Thursday, December 15, 2011
Future inspiration
Monday, November 21, 2011
Subfrenzied- So I write... a FANTASY (Only a fantasy)
So many rooms. Most of them are empty. Home to the fictional and emotional, the real and the imagined, they're free as they can be. Too many characters in my head. I've written more of myself through Handcuff Bracelet and Switches than I have for any other story. Switches is on hold for the moment. I can't think about describing how pain is delivered, the intricacies of s/m. Not when it's been, what, two months since I've felt it? Jesus. Has it really been two months already? More than... but that should be rectified soon. A week or two and then I'll burn through another few chapters of Switches.
I've been thinking about starting a second Handcuff story. A continuation, revolving more around Edward's past. They'll be adults instead of minors. The freedom there is exciting. It'd be a good distraction. Most of my other stories have s/m in them. When I'm frustrated with explaining, and I want to live it and feel it more than anything... the plot twists in Handcuff keep me preoccupied.
And then midnight comes. One in the morning, two, the writing energy takes over. I have until five. Write another night away. The years I restricted myself to learning and waiting helped. I learned patience I didn't think I had. Application is the same, now. Recklessness and impulsivity war with my rational, slave side. I'm not sure what this feeling is, exactly. I associate this emotion with edge-play, but... I've really no idea what it is. Because by accepting physical pain, choosing to rescind control rather than trying to catch up- it makes life problems... nothing? That's one theory. Boredom is another. Only writing and s/m make me feel this alive.
Burning with jagged energy tonight. Listening to such great music! I'm all over the place and I really can't bring myself to care. Too much caffeine, that's the third theory. I'll be calmer soon. This is sub-frenzy. I know that much. Well, sub-frenzy that I'm trying to hold back. It leads to nights like tonight where words take over and... I wake up, mentally sound. Write it so the urge doesn't take over.
I could run out, find what I want... immerse myself in unsafe pain, given by whichever partial sadist I encounter first. It'd have to be a sane sadist. Blah, Checklist, blah- You want to see me bleed? It'll turn you on if I bleed for you? You know my limits, and you'll follow them because you don't want to deal with a broken submissive? Done deal. Dominant sadists are exciting. But I won't. Can't, really, because submission stays solid for my Master. I don't want pain from anyone else, though I do ache for pain and I won't see him for another few days. (Which is why my control is slipping away...)
The rooms in my head come into play. A long line of doors with plenty of space in between and around them. Then there's a sudden drop into darkness. More rooms on the lower levels. The outer steel doors come down, preventing anything from escaping. Things that need to be contained happen here. The heavy darkness is calming. I breathe a little easier, gasping when I feel someone grasp my hair. I'm dragged through one of the doorways. This is where my masochistic side takes my submissive side. Like being underground, the silence is deafening and the air feels heavy.
"I didn't tell you to get up." Anger rises when he callously pushes me back onto the floor. I close my eyes and keep my head lowered, breathing through indignation that makes me shake.
Wanting something and the reality of what I want dawns. I can sense light through my eyelids. Everything in me freezes when I see the whipping post. There are whips on a large table, paddles and slappers hang above it on the wall. A spanking bench and bondage table are revealed as the lights go from dim to soft white. He doesn't want me to get up? The decision is much easier now that the initial pain has faded. Fuck it. His energy is cold. Impersonal. It hurts on the first few levels, yet the darkness is stronger. He needs to be cruel. This deserves punishment. My knees ache against the floor, grating over the rough stone as he has me crawl over to the table. It feels good, the rocky indents digging into my legs.
"Get up here."
Okay. How? Does he want me to lay on my back, stay on my hands and knees-- Ow! What the-- That's what I got for being flippant. Chains clink as he fastens restraints over my wrists. Bolted into place underneath the table, the two silver chains are attached to the black leather cuffs. He slaps the side of my back until I arch down far enough that my forehead rests on the tabletop. It's not the most comfortable of positions, but it isn't supposed to be. I'll accept what he wants from me because that's his purpose.
My shoulders feel heavy so I relax, my breath settling deep in my lungs as I stare around the stone-gray room. Unforgiving and steady, it's a good backdrop for him. He pushes my head down until I can't breathe. I brace to fight him, but he's made it clear that I'm not going to die on his table. I bite my lip and go still underneath his hold. My dark submissive wakes and loosens the muscles in my body. Offering no resistance, I let go of the unnecessary outrage. I play by his rules, and the unspoken agreement we reached left no room for hesitation. Tense inside, yet appearing submissive... I see the masochistic amusement rise in his eyes, the look of a soon-to-be-satisfied sadist.
The first crack of pain puts me in touch with reality. As my skin grows more sensitive, going from pink to light red, darker red... I grit my teeth and re-learn how to breathe deeply. It hurts more than I can comprehend. The force rocks me forward onto my knees. I bring my elbows in and bury my head against my shoulder. It takes all of my self-control not to bite down around my arm. The added pain would make me cry out, but I'd find even ground. Pushing the pain past what he gave me, I would take control of what I felt. But I can't. Something holds me back. I start counting, stopping when I reach twenty. My flesh feels alive. Stinging, tingling, pain is a current that sparks underneath my skin whenever the slapper rebounds. Twenty equals forty, and I don't know how much more I can take.
When he reaches the crease to my thighs-- the pressure on my wrists brings me back. There's nowhere to go. I strain against the chains, but there's no give to them. The slapper falls harder than before. My teeth grind together as I hold back a scream. I need to unclench my jaw. It should be easy. Trying makes my body twist. I pull with my wrists so the chains grate over the table. Terrible behavior, yet I can't stop myself. That's what Dominant affection prevents. There's no inner calm from trust, only acceptance of the pain and fear that a intense taking intense pain brings. Unsafe safety, like safe self-destruction. Push the envelope, test the boundaries...
When the tails fall, my body reacts for me. My arms slam together as I pull down on the restraints. My back arches while the pain registers. How many of them are there? Five? Eight? I twitch when they flick underneath my shoulder. Some of the tails are knotted. They have to be. I feel for them, muting the reverberating pain while I wait for impact. Had that muffled scream come from me? Throbbing, sharp- did some of them hurt more because my skin was sensitive... or were they knots? There was no way to tell. Maybe he had raised welts. The sudden rush of pleasure made my eyes roll back. There it was. Pain that became pleasure. So much of it that my mind forced the changeover from hurt, to hurts good, I stopped caring about good behavior altogether.
Overwhelming and intense, I knew one way to make it stop. But... I can't say my safe-word unless I'm absolutely sure I need things to end. There are several moments of hesitation. Like this. The masochistic side brings a flash of clarity. 'Not yet,' is what I hear. And so I laugh, conquering another level of pain. The challenge is there. My submissive screams, 'Make me truly worried I'll break. I won't.' Will I? If I have to wonder- I love that type of fear. His sadist counters, 'Satisfy this part of me...' cruel laughter, 'I doubt you can.'
Really... my masochist smiles and drowns me in yearning. Like orgasm, the challenge rushes through me. There's no room for other thought. The whip moves harmlessly through the air. I felt myself brace and relax before the ends hit. Absorb, let the overflow release in gasps and moans, strangled yells... ride it out until it stops. And, somewhere along the way, the darkness took me under.
He takes hold of my wrists and drags me across the floor. His energy has grown stronger. This is punishment for the defiance he saw in my eyes. Whoops. My nails accidentally dig into his hand, reaction to my back scraping over a rough patch of stone. I feel him gathering his strength. Yanking me the last few inches, I nearly bite through my lip as my head falls back. I'm bleeding. He doesn't care. Do I care? I hear the viciously free laughter escaping, my masochist already accepting what could have made me fight. I see the small line of red on his hand. Blood for blood, I shudder as the pain blurs together.
I kneel low to the floor with my legs spread wide, not needing him to remind me. He roughly pulls my shoulders back against the whipping post. I wince, gasping with pleasure when his fingers dig into my lower arms. Rope, I feel him binding my arms together behind the post. The back of my body is a mass of pain. Focusing on it too closely makes me start shaking.
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Not sure where it goes from here. The dangerous energy has faded.
Someone like this, the sadist, I'd have to truly trust that... this sounds terrible in my head. Let's see if it looks better typed? I'd have to really trust that they learned to embrace sadism through learning Dominance, finding submissives and slaves as masochistic as they are sadistic. Fun as it is to write... This is why I write.
I don't truly want this. Er, I do, but only because it will hurt. Deep down, it would hurt a lot. It's something I wouldn't be able to take back. I'm not sure I want to actually descend down that far. It feels too much like addiction.
This site helps. http://www.albanypowerexchange.com/Lifestyle/sub_frenzies.htm
Common sense has continued to win out. My version of common sense, anyway. Writing saves the day. Me. Whichever. This line in particular...
"I believe that the Dominant should not allow the submissive to thrust their 'submissiveness' at them, instead they should require the submissive to respond to them in neutral or top space as an equal from one human to another ."
I know. 'Sigh. It's not 'gone,' but it has faded. So, I'm off to write the other story...
I've been thinking about starting a second Handcuff story. A continuation, revolving more around Edward's past. They'll be adults instead of minors. The freedom there is exciting. It'd be a good distraction. Most of my other stories have s/m in them. When I'm frustrated with explaining, and I want to live it and feel it more than anything... the plot twists in Handcuff keep me preoccupied.
And then midnight comes. One in the morning, two, the writing energy takes over. I have until five. Write another night away. The years I restricted myself to learning and waiting helped. I learned patience I didn't think I had. Application is the same, now. Recklessness and impulsivity war with my rational, slave side. I'm not sure what this feeling is, exactly. I associate this emotion with edge-play, but... I've really no idea what it is. Because by accepting physical pain, choosing to rescind control rather than trying to catch up- it makes life problems... nothing? That's one theory. Boredom is another. Only writing and s/m make me feel this alive.
Burning with jagged energy tonight. Listening to such great music! I'm all over the place and I really can't bring myself to care. Too much caffeine, that's the third theory. I'll be calmer soon. This is sub-frenzy. I know that much. Well, sub-frenzy that I'm trying to hold back. It leads to nights like tonight where words take over and... I wake up, mentally sound. Write it so the urge doesn't take over.
I could run out, find what I want... immerse myself in unsafe pain, given by whichever partial sadist I encounter first. It'd have to be a sane sadist. Blah, Checklist, blah- You want to see me bleed? It'll turn you on if I bleed for you? You know my limits, and you'll follow them because you don't want to deal with a broken submissive? Done deal. Dominant sadists are exciting. But I won't. Can't, really, because submission stays solid for my Master. I don't want pain from anyone else, though I do ache for pain and I won't see him for another few days. (Which is why my control is slipping away...)
The rooms in my head come into play. A long line of doors with plenty of space in between and around them. Then there's a sudden drop into darkness. More rooms on the lower levels. The outer steel doors come down, preventing anything from escaping. Things that need to be contained happen here. The heavy darkness is calming. I breathe a little easier, gasping when I feel someone grasp my hair. I'm dragged through one of the doorways. This is where my masochistic side takes my submissive side. Like being underground, the silence is deafening and the air feels heavy.
"I didn't tell you to get up." Anger rises when he callously pushes me back onto the floor. I close my eyes and keep my head lowered, breathing through indignation that makes me shake.
Wanting something and the reality of what I want dawns. I can sense light through my eyelids. Everything in me freezes when I see the whipping post. There are whips on a large table, paddles and slappers hang above it on the wall. A spanking bench and bondage table are revealed as the lights go from dim to soft white. He doesn't want me to get up? The decision is much easier now that the initial pain has faded. Fuck it. His energy is cold. Impersonal. It hurts on the first few levels, yet the darkness is stronger. He needs to be cruel. This deserves punishment. My knees ache against the floor, grating over the rough stone as he has me crawl over to the table. It feels good, the rocky indents digging into my legs.
"Get up here."
Okay. How? Does he want me to lay on my back, stay on my hands and knees-- Ow! What the-- That's what I got for being flippant. Chains clink as he fastens restraints over my wrists. Bolted into place underneath the table, the two silver chains are attached to the black leather cuffs. He slaps the side of my back until I arch down far enough that my forehead rests on the tabletop. It's not the most comfortable of positions, but it isn't supposed to be. I'll accept what he wants from me because that's his purpose.
My shoulders feel heavy so I relax, my breath settling deep in my lungs as I stare around the stone-gray room. Unforgiving and steady, it's a good backdrop for him. He pushes my head down until I can't breathe. I brace to fight him, but he's made it clear that I'm not going to die on his table. I bite my lip and go still underneath his hold. My dark submissive wakes and loosens the muscles in my body. Offering no resistance, I let go of the unnecessary outrage. I play by his rules, and the unspoken agreement we reached left no room for hesitation. Tense inside, yet appearing submissive... I see the masochistic amusement rise in his eyes, the look of a soon-to-be-satisfied sadist.
The first crack of pain puts me in touch with reality. As my skin grows more sensitive, going from pink to light red, darker red... I grit my teeth and re-learn how to breathe deeply. It hurts more than I can comprehend. The force rocks me forward onto my knees. I bring my elbows in and bury my head against my shoulder. It takes all of my self-control not to bite down around my arm. The added pain would make me cry out, but I'd find even ground. Pushing the pain past what he gave me, I would take control of what I felt. But I can't. Something holds me back. I start counting, stopping when I reach twenty. My flesh feels alive. Stinging, tingling, pain is a current that sparks underneath my skin whenever the slapper rebounds. Twenty equals forty, and I don't know how much more I can take.
When he reaches the crease to my thighs-- the pressure on my wrists brings me back. There's nowhere to go. I strain against the chains, but there's no give to them. The slapper falls harder than before. My teeth grind together as I hold back a scream. I need to unclench my jaw. It should be easy. Trying makes my body twist. I pull with my wrists so the chains grate over the table. Terrible behavior, yet I can't stop myself. That's what Dominant affection prevents. There's no inner calm from trust, only acceptance of the pain and fear that a intense taking intense pain brings. Unsafe safety, like safe self-destruction. Push the envelope, test the boundaries...
When the tails fall, my body reacts for me. My arms slam together as I pull down on the restraints. My back arches while the pain registers. How many of them are there? Five? Eight? I twitch when they flick underneath my shoulder. Some of the tails are knotted. They have to be. I feel for them, muting the reverberating pain while I wait for impact. Had that muffled scream come from me? Throbbing, sharp- did some of them hurt more because my skin was sensitive... or were they knots? There was no way to tell. Maybe he had raised welts. The sudden rush of pleasure made my eyes roll back. There it was. Pain that became pleasure. So much of it that my mind forced the changeover from hurt, to hurts good, I stopped caring about good behavior altogether.
Overwhelming and intense, I knew one way to make it stop. But... I can't say my safe-word unless I'm absolutely sure I need things to end. There are several moments of hesitation. Like this. The masochistic side brings a flash of clarity. 'Not yet,' is what I hear. And so I laugh, conquering another level of pain. The challenge is there. My submissive screams, 'Make me truly worried I'll break. I won't.' Will I? If I have to wonder- I love that type of fear. His sadist counters, 'Satisfy this part of me...' cruel laughter, 'I doubt you can.'
Really... my masochist smiles and drowns me in yearning. Like orgasm, the challenge rushes through me. There's no room for other thought. The whip moves harmlessly through the air. I felt myself brace and relax before the ends hit. Absorb, let the overflow release in gasps and moans, strangled yells... ride it out until it stops. And, somewhere along the way, the darkness took me under.
He takes hold of my wrists and drags me across the floor. His energy has grown stronger. This is punishment for the defiance he saw in my eyes. Whoops. My nails accidentally dig into his hand, reaction to my back scraping over a rough patch of stone. I feel him gathering his strength. Yanking me the last few inches, I nearly bite through my lip as my head falls back. I'm bleeding. He doesn't care. Do I care? I hear the viciously free laughter escaping, my masochist already accepting what could have made me fight. I see the small line of red on his hand. Blood for blood, I shudder as the pain blurs together.
I kneel low to the floor with my legs spread wide, not needing him to remind me. He roughly pulls my shoulders back against the whipping post. I wince, gasping with pleasure when his fingers dig into my lower arms. Rope, I feel him binding my arms together behind the post. The back of my body is a mass of pain. Focusing on it too closely makes me start shaking.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Not sure where it goes from here. The dangerous energy has faded.
Someone like this, the sadist, I'd have to truly trust that... this sounds terrible in my head. Let's see if it looks better typed? I'd have to really trust that they learned to embrace sadism through learning Dominance, finding submissives and slaves as masochistic as they are sadistic. Fun as it is to write... This is why I write.
I don't truly want this. Er, I do, but only because it will hurt. Deep down, it would hurt a lot. It's something I wouldn't be able to take back. I'm not sure I want to actually descend down that far. It feels too much like addiction.
This site helps. http://www.albanypowerexchange.com/Lifestyle/sub_frenzies.htm
Common sense has continued to win out. My version of common sense, anyway. Writing saves the day. Me. Whichever. This line in particular...
"I believe that the Dominant should not allow the submissive to thrust their 'submissiveness' at them, instead they should require the submissive to respond to them in neutral or top space as an equal from one human to another ."
I know. 'Sigh. It's not 'gone,' but it has faded. So, I'm off to write the other story...
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
Story Inspiration Pics
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Nine Layers Of--
Visions of Surrender
Certain images filter through my head until I write them down. So, I try and bring them to life. I search for art online that matches what I see, but often… it’s not to be. So, with words, I try to do the image justice. Hopefully I succeed?
Intro-
A woman, all in black- her skirt comprised of light black lace. The trailing fabric curls around the icy paleness of her trim thighs. A black corset accentuates her femininity; she wears black makeup completed by crimson-colored lipstick. Kneeling next to a man, he stands possessively at her side. He’s taller than her, she barely comes to his waist with the way she sits back on her legs. With her head slightly tipped forward, her cheek resting against his thigh, she looks at peace. His hand rests in her hair. Her eyes are closed, a serene expression blossoms across her face. The man’s pose is very masculine. He looks down at her, half-smiling. There's tenderness in his eyes, though she won't see it. She feels it in the way he touches her.
His suit is deep black and offset by a very white shirt. She has tattoos on her arms, they contrast with her fair skin, the dark coloring of his outfit. With her arms lightly wrapped loosely around his leg, she is subservient but not without a strong life-force of her own. There’s control in the pose. Overhanging lust, mutual appreciation, Domination and submission, an all-encompassing feeling of deep-sated happiness. Holding herself with pride, deep patience; he knows the intensity she’s capable of. He’s the only one to call it from her, and he claims her as his by anchoring her to him.
One image, it spans months and months of earning and building upon trust. Now she will do anything he asks of her, knowing he won’t demand anything she would be unable to give. There’s strength in his submissive. Ecstatic in her place, not humbled but steady... she wraps herself in his energy and offers him everything she has to give.
1-
Arms moving up and across a white painted wall. A flash of fire in her downcast eyes. Melting into his body as she tips her head back, he has her wrists in his hands, above her head. He doesn’t touch her in any other way. Waiting until her trembling ceases, he feels her breathe in silently. He senses the change, she’s relying on sensation and his presence to guide her. Broken, but not broken, she still knows how to laugh and trust and smile, albeit bitterly. Enraged passion, he can feel it thrumming underneath her skin. A mass of contradiction that somehow makes sense. Never allowing herself to be hit in true anger, she secretly craves considerate pain.
Meeting his gaze for the briefest of seconds, darkness and desire descends as his hips press against hers. Still not moving, she feels his pulse beating across her skin. He wants her, a rush of need nearly sends her to her knees. His hand at her wrists prevents her from agilely dropping to the floor in front of him. There would be time for that later, she knows. He has trained her well in the art of oral pleasure. And while he likes the skills she had accumulated, he teaches her what most pleases him.
Her back arches against his chest. He lowers his head to her neck. Cupping her jaw in his hand, he turns her neck to the side. She feels his teeth close around her flesh and shudders. Her body is taut, held within his grasp and secure against his body. She gasps, her lips part as her eyes roll back. White static fades to deep purple and blue pain. He doesn’t worry her skin, but the pressure doesn’t ease. She breathes in and out slowly, allowing her nerves to sing as they fight to adjust, absorb. Inside she feels a glass wall shatter. One of many, the shards lay forgotten, iridescent on the ground. She’s free of indecision and doubt.
Eight more layers to unearth, yet the warning bells remain silent. They’re drowned out in a rush of ‘Yes, yes, please.’ He bites down over her pulse and she feels the pounding in her head. The pain skitters down her spine, makes her want to plead for more. Marked. Owned, possessed, she won’t cover the bruises and she feels no need to explain.
2-
Feeling alive, needing to share the emotion. He pulls her into his arms and holds her safe as the out-of-control force becomes manageable. Sunlight streams through the open window, she smiles and wraps her legs around his waist. She can taste the light on his skin, feel the warmth of it in his sheets.
Raising her eyebrow, needing him to take control from here… he laughs low in his chest and flips their position. With her straddling him, he smirks at her and rests his arms behind his head. She presses her knees to his side and puts her arms around his neck. Settling in, her nails dig into his flesh. Briefly, it’s the barest hint of pain, but her eyes are wild and celebratory as he raises his eyebrow. She rocks her hips over him, fire consuming her for the moment. Leaning up, she puts her hands over his arms and holds him down. It would be impossible for her to restrain him, he’s too strong. The knowledge makes her smile, she sees a matching expression on his face. She sits, braced over him. Her shoulder bones protrude as she brings her hands together on his chest. With her hair in disarray, she stares at him from between the long strands of shiny black.
There's no need to speak. He knows why she hesitates. Taking her wrists, he pulls her down so that she lays fully against his body. She gasps in pleasure and kisses his throat. Feeling him go still again, she raises her hips to see if he wants her to fuck him. His breath skitters across her shoulder. He approves. Pleasure rises, but she's more aware of him and how his hands are hard on her hips as he moves her body.
3-
‘Help me, please help me.’ The plea resounds in her head. Not a dejected sound, but one that needs to be met and conquered. She wants to be female and safe in her femininity. Exciting, and small in his embrace. His hands close over her wrists as she slides down his body. Her hair trailing across his chest, he feels her tongue moving over the side of his chest, across his stomach. Down to his hips, she feels his smooth hardness against her cheek.
A different emotion overwhelms her. She might be losing her grip on everything else, but… this is the only thing that matters now. The sounds she can call from him, the heights to which she can help him reach. She moves her tongue along him slowly, not wanting to jar him with overwhelming sensation. The way he feels against her lips, she moans her gratitude and hears the sound echoed in him. His hand on the back of her neck urges her to take more. She smiles around him and closes her eyes, content to stay for as long as he wants her there.
Soft, yet not teasing, she loves the way his breath comes faster. His hand twists in her hair, brings her up and then down, further down… he nudges the back of her throat. Far as he can go, she closes her eyes and swallows around him. The strangest sensation, he stretches her throat as she suppresses the urge to gag. She does this for him, and the raw, yet dull pain makes her smile internally. She takes another deep breath to ease the gag-reflex, waiting to make her fail. Not now. Back up, down again, she feels tears forming in her eyes as she fights her body’s natural reaction. It's something to be conquered, and she's done it before for him.
The new tension in her arms helps distract her. Pressure increases over her wrist-bones. The barest hint of pain, but it's enough to help her focus. Manipulating her tongue and lips, not wanting the repetitive action to bore him, she flicks lightly across the head of his cock, down the shaft. Letting him feel her gag and fight to keep him lodged in her throat, she hears him groan. Submission is her gift, and he doesn’t shy away from any of it.
Hearing him come and shake and laugh… it makes her sigh happily and wring every second of pleasure she can from his body. Savoring the taste of him, salty and sweet, she swallows but doesn't move away yet. Ghosting her tongue over him, she uses the slightest of touches, careful not to make him jump. He's taught her what makes him happiest. She feels contentment rush through her, knowing that she’s helped make it better for him. She rolls her eyes up over the length of his body to smile at him. His fingers move against her scalp, he closes his eyes. Fading pleasure, sparks of feeling. She goes still, the burning in her body secondary to his powerful release.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
“I’m happy to have pleased you, Sir.”
He smiles at the hoarseness in her tone.
4-
The black belt wound around her hands makes her wrists seem fragile. She stays in a position he likes, on all fours, her arms tied together in front of her. The graceful curve of her neck, the swell of her breast, her waist… the way her thighs are spread showing how very badly she wants him. Legs red, ass bruised, her back a riot of prickling sensation, she waits. Will he come back to her with pleasure or pain? Both make her moan and beg and ache. Sub-frenzy has been waylaid. He takes the brunt of her need and makes her calm again. Like an addict, she constantly craves more. He’s Dominant without falling into the Dom role. He doesn’t need to act. It’s part of him, just as her submission is ingrained into her. There’s freedom found from giving in. Allowing his will to wash through her, take over. She marvels at his ability to remember her limits and all of the sensitive places on her body. He watches her for signs of struggle, knows how much she can take, and how much more to administer when she doesn’t think it possible to handle any more.
When she smiles because of the pain or arches back into the curve of his body, he’s there to give her patience, to demand it. Modesty doesn’t matter when she’s kneeling or bent over in front of him. Tied on a bed, restrained across the couch, being led across the floor, hands held behind her back in the shower, her body is his. She's never begged for anything, but it doesn't lessen her when she's submitting to him.
5-
Hair falling into his eyes, he wraps his hand around her throat. She leans back against his chest and rests her head against the side of his neck. Her body still feels afire with bright pain. She’s floating, incredibly aware of him yet not all there. She arches her neck back and up so that he isn‘t hindered. He smiles down at her, darkness in his eyes… and another part of her breaks. Her pulse pounds between them. She gasps, but doesn't move away from him. His hand rests lightly over her neck, the sudden motion made her go instantly still, anticipating.
She can't breathe. Panic, quickly suppressed. She opens her eyes again, blinking at the effort. His fingers feel harder now, releasing her quickly before reasserting control. Choking, gasping, he holds her hand over his arm as she moves it away from him. He insists on safety, establishing communication in spite of her inability to speak. When he feels her nails, he'll let her go. He trusts her to let him know what she Needs.
No air again. Seeing her smile spread and become a grimace, he pinches her skin between his fingers. Pain and suffocation, she bites her lip and doesn’t have any oxygen left with which to laugh. Feeling safe through asphyxiation, she allows herself to drift. White light. Blackness behind her eyes. The world is fading and everything is hazy, dreamlike. She gently moves her nails over his arm. He eases pressure, slowly. She’s barely aware of her ability to breathe again. He strokes her neck as she struggles to take deep breaths. Another level to her submission, one he, and he alone, has helped her discover.
She feels trust and a myriad of other things… but she can‘t find the words. Her voice is too hoarse for speech as it is. Lightheaded and still so very happy, he lets her breathe for a few moments. His hand is still at her throat and she kisses his fingers and arm. Inhaling and exhaling with him all around her, there’s nothing to fear.
6-
Fishnets encase trim thighs. She feels rough denim against her legs and moves her hips for the friction. He moves her fingers out of the way as he reaches for the clasp of his belt. Backing her against a door, he grips her waist in his hands. Undoing the button of his jeans, he pauses. Slowly, purposefully, he gets to his knees in front of her. She freezes, unsure and off guard.
“Don’t move,” he warns her. The note of command in his voice, she stills immediately though her eyes are wide, showing the first signs of confusion. Dominant from his knees, she’s able to stay in the right mindset. She would have never thought it possible, and the Break happens faster than she had anticipated.
Pressing her palms flat over the doorway, she moans softly when his arms wind around her thighs. Her legs are spread for him, he sits high up on his knees and works his way across her chest. He's so tall, and she loves the way his body keeps her in place. When she can’t stay still, as she moans and writhes, his tongue plays over her hipbones. Hands clenched, he doesn’t need to remind her to keep the position. She moves her head from side to side trying to contain the ache she feels. Too intense, and she knows what it’ll feel like…
"Thank you, Sir," she says, unprovoked, wanting him to understand the reason for her gratitude. Glancing down at him, her submissive side is still unsure. She should be kneeling- why would he-? Because he can, she realizes, the answer a simple one. Testing boundaries in a new way, he's taken her a few steps past the normal comfort zone that she's established.
Teasing, brushing, nudging, flicking and flickering, he drives her to the edge again and again. Her hips roll, he holds her still. She cries out, wanting release though she knows Wants aren't always granted. Needs are, and she falls into the next layer of submission, finding a new layer of calm. Pleasure is throbbing and insistent and…
“Please, Sir, may I come?”
He groans, the vibration sends her higher. Seeing the final flash of light, feeling herself tense, seconds before- -- the way his pants are undone yet not down, the strength in his arms as he presses her against the door, feeling how deeply he wants her, the time he’s taken showing her how appreciated she is…
"What do you want?”
She cries out as he pauses. Her eyes tell a different story as he watches her slowly regain control. He kisses her thigh and waits for her to acknowledge the truth.
“Whatever you want, Sir,” she replies instinctively. Sometimes he asks what she really means, other times he makes the decision for her. Breathless, flushed, she shudders as he stands and lifts her onto his body.
7-
A couple, both of them in bed. The male leans up on his arms and braces himself against the girl? Female. Woman? She smiles, stretches underneath him and revels in the feel of his body holding her down. Can he see the pleasure and mischievous intent lurking in her eyes? Can she see the lust and dark promises he’s held in store for her?
Her back is arched upwards, his bent down, boring her into the mattress as he gathers her upper body closer. His lips at her throat, her head turned as far to the side as she can manage. Her smile is one of happiness, security. Does the artist catch the shudder that runs through her as he leaves a mark on her neck? Can anyone see the confidence in his positioning? The rush of dark satisfaction they both feel. He’s tanner than her, larger, more forceful than she would ever dare to be. That she loves it even as he hurts her, and sometimes loves it more because he can make it hurt so wonderfully. He doesn’t hinder her happiness, he amplifies it.
8-
When his hand tangles in her hair and holds her in place, she melts into him and rests her cheek against his body. As pain clashes across her skin, never leaving any blood behind, she cries out in ecstatic pleasure and feels a surge of pleasure that renews the cycle. Breaking slowly with each new day, she comes close to breaking entirely, and secretly wants it.
As the belt cinches around her neck, her body straining for oxygen, trusting him with every fiber of her being... she manages to speak before the black and darkness take her over. Such a strange feeling, face numb yet prickling with sensation. Knowing that she's going to pass out, she can't embrace the feeling because it's wrong, dangerous. If she takes that step and ignores the rules, he won't trust her to protect herself in the future. He can only do so much to safeguard them. Yet she loves it. That rush of adrenaline and fear. Her body working against her, the hard belt underneath her jaw, pressing into her skin.
The marks on her thighs, legs, up over her ass, faint yellow and green marks along her ribcage and across her breasts, she smiles to herself in the mirror and feels happiness resounding within. She's his, the marks are from him. And though they don't hurt unless she's moving, she wants more of them.
9-
Moments before falling over the edge, her face flushes as her breath catches. Too much pleasure, she can't contain it... yet she must, because there's nowhere else for the energy to go. Flowing between them, high, higher, higher still, she's incapable of screaming. All she can do is claw the sheets, black nail polish chipping, and latch onto him with her legs. She's light-headed, sitting on top of him with her chest pressed to his. Her arms wind around his neck as one of his arms encircle her waist.
He's whispering to her, beautiful things that make her feel wanted. She wants to reply, but the words catch in her throat. He makes phrases sound seductive, she's afraid that she'll fall far from the mark. So long as she falls, it's past the Point of No Return. His confidence, the way he repositions her, tells her not to move, she wants to bite his shoulder, but she knows that she'll leave a mark behind. Once her jaw starts closing, as the white light explodes behind her eyes... there's a chance she won't be able to pull back. She's breathing in harsh pants, her heart is pounding it's rhythm through her head. Closer, she wants to get closer, to drown in his deep brown cat-like eyes.
The way he looks at her, she's not sure what's to be read in their depths. She's gotten better at meeting his gaze without him having to ask. He reminds her now and then, and she feels the red blush spreading over her cheekbones, down to her chest... what does he see? He watches her as she arches her back, tries to get even closer to him. The way he moves, moves her, she sees it all through downcast eyes. If he realizes how much she wants him... and then he's sliding down her throat and she's drinking him down, mischievous pleasure taking over, making her smile, making him groan.
Nothing else matters.
Fin-
“Such a good little slave.”
The words run through her, shocking yet still sinuous. It was the first she had heard that word. Dominance was received as submission was given. To call him... had he given her permission to...
“Thank you, Sir.” She takes a deep breath, gathers her courage. "Thank you, … Master?” Bracing, not knowing any other way to ask, yet desperately wanting a way to retract the words, her breath escapes raggedly as he lightly bites at the back of her neck. Lust, need, those things she’s used to feeling. Being safe, held secure in his arms, being wanted and cared for this way… those are new.
“Mmm,” he approves. “Good girl.”
"Thank you, Master," she replies without hesitating. Curling into him, she bites her lip happily and closes her eyes.
"You're welcome, baby." She can't see his face, but he sounds pleased.
There would be more to talk about later, but for now she relaxes into his Ownership and cries out happily from the pain he gives her. Scenes run through her head and make her smile. He moves her hair out of her face, she flushes and kisses his wrist at the look of pride on his face.
“Do you trust me?” He holds his hand out to her and takes her fingers to help her rise gracefully. “Are you ready?”
“Yes… Master,” she nods. “I’m ready.”
Certain images filter through my head until I write them down. So, I try and bring them to life. I search for art online that matches what I see, but often… it’s not to be. So, with words, I try to do the image justice. Hopefully I succeed?
Intro-
A woman, all in black- her skirt comprised of light black lace. The trailing fabric curls around the icy paleness of her trim thighs. A black corset accentuates her femininity; she wears black makeup completed by crimson-colored lipstick. Kneeling next to a man, he stands possessively at her side. He’s taller than her, she barely comes to his waist with the way she sits back on her legs. With her head slightly tipped forward, her cheek resting against his thigh, she looks at peace. His hand rests in her hair. Her eyes are closed, a serene expression blossoms across her face. The man’s pose is very masculine. He looks down at her, half-smiling. There's tenderness in his eyes, though she won't see it. She feels it in the way he touches her.
His suit is deep black and offset by a very white shirt. She has tattoos on her arms, they contrast with her fair skin, the dark coloring of his outfit. With her arms lightly wrapped loosely around his leg, she is subservient but not without a strong life-force of her own. There’s control in the pose. Overhanging lust, mutual appreciation, Domination and submission, an all-encompassing feeling of deep-sated happiness. Holding herself with pride, deep patience; he knows the intensity she’s capable of. He’s the only one to call it from her, and he claims her as his by anchoring her to him.
One image, it spans months and months of earning and building upon trust. Now she will do anything he asks of her, knowing he won’t demand anything she would be unable to give. There’s strength in his submissive. Ecstatic in her place, not humbled but steady... she wraps herself in his energy and offers him everything she has to give.
1-
Arms moving up and across a white painted wall. A flash of fire in her downcast eyes. Melting into his body as she tips her head back, he has her wrists in his hands, above her head. He doesn’t touch her in any other way. Waiting until her trembling ceases, he feels her breathe in silently. He senses the change, she’s relying on sensation and his presence to guide her. Broken, but not broken, she still knows how to laugh and trust and smile, albeit bitterly. Enraged passion, he can feel it thrumming underneath her skin. A mass of contradiction that somehow makes sense. Never allowing herself to be hit in true anger, she secretly craves considerate pain.
Meeting his gaze for the briefest of seconds, darkness and desire descends as his hips press against hers. Still not moving, she feels his pulse beating across her skin. He wants her, a rush of need nearly sends her to her knees. His hand at her wrists prevents her from agilely dropping to the floor in front of him. There would be time for that later, she knows. He has trained her well in the art of oral pleasure. And while he likes the skills she had accumulated, he teaches her what most pleases him.
Her back arches against his chest. He lowers his head to her neck. Cupping her jaw in his hand, he turns her neck to the side. She feels his teeth close around her flesh and shudders. Her body is taut, held within his grasp and secure against his body. She gasps, her lips part as her eyes roll back. White static fades to deep purple and blue pain. He doesn’t worry her skin, but the pressure doesn’t ease. She breathes in and out slowly, allowing her nerves to sing as they fight to adjust, absorb. Inside she feels a glass wall shatter. One of many, the shards lay forgotten, iridescent on the ground. She’s free of indecision and doubt.
Eight more layers to unearth, yet the warning bells remain silent. They’re drowned out in a rush of ‘Yes, yes, please.’ He bites down over her pulse and she feels the pounding in her head. The pain skitters down her spine, makes her want to plead for more. Marked. Owned, possessed, she won’t cover the bruises and she feels no need to explain.
2-
Feeling alive, needing to share the emotion. He pulls her into his arms and holds her safe as the out-of-control force becomes manageable. Sunlight streams through the open window, she smiles and wraps her legs around his waist. She can taste the light on his skin, feel the warmth of it in his sheets.
Raising her eyebrow, needing him to take control from here… he laughs low in his chest and flips their position. With her straddling him, he smirks at her and rests his arms behind his head. She presses her knees to his side and puts her arms around his neck. Settling in, her nails dig into his flesh. Briefly, it’s the barest hint of pain, but her eyes are wild and celebratory as he raises his eyebrow. She rocks her hips over him, fire consuming her for the moment. Leaning up, she puts her hands over his arms and holds him down. It would be impossible for her to restrain him, he’s too strong. The knowledge makes her smile, she sees a matching expression on his face. She sits, braced over him. Her shoulder bones protrude as she brings her hands together on his chest. With her hair in disarray, she stares at him from between the long strands of shiny black.
There's no need to speak. He knows why she hesitates. Taking her wrists, he pulls her down so that she lays fully against his body. She gasps in pleasure and kisses his throat. Feeling him go still again, she raises her hips to see if he wants her to fuck him. His breath skitters across her shoulder. He approves. Pleasure rises, but she's more aware of him and how his hands are hard on her hips as he moves her body.
3-
‘Help me, please help me.’ The plea resounds in her head. Not a dejected sound, but one that needs to be met and conquered. She wants to be female and safe in her femininity. Exciting, and small in his embrace. His hands close over her wrists as she slides down his body. Her hair trailing across his chest, he feels her tongue moving over the side of his chest, across his stomach. Down to his hips, she feels his smooth hardness against her cheek.
A different emotion overwhelms her. She might be losing her grip on everything else, but… this is the only thing that matters now. The sounds she can call from him, the heights to which she can help him reach. She moves her tongue along him slowly, not wanting to jar him with overwhelming sensation. The way he feels against her lips, she moans her gratitude and hears the sound echoed in him. His hand on the back of her neck urges her to take more. She smiles around him and closes her eyes, content to stay for as long as he wants her there.
Soft, yet not teasing, she loves the way his breath comes faster. His hand twists in her hair, brings her up and then down, further down… he nudges the back of her throat. Far as he can go, she closes her eyes and swallows around him. The strangest sensation, he stretches her throat as she suppresses the urge to gag. She does this for him, and the raw, yet dull pain makes her smile internally. She takes another deep breath to ease the gag-reflex, waiting to make her fail. Not now. Back up, down again, she feels tears forming in her eyes as she fights her body’s natural reaction. It's something to be conquered, and she's done it before for him.
The new tension in her arms helps distract her. Pressure increases over her wrist-bones. The barest hint of pain, but it's enough to help her focus. Manipulating her tongue and lips, not wanting the repetitive action to bore him, she flicks lightly across the head of his cock, down the shaft. Letting him feel her gag and fight to keep him lodged in her throat, she hears him groan. Submission is her gift, and he doesn’t shy away from any of it.
Hearing him come and shake and laugh… it makes her sigh happily and wring every second of pleasure she can from his body. Savoring the taste of him, salty and sweet, she swallows but doesn't move away yet. Ghosting her tongue over him, she uses the slightest of touches, careful not to make him jump. He's taught her what makes him happiest. She feels contentment rush through her, knowing that she’s helped make it better for him. She rolls her eyes up over the length of his body to smile at him. His fingers move against her scalp, he closes his eyes. Fading pleasure, sparks of feeling. She goes still, the burning in her body secondary to his powerful release.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
“I’m happy to have pleased you, Sir.”
He smiles at the hoarseness in her tone.
4-
The black belt wound around her hands makes her wrists seem fragile. She stays in a position he likes, on all fours, her arms tied together in front of her. The graceful curve of her neck, the swell of her breast, her waist… the way her thighs are spread showing how very badly she wants him. Legs red, ass bruised, her back a riot of prickling sensation, she waits. Will he come back to her with pleasure or pain? Both make her moan and beg and ache. Sub-frenzy has been waylaid. He takes the brunt of her need and makes her calm again. Like an addict, she constantly craves more. He’s Dominant without falling into the Dom role. He doesn’t need to act. It’s part of him, just as her submission is ingrained into her. There’s freedom found from giving in. Allowing his will to wash through her, take over. She marvels at his ability to remember her limits and all of the sensitive places on her body. He watches her for signs of struggle, knows how much she can take, and how much more to administer when she doesn’t think it possible to handle any more.
When she smiles because of the pain or arches back into the curve of his body, he’s there to give her patience, to demand it. Modesty doesn’t matter when she’s kneeling or bent over in front of him. Tied on a bed, restrained across the couch, being led across the floor, hands held behind her back in the shower, her body is his. She's never begged for anything, but it doesn't lessen her when she's submitting to him.
5-
Hair falling into his eyes, he wraps his hand around her throat. She leans back against his chest and rests her head against the side of his neck. Her body still feels afire with bright pain. She’s floating, incredibly aware of him yet not all there. She arches her neck back and up so that he isn‘t hindered. He smiles down at her, darkness in his eyes… and another part of her breaks. Her pulse pounds between them. She gasps, but doesn't move away from him. His hand rests lightly over her neck, the sudden motion made her go instantly still, anticipating.
She can't breathe. Panic, quickly suppressed. She opens her eyes again, blinking at the effort. His fingers feel harder now, releasing her quickly before reasserting control. Choking, gasping, he holds her hand over his arm as she moves it away from him. He insists on safety, establishing communication in spite of her inability to speak. When he feels her nails, he'll let her go. He trusts her to let him know what she Needs.
No air again. Seeing her smile spread and become a grimace, he pinches her skin between his fingers. Pain and suffocation, she bites her lip and doesn’t have any oxygen left with which to laugh. Feeling safe through asphyxiation, she allows herself to drift. White light. Blackness behind her eyes. The world is fading and everything is hazy, dreamlike. She gently moves her nails over his arm. He eases pressure, slowly. She’s barely aware of her ability to breathe again. He strokes her neck as she struggles to take deep breaths. Another level to her submission, one he, and he alone, has helped her discover.
She feels trust and a myriad of other things… but she can‘t find the words. Her voice is too hoarse for speech as it is. Lightheaded and still so very happy, he lets her breathe for a few moments. His hand is still at her throat and she kisses his fingers and arm. Inhaling and exhaling with him all around her, there’s nothing to fear.
6-
Fishnets encase trim thighs. She feels rough denim against her legs and moves her hips for the friction. He moves her fingers out of the way as he reaches for the clasp of his belt. Backing her against a door, he grips her waist in his hands. Undoing the button of his jeans, he pauses. Slowly, purposefully, he gets to his knees in front of her. She freezes, unsure and off guard.
“Don’t move,” he warns her. The note of command in his voice, she stills immediately though her eyes are wide, showing the first signs of confusion. Dominant from his knees, she’s able to stay in the right mindset. She would have never thought it possible, and the Break happens faster than she had anticipated.
Pressing her palms flat over the doorway, she moans softly when his arms wind around her thighs. Her legs are spread for him, he sits high up on his knees and works his way across her chest. He's so tall, and she loves the way his body keeps her in place. When she can’t stay still, as she moans and writhes, his tongue plays over her hipbones. Hands clenched, he doesn’t need to remind her to keep the position. She moves her head from side to side trying to contain the ache she feels. Too intense, and she knows what it’ll feel like…
"Thank you, Sir," she says, unprovoked, wanting him to understand the reason for her gratitude. Glancing down at him, her submissive side is still unsure. She should be kneeling- why would he-? Because he can, she realizes, the answer a simple one. Testing boundaries in a new way, he's taken her a few steps past the normal comfort zone that she's established.
Teasing, brushing, nudging, flicking and flickering, he drives her to the edge again and again. Her hips roll, he holds her still. She cries out, wanting release though she knows Wants aren't always granted. Needs are, and she falls into the next layer of submission, finding a new layer of calm. Pleasure is throbbing and insistent and…
“Please, Sir, may I come?”
He groans, the vibration sends her higher. Seeing the final flash of light, feeling herself tense, seconds before- -- the way his pants are undone yet not down, the strength in his arms as he presses her against the door, feeling how deeply he wants her, the time he’s taken showing her how appreciated she is…
"What do you want?”
She cries out as he pauses. Her eyes tell a different story as he watches her slowly regain control. He kisses her thigh and waits for her to acknowledge the truth.
“Whatever you want, Sir,” she replies instinctively. Sometimes he asks what she really means, other times he makes the decision for her. Breathless, flushed, she shudders as he stands and lifts her onto his body.
7-
A couple, both of them in bed. The male leans up on his arms and braces himself against the girl? Female. Woman? She smiles, stretches underneath him and revels in the feel of his body holding her down. Can he see the pleasure and mischievous intent lurking in her eyes? Can she see the lust and dark promises he’s held in store for her?
Her back is arched upwards, his bent down, boring her into the mattress as he gathers her upper body closer. His lips at her throat, her head turned as far to the side as she can manage. Her smile is one of happiness, security. Does the artist catch the shudder that runs through her as he leaves a mark on her neck? Can anyone see the confidence in his positioning? The rush of dark satisfaction they both feel. He’s tanner than her, larger, more forceful than she would ever dare to be. That she loves it even as he hurts her, and sometimes loves it more because he can make it hurt so wonderfully. He doesn’t hinder her happiness, he amplifies it.
8-
When his hand tangles in her hair and holds her in place, she melts into him and rests her cheek against his body. As pain clashes across her skin, never leaving any blood behind, she cries out in ecstatic pleasure and feels a surge of pleasure that renews the cycle. Breaking slowly with each new day, she comes close to breaking entirely, and secretly wants it.
As the belt cinches around her neck, her body straining for oxygen, trusting him with every fiber of her being... she manages to speak before the black and darkness take her over. Such a strange feeling, face numb yet prickling with sensation. Knowing that she's going to pass out, she can't embrace the feeling because it's wrong, dangerous. If she takes that step and ignores the rules, he won't trust her to protect herself in the future. He can only do so much to safeguard them. Yet she loves it. That rush of adrenaline and fear. Her body working against her, the hard belt underneath her jaw, pressing into her skin.
The marks on her thighs, legs, up over her ass, faint yellow and green marks along her ribcage and across her breasts, she smiles to herself in the mirror and feels happiness resounding within. She's his, the marks are from him. And though they don't hurt unless she's moving, she wants more of them.
9-
Moments before falling over the edge, her face flushes as her breath catches. Too much pleasure, she can't contain it... yet she must, because there's nowhere else for the energy to go. Flowing between them, high, higher, higher still, she's incapable of screaming. All she can do is claw the sheets, black nail polish chipping, and latch onto him with her legs. She's light-headed, sitting on top of him with her chest pressed to his. Her arms wind around his neck as one of his arms encircle her waist.
He's whispering to her, beautiful things that make her feel wanted. She wants to reply, but the words catch in her throat. He makes phrases sound seductive, she's afraid that she'll fall far from the mark. So long as she falls, it's past the Point of No Return. His confidence, the way he repositions her, tells her not to move, she wants to bite his shoulder, but she knows that she'll leave a mark behind. Once her jaw starts closing, as the white light explodes behind her eyes... there's a chance she won't be able to pull back. She's breathing in harsh pants, her heart is pounding it's rhythm through her head. Closer, she wants to get closer, to drown in his deep brown cat-like eyes.
The way he looks at her, she's not sure what's to be read in their depths. She's gotten better at meeting his gaze without him having to ask. He reminds her now and then, and she feels the red blush spreading over her cheekbones, down to her chest... what does he see? He watches her as she arches her back, tries to get even closer to him. The way he moves, moves her, she sees it all through downcast eyes. If he realizes how much she wants him... and then he's sliding down her throat and she's drinking him down, mischievous pleasure taking over, making her smile, making him groan.
Nothing else matters.
Fin-
“Such a good little slave.”
The words run through her, shocking yet still sinuous. It was the first she had heard that word. Dominance was received as submission was given. To call him... had he given her permission to...
“Thank you, Sir.” She takes a deep breath, gathers her courage. "Thank you, … Master?” Bracing, not knowing any other way to ask, yet desperately wanting a way to retract the words, her breath escapes raggedly as he lightly bites at the back of her neck. Lust, need, those things she’s used to feeling. Being safe, held secure in his arms, being wanted and cared for this way… those are new.
“Mmm,” he approves. “Good girl.”
"Thank you, Master," she replies without hesitating. Curling into him, she bites her lip happily and closes her eyes.
"You're welcome, baby." She can't see his face, but he sounds pleased.
There would be more to talk about later, but for now she relaxes into his Ownership and cries out happily from the pain he gives her. Scenes run through her head and make her smile. He moves her hair out of her face, she flushes and kisses his wrist at the look of pride on his face.
“Do you trust me?” He holds his hand out to her and takes her fingers to help her rise gracefully. “Are you ready?”
“Yes… Master,” she nods. “I’m ready.”
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Intro
I recently started writing six stories. I'm not going to say that it's been 'draining' because writing gives me energy and keeps me sane. Keeping all of the details straight, going back to edit, categorizing story ideas and determining where they should go... it's a lot to keep in mind. I don't outline, either. Wherever I stopped writing is where I pick the story up, all of the characteristics and plot-lines are already in my head. Wherever the story goes is where it goes. And I need a break. There are so many characters in my head. Some of them don't have names, but when a certain song plays or an image flashes through my mind... I know where the scene should go and which characters are stepping onto center stage. There's an endless amount of room, I'm not worried about losing anything. Just... I want to take a step back for a moment and stop writing reality into fiction. Memories are clouding over.
'The Handcuff Bracelet' started about a year ago. Over four hundred thousand words later, it's been a huge emotional investment. It's almost done, I've been procrastinating because of it. I'll never forget how it started. I was up at four in the morning, trying to write anything... watching music videos on VH1, Ke$ha's 'Tik Tok' music video started to play. For some reason, the way she was sitting in the car... her handcuff bracelet caught my attention and bam. The last thing I read was 'Twilight,' and the whole series really pissed me off. Without Stephanie Meyer, the characters wouldn't have come into existence. She does deserve a lot of credit, and I bear her no ill-will. Just... Edward and Bella, her versions, are... to me, they didn't fulfill their potential.
Her vampires sparkled. Enough said there. Honestly. When I think vampire, I think 'Lestat.' Then I think Eric, from True Blood. Very dominant, take-charge, nothing keeps them down types. Until Anne Rice found fucking Christ and turned her back on the vampires. No, I'll never forgive her for that. What kind of writer could- I can't comprehend.
So, 'The Handcuff Bracelet' started... going a completely different direction than where I thought it would. 'Switches and Subs' became my main bdsm story. I needed a break from 'Handcuff' and I was worried about moving to California. After searching, for fucking years... I found a Dominant that I was incredibly compatible with, but I had already made the plans to move. 'Switches' died for a while and then resumed when i got back to New Jersey six months later. Thankfully, distance and time weren't such huge factors as I packed up, reconnected with my Dom, and resumed life on the East Coast.
Two personal stories started, I've lost track of 'Phantasms' completely. Random story ideas filter through now and again, but, for Twilight at least, the plot bothers me. That she went through all of the nauseating pregnancy symptoms and didn't elaborate on the sex scene between Edward and Bella... what the fuck? Why did Jake keep coming around? He obviously wasn't wanted, nor can I believe that Bella gave in and decided that she loved him. Maybe if Edward had been less of a gentleman, taking what Bella offered instead of wanting to protect her from himself All of the time...
I like Twilight only because I can enjoy the first three books and store writing energy every time I sigh in frustration or roll my eyes at the decisions character's made. All energy is good energy, and anger is my main emotion. Calm, focused anger, not out of control rage like I used to harbor. It's productive instead of destructive.
The blog, I think, is my way of gearing up for more serious writing. A step away from fanfiction, which has helped me keep from losing my mind. The stories will continue, I'll let them tear through me for as many sleep-deprived nights as it takes for them to finish. I need to branch out, though. This happened with fanfiction back in 2003, too. Then I stopped writing anything that had pre-made characters. That won't happen this time, I'm better at multi-tasking.
End of blog entry one? That wasn't as difficult as I thought it'd be. Once I'm committed, it's no holds barred... why would I have thought this would go any differently?
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