Mm I can practically feel this.
It’s a tired old metaphor, the kind that you wheel out when there’s nothing else to grasp, because you know it works, and you know that it’s going to get the point across. It’s decrepit, exhausted and frail, but that doesn’t stop it getting thrown into sentences a thousand times a day. It makes you feel a little ashamed, but what the hell.
We’re icebergs; we only show ten percent.
Fuck, we only show five. Two. One. A decimal.
It’s because we don’t trust the world, and we’ve got good reason not to. It’s betrayed us before, and it’ll do it again, it’s just that kind of messed up place. And there’s so much of it that you don’t want betrayed, so much that you’ve kept quiet and safe, nurtured into something that you know is beautiful, but to hear it derided and ridiculed would kill the magic that you’ve conjured up. You hide it from the world, when you want to shout about it. You want to be accepted, and through that acceptance, lovedfor it.
It makes conversation into Russian Roulette, pointing a gun at your friends, your loved ones, pulling the trigger on that kind of information and seeing whether it’ll be the bullet that destroys your relationship. Sometimes your lucky. Maybe most of the time. But it only takes one live round to ruin the rest, warn you away from that trigger finger, break it so that you can never use it again. You don’t want to be broken. You don’t want to do the breaking.
But you’re not an iceberg. You shouldn’t have to be. Be a plane peaking through the clouds. Be a squid owning the depths. Be whatever the fuck you want to be, but don’t be an icebergs. This isn’t a world where icebergs survive very long, not any more. Pull the trigger, and see what good comes of it. If the gun goes off, the gun goes off; it always would and it always will. The rest of the time, you’re golden.
In position and ready to begin anal training. Master deciding to skip the gag this time so he could hear it moan clearly.
That is beautiful.
There are two reasons I do the things I do to you.
The first is that I like to do it. You like to do it. We have mutual sexy, kinky fuck times, and everyone’s happy and satisfied and exhausted at the end of it. We both come at the end of it, and while you might have a red, sore bum from where I got handsy, it’s pretty great for everyone involved. Even the pain is good, because you’re the masochist to my sadist, and I love to hurt you in the way you love to be hurt.
But then there’s the part of you that desperately wants to please, and even if you’re not exactly into the thing that I like, you want to do it anyway, because that will please me, and pleasing me is what turns you on.
The thing is, I like to do the things that you like, too. If you enjoy it, I enjoy it.
It’s about the disconnect between the mental and the physical. I might adore biting you, if that’s the thing that’s going to make you buck your hips and arch your back. But if it leaves you cold, unless I particularly want it, I’m not going to get the same reward out of it. And the parts of me that are sadistically inclined rely on you enjoying the pain. Except if you’re doing it just to please me, and that is making you enjoy it, then it all starts to become a bit of a mindfuck.
Because you want to do it regardless of whether I’ve got qualms about it. If I end up not wanting to do it, then you feel like you’ve ruined my fun, and end up annoyed at both yourself and the situation, which I don’t want. But if you don’t have the natural proclivity towards getting spanked, or choked, or any of these things that I’ve expressed an interest in… I, well. I just don’t know. Do I still want to do it? Do you still want me to?
It’s a blurry line, and one I’ve crossed more than once. I’m still no more sure of the answer, though.
A concept I struggle with as well. Or perhaps it’s really her struggle. Hard to tell.
You’ve got to believe me.
It’s not enough to just want it. To flirt with the ideas, and attempt to fool yourself that this all works in the way that you imagine it would work. You can’t just try. You have to do. You’ve got to have faith, in other words.
Because if you don’t believe, if you have that seed of doubt niggling at the back of your m ind, and you start to question the why then it will all fall apart. It won’t come crashing down, a house of cards with a crucial foundation piece removed. Illusions can’t crash, because they don’t exist. They are intangible ideas, concepts given life with the breath of a few words. They don’t crash. They just fade.
And make no mistake, my Dominance of you is just as much illusion as fact. I’m just as much the man behind the curtain as the Wizard. It’s your belief that makes me one or the other. It’s your acceptance of the lie, your buying into the mutual denial that we entertain, that gives me my power. If you were to stop, for a moment, and say ‘no’, not in a petulant, bratty way, but with authority, with the resolution of someone who doesn’t want to play this game any more, there isn’t anything I could do to stop you.
You could pull back the curtain, and the illusion would shatter into a thousand wisps of non-existent smoke. All the power you’ve imbued me with, transferred back to you in an instant, something borrowed, returned. Gone.
So believe me when I say you are mine. Believe me when I whisper in your ear. Believe me when I call you things that you are not, and conjure ideas that don’t exist.
If you believe me long enough, and hard enough, it might just all come true.
As always, a key concept of this lifestyle, very well put. Would be submissives or slaves, read and learn.
Do you have the remotest idea of how fucking good it feels to have you lying on top of me?
The weight of you against my chest, your soft against my hard, your smooth against my hair, feels like the metaphor of my responsibility made flesh. I’m finally supporting you mind and body, and to have it all there, in your beautiful, tight little package, is just about as satisfying as things get.
It’s where you feel most safe. I understand that much. You’re Crusoe on his island, supported by it and kept away from the deadly sea. On my chest you’re away from the world, your feet not touching the lava of the floor, the choppy waters of the bed. You may as well be in a vacuum, cut off from the world. Just me. Me and you.
And I never feel more powerful. More in control. Of you, of me, of the world. And somehow, that manages to get me in a state where I can truly, comfortably relax.
Having you laying on top of me makes me feel more Dominant than just about anything else.
Very true.
She was practically squirming as he pulled it out of his trousers, the shaft already half swollen in his hands. He squeezed his palm, making the tip first disappear before poking out through the curve of his forefinger again. She licked her lips, and approached him, her head surging forward, mouth falling open.
His hand pressed against her forehead, stopping her dead, before it slid down her face, cupping her chin and tilting her head up to look at him, eye to eye.
“No. This time you restrain yourself, you cock hungry deviant. This time you don’t take it in your mouth, you don’t slurp and guzzle on it, and you don’t hollow out those pretty little cheeks as you try to suck it clean off my body.” His thumb stroked her cheek as her eyebrows trailed upwards, looking almost afronted.
“This time you take time. You kiss, you lick, and you stay in control. Don’t give into your baser desires, as difficult as that may seem to your woefully perverted little mind.” That thumb gave her cheek one last stroke before he withdrew his hand. She stayed staring up at him. “Think you can manage that, pretty little slut?”
She pouted, lips thrust out desperately far, but she nodded, a little sigh escaping her lips as she stared at his now erect shaft, standing freely, and gently swaying, as if trying to hypnotise her.
Her head moved forward, ever so slowly, and she pressed her lips to the tip, holding them there as she stared up at him. His lips broke into the slightest of smiles, and he nodded.
“Good girl.”
Of all the ridiculous patriarchy that is rife throughout the modern world, and the easy ride that guys really do have of life, admitting that your arse is an erogenous zone is easily the thing that most guys would rather take to their grave than say out loud. There’s too many connotations, far too much associated with it, and the accusation that most would assume would be thrown there way is more than enough of a deterrent.
The problem is, though, guys, your arse is an erogenous zone. It feels good to have stuff happen down there, and if you can get over the fact that, shit, gay guys like to have stuff happen down there too, you might even be able to enjoy it. I don’t see you raising that objection when your girlfriend offered anal sex, by the way.
Regardless, even if you’re the most well adjusted and comfortable man in the world, it’s going to take a pretty hefty level of trust to allow anyone near that general area. It’s the only time I’ll ever feel truly vulnerable, to feel like I’m offering something that puts me in a position where I’m not necessarily as comfortable or as confident as I usually am. That’s not so say I’m not in control, it’s just that we’re straying into shaking-the-foundations kind of things right there.
All of which is to say: hey guys, how about you pull your head out of your arse (intended) and enjoy yourselves rather than worry about that twelve year old at school who used to call you a homo. As if you give a shit.
