She did not trust him. On the shiny glassy surface, yes. But not truly.

He  needed to teach her to see, to let her close her eyes and open her soul.

He wrapped a blindfold around her face, covering her lovely eyes. At first, only for 1 hour at a time. Then more. Until he would have her blindfolded for the entire day.

She had to listen to his directions, to let her body, hands and senses navigate the spaces from the bed to the kitchen, around the bathroom, up and down the stairs. Through the vastness of the living to the sliding doors, which when opened, let in air that buffeted her thin pale nightgown around her thighs.

Feeling the vibrations of his approach thru her feet. Pushing her toes into the floor, to steady herself for either an embrace or a pinch. He delivered kisses to her cheeks, in equal portions with slaps.

The normal chirpy stream of conversation was halted at those times. She was reduced to the essentials-warm, cold, wet, dry, hard, soft, up, down., hungry, thirsty. Phrases were to be pared to the core.

Even his name. Reduced to the initial, her emotions suffused the letter with both desire and fear.

When in bed, more was allowed .”Too tight” or “too loose” for the bindings on her wrists. “Hit harder”, “go faster.” Please…give me more… don’t stop…it hurts. She was allowed to modify verbs, expand adjectives.

She trembled while explaining how the welts on her ass felt as she ran her fingers over them, if the warmth of her spanked skin was mild, flushed, burning.

She stammered and blushed, tripping over how tender the skin was in her cunt, if it was just tingling or abraded.

Her barriers fell. At first, he banged against them, over and over, the walls bulging in but not breaking.

That path was pointless.

To get her to give her all her trust, to rely on him fully, he had to make her ears see.

Once she graduated from her blindfold, she didn’t need her eyes.

Every part of her saw everything.


Memory |Lost not Found

*There is a tiny persistent hum about the expose of the user database of the ‘married infidelity” site. Can we imagine what it was like, before the leap was made to join? Let’s try…*

Hypothesis 1:

It is not that I  do not love you. Love is never the question. It is that I need the flutter in my stomach of a new encounter.

I do not want the same one. The ability to have different ones, every so often, is what has me hooked,strapped in, mainlining on a totally new personality,a new set of tits. Yes, it is as simple as that.

I like women. Wait…. let’s not equivocate. I fucking LOVE women.  Many types, from the ones that are very fit, due to dragging themselves out of  bed  to jog at 5 am and watching every crumb that crosses their lips. I equally like those who are plush and plump, from doing the exact opposite.

They are not you. You are not them. That is how I like it.

I cannot dry your tears or regain your trust with this simple truth.

Case in point 1:

Women are in categories for me. They are either mothers to be adored or territory to be claimed.

There a reasoning to it, as back in Ancient Rome, women were mothers to bear the heirs., That was her duty, as it was mine to maintain the household. After my duty is done, the I have the right to satisfy my needs. With others. Surely that is what the others are for, yes?

Wives are temperate, steady. Mistresses are hot, mercurial.

You have heard rumors. But it is never anything you can put your finger upon. Good. And you never will.

I give of my heart and blood; I use precious hours out of my day to make sure you have all the things you need.

I have needs, too. For undivided attention, persistent adoration, conversation about everything but family and children, hours spent in bed, just fucking and fucking.

That is what I need.  It is not your job to give it to me. It is their job. And they do it, very well.

Presumption 1

I never got the chance to have anyone but you. I met you in college, as a painfully shy and nervous young man. I did not believe it was romantic interest when you kept making conversation inviting me for coffee. I assumed you were just friendly and needed a smart person from class to help you over the rough humps.

When you kissed me that late afternoon, I was stunned at how soft your lips were how thew sugar from your muffin was still on your lips. Your brown eyes were just as warm and inviting as the coffee in my hands.

I was hungry to be touched, to be wanted. To be encouraged that what I felt wasn’t something to be derided but welcomed.

We settled into each other. And now we are not fitting together as well. Is it years wearing a space between us? Is it just that familiarity can grow into compliance?

I  want some attention. I never got any until you. Then all my attention was yours. Now, as I approach a time when I am closer to the end of my life than the beginning, I wonder if anyone else wants me. As I am, not for what I have acquired. Or how needy I was for love.

Conjuncture 1


It crept in.

Unlike my ancestors, who participated in the hunt, I had a field of easy choices. Pretty and bountiful blooms, eager to be plucked.

What if…I had the ritual to perform? Think:

The fasting, the lengthy preparation of my body, anointed with sacred oils and patterned with dyes? Standing in the sunlight, waiting for the moment to come, to be unleashed. bare-chested, barefoot. A crown of anthers tied to my head, echoing my majesty. Knife in hand, as blood would be shed, to feed life and then myself.

Looking for, eager to find the Her. The Goddess to the God that I am.

Running running…fighting, dodging, wrestling…until I somehow strike the heart of the stag and his blood gushes, soaking my skin, flooding the earth.

Later. In the darkness. Relieved.

In the firefight next to her, my chosen-mouth full of fat and meat, I am shaking. With pride, joy, nerves, need. Anticipation, desire.

Songs sung of my victory, liquids pouring down my throat. Smoke from the fires in my nostrils, in her hair.

Being led to her, the sounds of others joined together echoing across the hills.

Then… then.


Head buzzing, cock so erect it nearly splits, I take her. I am bound to her for a short time but it seems as eternity.

It would scar me. Make me whole.

If only it had happened. But no–no ritual, no bonfires, struggle, anxiety.

Just easy and sweet. Sigh.

Do you wonder why I have an itch that has never been scratched?

Supposition 1

She was so sweet to me..

Rationale 1

It was an accident. I never thought…

Surmise 1

I did it out of anger, feeling rejected…

Argument 1

I did not wish to this to be my fate but…

Postulation  1

You were no longer interested and I cannot live like this any longer…

Hypothesis      It doesn’t

Conjecture      matter why

Surmise          only that

Supposition    it happened

Rationale       and we

Argument      cannot erase

Postulation    the past

Because all reasons are the same, resulting in betrayal and grief.

For all involved.


(She made a point: https://rougedmount.wordpress.com/2013/10/29/fuck-masturbation/)

There is nothing better than the moments when he enters, pushing, the delicate tissues parting in gleeful protest. The gasp shared as he slides into the silken fold, traveling  until he reaches the hilt and the mount is breached-so to speak.

The static buzz of a vibrator is not the same as the slow sigh, when he closes his eyes and just sinks in, his entire body relaxing, eyes closed, mind finally calm.

To burn the toy and never see it again, in exchange for the permanence of his smell, his heat, his strength. To taste the salt of his skin and the salt of his cum on eager and greedy lips.

He fills the space  in a way that a mere tool of rubber and circuits never can.

Tell him. Show him.

Musical interlude

Seldom do I think to share anything besides my words but there is a song, that sinks into the heart of me.

The original is by Van Morrison. Sweet Thing:



The cover that I like just as much is by Hozier:



Sidereal Day

There is always a first.

For the Nothing gives birth to Something.

The sound of your breath, marking time.

Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.

Your hands around breasts. Mine, always mine.  Even before you realized, even after I am gone.

For they all represent Me.

I long for. You appear and Give.

Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.

My breasts, the light in your dark.

I gave them to you, negating the primordial poison.

You ended my rage by appearing as a child, thus turning my breasts into my calm.

The skull cup you remove from my hands, the urge for the seat of life ebbs.

For you are here and we fall into each other.

Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.

Our worship. Mutual. Spin the Universe into silky strands that slip through Time.

Apply the sandalwood paste to my breasts. Gently, tenderly.

Flowers woven though and around me, from your lips.

You fill my heart with joy.

Your hands dance against my skin. Silent, my fingers flow.

My thumb touches my index finger, the others bent softly.

Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.

I lift my voice in praise to the Unseen God.

I am seen and blessed by you.

Thus I am Seen.

Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.

This is my Light.

{Originally composed 5/5/09; 22:59:11}



Can I love you, like you, desire you

if you are dripping with piss, lips pasted with derision ?



Can I want, embrace, touch you

if you are hard to break, stubborn, recalcitrant?





He wanted to absorb every tremble, every spasm, every second of her movement.

He covered her mouth, with his, when she cried out and came, lovingly pinned under him. Clenching, grabbing.

He wouldn’t let the very breath that was pushed out of her lungs escape.

Peace accord

“Say it again. Go on.”

Eyes downcast, she repeats a variation of what should be said. Not what she actually said.

He stepped closer and puts his forehead right against hers. She felt his breath against her cheeks, shaping his demand, more than his words hitting her ears.

Pausing, she utters what she first said, under her breath. “I will, if you want me to.”

He sighed, very gently.

And deftly, tightened the clamps that she does not like, on her nipples. She turned my head just a bit to the right, trying to stifle the moan and keep the irritation off my brow.

“Don’t turn your face from me,” he says. Low and soothing tremolo that lulls her into thinking she will get away clean.

He tugged on each clamp, left right left right, only making her less sure of anything she was doing. She did not feel hypnotized by the simulation of milking.

Seeing the look in his eyes, she felt her natural wariness awaken, not caring that it was him, that it (and she) belonged to him, that she was to trust him.

Many things were his but after all this time, she is no more a sub than a fish is a fowl.

She flounders. She wants to give him his due and please him. But she cannot do it eyes open, only eyes tightly shut.

“Drop to your knees.”

She falls. It hurts.  Others like this,  she thinks. They do.  She doesn’t, no matter how she tries to bend her mind around it. She likes to please him, she only wants it to feel good.

How can getting her ass beaten, her pussy spanked, her nipples twisted until she yelps, her jaw sore and  throat raw from giving him head for so long and her anal cavity stuffed, feel…good? She does not like pain.

She likes him. Him, she likes.

His buckle clangs sweetly, as it is unloosed and quits doing its job of holding up his pants. She opens her warm mouth, engulfing him, as he rubs her hair and her face.

He is not talking, as she serves him. The one and only signal that he is irritated.


On her hands and knees, feeling the paddle on her ass. Over and over. Sometimes he seems to hit in exactly the same fucking spot.  The pain kicks in, true pain–not any haa-haa-giggle-giggle tingle. She wants to say aloud, ‘Fuck you, Sir.’ But she lets it echo in her head, not out into the air between them.

To say it would hurt him. It is not enough that she wishes to, that she tries to. It is that she does. Do it, give in, yield, capitulate. Surrender, succumb.

Oh fuck.

She never thought it hurt him, to hear her protestations or to see her eyes, full of defiance , as her body yielded. But it did. Or does, for she has not perfected hiding it, no matter how fast to run to him or how ardently she acts.

He spanks her ass steadily, knowing that at some point, she will break. Her words and thoughts will coalesce with her body and she will lose herself in the task.

Serving him. That is what she is in his life for. Her wit, looks, mind, body are not what he savors.

It is her willingness, her exclusivity to him, her hankering to be perfect–that is what makes her shine brighter than the rest. Not the smart-ass bitch she is but the cunt of his  that she wishes to be.  She smiles. But once the pain hits, it drops away and becomes a snarl.

He needs it, the pain. He needs to hurt her. He wants her bra to be uncomfortable on her nipples.  He gets off on knowing it will hurt her to sit for 2 days after. He desires her mind to remain on him, as her body screams out against what he has done.

Truly, it is. Her mind is full of him. To hold more of him in her head means  she could not walk, talk or breathe.


On her back, watching his jaw clench, as he fucks her.  She can barely look at him, but he demands she does.

He stares, as he steadily goes in, deeper and deeper.

That makes her cry. His eyes are telling her one thing: he needs her to give what she purports she will.  To stop fighting, to stop struggling, to stop weighing it.

But to feel and flow, fall into it and let him guide her. To let him do as he wishes. Not to be forced, but to be led.

Before she knows it, her fingers twine in his silky black hair and she babbles her  shame, that she knows she is failing.

There they are. Face to face, grinding into each other, her nipples singing the blues in the clamps, her ass tender against the sheets. He gets heavier, tense.

“Please,” she says. “Please”. His face buries into her neck, as he empties into her.  She feels a flush of wetness. Hers joining his.

Right then, she was able to marry her head with her body.

They are there. Breathing.  Almost one. Almost.


After he takes off the clamps, dries her tears and holds her close to him, she admits the truth. She is afraid. He knows that.

She tell him, in the softest voice she possesses, that she needs him to help her.

She is the one who afraid of what she will become.

And yet he proceeds on. Never doubting, never unsure.

What does he know and see, that she does not?


Everything has fallen away; order, calm, peace. Or what we called peace, anyway.

We stand in chaos. shaking with fear, as we flinch and shudder at each explosion, at every tumbling brick.

Fires rage. Water is sullied. Bones are crushed, flesh is torn. Blood drips and pools, leaving odd sticky shapes, drying unevenly.

Yet we turn away from it all.

We have each other.

Pressed close, grit digging into our skins, coughing from dust.

You lips taste of ashes. Are damp with salt.

Not sure if they are from your tears or mine.


Trying to hold on to you.

You are smooth, slick.

Yet my palms are bleeding, skin ripping away, as I slide down you.



Math has always been something that relaxed me. Numbers give me comfort.

I can solve for x and y, eyes closed, smile hovering my lips.

But nothing was purer than 1+1 equals us.

What is one minus infinity? Does it exist?

You leaving from a solid to a vaporous state has disrupted the mechanics of my system.

There must be agreement; for the loss of heat must flow from one environment to another.   Spontaneous movement that will pull the warmth from you to the colder entity of me.

For you couldn’t absorb heat, without my love giving it to you. Cold cannot flow into heat passively. It requires work. A push. And in turn, I need desperately to grab the heat you lost, for it must last me a lifetime.

You are the heat, but your loss has not increased the space around me or in the rooms I possess.  Grief is the environment, holding us and the change that is supposed to provide heat to me, that you expelled when you last breath was drawn.  Yet, I go from cold to cold, shivering, needing an explanation.

Am I an isolated system?  Our substances were different, so why is there not net progress?


The change in the universe must equal the change in the surrounding plus the change in the system.

I have changed. You have withdrawn from me. It was spontaneous, unbidden.

But the universe moves on, indifferent to my pleas and cries.

I do not feel the addition of heat.

Only a persistent enveloping sadness that I cannot dissipate.

Is that what Death is? The loss of heat, never to be gained again?






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