passable, in all black with my hair pulled back.
After checking in, we walked into the dungeon proper. The music was loud and the lights were low, people were playing, people were watching.

We picked out a spot out of the way and I put out a blanket for us to sit on.
I was feeling rather confident, though it was my ass that was literally on the line. Playful banter and smack talk went back and forth while we set up the game of Battleship.
There was some confusion when she gave me the ships, notably the aircraft carriers and all the other ships that have the most hits. I tried handing them back, noting that I would have an unfair advantage, but she insisted.
I relented, feeling I was being given a huge advantage. Until the hood came out.

I protested, these weren’t the rules!
But they were. We would be playing by HER rules.
I finished setting up my ships, mostly by touch. The haze of the hood making it a challenge.
After the set up the hood came off and we were ready to play. Or so I thought.
I found my hands behind my back, something stiff and hard being wrapped around them, binding them.
“This is the belt I’m going to beat you with,” she whispered in my ear, a sigh escaped my lips.

She generously allowed me to take the first shot. I called it out and missed, unable to mark it on my board as my hands were bound.
She took her shot.
Her gaze trapping me, she took a red peg, reached across my board, and placed it in a ship, scoring a hit.
I knew then that I never stood a chance.
So it went, me calling out a shot and her, placing a red peg in a ship, until my entire fleet was slowly and inexorably sunk.
I did manage to sink two of her ships, a small victory.

We cleaned up and I prepared to pay off my end of the wager for losing.
Three hits with the leather belt that had been binding my wrists.
If I had won, I would be collecting on the wager.
What that would have been didn’t matter, it was an illusion.

I approached the spanking horse and bent over, leaning against it.
She asked if I was ready and I indicated that I was.
She swung the belt, there was a sharp pain followed immediately by a sweet burn.
Over and over I felt the bite of the belt.
She walked behind me, back and forth, switching sides.
I focused solely on her.
Her words washing over me, her fingertips moving over my sweaty skin, her mouth on mine.
Again and again the sound of leather striking flesh, I’ve lost count.
Stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.
She tells me I’ve had enough and we stop.

Shakily I clean up, spraying the station with alcohol and wiping it down, just like the gym.
We go outside where it’s cool, we have the night to ourselves.
She settles on a bench and I go over to sit next to her, but find myself in front of her on my knees.
“You were perfect,” she whispers, taking me in her arms.
I wrap my arms around her, still kneeling, listening to the beat of her heart.
And I’m safe.
In her arms, I’m safe.

Why The Muses Were Wrong by Lady Danika

"Why The Muses Were Wrong" -- ©March 2015

Had my love been but a flame
it could have been fueled by simple things.
Tis true. Tis true.

Or held within the confines of a bricked-in pit
and tended with a rough or gentle hand
and the shove and prod of a stick or booted kick
to keep the embers glowing as might have been willed.

But my love was never so simple as fire.
Fire is the love of Youth-
the all consuming brilliance
that consumes and destroys despite
the momentary heat and comfort
and then burns down to bitter ash.

My love has always been the ebb and flow
of salty ocean waters
renewed and tended and replenished
in the pain and sacrifice of my own sweat and tears
as I gave what all I had of me for them.

Of course, water too can be dangerous.
It can drown, overwhelm, erode the shores...
But the ocean never dies, disappears, or becomes less.
Instead it cycles, rages, changes, calms, and evolves.

And yet what worth do we put in the former?
When all the love poems speak of love as an ember
an ever living flame to light the way of darkness!

Fire eats up the oxygen of souls!
Even the stories of old equate fire with Hell!

Was there ever an antique pen
that spoke of love as the ocean?

At least when love is an ocean-
the brave soul willing to compromise and bend
who is willing to learn to surf the waves...
can walk the sandy shores for glittering shells
each of which tells a small story of sacrifice
each its own small gift given in offering
to the beloved barefoot collector.

Fire can be tamed! Snuffed out! Smothered!
But it is not so easily re-lit as some might think.

You can walk the edge of the ocean
and circle the edge of the world
And she will -never- dry up!

But for most, the interest in such a strong love
seems to break like the ocean waves themselves
and crash against the rocks when the tides are high.
Because it is easier to see the traditional as love
when the muses have long defined it in poems and songs
as flowers and a soft smile highlighted by firelight.

Lest the broken-hearted lover
who tries to tame the ocean forgets...
the vapors that rise above those waters to the clouds
which later birth the great storms in cycles
are required to renew the deep, vast waters
that shimmer and undulate.
And those were what you first saw and loved.

Not the fire.

Perhaps the luminous memories of the water
that held you floating in warmth and cocooned in safety-
your lips and nose held above the waves so you could breathe-
when fire would have instead just singed away your skin...
Will remind you that such a love cannot be bricked in.