Monthly Archives: November 2014

Random Reflection

I realized today that my commitment to being submissive to my delicious D/Husband holds more weight than my commitment to being “married”.  Admittedly, I have not been a fan of marriage and see very little point in it.  The only marriage I have ever given a shit about is the one I currently share with my D/Husband; before that, I left a slew of groveling men in my wake.  If I tell you I’m in love with someone else, you ask me to marry you anyway, and I end up leaving you because I am ultimately unhappy…Well, you had it coming as far as I’m concerned.  If I had a dollar for every time a man said, “I thought you would change…” I wouldn’t be sitting here pretending to work at a job that I currently dislike with “Holy Moley (see post ‘Fuck You’)” sitting across from me accompanied by her Disney character figurines.

“He didn’t change me; with his chains, he freed me”

My previous divorces were no different than childhood breakups, just a little more financially complicated.  I believe our society has turned marriage into a joke.  Marriage is a drug laced with false sense of security; people smoke it up and conjure delusions of a monogamous “forever”, escaping into a naïve alternate nirvana, and meanwhile paying no attention to their present reality.  In the real world, the man has not had a blowjob in over a month because she’s completely preoccupied with asserting her feminism and watching reality t.v shows.  He’s miserable, but she feel secure with her “Prince Charming” in her delusional matrimonial haze; because he said “I do”, and therefore, relinquishing his soul and sexual liberation – FOREVER.  I can hear them whining in my head now, “But…He promised me forever…”

Stop with this nonsense. 

My commitment of submission to my D/Husband, however:  Solidified beyond anything that I have ever experienced nor been capable of.  I have never been so certain of my role, my place in a partnership, or more present in my daily life than while in service to Him.  There is a distinctive difference between my choice to submit to Him and aligning with societal norms by getting married.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that my marriage means nothing to me – that’s not the case.  I’m simply stating that it was shocking how easily and emphatically I identify with my rules and regulations as my D/Husband’s sub, and rebelled against anything associated with marital “rules and regulations”.

The ring did not rein me in; but, His reign does.


Animal in Us

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Are we really so evolved?  A question I ask myself frequently as it applies directly to my sex life.

We claim to be so evolved.  In fact, some people associate a sense of pride with being highly evolved, snubbing their noses at anything that resembles simplicity or being reduced to our archaic past.  We attach social rules to instinctual drives and call ourselves civilized for not acting upon those drives.  For example, people feared sexual liberation and their own lack of control over their drives; therefore, the people found it necessary to impose religious restrictions upon sexuality.  But, did we really evolve past the need for mate selection on an instinctual level, or did we simply comply with the established social rules for how to conduct ourselves for assimilation?

And here lies my greatest question:  What’s with the stigma placed on the BDSM community?  The community fuels on a particular application of two basic concepts: Dominance and submission.  Dominance and submission is a basic primal concept: The strongest survive, survival of the fittest, and the desire to find the most suitable mate.  Animals have operated on this basic principle as the essential building block for the survival of their species.  Humans used to operate under these basic codes in ancient civilizations.  I believe the people in this sexual community are simply on a quest to restore natural selection, on the most basic of levels, sexual expression.

In our present society, we are consciously weeding out natural selection.  The natural competitive drives within our young boys are being discouraged on the basis of equality.  Plastic surgery can make those less desirable (with regard to natural selection) suddenly find a place amongst the genetically superior for mate selection.  We have conditioned our society to level the playing fields on the basis of evolutionary strength; we place the strong on a diminished level and the weak at an elevated level, essentially meeting somewhere in the middle.  Although I believe this concept is fair, I feel it has done very little to improve the condition of society as a whole.  I, quite honestly, long for a life where social order is restored.  I long to exist in a place where hierarchy social structure consists with the strongest, most “fit” leadership at the top and the weaker individuals operating a place below.  Amongst the lower levels there lies a hierarchy of power, creating many levels of organized dominance and submission.  The essential problem with this is there will be people who always question and oppose authority.  A society like this would, regrettably, remove the choice of submission for individuals.  The lack of choice promotes passive aggressive overthrow.  The choice to be submissive to a Dominant is one that makes the entire situation flow beautifully.  Of course, negative situations can arise with the intoxication of power, but that is not the point of this post.

Submission had nothing to do with race, sex or gender.  Submission was the relinquishment of power in the presence of a more dominant individual.  Unfortunately, submission was not always a choice; rather, people understood that their need for survival accompanied the servitude of a powerful individual.  In the world of BDSM, submission is a choice.  Submission is a choice that is respected by the Dominant, because the Dominant understands that a submissive’s obedience is a gift.  I know I struggled for a long time to find a man who could handle me.  I could not be tamed, could not be reined in, and could not be reasoned with.  A man would have had to be incredibly dominant, strong, stoic, confident, steady, and respectful to be able to even begin to have my submission.  My point is, I would have searched and searched until I found the most “alpha” dominant man I could to give my submission to.  Had I been with a weaker man, and he was challenged by a more aggressive and dominant man for my affection – I would have given my affection to that more dominant man.  That’s about as animal as natural selection gets, and it’s happening every day amongst us all.  It’s happening regardless of whatever your sexual preference is.  Its happening despite what your religion is, whether you admit it to yourself or not, and whether you ever truly put action to your thoughts.  It’s happening because we are all animals at our evolutionary core.  We will always want what we consider to be the “best” mate for us.  We will all assume our roles of dominance and submission within our relationships to varying degrees, and I believe that to be incredibly healthy.

In my opinion, my relationship with my Dom is classic, perhaps archaic, as it aligns us with that natural essence of who we are as people.  Who we are, together, as evolved animals.  We align beautifully in our assigned roles, because it ignites something innate in us both:  My deepest desire to serve, and be at the mercy of, the most worthy mate possible; and his desire to protect, control, claim and reinforce his territory though his primal (animal) power.  I honestly feel that, if practiced from a place of emotional clarity and psychological health, BDSM is one of the most beautiful representations of returning to our roots.  It’s one of the most beautiful expressions of releasing the veil of social oppression, turning our backs against modern relationships, and turning toward something more basic.

In our basic states of Dominance and submission, we are returned to the animal.  I will use my favorite animal as an example:  The aggression expressed between two male lions in the quest to assert territory over the female lionesses is akin to something you’d see if another man attempted to traipse on my Man’s territory.  He’d die to defend it.  The female lioness is a powerful unit in herself, able to hunt and provide for the pack.  She is capable of survival, but feels she cannot survive without the protection of the lion.  The lion will pick the most genetically superior and strong female to copulate with.  He will copulate with her at his will, as many times as he wants, whenever he wants.  She should not try to resist him, as he will remind her of his dominance over her.  Though she may playfully bat at him, resist his initial advances, she ultimately submits.  Is this any different than a healthy BDSM relationship?  If we are animals at heart, is there anything wrong with someone wanting to find their perfect mate?  Is there anything wrong with dominance and submission, if these principles have been the foundation for evolution as long as life has existed upon the Earth?  Is there anything unnatural about asserting power over someone during a sexual act, as long as that person willingly submits their sexual power to the other?  This seems very basic to me.  Participating in a BDSM lifestyle aligns with something so deep within me that it seems to be ingrained in the very essence of who I am.  It brings me back to my primal past.  It feels as though I evolved into an intelligent, powerful, feminine human being; but, ultimately, I am designed to serve Him.  He is designed to protect and have ultimate power over me; something that he feels is ingrained in every fiber of his being.  Being my Dom puts him in touch with his most primal, animal past.

Modern relationships strip away the element of dominance and submission, placing the couple on equal levels of power in the name of “respect”.  Ultimately, this is a farce as couples will repeatedly and relentlessly fight over maintaining the power in the relationship.  The quest for power is still there and will forever remain in the human species, as we are ultimately animals at heart.  Modern relationships are simply generic boxes containing intense power struggles.  They are externally wrapped in beautiful paper, and aesthetically pleasing to the general populace.  Inside, a kitten.  BDSM relationships are slightly misshaped packages; but, inside they hold the treasures of agreement.  They are wrapped in basic brown paper, having no desire to present something visually appealing to the general populace.  But…

Inside, a lion.


His

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His version of a love letter; a written gift from my King.

In your acceptance I find myself.  My hidden truth.  You, who sees me for who and what I really am; you love and nurture me.  You encourage me and permit me to live and love you as I desire to.  A true love that has been felt by no one else; a pure love I’ve shared with only you.  You claw and pull out the side of me that I have been taught to abolish.  I have been socially trained to fight the spirit within me that beckons to something deep inside of you.  You release me with your own selfless desire to know my truest love.  We relish in the beauty that is our life, the often deemed “unacceptable” displays of intimacy shared between us two.  I will impose my will and consume you.  I will love, protect, and cherish you, my beloved.  I will nurture your desires as you satisfy mine.  We will push the boundaries to explore the love and intimacy shared between us, unlike any other.  I will command of you, and you will obey.  My rule comes from a place of the greatest respect, for you are my Goddess, my beloved Queen.  You will be worshipped and loved as such, by me.  You are, have always been, my greatest desire; I will be completely fulfilled.  I will indulge in your gifts like a gluttonous beast.  I have savored my meal and become starved in your absence.  I no longer hold myself back.  I tear away the shields before my desires, grasp tightly of my wants, and bestow every manifestation of my passion upon you.

Take a moment and think about what is to come.  Think about the feeling of completeness as I enter you.  The rush as I claim and mark you, mine.  The warmth of my cum filling you, overflowing, leaving you marked with my scent.  Owning you; your heart, body, mind in its entirety is what I desire.  To protect and cherish the beloved gift you are.  A gift that belongs to me, of which I refuse to share or surrender.  As I own you, you have taken my heart, my love.  Without you, I am incomplete.  I give you my love and bid yours.  I possess you with care and respect.  With the greatest of love, I mark you, I indulge in you.  We fulfill fantasies, bring to life repressed thoughts, bathe in the dark rivers of our hearts.  I give you all of me, and take all that you have to give.  I never just fuck you, never simply love you; I consume you.  You are and will always be mine, endlessly.  My wife, my Queen, my love, my desire, my toy.  MY everything.


Fuck your “Box”

I think the most interesting people operate two sides of very different worlds.  They have the complexity to traverse between those interdependent realms with ease, pulling off either role seamlessly.  I often think about how heavily we judge people based on what we see through our own eyes, and the socially obstructed veil that ever looms before them.

I was thinking about this the other day when wondering about what people think when they read my blog.  I wonder if any homely woman stops by my page and subsequently renders me a slut.  I wondered if they read me speak of affairs openly, understanding instead of condemning, perhaps even congratulating people on harnessing their own happiness.  I have been the recipient of so many insults aimed directly at my sexuality; they seem to bounce off my thick skin without much thought.  Further yet, I wondered how many people judge me specifically on the basis that I am passionate about being in a 24/7, monogamous, marital, M/s relationship.  The thought of my taboo sex life complicating any other information or solid advice I bestow in my writing.  How many people even bother to read it as soon as they see “BDSM” in the category cloud to the right.  I’m sure you’re asking, “Why do you care?”  You’re right.  I don’t necessarily care for the approval, but I care from the standpoint of analysis and principle:  Why do some people follow the socialistic patterns they were taught?  Is there truly some people that have not a single part of them inclined to understand what lurks behind the unopened door?

“If all I did was stare at polka dots, my eyes would starve for stripes”

I know people see me and believe I desperately hang from the outstretched hand of my financially savvy husband.  You see me in my body hugging, cleverly revealing, yet professional sheath dresses and think I have a library full of beauty magazines.  You assume I obsess over dieting, refrain from eating carbs, spend my entire life on a treadmill, or get plastic surgery.  Perhaps you see me strutting through the grocery store in one of my many pair of 6 inch stiletto heels, and assume I carelessly sling them over the shoulders of men for enjoyment.  A tasteful amount of cleavage escapes the v-neck of my sweater and you assume these beautiful, full breasts are fake; again, you assume they are probably a purchase that my meal ticket husband or my affair partner bought me.  I place a high value on physical appearance; I choose to never leave the house without being “done up”, so I must be under-educated and compensating for my miserable intellect.  I carry myself with poise, so I must be a conceited bitch.  You see me with my kids and assume I’m their biological mother as you watch them hold my hand, tell me they love me, and scurry beside me in their splendor.  You assume I listen to Carrie Underwood, ask my husband to make sweet love to me, grace a pew every Sunday, and obsess over the next episode of some popular reality T.V.  Oh my…

I am financially independent and always have been.  I have maintained my professional career throughout several personal setbacks.  I fully embrace my sexuality, to all degrees possible.  I haven’t touched a beauty magazine since my early 20’s, and don’t define myself by any standard other than that of my approval and that of my Dom.  I have an intense passion for cooking; therefore, I possess an even greater passion for eating.  I don’t deny myself anything that brings me pleasure, nor make myself feel guilty for embracing the pleasures in life.  I sling my 6 in heels over the muscular, mountainous shoulders of my husband, my Dom.  My favorite necklace is a collar.  I am well educated.  I am high maintenance; preferring my husband to parade me about as his trophy wife than walk 10 steps ahead of me while I trudge along in my tattered sweat pants.  I am confident, powerful, and outspoken.  I would still wear my 6 inch stiletto heels while stomping the heads of zombies, should I ever need to do that sort of thing.  I choose to be my husband’s full time submissive, because I have never met a man who can handle me until him.  They were small in spirit.  They were insignificant in presence.  They were boring in entirety.  I wait on my husband hand and foot; I make his meals, plate his food, wash his body, fold his clothing and carry his cum inside me with equal pride.  I serve him and his every request, relentlessly.  We blast NIN, Rob Zombie, Deftones, Massive Attack, Portishead, Tool, Puscifer, A Perfect Circle (yes, they deserve to be listed separately as I have an obsession with Maynard).  I fucking hate Carrie Underwood and her male bashing, spiteful “bitch in a pair of cowboy boots”, country bumpkin, lyrically trite, bullshit example of “music”.  Oh, and those kids…They are my step-children.  I love them as if I’d birthed them.  I love them with a power so great, it instills a fear of jealousy so vile in their mother that feels it’s necessary to punish them for saying my name.  We raise them with confidence, strength; provide them with an example of what love, appreciation, adoration and respect looks like in a marriage.  We eat family dinners together at the table, insist they use their impeccable manners, and share all the pleasurable tales of simplicity of their day.  We look forward to family game night, weekly.  I don’t pray to God, but openly worship my God (my D/Husband).  I am agnostic; but, possess a deep regard for souls, energy, and the possibility at previous lives.  My breasts and every part of this glorious body, often dressed so beautifully in the knot work of my D, are 100% authentic.

Try to place me in a box now…


Fifty Shades of M

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I’m feeling particularly feisty today…a delightful post I wrote a while ago before this blog existed.

I love a man with manners, but respect is more important in the bedroom.  The female obsession with Fifty Shades of Grey is basically the cry out for the good fuck that women don’t know how to ask for.  It’s quite simple really. Women are sick of taking care of you.  They are sick of having to take the lead in your everyday life.  They are always in control.  They want you to show them that you still know how to make their thighs tremble.  You are not a dependent little boy.  She wants to know that you can take her as passionately as she imagines the man next door could.

Does this scene sound familiar:  You are tired from a hard day of work.  You struggle to get dinner on the table within a reasonable time before you need to go to bed.  You are already preparing yourself for tomorrow’s work day.  You are exhausted, but there is a reasonable part of you that recognizes that you haven’t had sex with your partner in a while.  You proceed to get ready for bed and climb under the covers…clothed.  You turn on the television and settle in, your arm pressed snugly against the side of your partner’s body.  You don’t say much, but you begin to kiss or touch each other in a somewhat suggestive manner.  You can pretty much predict the routine that will follow.  He will follow the same “pleasure trail” as usual.  Right breast…Left breast…a little fondling…he’ll trace a line down your stomach in simple, meek kisses.  He’ll pay some oral attention to you, assuming it’s pleasurable.  He’ll assume his spectacular oral skills are making you wet, when in reality, it’s just his saliva.  You don’t make much effort toward him, because you have a headache.  You then have approximately 3 to 5 minutes of sex resembling the pace of a metronome.  If you’re lucky, you’ll cum.  But, you’re not really concerned with this anyway…because…well, you have a headache.  Plus, you know he’ll keep going in his sad attempt to satisfy you if you don’t lie about it.

You’re a timid bunch, gentleman.  The world has emasculated you.  Sure, you may not be 18 anymore; but, you still have the glorious effects of that surging testosterone.  Most women agree that a man who is unapologetic in their attraction to them is a complete turn on.  Stop being coy and delivering the same punches you’ve always thrown.  It’s time for a new bag of tricks.  It’s time for you to reclaim yourself as an alpha male.  It’s time you took control in a much bigger way.  I’m going to switch rolls a bit here.  I will have the cock.  I will successfully lay the pipe.  And it goes a little something like this:

I walk in from a hard day of work.  Throughout the day, I’ve envisioned all the many ways I was going to make you surrender to me.  I pictured myself with a handful of your blond hair, shoving myself deep into your mouth.  You’d be staring up at me, and this would give me a sense of elevation.  You are always telling me what to do.  I am always asking for your permission.  I imagine you, face down, and leaned over the kitchen counter with your legs spread.  I am deep inside you, and with every thrust, you are pushed against the cool countertop making your nipples hard.

I watch you make dinner.  I admire your curves.  I envision the positions I’m going to put you in when we go upstairs…when everyone is asleep.  We finish with the mundane tasks of our evening and head upstairs.  You’re at the sink beginning to wash your face.  I come up behind you.  I take my hand and run it up the back of your head, grabbing a significant handful of hair.  I pull the hair downward, exposing your neck.  You’d expect me to go there next, but I don’t.  I proceed to spread your legs apart and penetrate you with my fingers. I keep the grip on your hair, tugging a little with every thrust of my fingers.  I push you face down onto the counter, with my fingers still inside you; I pull your ass up to meet my face.  I tongue you from behind.  Not too much.  Just enough.  I turn you around and hold your face within my hands at my waist level.  I bend down to grab your breasts.  I am just delicate enough to not bruise you.  I’d part your lips with my thumb, opening your mouth and rub the head of my cock on your lips.  You suck me in.  You wouldn’t be shy about it because I wouldn’t let you.  I sense you’re beginning to enjoy yourself, so I stand you back up.  I aggressively grab your hips and bend you in half.  I thrust into you.  I don’t proceed gently.  I take a free hand and grasp your shoulder to enable me to penetrate you deeper.  I finger your clit while I’m inside of you.  My strokes are long and deep.  I hold my cock inside of you and feel you clench around me.  I fuck you ridiculously, furiously and barbarically.  I pull out.  I have to taste you.  I have to taste “us”.  I lift you onto the countertop and spread your legs in front of me.  I kneel in front of you and bury my face in your sex.  I nibble on your lips and flatten my tongue, rubbing it along your clit from side to side.  I bring you to climax. Before you recover, I put myself back in your mouth.  You attempt to resist, but I only want you to know how good you taste.  We stumble toward the bed, and I lay you on your back.  I enter you and fuck you so deeply, you’d swear I was trying to part you in half. Your nails are digging deep into my back, your face buried in my chest.  With each thrust, I bring you closer to the edge of the bed.  Your head and upper body are draped over the edge, and I watch your tits bounce with each thrust.  You struggle to brace yourself and I grab the tops of your thighs and penetrate you deeper.  You feel every kick of my orgasm.  I pull you back onto the bed and lay on top of you, remaining inside of you.  You are not allowed to clean up.  I stay inside you until I start to soften.  When I pull out, I watch our passion trickle out of you.  I watch your body rise and fall with each exacerbated breath.  Exhaustion will claim us both shortly and this is the last vision I want to have before it does.

This does not have to be a fantasy.  This is not a passage from a book.  Don’t allow me to fuck your women better than you do…

Fuck Fifty Shades of Grey


Valkyrie Queen

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Admittedly, I don’t have ample experience with surrender.  I have not considered my current state of servitude to my Beloved as a choice that I made; rather, a feeling so natural that operating against it violated the fiber of my being; a feeling so organic that any opposition travels the extent of my nerves, paralyzing them, rendering them numb to the feeling of being truly “alive”.

I admire the delicate in people, the soft submission of their love.  I find beauty in their naked souls, laying there for the taking, laying there in vulnerable exposure.  My surrender doesn’t resemble this.  I truly don’t feel there is a delicate love within me.  My love is feverish and pursued with equal abandon.

My surrender resembles that of a battered warrior.  The sharpened arrow approaching my Love, and I place myself before it.  The sharpened tongues of those composing daggers to slice Him, ignites a warrior within me to gallant, nothing could stand barrier between me and their commencing regrets.  In my mind, I stand to defend everything that deems a threat to our peace, my Beloved.  I stand stoic at His back, glancing over His shoulder with the perseverance of an immortal.  Poised powerful upon the back of the most valiant of steeds, he is empowered by your dominance.  His steady hooves heavy with purpose at your requests.  I bestow before you another meek challenger, my Love.  I bring before you another hapless suitor, my Love.  Dare they test my loyalty to my God, my Love.  Rather die than be found tyrannical before Him.  Rather die than permit someone to see what is His for owning.  Rather die than render myself helpless at defending His temple, His kingdom, His pride.  He could call me out like a hound on a fox, a ravenous beast to the prey.  He needs me not for protection, my capable King, but I remain.  I remain his Valkyrie Queen.

My body gives passionately under the press of his palms.  I appear tattered leather transforming into lace at the touch of His fingertips.  Where the sharped edged thorn emerges a soft petal.  The impenetrable fortress of my body grants Him permissible, my Beloved.  I close no door to Him.  I leave no space reserved, no place hidden.  The cold metal of my armor melts under at the ignition of my desires, His eyes upon my body.  The raised welding of my seams, pull apart as effortlessly as sand is carried away in an ebbed wave.  My shield lay at my side, rendered useless in His presence, readily accessible for war.  In His grace I am enveloped in a veil of security.  I drop to my knees in appreciation of His strength, His presence.  I am ever low but elevated.  I am humbled and vindicated.  In serving you I am free.  My surrender belongs to you, my King.  I relinquish myself to you, my chosen divinity.

-Fervid M


My church is Him.

You are warm as the summer sun’s rays; a cashmere blanket upon naked skin fireside.  Your hands are nomadic healers to my body and soul; You caress away my scars.  My eyes search for you daily, persistent until graced with the sight of you presence.  My restlessness calms, the discontented storm ceases.  You are the refuge from the bitterness of the world.  Puzzled at how I existed in this life without my ally and my passion’s alibi.  Care not of the world when secure in your arms; care only for tomorrow if you are my companion in it.  Bloody my finger upon the thorn to simply smell the petals.  You are worth every bump in our road, temporary tear in our fabric, slight fissure in our solid foundation.  Never a regret, you are my lifetime affair and most flawless imperfect experience.  Adore your expression when you first wake up, the sheets silhouetting your solid frame, you are my waking dream.  The most beautiful sight I have ever seen.  You define “man” to me, my true love.  I invest it all in you, my worthy gamble.  You were my beginning, and with you, I will end.  I will keep you beside me, my lover, my friend.


Quick Thought…

I find it fascinating how I know nothing about so many of you.  I know your words.  Your words have provided me an entry into your minds.  I need not know how you physically appear, or your demographics; I know your words, and therefore, I know the thoughts you rarely reveal to most.  Does anyone else see the gift in this? I read what you all write, and you have become a huge source of enjoyment for me.  For this, I am grateful.


Spanking Shame

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I’m going to tell you all a little story about murder– It’s a true story…

Since this is a true story, I am going to protect the deceased man’s privacy by naming him Joe.

Joe was in his late 50’s and enjoyed himself a spanking.  This man was an incredibly successful military Veteran, lent himself to several tours, and lived a life of high professional achievement.  This hard working man’s reward and release was found in the spankings of his Mistress.  He hid these desires from his wife, a psychiatrist, whom he correctly assumed would berate him for his delights.  He did not cheat on his wife; Joe only desired his ass cheeks radiate heat from the repetitive spanking of his Mistress.  Now, mind you, I understand everyone’s definition of cheating is different; but, I reason to argue that a spanking isn’t something the vast majority of people would consider cheating.  Alas, back to my tale…

Joe maintained going to his Mistress for years, and paid her for her services.  Unfortunately, Joe failed to adequately cover up his tracks (as men often are at a disadvantage doing).  Joe’s wife catches on that he is paying a woman to spank him in weekly intervals.  Enraged, Joe’s wife proceeds to do what any loving spouse would do:  Call the adult daughter they have in common and tell her of her father’s perversion (or what she deemed a perversion).  Joe’s wife reveals to their daughter that her father is a “sick and twisted” individual that should be committed for mental health problems (her “professional” opinion, of course, as she is a psychiatrist).  Joe is shamed; his privacy and emotional wellbeing raped from him at the hands of his most trusted companion – his wife.  Joe composes himself despite his emotional angst.  Joe feels the pride of his achievements as he dresses himself in one of his freshly pressed military uniforms.  He drives to the tallest 4-stack butterfly overpass in this big city and pulls his car to the side.  He steps out of his vehicle, walks to the edge of the guard rail, and throws himself over.  Joe took his life and his love for spankings to an abrupt death following a 90 foot freefall of misplaced shame.

I know what you are thinking:  “But, M…This is supposed to be a story of murder, not suicide?”  Indeed, you read me correctly in the first place.  I conclude that Joe’s wife’s witch hunt on sexual expression murdered him.  Joe’s wife’s reproachful mouth murdered a good man over a little spanking; or perhaps, lest we forget, her best attempt to maintain a white-knuckled grip upon sexual repression.

Should we not listen with open minds, open hearts, and open arms to the desires of those we deem lovers?  I’m not suggesting that you violate your own personal boundaries to please another person, unless you enjoy that sort of thing.  Merely, I am expressing that you should listen sans judgment.  If it’s not your thing, fine; but, move along or permit that individual the freedom of sexual expression for their own behalf.

How many people have you heard complain about their sex lives?  I have seen so many people carelessly look the other way as their significant other pleas for help.  Idiots.  When that person walks out of their life, or finds acceptance with another person, they cry victim!  You are not a victim.  You are not deserving of any pity.  You are a person who felt wrongly entitled to rummage through the essence of a person, acknowledge the things you find attractive, and cast the rest to the side as if discarded trash.  I admire people with enough gusto to embrace their desires and find someone to share them with.  If you leave an opportunistic, judgmental, condemning person bobbing about in the wakes of your dismissal – so be it.  Good riddance.  Allow me to ease your guilt:

There are plenty of people equipped to stare into the reflection of falsehood.  They find solace in the shallow and superficial.  It’s safe.  Let them fuck atop their traditional floral comforters.  Let her dish all her displeasure in his performance to her girlfriends over martinis.  Let him jerk his dick to some porn downstairs while she’s sound asleep in their bed by 8pm…with a headache, of course.  Allow them to sit next to one another in Sunday mass; she, eager to get started on that next chapter in her erotic novel, and he’s anxious to revisit that anal video on fuq.com from the other night.  Meanwhile…

You’re far too busy getting spankings.

Rest in Peace, “Joe”.

-Fervid M


Fuck You!

Have you ever just wanted to walk up to a stranger, tap them on the shoulder and exclaim, “Hey…FUCK YOU!”

I’m in a strange way tonight.  I’m not sure what is going on with my mind.  Please, allow me some sweet written release.

I’m in the kind of mood that makes you feel like committing career suicide.  The woman that I work closely with is rather ugly.  Mind you, I’m typically not one to place myself physically superior.  But, this woman is ugly; and, this woman has gone out of her way to make my life miserable between the hours of 9 to 5.  She and my boss have a twisted, work “husband/wife” relationship.  I assume work the only place she finds acceptance and importance in the world.  Today, I was wearing a fabulous pair of high heeled, knee high black boots.  I paired them nicely with a figure flattering sweater dress.  I sat at my desk rather un-lady like, my legs spread apart providing a nice breeze for my lovely box. My desk is rather perfect for picking wedgies or adjusting my clit ring when it gets caught up in my thong.  No one knows that I sit like this at my desk, because there is an apparatus that prevents anyone from seeing from the front of the desk.  I have a professional reputation to uphold, afterall.  Anyway…I digress.  I had a fantasy that went a little something like this:

I kicked over my desk with my fucking ass-kicking knee high boots.  I strutted over to Ugly as my slightly curled, tousled hair fell over the side of my face.  I grabbed a fist full of her nasty, unkempt black hair and backhanded her across her face.  I then proceeded to take the black ball point Bic pen (that she is obsessed with) and colored all over the gigantic mole that graces her cheek.  I then colored in the spots where her mustache is growing in rather splotchy.  “No worries, bitch, I got you covered”, I say.  I then take her horrendous Winnie the Pooh figurines and break them, one.by.one.  If there is one thing I loath in life more than any other, it’s a grown woman obsessed with stuffed animals, Disney characters, or any other cutesy animated character from childhood.  I break each and every one of her cutesy figurines and stick a big rubber dildo in her mouth.  Now, don’t ask me where I got a big dildo.  I don’t carry dildos around with me because they would make my purse weight too heavy; but, in this fantasy, a whipped out a giant black King Kong dildo that matched her nasty black hair perfectly, and I shoved it in her shit-talking, snitch, hairy upper-lipped mouth.  I proceeded to rip approximately 10 leaves off of her stupid ass Christmas cactus, tossing them in her face one by one, and I walked my happy ass out of my office.

If only fantasies were reality…

I have a beautiful house.  Unfortunately, I have a tweaker house next to mine.  Seven people live in this house to afford it, and it appears only two actually work.  These mother-fuckers are dirty; they carelessly leave water bottles, wrappers, and various other forms of trash in the street in front of my lovely abode.  Yesterday, I walked out in my 6 inch heels and pick up the various forms of trash from the street.  I happily walked them over to their yard and dumped them all over their front lawn.  I hoped one of those assholes came out, because this is what I fantasized I’d do:

I’d grab that skinny, piece of shit tweaker by his “garage job” tattooed neck and punch the three teeth he has remaining out of his gums.  I’d proceed to slam him to the ground and step on his throat with my high heels.  I’d take the crumbled up water bottle he so sloppily left in the street in front of my house, and I’d shove it down his throat.  I’d follow up my assault by hog tying him.  I’d heat up a spoon with my cigar lighter and give him a singular burn.  I let him know that if his disrespectful ass leaves another shred of litter near my gorgeous home, I will burn every square inch of his skin, to include his diseased cock and withering little balls.

Allow us to transition to my beautiful, Dom husband.  I have been meat gazing him, grabbing his cock and slapping his ass all night.  This frustrates him, as he doesn’t like to be “man handled”, of course, preferring to be the one delivering the spankings.  I bit him on his well-developed bicep tonight.  I tugged on his thick beard and playfully smacked him across his face.  He gave me a look like, “Dear God, woman…do you have any idea what’s coming to you?” I do…I like it…

How do people have “normal” relationships?  Normal is so deliriously boring…

Thanks for the vent, peeps!