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Sir 2.0 Episode 3

You inhale the oils in the water, carried across from the steam. You can no longer hear the ambient murmurs of the audience. A quiet relief blunts your discomfort to a degree where it becomes part of the burgeoning arousal within you. Your acceptance has unlocked the first stirrings of a wild, terrible power within you. Your need for ritual, seen perhaps as discipline to the unknowledgeable gives you permission to participate and now that you are aware of the memory block, you no longer feel powerless in the face of Sir and the guards. You take a breath in deep, to alleviate the trembling in your fingers.

One of the guards takes your arm and leads you to the table. He drops into a squat and starts to lift the hem of your hospital gown, you squirm away and there is a sharp, displeased intake of breath. Your skin tingles with disquiet and anticipation, making your nipples harden, visible through the cotton of the gown. The guard steps backwards, and Sir’s voice booms out from the darkness.

‘They act on my authority. Please do not incur my anger.’

You lower your chin to your chest, fighting the creep of blood to your face. The resistance is part of this for you, a show of defiance before the surrender in the same way that a bird flaps its wings as it takes flight. Your need for this resists the rational, and your body speaks to its power with an eloquence that your words never will. You go to remove the gown yourself and Sir speaks up to interrupt you.

‘I want him to do it. Autonomy must be earned here, little girl.’

His vocal relish in speaking aloud the title he’s assigned you sets sparks in your stomach, a slow, inexorable warmth that has waited for affirmation. You put your arms up, give the guard a stare of mock-defiance that you can comprehend but not quite feel and he comes forward. He has brown eyes, warm with interest, flecked with motes of a lighter brown within the iris. You notice a small shaving nick on his cleft chin and smile to yourself, relieved that there are small signs of humanity within the scenario. He hides his smile with a small degree of practiced care, but interest animates him, and in turn, you but you are both subject to a higher authority at this point in time.

‘Undress her.’

His expression becomes neutral, hiding behind the shield of authority as he comes towards you. You do not resist, and as he lifts the cotton gown over your head, your pulse sounds in your ears and the rush of chill air to your bare skin raises goose pimples all over. Your vulnerability, your self awareness are as much instruments in your submission as any number of toys or implements. You go to cover your breasts and pudenda with your hands but the guard tosses the gown to one side and grabs your wrists to draw your hands away. He looks at you with a second of open, primal appreciation and you enjoy how he loses himself within that for a brief amount of time before he leads you to the station. You are arranged on the board, the leather underneath is warm and your buttocks sit ably in the cut out section, leaving you exposed there.

The guard adjusts the cuffs and slips them onto your wrists and then moves the stands into play. His rough fingers dance against the soles of your feet, but you are too suffused with feeling to laugh. You test the restraints and find they resist your struggles with ease. The guard looks out into the darkness, then walks around to the bowl and picks up the natural sponge, placing it into the bowl and you turn your head to watch him.

Unable to move anything more than your midsection, the spotlight’s glare forces you to close your eyes. You hear the sponge being squeezed out into the bowl and then the rough-wet drag of it against your skin. The water is hot and you give a small cry of surprise as the guard washes you in small, deliberate circling motions of the sponge. Where he has washed you, the air caresses your damp skin. Each breath carries the scent of lime and coconut, diffused by the steam. Without the means to resist him, he draws the sponge over your breasts, and the slow drag of the sponge’s fibres makes your nipples harden, tender and electric with sensation. He runs the sponge down your stomach and you twist, involuntarily against it.

‘Does my little like being washed like this? I like how you wriggle.’

His voice bypasses your resistance, and although the guard is carrying out the task, in your head, his touch and Sir’s words combine into a thrilling whole. Supine in your constriction, you arch your back when the sponge returns, swollen with fresh water and starts to wash you over your hips. You push your knees together but the guard shoves them apart and sweeps the sponge against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

‘If she does that again, pinch her.’ Sir’s voice has a playful harshness.

You do it again, and good to his word, the guard takes a section of skin on the inside of your right thigh and pinches it with a clinical expertise. The pain travels upwards and you fight tears and hiss at how sharp and clean it is. Without ambiguity, the control asserted is a route to the most divine liberation.

You do not recall choosing this, but your decision reflects your wants like a mirror.

He carries on washing you, and you feel the blunt tips of his fingers parting your labia and the sponge applied there, pressed with an enthusiasm against the tender, pulsing flesh.

‘I see there’s hair there. I think we need to get rid of that, don’t you little girl?’

The pain has started it’s work, aided by the knowing yet uncaring touch against your throbbing clitoris. His fingers are either side of it, tweaking and pulling at the hood to ensure that you are both entirely on display to him and clean.

You must be clean for Sir.

You gasp out an affirmative and hear the click of fingers.

‘Now, let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sir 2.0 Episode 1: Processing.

spotlight

Episode 1 is here

 You awoke in nothing but a hospital gown. Blue cotton, soft on your skin. It is dark when you hear the door open and a hand touches your shoulder, rousing you from a blank, dreamless sleep.

‘Time to get up.’

The voice is smooth, assured and you strain your eyes to see who it is that has woken you. All you can make out is a silhouette and then you are helped to your feet with a brusque care that unnerves you. Normally, you need coffee and gentle coaxing like a wild animal trapped underneath your porch to do anything in the morning.

Not that you are sure what time it is. It is academic, you are on your feet and your legs wobble with the last vestiges of fatigue still in your muscles and bones. The gown is short, and you go to pull the hem down but you hear the voice tell you no, in a firm, polite tone.

‘Sir doesn’t like that. Don’t make this difficult for yourself.’

The hand goes to the small of your back and guides you forwards. The light streaming in from the door hurts your eyes and you lower your chin to your chest to avoid it cutting into your eyes. The hand at your back does not falter, insistent in guiding you out of the room.

You find yourself joining a line of women, all clad in gowns. You are stood behind a tall blonde woman,  with shoulders and thighs that she has spent hours feeding and sculpting. Her hair is tied back in a french plait that falls between her shoulder blades. She looks over her shoulder at you, green eyes glinting with excitement and trepidation. You turn and look at the guard. She has a feral androgyny, with short black hair, high cheekbones with her lips pressed together. She had on a black t shirt and cargo pants, a black belt and on her hip, a small black box attached to a pistol grip.

‘Face forward. Don’t hold up the line.’

The woman in front did not turn around, kept moving forward but she gave a small sigh. You lean forward, afraid that this might be seen as an infraction but curiosity gives courage to your tongue.

‘What’s going on? I just woke up here.’

The woman does not turn and you both shuffle forward.

‘We get processed then assessed.’

Processed has a mechanical ring to it that makes your throat tight with discomfort. You are suddenly conscious of the length of the gown again. It keeps riding up on the backs of your legs, exposing them to the eyes of the guards that stand and watch you.

‘Processed and assessed for what?’

You hear her lips smack together.

‘For Sir.’

The discomfort moves down from your throat into your chest, heating the air in your lungs and then sinking into your stomach.

‘I don’t remember how I got here.’

She gave a soft laugh, lending you the memory of high school all over again, the laughter that lived and died the moment you walked into the classroom or the lunchroom.

‘It affects all of us differently. Don’t worry, just do as you’re told, you’ll be fine.’

You go to ask her again but a guard catches your eye and puts his index finger to his lips whilst fixing you with a harsh glare. You get the message, sinking into yourself and following the line.

The corridor leads to a large hall, where the single line that you are in splits in two, leading to two large doors through which the women continue to file through. A guard stands at each door, waves each woman down with a tablet that they tap into before nodding and letting them walk through.

‘That depends on what I am being told to do.’

You stop thinking for a time, letting yourself go inside your head, focusing on your breathing and when you find yourself at the door, you blink heavily as the guard waves the tablet over you and nods.

‘What’s the tablet for?’

The guard, blonde hair with curls that resist taming and the look of a dissolute, slightly degraded surfer in the line of his jaw and the bright smile that he gives, raises an eyebrow.

‘Medical. You can go through now.’

The door opens and your heart hammers against your ribs. Inside is a rich, velvety darkness and there is a change in temperature, slightly chill compared to the corridor that you walked through. Perhaps it was the proximity of the other women, but for now, you are alone.

The door closes behind you. For a moment you are in absolute darkness, absolute silence.

A spotlight comes on, harsh as a slap and you raise your hand to shield your eyes. Your gown rides up at the front and your other hand holds it down.

‘How adorable.’

The voice snakes out of the darkness. You cannot make out anyone but the voice is low, confident in it’s primacy. A voice that does not need to be raised to be heard, but you can hear the capacity for it.

‘What are you doing?’

There is a pause. You can make out the shapes of others.

An audience, distinguished only by the different patterns of breathing and the shift of bodies in constant motion. Their eyes glint in the darkness, a thousand flavours of hunger, all of them focused on you. You shift, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

‘Whatever I want.’

A lilting amusement is there.

Processing has begun.

TO BE CONTINUED.

 

 

 

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beauty, creative writing, desire, dominance, emotion, erotic poetry, erotic writing, experience, hunger, love, lust, passion, pleasure, poetry, purpose, seduction, sensuality, sex, sexuality, spoken word, stoicism, strength, surrender, touch, Uncategorized, wildness, wisdom, women, writing

Guided By My Voice

Guided by my voice

Held within space

Where I am

Held to command

Come

Set aside thought

Push the door closed

Wonder at how 

Feeling

Washes over you

Now

Learn what pleasures

Surrender to me

Will offer

In a space

Where only you

And

Exist

 

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The Subtle Pleasures

The 

Subtle pleasures

Made manifest

Now, you come to me

Vibrating with the need to 

Provide your surrender

Raging with the need to feel guided

Your deepest nature, I am gentle in nurturing

Desire is your truest, most beautiful self

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As you walk across the room

The sight of you
In motion
Giving voice
To the divine
Feminine
Calling through
The bland cream of
Culture
To the primal masculine
Stripping me of empty
Words filling the void
With animal laughter
The curves
Draw out the divine drug
Of lust and like the lupine tides
Of full moon I change in
Your light into something
Dark and intent
Inspired to
the warring roiling
Clash of bodies
My breath sticking
Napalm in my lungs
At the sight of you
Would you be shocked
At the admission
A confession,  offered
Without guilt or shame
The chains that tether
A man to the rock
Of propriety
And I would tear
The clothes from you
Not to spoil
But to be witness
To the fullest terrifying
Beauty of you
Surrendered to pleasure
My eyes are full
And I am quiet because
I am not thirsty
But hungry

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to snuff out stars

Here we are

The door closes

And we are upon one another

Handled with the knowledge

Not that you will not break

But you want to be broken

Dashed apart by the unyielding

Strength of my will

Tethered to a snarling passion

That is chained by propriety

Clothes are an insult

To the moment and we tear them away

Addict, drug, supplier

We meld and blend within these roles

But you, as hungry to taste

And touch as I

Your wet knowing mouth

Robs me of words

As my fingers tease

Pinch

Hold you in place

Like ripe fruit

My lips against your flesh

As you are against mine

We feast upon one another

This, your reward for your

Surrender

And my handling of you

An act of trust, belief in your

Capacity for obedience

A vessel made to take

A pleasure powerful enough

To snuff out stars

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king of the beasts

It is what goes

Unsaid

A look played as a feint

The notion

That it is you who will

Fall to your knees

Craving the soft fur

Bristling against your cheek

To be swallowed by the

Warm light of my eyes

That my soft voice

Grows rich and thick

With the lust that you

Engender

That you call out the

Rough beast within me

To handle you

Firm and sure

Pulled and tested

Grasped and marked

With such passion that

It robs you of speech

Ah, little princess

You have wandered into

The deepest, darkest

Part of the forest

Where the shadows fall

So thick that they eat

The sound of your breath

I am

King of the beasts

Here and you

Surrendering to the authority of

My court as I rend

Your clothes from your body

Make up smeared to warpaint

Come at me

With everything you have

It will not be enough

But you will die so

Sweetly in the effort

That it will be

It’s own

Victory

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