The darling bud of May

You’re sleeping now, unaware that you are missing the best part of the day. When the dawn sloughs off the night like a skin and creeps up the garden, inch by inch. The petals unfold, flowers open to received its warmth and turn their heads, raised in adoration at its ineffable energy. The shadows still wear their silk of wetness. It is thrown across the inexorable path of sunrise, twinkling like winking eyes that will close as the tongue of heat ravishes its hidden corners, licking up towards our white stucco walls.

I’ll watch it some days, sitting at the open window when you are sleeping softly under the merest sheets. The delight at its anticipation leaves me a little breathless, as I long for the piercing brightness to make me drop my head and its gradual heat to thin and stir my blood like slow-cooked mulligan.

You stir, and I return. Beneath our tented linen I will burrow and press my tongue, to taste the wetness of your dawn. That spreads and wakens in response to my own reviving roots and demands the full heat of a punishing summer’s day before you will release me, dew-covered and bent to the all-consuming sun.

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The unbearable heaviness of being

I kneel every day because it’s a necessary corrective to the stresses of modern life that would leave me bent out of shape. It’s the point of connection with @fireandhoney that transcends 4,000 miles of distance and leaves me feeling in a state of grace. It is also a weathervane for the balance of my submission, which I needed to relearn this week.

It is, of course, a movable feast – I can do it more or less anywhere – but my preferred method is naked, except for my collar, because the sense of needing to be vulnerable and utterly, demonstrably submissive reinforces the feeling I get and the sense of connection to Miss. Which tends to limit the number of places I can practically do it.

Externally it is a form of meditation like any other – clearing the mind, subduing the body, reflecting on the self and trying to attain a sense of calm whilst disconnected from the material world. With D/s kneeling though, of course, it is actually to gain a deeper meaning of my submission, running mental checklists, and testing for my own wellbeing. But it poses an interesting question about its performative nature – how much it is demonstration and how much an actual ritual and, by extension, the whole of my D/s.

Because one of the key features of my submission (and maybe generally, though I’d hate to speak for us all) is the need for validation by my D. I’ve blogged elsewhere about my neediness for attention in the symbiosis of D/s and how its deprivation is the worst punishment to bear. And my kneeling this week revealed to me how much my kneeling had moved from ritual to performance in my needy search for validation. I’d started to not only tell my D about my kneeling, but to photograph and send it to her. Though this was done with the best of intentions, I realise its effect was to dominate the conversation. In driving the discourse with my need for approval I was, effectively, topping from the bottom. Violet’s acute observation had made me realise that probably, deep inside, the image was becoming more important than the ritual. This was performance for approval not kneeling for connection.

So last night I went back to basics to rediscover the lost meaning of that ritual. I cleared my mind to feel the carpet under my legs as I sat slightly parted, feeling the tension of muscles in my thighs, the shiver of self-aware nakedness and, above all, the weight of my need to submit. As you hold the position, aware of just the slow passing of time and the lessening awareness of your own body that blurs into a lump of stretched, aching numbness, it becomes more like a shell that holds something inside, a vessel for the soul, for want of a better word. This is the point you stop thinking about or ‘doing’ the submission and become the submission

This is the beauty of ritual I had gotten away from, taking the time to get to that point of stepping off onto a different plane and it was almost overwhelming. The point I know I’ve reached it is when my body becomes literally too heavy to support. I need to get low, as low as I possibly can to the ground – my doubled-up legs slide into a semi splits that pushes my pelvis into the ground and my shoulders touch the carpet, arms spread out in full supplication. At this point I am simply compelled to be the weight of my own submission in a way that shows I have nothing left to give. Though this looks performative at this point there is no one else here except me and the presence of my D that is now immense and overwhelming and I am rendered immobile in gratitude. It’s my DIY subspace in which I am held secure.

 

 

 

Bidden

I bring the bowl, bidden by you, to remove the last trace of this dirty world from your feet, towel trailing my forearm as I solemnly progress. It’s the quiet time of the evening. The chiaroscuro of roosting crows that smeared the skies are replaced by the pulsing of crickets. “Cicadan rhythms”, we joke to each other as we prepare for bed. The heat released from the stone walls that have baked all day in this mediterranean sun now gives us warmth.

And in the light of a smokey oil lamp your skin glows in its newness, as you sit atop fresh sheets, your legs hanging down the edge of our iron bed, wrought out of love. I kneel, placing the bowl to one side and remove the towel from my waist to show you my naked frame that you have pulled from shame into comfort and pride. My collar is fastened; you nod and I pick up the dangling foot before me, a precious Rodin sculpture of the smoothest stone. For a moment I pause before I press my parted lips to those precious toes.

Forcing my fat wet tongue between them, drawing you into my mouth, I cradle the heel like an goose egg, its smooth shape sits perfectly in my cupped hands. I pass trembling fingers around your ankle, stroking back towards me, describing the arch and instep with hands roughened from hot summers in the orchard.

I shiver, feeling the hairs pick up on my arms, as I’m almost overcome by the completeness of this. At your feet, naked and serving you, my true vocation. As my cock briefly lifts, I hungrily lick, toe to heel, lifting the balls of each foot to place a long, lingering kiss on each.

“Begin” you say, in a neutral tone that seems loud in the silence of the evening. My hand moves down to meet my swelling self coming up, I pull silently at myself losing any sense of distance, just feeling fully in you, around you, of you.

I need this. This kneeling, this moment, this chance to pray and feel my real self reveal itself in all its vulnerability to you.

“Faster”

and I pick up the pace, the beating drum of my tightened skin matched by the rising of my breath. The joy of your commands knocks me giddy, I lurch and press into your knees, propped up between them, not stopping, just resting, engorging myself further by the scent of your ripe cunt.

“Back, where I can see, please” and a gentle tip back by your hand, and I’m rocking, now splayed and close to the edge but I’m powerless to speak. There is no need, you feel it. It is beginning, this covenant of blood and skin we both bear witness to, and I must seal it now.

“Good boy, it’s time”

and the release is final and sudden, a jerk from my guts and I spill my seed gratefully onto your pristine flesh and this is all that matters in the world right now.

I sink and the stone flags are a cold shock and scrape my stomach. I need to be as low as I can be, press my face into the sticky tops of your feet. To wear this offering as an anointed disciple.

Soon I will rise and bathe you. Slopping the warm water to rinse away my sacrament and swaddling your feet in crisp linen to press dry in a ritual well practised and unchanged by time.

The fold

I want to gather the flesh that falls about you and dive into its depths. Hold it in my hands and feel it flow and run through my fingers, lanolin-soft and the colour of cream shot through with freckles.

To part its waves and drown in its darkness, drawn under by a ripping tide that smashes me into you. Skin upon skin upon skin upon skin and we begin to roll. Buffeted and broken from the pounding, I remain a solid stump of jetty that juts out into the swirling passions of your folds.

We ebb and flow. Floating amid the foam-flecked peaks, I cling to the flotsam until I find you. And I am swallowed, washed up onto you, an ancient mariner come home to tell his tale.

Sinful Sunday 367: stuffed

Everyone has gone wonderfully light and naked this week, which is just fabulous. That’s my task next week, as my prompt has demanded, but this week I’m cutting against the grain somewhat.

I’ve gone dark after a difficult week that began with self-loathing and body image issues. @fireandhoney drew me out of myself and gave me the confidence to reengage. She is so special and precious, I wanted to dedicate this week’s image to her.

Panties, wearing and play, is a lovely part of our dynamic. I love the possibilities we find in them. And look forward to the time she can gag me with them for real.


To see who else is opening wide this week, click on the lips below.

Sinful Sunday

Absent

Absence makes the night grow longer. The cold tunnel of darkness that recedes until I sleep having slipped exhausted into some sort of state of absence. My mind folds into the  imagined place I crave, where I cherish and cradle your feet as a slave, to soothe your swollen toes and aching arches.

I oil and rub the flesh smooth with a finish to rival a mother-of-pearl inlay in rococo oak, these ten toes, with nails like little red tongues, are just about the most perfect thing I have seen.

Working up past your calves and knees, gripping the flesh with vigour and rolling it round, drawing the blood to the surface, the dermis glowing like gold in sunlight. I kiss blissfully at the pale insides of your thighs as I rise to meet you. Your legs beg to be worshipped and tasted.

Your absentminded hand pulls the strands of my hair into a fist, drawing me into you as an owner who hauls the lead of a wandering beast. The other hand holding a book, your eyes cast just a look to acknowledge my work and then return to the object of your desire.

As I die laying…

I want to be looking down at you, the arcs of your body spread before my fiercely hungry eyes. Me, a grunting mess, thrusting into your weeping cunt.

Gripping the bedstead of iron, wrought like the rigid frame of my body into a dead set shape that will never bend because it aches for you always.

Hoarsely barking my desire into the wall, as I rail against this body I cannot own enough to be truly satisfied.

Scrabbling up with bone-dead legs the escarpment of this desire with footing that falls away as I rise with it.

Each time I feel this shattering need to have you when I can’t feels like I die a little, not the ‘little death’ you let me feel.