I pause, the rope held loosely in my hands, allowing you to see it as I slowly move my hands apart, left pinching the bight so as to extend a length between them. Your eyes lift to mine and my heart lifts at what I see there. Apprehension, desire, a question, I hold your gaze and see your decision, your eyes closing slightly, your shoulders dropping slightly as you slowly exhale.

I lift my hands up and over you, lowering the band of rope behind you, lower than it needs to be, brushing your back as I move it up and against your skin. As if seeking the perfect location I move it slightly from side to side, teasing you with it, knowing without looking your nipples will already have hardened just as if the rope had just caressed them instead. I move slowly around you, extend the rope through my fingers carefully, keeping it taught enough to wrap against the skin beneath your breasts and over your ribs, making the first wrap. I pull the free rope slowly through the bight ensuring the weave of the soft hemp moves across that of its counterpart, the rope around you thrumming gently.

The first wrap complete I start to move back in the opposite direction, pausing again in front of her, noting her eyes are unfocused, as she concentrates on the swirling thoughts and feelings the ropes touch stirs in her. I smile to myself loving the way her body sways slightly under the pull of the rope as I circle her with the second wrap, immediately above the first. Moving more confidently now I finish pulling it through before pinching the ropes in one hand so as to free the other to reach round in front of you.

I make sure to wrap my arm carefully around you as to check the rope is layed well against your skin, but truthfully it is so I can hold you between rope and arm, your head against my cheek. I feel you exhale with a slight sigh, your eyes fluttering closed, a vague smile playing on your soft, full lips.

The next two wraps, above your breasts are smooth but unhurried, your head now lolling forward as you relax in to my rope. Quietly I start to talk to you, of possibilities, making my voice your focus, guiding you to leave yourself in the care of my rope…….


Daily Prompt: Trance


So what was it like for you?

Woman lying down on her bed at home.

Can you remember what it felt like?

Recently I tried to write what might be classed as erotica, mainly driven by my desire to see if I could write something better, actually more accurately speaking, more realistic, than 50 Shades. The actual quality of the writing of those books has pretty much been done to death but it has also been jumped on in the BDSM community as not reflecting the reality of “the lifestyle”. So since I have done this weird stuff for 11 years now, partied hard and done it as part of a relationship as well, I figured I have a fair idea, so I sat down to write.

Simple story line, girl meets guy at party thrown by friends, both get hots for each other, he does bad things to her which she likes, a lot, some hot rough sex, he cuddles her afterwards, perhaps to be continued. Dialogue, easy, words I have said or heard others say in that sort of situation, technical detail nailed, after all I am a geeky Dom, love my toys and techniques. Settings the same so that just left the sex. And that is where it all went wrong.

I could write the scenes, write his thoughts and feelings but hers? It was as if I had suffered a complete lobotomy, I could not even begin to imagine what a woman actually experiences during sex. The play was fine, I am not shy about admitting I have tried most of the sensations and activities I inflict, for their pleasure, on others. But sex, suddenly I am a goldfish with a typewriter.

Now I know that emotions colour perceptions so that after the act memories get tinted, rose or otherwise, but can you actually remember what you physically felt and how that made you feel? Is sex like driving, there is little sensation, the physical becomes subconscious, an extension of your emotions and desires? Or, does it become an intricate dance where release is the crazed applause at the end? You can probably tell I am guessing here, right?

All suggestions gratefully received, either based on personal experience or pointers to the work of others you feel have answered this question.



Curves. Real bodies are made up of them, how many and the size of them determines what shape we are. How we feel about that shape is a consequence of cultural, experience, education and on and on but the truth is, most of us do not have the right one. We do not like our shape, we do not like our bodies. Some people strive to reach perfection, are proud of what they achieve, the journey becomes their life story. For others it becomes the leaden weight that constantly weighs them down, life is such hard work, so pointless.

But what about the person inside the shape, no curves there. Inside we are like crystals, edges and facets, twisting and turning so that every person seeing us sees a different facet, a different shape. Crystals are amazing, wonders of nature, simple in construction, complex in their beauty and inside so are we. Today I will try and see the beauty inside others and hope they see some in me. In the words of the song

Shine on you crazy diamond



Who ya gonna call?

When you’ve been ghosted.

Ghosted, a term I wasn’t familiar with until recently. Sat at a munch, a rare occurrence these days, hey been there got the T-shirt, the poster and the giant foam hand, Yay Go Munchers, when one of the ladies sat at the table with me made a wooOOoo noise under her breath eliciting much sniggering and giggling from those around her.

A quick scan of the group showed apart from me and the girl, everybody else seemed to get the joke. So turning to the source of the noise I asked what the joke was. “Oh it’s just us being bitchy about poor old Derek” she replied with a, I suspected completely insincere, sad shake of the head. “Care to elaborate?” I prompted and as expected got the furtive cartoonesque scan of the room to check nobodies watching move. Still she leaned closer, apparently so as not to be heard even though I suspect all around us already knew even more than she would tell me.

I didn’t object, it’s the rules of the gossip game and besides which she is gorgeous, a woman of a certain age completely in touch with her sexual self and enjoying life. I would love to have her at my mercy, begging for release, straining against my control. Pity she is a badass sadistic Domme who should I ever try to do that would in a heartbeat cut my manhood from my body, marinade it my body fluids and then make me eat it. The sort of woman who carries several weapons concealed about her person and knows how to use them, for her pleasure.

“Poor old Derek he’s the only one doesn’t know he’s being ghosted” she half whispered in to my shoulder and sat back as if I should instantly understand. Well it explained the silly noise but I was really no wiser. Of course with suave Domly calm I smiled a half amused, half of course smile and looked at the poor man’s back across the room all the while wondering what the hell ghosting was. The girl was by now gently looking askance at me so I leaned closer and whispered “What’s ghosting somebody mean?” She gave me that “Really? You don’t know?” look that is usually followed by a “With respect Sir, you are s out of touch you old codger.” This is just implied in the eyes if she feels on thin ice, we are in public or I am feeling grumpy. Behind closed doors she would say it; what the hell she’s a brat in the bedroom as well as a whore.

“Perhaps later?” she said and we let it hang until the start of the next demo caused the group to break up and we could move to a quiet corner. Settled she started to explain. Apparently since so much of our relationships these days are virtual, completely as in website friends, or in terms of publicly expressing our relationships to said virtual connections, being virtually present is to most people the reality of the relationship. This is certainly true in the world of kink where for most kinksters face to face is a social highlight, once met in real life most connection is then online. So if you are in a D/s relationship the only way from day to day that your connections know this is, is by what you do online, no online no relationship.

Now obviously, if you are seen at a real life event, happy and contented together, the flag is reset but in many relationships these days face to face is not 24/7. We lead busy lives; D/s can overlay other relationships and commitments so even the relationship can be partially virtual. So how do you know when a relationship is dead? Well in this case it appeared after everybody else. This was no Velcro collar strangers to Master slave in six months scenario, oh no, Derek and Elsa had been a scene item for years, see guys you can live the dream they are. Except that apparently he stopped listening and didn’t hear the alarm on her biological clock go off. She wants a little Derek, she wants one real bad. Now of course she is a good slave and never tells her Master what to do, Master always knows best or some such crap. Crap because in this case it has destroyed their relationship.

Apparently he is the only one to have not realised that she always has an excuse to not be out with him, a convenient recurring medical problem, ageing and increasingly sickly parents, ever more demanding boss who needs that report tonight. They are seeing each other rarely, he is unhappy but being understanding, she is fading away. No longer is there a stream of posts about what they have done together, how he makes her feel, just an ever decreasing number of social likes of friends pictures or posts. Coming to one of these for the first time you would never guess she was in a long term relationship, which of course in her mind she now isn’t.

Apparently this is the modern way, just fade away so that when you finally stop answering their messages, go invisible, it isn’t as painful, but of course that is simply what the ghoster tells themselves to justify their cowardice. It is going to destroy Derek, his whole social credibility will be removed, he is going to feel publicly castrated and betrayed not only by the love of his life but by all his friends who he will quickly realise knew and said nothing. She will lay low, first surfacing virtually to remake connections, there will be no shortage of comforting strong Domly shoulders to lean on and the fact he wouldn’t, perhaps if need be hinted at couldn’t, give her the baby she craved will be seen as reason enough by some of the women around her.

So did I go over and tell him, of course not. How could you prove it, that’s the beauty of it, the perfect crime, no hard evidence and a victim that doesn’t realise until it is too late. No, I carried on as planned, had a great evening and went home. Went home to check all her posts online and texts and calls, to count them and work out how often, how many, my God was I next? And then I spent a sleepless nice feeling like a shit for doubting her. My resolve was to listen a little more closely, hope she makes some murmur of protest that I can detect early enough to act or believed me when afterwards I told her I would rather change anything than lose her. Hopefully the fact that I also told that if she ghosted me I would make it my life’s work to hunt her down and destroy her reassured her as to my commitment to the relationship and didn’t in anyway scare her.