Why do I need my Dom to spank me?

because…
it makes me feel safe, loved, wanted
cherished
it lets me escape the kids, the boss, the overdue bills, but
being honest
[he requires that of me… the beast]
because…
I surrendered that choice to you willingly
my pain is now yours to bestow
whenever you feel the need
to own me
and make the during
as deliciously humiliating as possible
until I beg for it to be over
and you stop
every time
right before my safe word tumbles to the floor
and shatters our understanding
that it’s the before
before the act of spanking
when
I tingle
I shiver
I gush
because…
I’m happiest when you growl
threaten
order me to submit… there is no ‘or else’
only promises kept
and my bottom thrust nice and high
I’m seldom dry
when you lecture
and scold
I’ll pay any price to lift
the disappointed shadow
in your eye
so
over I go
heeding your mastery
your skill at spanking
your naughty submissive
until she cries
with relief
words of forgiveness
wordless echoes of respect and love
ring louder than
the spanks now stopped
and after
after the canes and paddles and brushes
are put away… temporarily
your humbled sub needs
the very best part of spanking
as the heat transmogrifies
to aching soreness
your punishing hand
soothes reddened flesh
and reinforces why
I ignore those
who send me links
and toll-free numbers
and question my femininity
with ever more strident
disbelief
but
because… I trust you
and know I’m a better woman
when you dominate me
that is why
I need to be spanked

[Preferably every morning, lunchtime when possible, and every single night so that all my tension and doubts and fears are washed away by your determination to keep me safe from myself]

Desires al fresco

clinging leaves stubborn
punished cheeks glowing crimson
falling sun parts crests

“But Master! You know everything!”

Do I? Is that what your training has led you to?
Come.
Where are we going?
To the walls.
Why?
You wish to know where cravings start?
Yes. You never have cravings. I want to know your secret.
That question is easy, little one. Climb.
Is this a metaphor? Climbing to heaven? Each step representing knowledge and wisdom?
Wisdom is knowing when to save your breath and when to scream.
I do not understand, Master.
Every relationship is unequal. That is why you chatter needlessly instead of observing the Beloved’s hand in every action.
All I see is endless lifeless desert below and infinite stars above. How does that relate to craving?

Do you not crave the sweet flesh of ripe melon?
The zest of pomegranate?
The rich savory fig?
You,
who have never seen the succulent treasure between a woman’s thighs,
fail to make the correlation between craving and living.

And you have?
What you see out there, beyond the high brick walls of the sultan’s citadel, you transpose upon your Master, I, who have nothing but a long existence trailing behind me like the gauzy scarf of your admirer flapping in the harsh winds of crimson summer.
She does not see me.
She sees you. A boy, pouting for a treat of forbidden honey wine. Beware the sting.
What do you know of being a boy!
I know.

I know what wakes in the early morning before dawn’s first blush.
I know the rising sap that stiffens green wood and burns hotter than the sun.
I know the rampant mind that weaves elaborate mirages luring even the most stalwart of men to spill their seed upon infertile soil.
I know.

Then why does the Beloved torment us so?

Because, little one, above all else, She creates a craving for union of bodies and souls so that we may worship with joyful hearts and willingly submit to discipline.

I was wrong.
Where are you going?
You don’t know anything! Master! I’m leaving and I won’t be back!

Ah! Little One, your Master has never claimed to know everything.
In fact, the older he becomes, the less he knows.
As in the beginning,
when as infants we crave our mother’s milk
so to at the end,
we crave reunion with the Source.

Without our cravings
we are not alive

If it’s the first day of the month, then there is a new newsletter at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction.

Does pain have a color?

when memory of words
hurled to wound
burst along the never healed scar
does pain have a color
why then
does some pain
feel good
when face-to-face with fear
past never far
haunting every action
stealing moments
moments that turn into a lifetime
a lifetime passes
with no resolution
when intoxicants
no longer work
the world reduced to gray mist
sleeping
wishing to never wake
some
some few
some few find pain does have a color
red
pink
blue
the color of discipline
and love given
one spank at a time
for those fortunate
the few who experience
the bliss of over-the-knee
they know pain
does have a color
it’s whatever shade
your Dominant chooses
to bestow
a color that wipes away
agony
of words hurled to wound
it may sound strange
the smack of flesh
the cries
and pleas
expressing love through
spanking
but color
can be healing
too

chalk beneath my feet

how many before me have sat here
and elsewhere
sore bottom and tender thighs
seed even now
~hopefully~
taking root in my eager womb
arms wrapped around knees
hem madly flapping as my heart
aches to watch wake riding waves
dispersed upon upwelling tide
cold air scaling white cliffs
to send gulls flying
hurtling inland to build squalls
to match my wet cheeks
hoping he will return
knowing that many will not
two months mine
the others given to the sea
a harsh mistress
offering naught but death
and wealth
for the fortunate few
who ride her swells
as he rode mine
willingly did I open wide
submit to his cock
that glorious and sole
redeeming aspect of being
a sailor’s love
who with calloused hands
spanked the calendar away
drawing red lines across
the needy surface
the sails fill and his ship
is flying over the
feathering sea
away from me
again
my hand waves
over the edge of the world
she falls
down
down
into the briny depths
we turn our backs
from Land’s End
and stroll arm-in-arm
widows of the deep blue ocean
with chalk beneath our feet

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Sundae snacking

fingering wet silk
submissive white lace shivers
snow capped tart cherries

Tied to my faults

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘Bond’ after the quartet of the same name playing ‘Victory’ from the year 2000. I have that album Born on CD. Likely I purchased it because it featured four women in tight dresses with lovely bums. I do enjoy their music as well, to be fair. The other Bond, James Bond, uses sex and sizzle too; although I’d like to see a Jane Bond at some point.

The origin of bond, is rather interesting. The ultimate root source is bind: ORIGIN Old English bindan, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch and German binden, from an Indo-European root shared by Sanskrit bandh.

This changed to band, as in: #4 archaic ‘a thing that restrains, binds, or unites.’ ORIGIN late Old English (sense 4 of the noun), from Old Norse, reinforced in late Middle English by Old French bande, of Germanic origin; related to bind.

In turn, this lead to bonds: physical restraints used to hold someone or something prisoner, esp. ropes or chains. ORIGIN Middle English: variant of band1.

The surname Bond, comes from Old English bonda, bunda, reinforced by Old Norse bóndi, which in the Old Norse meant farmer or husbandman, as well as a personal name.

In Modern English, bond is also used in chemistry, the law, building and financial trades and in terms of relationships. It’s interesting that the word bondage, originally comes from an agricultural background: ORIGIN Middle English: from Anglo-Latin bondagium, from Middle English bond ‘serf’ (earlier ‘peasant, householder’), from Old Norse bóndi ‘tiller of the soil,’ based on búa ‘dwell’; influenced in sense by bond.
The BDSM meaning of bondage was first recorded in 1966.

the fertile soil of my phobia ridden mind
yields a paltry harvest of habitual faults
with plow and mattock blistered hands seek
redemption for numerous errors in judgement

the sun cannot scorch hotter than the whips
that keep me entangled in familial bondage

there was a time when I ran naked through
open fields of imagination and possibility
when the bond of life had yet to be cashed
and bitterness sank to the bottom of the mug

the toasts and songs mean nothing to me now
that she has traveled where I am yet to go

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

I realize this is not very wicked this week, but when the Muse wants a gloomy poem… I can but obey.