Who will I whisper my secrets to if not you? The truth of me, the best of me, the real of me, the brutal. Tears no longer familiar, yet you know when they will form. My provocateur, protagonist and confessional. Disturbed by your aptness in the knowing of me; when to offer wine, demand I sleep, push for written communion. Hold me when I shake, calm me when I rage. Trace the outline of my soul in darkness. Bring my nectar to its sweetness. Truth served straight up. Not a trick of mind, a true knowing. Silent moments stretch for days yet you know the real. In stillness I am found, in motion, in the words spoken to my loved ones, in the disarray of life, the lush of exultation. Once I lay in darkness, adrift on seas of past, absent locus; in you my will ignited, life sought to live. Secrets light a pyre of darkness, combustion unearthing present and future tense.


words errant satiety image courtesy of fictionchick on deviantART


Tissue thin. Fragile. Exposed. Lush full moon, burnt sienna ripe, edges above purpled storm clouds. Eyes aching, longing for stillness, darkness, serenity. Wrested emotions, brazen spirit gives way beneath frustration of normality. Lush full moon calls. Imaginary absorbs the mind, the characters clutch me, jealous, demanding. They whisper incessantly, alluring. They have become my friends, lovers, people I long to make real. Fiction takes me as I imbue the empty pages with beating hearts, active minds caught up in a world of my creation. As I sleep they are beneath my eyelids, I wake reaching for them. What will I do when their time has come and the story finds it’s end? Tissue thin already, bereft of my companions, as I walk through the days of my reality, greedy for the night when I can be alone with them.

Some thoughts on Judgement

Warning, although this post does not contain sexually explicit material it does contain reference to BDSM terms that may offend some readers.

I caught up with a couple of friends last night. They were in town for a fetish social gathering. It was a lunch and drinks affair not a play session. I met them a few hours after their event. We caught up a little and then the conversation turned to kink. I wanted to know a little more about the group they meet with to see if perhaps this something I might like to get involved with. They clarified that they personally weren’t into D/s (that would be annoying she says) just BDSM kink. I had noticed that she was covered in a lot more scars than ever before. These were explained when she said that bondage with rope etc was too boring for them that they are into ‘cutting and fucking’. In my head I am thinking; ‘well they seem happy and apart from the scars which she is wearing with pride that seem to have healed cleanly, there is no visual cue for concern’. This is not something I am even vaguely interested in but they are so I listen without judgement. They talked a little about managing their scenes and told a couple of humorous stories. Then they notice the attention I am getting from men around us. Excitedly, she says ‘you could totally get picked up’ he agrees noting each of the men who have expressed interest. ‘Except I am happy with my man.’ I say and she rolls her eyes, he laughs derisively, ‘Really? Don’t you get bored? You deserve some fun’. Monogamy doesn’t suit these two I know they have an open relationship but I am surprised that they are encouraging me to cheat. They know my man and consider him family. They push this point rather too hard and clearly think I am a prude. They talk about other fet couples they know, in the local group, and their D/s relationships and I realise that they all seem to have a very different view to my own. They are talking about blame and how the submissive is always wrong even when they are not. I want to explore this statement, as it doesn’t sit right with me. I might be new to this and only entering D/s in a soft way but I still have some clear ideas about what D/s is to me. I brave the rough waters and state: ‘I think both submissive and Dominant need to know when they have done wrong, if my Dominant blamed me for everything it would compromise the trust between us. I see D/s as about being open and honest with each other including the Dominant owning his shit.’ (Like every relationship D/s or not.) They think about this for a while and come back with references that don’t really make sense in this context. I accept that we are on different planets and that a deep and meaningful discussion is obviously not going to happen at this point. We part with hugs and I walk away having learned something about them and myself. I felt really judged by them and their eye rolling attempts to push me in a direction I have no interest in. I am surprised that with their kink interests that they would judge me in this way. I had gone to meet them being more willing than in the past to engage in discussion about D/s, kink, & BDSM but have realised that my initial conclusion about them is true, for them kink & BDSM is an important pastime in theirs lives, they refer to this as ‘the lifestyle’ but it is their version, a lifestyle, it’s not mine and I would never push them into something else or judge them as being lesser for it. I hope they don’t really judge me for my lifestyle, but if they do, well that’s their shit.

Thinking about this situation and the feeling of being judged makes me think about whether or not I judge others and how I manage this. For me it is empathy that enables me to not judge, I can imagine their position, why they are the way they are and somehow come to a place of reconciliation and acceptance. I am not perfect and I am irritated by people’s behaviour at times but I choose not to judge them but rather seek to understand their behaviour (and vice versa if my behaviour irritates someone else then I ask why am I behaving this way with them?). It is hard sometimes to witness someone engaging in behaviour that you feel is unacceptable. Or to be on the receiving end of unacceptable behaviour and realise that the other person doesn’t see any harm (or carry any guilt) in what they are doing. Then I think it comes down to something else, not judgement, more about trust being lost. When someone treats you badly and expects nothing to have changed between you? That someone is no true friend or acquaintance and you have to be sure to protect yourself by withdrawing trust. If someone in your life makes some bad decisions that end up with someone or multiple someone’s feeling betrayed? That again is about trust. Choosing whether or not to support their bad decisions is about making a judgement call that may lead to withdrawing trust. They are no longer who you thought they were and although the relationship may yet be saved you know them differently and may be wary for some time. You can still support them, if you feel so inclined, but I think you have to be clear about your moral or personal standpoint, not judging them (or perhaps there is a little judgement involved) but being clear and sharing where the line is for you. It is up to them whether they wish to discuss their point of view and if they wish to change their personal ‘line’. I don’t like feeling as though someone sees my choices as ‘wrong’ and attempts to push their view onto me. I think that is just rude. I would hope that I don’t do this to anyone else and after last night will be working to ensure that I never do. Sharing points of view and agreeing to agree or disagree is what I would rather experience, not feeling as though I am being judged and that my point of view is ‘pathetic’. One thing is for sure; I do not feel the slightest inclination to join the local group. Although I will reserve final judgement on that until I have met more representatives of the group first hand.


There is quickness in your step, an urgency, as you approach. Your eyes masked in secrets, mouth unwilling to release. My eyes catch the heated beating of your core. What do you hold so close? So hard? Eyes darting like an insect, everywhere but here, now. If I were unfamiliar I would think you calm and bright, a jewel of social etiquette, breezy, a smile to entrance. Buried is darkness, an awe of something terrible. I long to slap you. Shock you from pretense. To shout ‘It’s me! Not some inept acquaintance’. Concealed, secretive, immoral. Prying at softened edges, seeking purchase on wary ground. Constraint does not wear well. Friction surfaces coalescing in secure mask. There is no easing, no acquisition to be obtained. Loved friend sealed tight. Defiant stranger sits gazing, emptily, unseeing anxious tender heart. Disquiet curls up and worries the rafters of my mind. Later, distance and revelation parts cloud of bemusement, old friend caught in false theatrics sustaining numerous lies, impossible to contain breaking mind and spirit, rotting forgotten heart. Trust worn yet with time and willingness can be re-earned. 

Dream of Lust (Part 3)

A collaboration (of sorts) Liberate One set this task and I feel inclined to respond. He wrote from the Dominate position here is my submissive response…  

I dress, nervously, this is not what I would chose for myself, yet the excitement of dressing for Him, outside of my comfort zone is beyond exciting… I am running too close to time. The red lacings take much longer than anticipated. Breathless with excitement and the flush of rushing nearly consumes me as I walk through the hotel doors to the reception. I check in confident that my chosen overcoat does not look too incongruent to my laced footwear. In the elevator I loose my nerve but closing my eyes and remembering our conversations I calm myself and when the elevator doors open again I am centered and full of purpose. I let myself in, dispose of the useless overcoat on the provided coat rack and place myself as intended and wait… I cannot believe the wetness I feel develop as I kneel as requested waiting His arrival. I am shocked and embarrassed. Blushing in private is an unusual sensation.

It feels an eternity that I wait, there are multiple footsteps along the hallway through this time but somehow I know when His are there. His pause before the door is decisive. I hear the door opened and suck in a deep breath hoping that I have pleased Him. My eyes on the floor, silence, but the sound of his coat being removed then stillness, I long to look up but know I must wait. My body reacts impulsively; I feel my nipples tauten beneath my tight t-shirt. I chant to myself, ‘I am Masters slut’. I breathe; I wait. He circles me, I feel his eyes on me almost within me, I ache for Him, I pray I please him, my head almost turns to Him before I catch myself, I pray His cock hardens as my clit engorges. I feel my back arching as he circles, embarrassed that my wanton desire is so obvious. It is more than this, He offers a unique Domination, equal to my equal desire to submit. An errant whimper releases from me did he hear that? Oh god I hope not… Then His voice resonates all around me. “Your appearance is acceptable‚” He becomes still. My breath is ragged. “Now let us see if you remembered the rest of your instructions. Stand up.” I pause to gather my center then raise myself, as the dancer I am, with grace, with elegance. I elongate my hands above me as I spread my legs to shoulder width and cross my wrists, too slow I think but still, elegant.

He circles me again, my whimper clearly audible, ‘I am Master’s slut’ I silently remind myself. He chuckles softly, I want to bite my lip but do not. Then his touch is on me, lightly touching my neck, tracing my spine. Again my whimper releases too audible, I flush with shame, then his hand cups my ass and I am lost ‘Oh God’ the response is immediate my ass stings with the shock of His admonishment. Chastised I vocally quieten but my body responds with additional strength. I ache, my breasts scream, my clit pulses and my hungry depths moisten further I fear he can see my arousal dripping down my exposed thighs. Then again His voice: “I did not give you permission to speak,” I inwardly cringe at my ineptness, but stretch into my pose and try to breathe. When next He speaks it is right by my ear softly in a clear whisper arousing me deeply. My tremble was my only response, mouth silent, as required. “You are beautiful,” he breathes against me “I want to push your body up against the wall and fuck you. Hard. My cock hard and firm, pushing into you over and over.” I whimper knees weakening, heart thumping. “You are trembling, my little slut. Is there something you would like to say?”

My God was there something I wanted to say. I moistened my lips but he held the moment, awaiting permission my ache growing, ravenous.

“Say it,”

“Please, Master,” I managed to say too quietly I tried again “please, fuck me.”

“I did not hear all of that,” I blushed terribly while he paused “Say it louder, slut girl.” I drew deep breath and let it out clearer and louder knowing I sounded ridiculously wanton with my need, with my raw desire,
“Please, Master, fuck your slut.” I waited what seemed an eternity before he placed His lips right by my ear and breathed
“Not yet, my little slut girl,” my whole being shuddered at this.  His voice, I felt I could cum just hearing him.

I yet again centered myself and waited as He moved in front of me. I almost felt defiant at this point arms raised breasts exposed to Him the t-shirt showing my obvious arousal. I wanted His touch, cruel or kind I simply needed His touch.

“Mmm,” he said with a smile I barely detected, “you do look delicious.”

“Thank you, Master,” I breathed disbelieving the reality of this moment. Then His finger began to trace fire across my t-shirt. It took me a moment through the desire to recognize what was happening. My whimper of desire came before I knew He was tracing the letters on my chest. I would have laughed at the irony if my whole self didn’t want Him so desperately, God. I needed Him to claim me! ‘Patience’, I silently chided myself. His voice broke the tension within me.

“Tell me what these words are on this shirt I allowed you to wear,” if only he weren’t still touching me, I could barely find tongue, my body trembling as I tried to voice my answer.

“S-slut… oh God… Slut for Master.”

“Is it true?” he asked as he began to trace the words once more. “Are you my own slut?”

It took all my will to respond; I could feel my juices flowing copiously from my aching pussy to my thighs.

“Yes, Master.”

He stepped away, I almost cried out at the loss of contact but bore it waiting… Finally His commanding voice,

“Leading position, slut,” I lowered my arms as graciously as I could; they were aching, crossed my wrists behind me and bent at the waist until my torso was parallel to the floor. My pussy was throbbing so hard I was sure He would see it pulsing with each heartbeat. I felt deliciously exposed this way. Opening myself to Him, This skirt left little to the imagination standing, bending over…

“Good slut,” he said as he grabbed my hair forcefully and led me, I desperately hoped to the bedroom or bathroom or anywhere at all that this intense desire could be satiated…


Three tellings of the same sweet story…

We encounter many souls in our lives. Some we are not inclined to spend much time with. Others we meet and find we are immediately enamored with. Others we greet as old friends, as if we remember them from another time and place. Some surprise us with a slow connection and one day you realise you just adore them.

I was reminded the other night of a wonderful example of the fleeting connection that is long lived, a meeting of souls that must already be long familiar. The Dutch pragmatist and I drove past a beautiful olive grove and private residence that stirred especially fond memories. The owner of this property now lives overseas but her extended family live there and run the olive oil business and she returns to holiday. She is a tango dancer and the last time she returned she brought with her an Argentine teacher who she is very good friends with. We have never met before but are introduced by a mutual friend we all get on like a ‘house on fire’. The teacher is a true Maestro and gentleman. They arrive in the height of summer so there are several large Milongas (tango social dances) while they are in town. We become a tight group having intense conversations and much wonderful dancing. From the first dance I have with the teacher he is praising myself and my partner and encouraging us to teach. He complements me in a unique way, acknowledging my ability to adapt to each different lead and style of dancing. For me this is high praise as I see this as the ultimate aim of improvisation. I partner another teacher for some private lessons with him. Then he invites us all to have a final get together to celebrate our mutually enjoyed time. When we arrive there are three male dancers and two female. Olive oil introduces us to her sister and explains that this day is the anniversary of a third sisters passing and that this sister was the one who introduced her to tango. They ask if the teacher and I will perform. We do and it is heaven. We drink good wine and eat and dance. It is an intense evening for me as the men are all playing with ideas and I am their tanguera as Olive oil is more a beginner. We dance into the small hours and in the end just the teacher and I are dancing as the others have moved onto conversation and there has been a lot of wine… We are in our own world, reduced to the music, each other, and the floor. It is very intense he communicates with great subtlety what minimal changes he wishes; a tiny movement in his hand upon my shoulder and I know he wants me to soften here, just so. This moment of suspended dance is etched forever in my soul. We dance very different styles yet we found each others essence and communed. The dancing eventually came to a natural end he held my eyes, deeply smiled at me kissed me chastely but fully on the lips returned me to my man and sang my praises to him begging us to promise we will start to teach, that we come see him in Buenos Aires and that we remain as connected as we are. This is the true essence of tango spirit.

Trece amigos. Dos Tangueros, un Milonguero y Yo. A farewell, a performance and an extended improvisation.

Primero embrace tasted through his distinguished eyes. Words pass his lips full of genuine and lavish interpretation, concise compliment to my movement; entiendas. Prophetic words astonish mind. Taking offered hand, accepting instigated connection. Stranger embraced as lover, intimate conversation, souls seeking tangible. Seen. Known. Danced. Flush of pure dance pleasure. Ending, continuum, lushness flows within all dances. Satiated, overflow, seeking the core of every connection. Night passes, more enjoyed, none as sweet as the first or the finale. Our farewell in a prolonged dance, subtle articulation, gestures refine perfection. Endless flow, música drives deeper, extending within, without, innocent harmony. Finally, speechless mouths thank with chaste lips. Returned to lover, gratitude shared, intimate inquiry lush with ripening. Body memory never to be lost.

Aida Denis ‘Anoche’


Fleet footed dancing from bed housed outdoors, spring rain tickling skin. Naked, fae like, I pause gleaming in dawns light, face lifted to taste gods tears. Laughing I continue flight to warm waters indoors. Steamed mirror frames arctic eyes. Hello. Self-aware, seeking anchor of soul to form. Breath encased in weighty flesh, soothing but cumbersome. In my dreams movement is effortless, gravity defied, wings of angels adorn me.


Photography: the very talented Mr Kyle Thompson


Some people are born in the wrong country, place, or time. They yearn for the intangible yet familiar. Fragment of dream, fleeting scent caught on an unusual breeze, a colour that doesn’t belong in the sunset, a glimpsed distant figure, a tone of a voice heard but never located. I was one such being. I wandered, seeking, lost to the self and the world. Bright eyed, aching, desperate and eager. Eventually, exhausted, I took pause, sought shelter and attempted to touch the souls of others. In the dark of winter I stumbled blindly into open arms. Intoxicated, soul savaged, heart found firmly beating. His lips found mine in the darkness and the rain fell. Petrichor inhaled, imbibed with the scent of him waking my screaming brain. His lips tasting mine innocent yet deeply he sucked my tongue and I fell. Wings beating we fell.

Time travelled. Locations changed. Lives played out. Glimpse of a figure shrouded in sunlight unaware of observing eyes, what I fled from, all that I desired so close yet irretrievable. Days passed tasting of fear, of regret. And the rain fell, the scent explosive. Theatre seduced me in the name of support opportunity arose. Holding heart in open hand I hid beneath the lowered lights. Soul lost in this privacy of darkness tears chimed my doom. Tentative connection, creation unfurled, his eyes on me through the darkness, as I dance; his whisper thunder in my veins as I attach my pink hair. Conversation kisses across my tortured skin. His eyes exhumed my soul, I was undone.

Unravelled, free falling we collided. Inert for too long, ravenous we feasted, ever left parched. Devoured yet longing, in stillness memory played across lips, breast and soul. I fell, he I thought immune. Broken I flailed wanting, willing, lost. Somnolent, redolent with desire I ambled between stolen moments. Drowning in the forbidden. Lusting what could not. Beating wings in the darkness, fire in my heart. Solace in his presence, pared down to essential quick, we coiled one another. Heart in hand I lost. Heart in hand I retreated. Yet there was ever-more.

Misplaced geography located. Too long kept apart, fiercely did we burn. Too fearful my hated heart. Poison on my knife I severed beating wings and plummet beneath my farce. Yearning, aching for what could not. Time travels impervious. Some people are born in the wrong country, space or time and spend their lives disrupted. Lifetimes within a life. Lifetimes imploding, expanding… relative, incomplete, remembered, lost yet lived.

‘Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home’ Matsuo Basho

For my silent one.