D/s

what its like

There was a look to his face that was both beautiful and hard; a beloved definition set deep into his bronzed expression that called urgently to her. Denying him was like holding her breath or cutting deep into her own skin. He would call to her and she would come. Sometimes he imagined she had been discovered sleeping beneath dewy flowers that grew lush and full near the sea and brought into this world just for him. He would touch her and pull her inside of him reminding her in the fleeting first heartbeat of their reunion that she was loved, protected and though at times far away she was always, always on his mind and deeply intertwined in what made his day good or what made his day melancholy and sad.

He would settle her near to him, against him, in him, at his feet or on his lap so that his hands could brush her skin. They could linger at her slim boned shoulder, the tender little area on the back of her neck or the brazen little spot between her small young breasts. Her skin was magic beneath his fingers and glowed in his hands like a newly born rainbow. Having her close enough to touch settled a rage within him that she knew well, that she using her intuition understood and cherished. It comforted him and made him feel more deeply settled and connected to the man who spoke when he was alone with himself. He kept her close enough so that she too could touch him. He welcomed her fleeting little hands against his face and loved the way they danced in his hair for they reminded him of places he had visited in his own youth. Oh how he warmed her,  how the shadow of his presence shaded her. To her….how startling beautiful it felt to be so firmly settled at his feet. His hand pressed her face against his knee and she leaned into him tilting her head so it rested their in the curve of his skin. His touch made her feel as if she had found the home she had been seeking for so long.

He kept her suspended in a damp netting of wonder and aching need and taught her that he was the weaver, he was the one who could release her from the net or allow her to become tangled so that she lost pieces of herself in the rough sea hardened edges of what he wove around her. He tried to never take anything without replacing it with something better, something stronger, and something more. He tried to never break anything inside of her or against her that he couldn’t piece back together. There were times he had left her broken, times even after taking great care with her he had left her damaged. The aftermath of her wounded spirit would remind him of her fragility, he would be reminded that she was only as strong as he allowed her to be, only as safe inside of her soul and in her submission as he left her. It was a great responsibility. Yet like a small child she trusted him and offered it to him again and again with an infinite gentle grace that he valued and treasured. She looked at him and up to him in a way that he sometimes felt he hadn’t earned. With her humble submission she humbled him. 

She guarded her heart and the gift of her trust with an iron will that had somehow almost mystically and quite fatefully opened easily for him; she had let him in, curled around him and loved him from the start.

She held him above all others for the gift she gave him must only be offered to someone deserving, enlightened and charmed. He had been chosen by her and in her he found the greatest of gifts. Her fingers trembled with eagerness to play about his darkened eyes, his parted lips, and the dangerous set of his jaw. He glistened. 

She touched his face so that she would always remember his face. She knew of darker days when he would not be there, no hard arms gathering her into the white light that defined his absolute ownership of her. She willed her hands to hold onto his face so that she would never forget the expressions found there. He humored her and allowed her gentle explorations. If she could only maintain the sinfully complete knowledge of what it felt like to be lost in the hard, darkened existence of him she would never be lost again. She hated the lost feeling that could coldly settle deep in her mind, in her otherwise brilliant existence when she was too long from him. If she knew that she would always remember his taste, always be able to sink backwards into the white hot memory of what he gave her, of what they gave each other perhaps she would not need to touch him so. She was more herself when at his feet, more alive when within his sight. He knew her, knew her laugh, her cries and could taste her vulnerability and need so warm and soothing against his tongue for he understood her. He was the man who could suspend her powerless, who could pull her into himself and take everything. He could continually shatter all the pieces of residual innocence and leave quietly without breaking the winged spirit she held out to him like a shiny piece of fruit or an unbroken shell. He was the faraway adventure of her girlish fantasies. Yet he breathed, he lived and his teeth were against her neck, his rough hand even now bruising her parted thighs.

In her he found an infinite release, he could pour the pain created with his own hands into the warmth of her tender body and with creative strength and beautiful submission she would taste it, strip it down to the darkened core and savor it in her mouth, with her body, with her soul. She would wrap it around herself leaving her scent, leaving whispered moans and tearful pleas clinging to this creation, to what he conceived in that clouded over place that was inside of him. She would absorb it and like rain she would dance about in the dampness of it thinking nothing of getting wet only of the joy in the dance. For him she would dance and the steps of her dance would provide a soothing rhythm that would force the shadowy cloudiness in him away, it would welcome the pain he created, it would bring light to where before there was only darkness and restraint. With her dance she beckoned to him with lilting hands and graceful feet tossing absolution over her shoulder like petals from a flower girls basket. She scattered freedom at his feet. In her it dissolved, it somehow became more a part of him as he fed it to her than it was when it was cloudy and raging invisible deep and lost inside his own body. She would silently return it to him healed somehow yet unchanged, sweetened and thick like a jellied pleasure that he wanted to melt into. In her he found honest vindication.

She liked to think that when they were together the world stood quietly. Time passed more slowly or not at all. People walked stiffly and spoke with their hands or with small notes so not to disturb what they couldn’t see or understand. It was as if everyone else was unenlightened, as if they could sense something around them but could only imagine what it was. So they tiptoed and whispered amongst themselves; they waited. And when he touched her it was as if they were alone in the isolated darkness sheltered by a world that protected them with their silence quite unknowingly.

In him she found everything light and dark. She saw him standing on a partially lit street, or maybe a darkened road his hands opened imploringly and she recognized the sign he carried. It was in her language and it spoke to her, just to her with dark red and purple words. And they wrapped themselves around her and tugged her clothes from her body leaving them damp and muddied in the road. She was his for he had made her so. She carried him around with her as sure as if she too were nestled into the closed warm palm of his thoughts every moment. He plunged into the opening of her desires as if he were a constant stream of consciousness that flowed with her, same  as her breath, her heartbeat, life, death. They were all one and he was a part of the flow that joined her to the earth and the earth to her soul. He was in the lining of her heart and in the color of her blood, the brightness of her eyes- he was there. He was a wooded forest of restoring need and cropped tortured cries that she needed to release into the sanctity of him. And even with warnings in her ear not to venture too far out into the starkness she walked brazenly, fearlessly into the shaded darkness. She knew there was haven there and she knew that beneath the branches there was life. With him she could be frail, translucent and simple and yet maintain the power that moved him farther beyond himself than anyone else ever could.

He could make her into anything he needed her to be. Her body, damp and small, trembled as he lifted her nearer to himself so that she was almost one with him and he could taste her in the air. He allowed her body to meld against his so that the heat of her slid slick against his lean body. There were pieces of her he could pull inside himself so that her smell was his smell and her taste was warm in his mouth. Her taste was more of an essence they had stewed together, pieces of them both boiling down together into a warm creation, a potpourri of its own and the smell it emitted was detected only by the two of them. The Ru of her would linger around him for days and he would wander lost in its thick sweetness. Until suddenly it was gone and like her scent she would be off of his fingers, out of his hands and he would feel a deserted sense of sadness at its loss.

When he spoke it opened her mind, her body. From his voice, his breath, his words came a force that drew from her the full surrender that she yearned to give. It tumbled out of her like a foggy breath blown gently across skin. It was a force beyond her control. It raged between them both as he found peace and release in her suffering, the whiteness of her skin eternal against the dark silk of her hair. She suffered willingly for him taking it all and swallowing moan after moan biting deeply into her own skin to remain subject to his will. The pain was a dark colored sweetness as if it grew near the sea and dripped from trees that didn’t have a name. He cupped it in his hand and she lapped it up and swallowed mouthful after mouthful pleasing him so that he was perfect in his usage of her, perfect in his dominance.

With a shift of an eye his touch softened and curled around her slim neck feeling her pulse slam against his hand. The rhythm reminded him of everything smooth and flowing and he leapt into the river that shared her name to keep up with her flow. She startled and looked up at him. Her eyes bright, dilated wide with passion and wonder spoke to him and he knew she was lost to herself, deep within herself and was even now playing along the edge of falling completely into him. He was like an apparition to her. Serene, God-like and all consuming he cradled his hands against the ebb and flow of rising skin beneath them and struggled to control how tightly they curled around her throat. He released her and heard himself moan into her motionless silence that would have eagerly welcomed his touch. Like a child she sought his hands and pulled them against her again for everything he offered her from within their hardness she pulled into her own trembling body and made it her own. Her body was fluid, undefined and looked new to him; an unfolded frightened flower that opened with a touch from him, a word. She urged him with every move, every breath, every strange luminous light that was cast from her eyes she tempted him. His violent superconciousness of her form half beneath him forced all of his senses to tune into her. He was a million hands against her flesh, rows of teeth opening and tasting the sweetness that would have been foreign and strange to anyone else but him. It was his to take and she offered him everything that was soft and silken and placed it before him to devour. He opened her and led her to the edge of a sweat and tear slickened pier and pulled her in and then beneath the darkened water so that the only air was from his mouth and the only release was from his hand. She was a fish and swam along side him eyes keen, alert now and unblinking and when she swam slightly ahead he was forced to slow her, catching her like a falling twilight and protecting her from the worst in himself. In the water with her dancing and slipping fluidly against him he almost lost the thin coiled ribbon of control that held him from drifting away from the sane, from the anchored line protecting them both from what he was capable of doing.

Even in the unnatural darkness of the room she could see him distinctly and felt his hands above her, always above her, on her, inside her urging and taking and leaving nothing for her to fight him with. He could touch her blindly and know her, he hurt her and broke her and left pieces of himself stuck within her skin so that he would truly never leave her. He drew a ragged breath slicing through the slate blue silence that encircled them. He pulled her away from his body to look at her face, white and open with bruised lips and dark eyes. Here he could hide the darkened smudges his fingers had painted on her fresh flesh and the streaked tears of release and pain that flowed from the melted snow within her eyes. Her skin was translucent and he slowed his own heart as her pulse steadied into a familiar cadence of peace colored submission that cooled her skin and made her cling to him so that she was him and he was her. He was filled with tenderness for her and stopped struggling with the urge to pull her inside of himself. She was there solidly beneath his body and within his heart. He knew she would sleep and he kissed her face, her eyes, her open mouth. He moved her beneath his arm and cradled her head against his heart. Her eyes still glowed with unshed tears yet the spirit floating within was undimmed, primal and timeless and he found himself wishing that she not blink. Yet she blinked once, twice and with a settled sigh she was gone. She slept in him and on him and when he breathed she breathed, when he stirred she stirred. He soothed her for in doing so he soothed himself, he quieted the demon she aroused and then tamed in him.

His voice was a far away rumbled thunder that drifted down to her like music from a deserted church or a song hummed through the lips of a content child. It comforted her in her sleep and was a reminder of his power and with the vibrating truth of his words it nurtured the need in her to be powerless, to float, to burn quietly in the lingering cooling pain that he had poured across her body. It was as if his words although spoken aloud didn’t need to be, their need was a bridge between them allowing no running ahead or hesitating at the edge. A full immersion, a full crossing over; that was what he demanded of her, that is what she gave him. Nothing less was deserved, nothing more needed.

The darkness wrapped tightly around her and cradled her against him. Cradled them both and rocked them gently to the place where there was not another soul. Lights dimmed and the world hushed and outside the walls cushioning their pleasure in and with each other nothing mattered. And with the dimming light came an absolution that it was good.

9 thoughts on “what its like

  1. A very beautiful piece about the intimacy between Owner and pet, Master and Slave, Dom and sub.. or whatever titles you wish to use. Very nicely said.

  2. pixie it is wonderful to see you post. In your absence I have thought of you often and sent good wishes and positive thoughts to you on the wind. This post is beautiful. I would venture to guess with confdence that this is in fact you and Richard, and I am thrilled for you. May you continue to feel, know, wallow in the good.

  3. Great post pixiepie! You can really pull people in with your words. I didn’t want this to end. Lovely and arousing too!

  4. Wow!!! I totally LOVED it all!

    I too have been ever waiting for more wonderful Pixie posts 🙂

    I’ve never read anything more beautiful, not ever.

    xxx

  5. This is beautiful pixie! You should write all of the time! Not that I dont want to hear about all the other stuff in your life. this post just stunned me- you are a great writer. You have the ability to put a breathtaking sentence together.

  6. “He plunged into the opening of her desires as if he were a constant stream of consciousness that flowed with her the same as her breath, her heartbeat, life, death. ”

    Sigh. Wow pixie. What a tribute not only to your relationship with Richard (or whoever-M?? ) but a testament to how people can find beauty in what others see as violence.

  7. This is really very sensually and mentally erotic, pixie. You have incredible insight and such a depth… this was divine and i know nearly every single sensation you speak of in this heart-felt and devotional essay. Bravo.
    –toy

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