Guest Blogger: Flip
“Submissive kinkster, insatiable slut, sarcastic bitch. I can also be very very nice. Sometimes.”
I’ve been sex blogging now for around 2 years, talking about my D/s relationship, and various aspects of kink which intrigue.
I am the masochist to his sadist, the brat to his bastard, both of which suit me just fine.
I can be found on Twitter
Three Days Grace ~ Pain
Trust me and take my hand
When the lights go out you will understand
A year ago I tried to convey my feelings on knife play, on what it meant, to me.
I failed, I couldn’t do it, the experience simply too profound to define.
Here, a year on, I find myself in the same predicament, sitting here with a bag full of scrabble letters spending time trying to make coherent sentences from the random tiles representing my thoughts which haphazardly appear before me.
The knife rakes gloriously over my body, blade catching delectably upon minute undulations in the skin.
Sometimes slowly, deliberately, the torture extended,
sometimes quickly, a burst of strikes in swift succession, sensation taking my breath away.
Friction, burn, pain, endorphins.
Welts raised, patterns made, my body available to mark as He sees fit.
Cold blade makes contact with my trembling body, and I sigh, content, langorously groan, surrender immediate, submission complete.
I am at His mercy, and at the mercy of the chemical high which floods the synapses firing lazily, fogging my brain, rendering it calm, rendering it compliant.
I shake as the rush surges through my veins, head thrown back, a divine saturation, and somewhere in the distance His dominance plays. He alternates strokes, making me dance below Him.
Breath held, breath exhaled, tender flesh anticipating where the next stripe will form.
He’s at home as He toys with me in this barely lucid state, letting me fall under His spell, each whimper suffused with obedience as His dominance drinks it’s fill. Within this state of harmonious repose He moves me, physically, emotionally, everything acutely felt.
Whether the blade should sharply scrape and wring from me a sudden scream, or leisurely trace His mark upon my skin, I am but the marionette dangling blissfully at the end of His string.
