Sep 242014
 

Emily tapped the four digit security code onto the pad outside the door to the large condo. The three high-toned beeps announced her entrance home. Smells wafted from the kitchen. Her routine carried her into the office.

She took a seat in Master’s leather chair and emptied her briefcase. Emily rolled her fingertip around the flat pad that brought the computer to life. While waiting for the colorful welcome to pop up, she finger-combed the french twist out of her hair.

Emily went through the mail placed at the edge of the desk, awaiting her attention. Bills were paid with a few clicks of the keys. Invitations, financial forms, important emails, and other documents that needed her Master’s consideration were set aside for him to attend to

Emily refilled her briefcase and left it tucked behind the door. She left the office and went to check on the rest of the house. The girls under Emily’s charge did not belong to her. It was her responsibility to present them to her Master at their best. It was a task that she took very seriously.

Emily’s wardrobe was made up of expensive dress suits that hid racy unmentionables. The clicking of her heels announced her presence. She was structured. They met at his law office. She was his first.

Emily walked into the kitchen, the crisp, modern white that occupied the entire house was hidden by all of the ingredients that Kimberly used to prepare dinner. At 8:00pm the family sat down to eat. Emily’s watch read 7:15pm. It was her job to keep the family clock running. Master would be home by 7:45pm, and he expected everything routinely in place.

“Kimberly, I know you need time to cook dinner, but must you have all of our stomach’s growling until we scarf down our meals like animals?” Emily teased her, and speared a piece of fruit with a toothpick from the nibbling tray. This brought a veiled smile to Kimberly’s face as she worked on the finishing touches. Kimberly handled all of the cooking. Three meals a day and healthy snacks.

At some point during the years since the girls were together, they’d jokingly razzed Kimberly about “taste testing.” She set out a “nibbling tray” before cooking. Slices of fruit, cheese, or crackers appeared and she no longer had to “shoo” them away from her dinner preparations.

Kimberly studied culinary arts in college. The household was lucky to have her. Kimberly’s light brown hair was always held back in a tight bun while she was in the kitchen. She ran the space with amazing ability. She could slow down or propel forward the time of a meal at Emily’s behest. She had an innocent smile.

Emily made her way to the back of the house and poked her head into the laundry room. It was spotless. Only the soft sound of the tumbling dryer gave any life to the room. She shut the door to leave and noticed Cammy coming down the hallway with an empty dry cleaners bag in hand and a warm smile on her face.

“Hello, Miss. How was your day?” Cammy was soft-hearted and soft-spoken.

She was tall, too. Her hair was strawberry blonde and very curly. Cammy joined the family as a service submissive. She kept the home clean, washed clothes, and ran errands when Emily needed her to. Cammy and Kimberly made weekly trips to the store for mealtime and household items as well.

Emily returned the smile. “My day was busy. I’m sure yours was too. The house looks great.”

“Yes Ma’am. I just put away the dry cleaning and I’m trying to control my stomach from growling.” Cammy smiled and tipped her head down the hallway towards the direction of the kitchen.

Emily smirked, “you and me both.” Master’s arrival home was announced with an excited, shrill scream of “Daddy’s Home!”

Emily’s eyes went wide at the screech. “Christ, she’s got to contain that.”

“She’s been pent-up all day. Good luck, Ma’am.”

They both laughed and went in opposite directions. Cammy headed to the front of the house to greet their Master and Emily to make a quick check on the back rooms to make sure everything was in order. Emily found his room perfect. Cammy had his clothes out for the next day. They were placed carefully on his suit rack.

Finding all the boxes checked off her list, Emily headed towards the front of the house to greet him. Their Master went to them individually, with a kiss and kind words. Further information about their days would be shared during dinner and more discreet time, later in the evening.

Master took hold of Emily’s chin and kissed her hard on the lips. He whispered something in her ear and handed her his briefcase. She laughed and made her way to his office to set it aside his chair.

Pretty was the petite, babygirl of the bunch. She had long black hair that fell in curls unless Cammy wrangled her into sitting still long enough to braid them into pigtails. She usually traded a reality T.V. Show for the process, but Master didn’t like doing that too often, as he had to listen to the retelling of the absurdities of the show.

Pretty wore only panties and sometimes knee socks. She was purchased at an auction. She had a single Master. With his passing, she was sent to a slave house. The house Pretty belonged to was never appropriately able to mold her into their idea of what a “little girl” should be. But Master wanted her.

Cammy served Master a drink while Pretty talked his head off. This gave Kimberly time to plate dinner. Cammy prepared each place setting. Kimberly helped Cammy with setting out the dishes for the family. Master, at the head of the table, to Pretty’s, on the floor, between Emily and Master.

Once the table was full, Master sat down to dinner… with all of his girls.

Mar 102014
 

Snow hillHer love for him was fresh and untainted. It was a sunny day with a hill of untouched snow. It was delicate. It was a pretty picture.

Their tracks went back and forth on top of the hill. They hung on to each other for better footing. Neither wanted to upset the fragile allowance beneath them. In time, steps became stomps and walking gave into a run.

On her way down, she felt a hand at her back, not one that offered aid. Her body cleared a path down the hill. The snow hid the branches that tore at her clothes. The slicked grass permitted her no foothold.

She slid. He watched from the top. He was stoic. She relinquished flesh and tears to the tumble. There was no pardon for her. It was inescapable. Every rock, branch, and punch of earth was a recitation of what she already knew; but had to live through to pocket the experience.

Be careful who you climb hills with.

 

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

Feb 092014
 

In the dead of goodbyes, I would have swallowed my pride.

I would have set the past aside. No hard feelings inside.

***

But you, couldn’t see what was true. Couldn’t feel me and you.

You were afraid of what we’d do. I was afraid of it too.

***

I could feel you grow. You let it show. You let me know.

But you had to go. Excuses I’ll never know. Cards you’ll never show.

 ***

No more wailing inside. I patched up my pride. Your bullshit won’t ride.

No more reasons to hide. I set that part of me aside. A lesson learned in stride.

Aug 222013
 

A man named Johnny Red drove her to private school every day since she was old enough to go. They went in a big black car. She liked the way it shined and never put finger prints on it. Everyone usually went through a car line, but Johnny Red got to pull right up to the front door to drop her off, and he would always be there to pick her up.

She told Johnny Red all about her day, showed him her pictures, drawings. He drove and their conversations were jovial. She loved Johnny Red. He was her friend.

When she got home, she’d go to the kitchen for a snack with her Mother. Her Father would come from his office and praise her, their only child, for something as simple as an endless row of whatever letter of the alphabet her class happened to be working on at the time. Afterwards, her Father would go back to his office. He did his business in his office. She wasn’t allowed in her Father’s office.

She never knew a credit card, only stacks of cash, nice and straight, in large bills, wrapped carefully. She once told a schoolmate that her Father was a banker. The older she got, the more she heard about who her Family really was. All of her Family.This thing of ours. She heard terms and learned never to ask what they meant. The meaning would come in time, heartbreakingly. She began to get used to comings and goings in her home. Meetings. Exchanges. Who was a friend of who. Who was a friend of ours.

One of her final days as a student, she came out to greet Johnny Red and instead was met with a face she didn’t recognize. She stopped in her tracks and ran inside, screaming for her Father. He met her, rushing from his office. She was breathless and afraid, stumbling over how Johnny Red wasn’t at the car. Someone was inside the gates. She didn’t know him! Her Father hung his head and nodded, adding a comforting arm to her shoulders as he explained that Johnny Red wasn’t going to be around anymore. And how Salva was a friend of ours. He would take over for Johnny Red.

Years of unexplained attachment to her beloved driver rushed over her and released in tears and demands that she’d never made of anyone before, especially her Father. He grabbed her by both arms and gave her a shake, a jolt back to reality. Their reality. Johnny Red wasn’t a friend of ours anymore. Her heart sank and met her stomach on the way down. He had been someone’s work.

She didn’t want to be a friend of anyone’s.

No one should be a friend of hers.

May 142013
 

Saturday night will be the last night that I’ll see two of of my most beloved friends in my local BDSM group. I’ve made and lost friends from this circle before, but I was never this sad. I was never, ever this sad.

B is a gay male dominant. I’ve been working with him on hitty stuff. Some rope. Our rope relationship is notorious, but the last time he did a cuff tie on me, he gave a snatch and an eyeball and – I saw a  flash of dom. He came out to play. Since then, our group became more serious with scenes. He and I were becoming a nice little co-topping team.

C is B’s gay submissive. He doesn’t like impact play. He does great in rope and wax, though. He was aftercare for everyone. Even when you didn’t notice it. That’s probably the most important job ….ever.

They’re going to the other side of the country for B’s job. They’ll be back in seven months. But part of me hopes they stay? Parts of me hopes they find something better and more fulfilling where they’re going. I hope they learn while they’re there. I hope they love it.

I’m gonna hate it.

Feb 062013
 

What if we both weren’t two takers.

It’s not even love. It’s as if love, loyalty and compersion all melded together.

I’ve felt the warmth of your heart, but not the heat. It’s a position that I fell into while being honest with you. Sometimes crying with me made me feel like I was hurting you. It made me not want to speak of anything at all. Your tears are more painful to me than the initial hurt that I’d suffered, and far more painful than any hurt I could bare thereafter.

Does she even know?

May 092011
 

I always knew I was kinky. I just didn’t know that there was a word for it.

When I was 23, I stumbled into ‘the lifestyle’ and had some limited experiences here and there. I met my husband (TH – TwitterSpeak for TheHusband) in 2004 and we were married in 2005. During that time, anything kinky or otherwise – we were doing with each other. My life was going through some major shifts and changes and BDSM took a back burner.

Years later, things settled and the fact that BDSM & D/s was a huge issue in my life came back to our attention. We tried it together, and the chemistry just was NOT there.

We tried it again.

AGAIN.

It was really kind of heartbreaking not to have this type of connection, and as strongly as you’d hoped,  with your own husband, yanno?

He wasn’t thrilled about it, but for D/s purposes, my happiness, and our happiness together as a couple, he agreed to let me have an outside Dom. I was able to play. I was able to connect. It was a huge start.

Now things have progressed – SLOWLY.

Anyone who knows…. KNOWS.

We have our OWN way of doing things and it works for US.

The bottom line is this… I am an adult who has commitments.

My needs for D/s, S&M, etc has nothing to do with how much I love my husband.

I am not getting a divorce.

I do not have to share details of my family life with you.

I don’t mind answering any questions that you might have, because everyone has a right to know what they’re getting into, both emotionally and physically.

You have no authority over my family life.

However, if we were to become involved, any rules that you’ve set in place for me when we are apart will be followed to the best of my ability. Work with me?

Family life over-rules everything. I need someone who is mature enough to understand that families have different levels of crisis a day. Anything from having to run last minute errands and doctor’s appointments to keeping a friend’s kid while they do the same thing. Before we are Doms, subs, switches, etc… we are people. We are Dads, Moms, kids, Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, and Friends. We are important to other people as well. My immediate family has to have me when they have to have me.

I will never argue this with you.

I don’t believe I should ever have to. The type of person who gets me and my time will understand that it’s a valuable commodity, just as I will do with them. Every second counts. Every minute is precious. I will make time for you. I will be there.

If you want something badly enough, you make it happen.

All that being said –

When I’m yours, I’m yours and you know exactly what you get.

You’ll also be damn lucky to get it.

~TheSinDoll

May 102010
 

Trust is like a piece of paper, once it’s been crumpled up, it can never be completely flattened out again. It can never be thin and perfect. It can never flutter beautifully and be new. It’s it’s used and creased in a thousand places. Any tiny emotion can hide and fester in the many crevices. Thus begins …The Trust Issue.

I have to wonder if trust will ever stay fully intact (like that perfect sheet of paper) in any kind of real, long-lasting, honest relationship. There are bound to be a few, if even unintentional, dents and dings to it from time to time. It takes strength to stay with someone when the flowers aren’t in full bloom.

It’s often easier to give someone a second chance than to face the fact that once trust is gone, it’s incredibly hard to get back. The question of whether or not you can trust again can come quickly into play. Often, as soon as an incident has occurred and before both parties (especially the offended party) has time to process the incident; and the many emotions relating to it. One has to recover from the incident which caused the dents and dings to begin with.

Cry.

Be angry.

Get some space.

There’s no pressure to commit to jumping back into trusting anyone. Take your time and feel each emotion associated with the incident that occurred. Don’t let anything fester inside you that might resurface later and turn into baggage, poisoning relationships in the future.

Personally, I just need some time to hurt before I can think about giving someone the chance to dent me again. The fact that you can stay after any ding or dent to the trust that’s already been established says that you have confidence in what you’ve built together. It says that you believe that whatever might have happened to cause the dings or dents in the trust that you had originally built weren’t done maliciously and can be forgiven in hopes of better things to come.

I found myself thinking about how one might prevent from subconsciously building a wall there to guard against any bigger damage. How do you not replay and then resent the dings and dents until you find yourself making them bigger? I think taking your time and working through them is the best answer. If you really want something, you have to work for it, right?

It ain’t easy to invest in another person, especially when they’re asking you and really wanting you to say ‘yes,’ and everyone knows that it’s always harder to tell someone ‘no’, regardless if it’s better for you in the long run. Let’s face it, the majority of us tend to think with our hearts. We give in.

Instead, let me ask you this… “Why should I offer anymore of myself into someone who threw away my initial investment?” It pretty much goes against everything I preach to my mirror about self worth and the importance of knowing who you are and what you stand for. Where do you draw the line? Who do you cross that line for?

“Truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.”~ Bob Marley

Jan 092010
 

I told him I didn’t know what to do.

He said he would figure out something.

I said it was in his hands now.

He said … no better place.

I told him I was scared.

He said I should be, I was fucked.

I wasn’t getting out.

He said he wasn’t giving it back.

For the first time in a long time… I felt safe.

Those words were like cardboard cupcakes, bright, shiny, and beautiful from a distance.

Couldn’t make a dent in them if I tried, even with all the rocks I threw. They held strong.

But when I walked up close, to see what the problem was…

Those cupcakes were  not at all what they seemed to be. I stood there alone, playing back his words, and cried.

I’m eating his words. Drinking his words. Smoking his words. Feeling them, blow by blow, sucking them in, having them carved into me from the inside, swallowing them down as they scrape my throat, my insides… slowly, painfully… all the way down to where they will scar my guts and everything I got on the inside.

I could try to hide it, but I don’t care, really.

Let him enjoy his work.

Let me learn my lesson.

They hurt when I swallow them. Just as he said, those words are strong and unyielding, so they don’t easily bend when I urge them deeper inside of me. Their pointy sides dig into me and puncture me. They needle me.  They just fucking hurt.

I’m eating those words to teach myself a lesson.

Never take anything sweet from a stranger.