I heard her shout…

I have a real life.  I am real. Living breathing feeling thinking.

You fill my mind and my time.

I wonder what you do and what you want.

A furrowed brow and twisted mouth betray your concentration and thoughts of others.

The previous, the ones before, the ones who got away, the ones who fell away, the ones who wouldn’t stay.

This one was pretty, this one was hot, this one was crazy; now you are all I have got.

I share you around,

my toy in which to play.

A place where rules are non rules, limits are limitless and greed is good.

Politeness, coyness and togetherness are weak, boring and human…mere human.

You want more, demand more, expect more and why the hell not.

It is what you have always done, always will, nothing will never ever be enough.

I love your hunger, I love your pain, I love your craving and we go round again.

Too much too soon, not enough too little.

Rubbing hard, scrubbing away until we become brittle.

Then back to the softness, the weak, the innocent.

The fluff and the fancy, vulnerable magnificent.

I hate you, I love you, I forget sometimes

That you, are where darkness lies

Your heart is black, your soul scratched

A devil you are, but what a catch

You play at submission, you play at being nice

I beat you, your feigned compliance is to entice

I see what you do, I know you too well

We pretend that we are both under the spell

Sometimes you nearly crack and I see the real man

The little boy, lost and all alone

A spoilt brat maybe, not enough love shown

Or maybe you are, what I always expected you to be

Nothing more than a filthy pervert, like me

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Feeling your warmth and your hardness.

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I never want to let you go, never ever ever for I am selfish and greedy and want you all to myself. To sit the shadows of my gold box, hidden in the creases of the folded satin that has been laid out to protect me, and cosset me from the harsh realities of the world. I want you to have to hold your breath, my finger pushed to your lips, telling you not to move a muscle as you hide beneath the folded fabric.

A nice person would open the box and kiss your hand as you clamber out, wave good bye as you run for freedom. But I am not nice, I am greedy and wanton, I want to cut off your wings so that you cannot flutter out, I want to blindfold you so that you do not know if the box is open or closed. I want to snuggle up against your warmth and feel your hardness, tasting you and making you hunger for me, for eternity.

The one who got away but actually worse for I never left, I was there lurking within you, holding you back, tainting all relationships and hopes for happiness all dashed as my toxic love for you, malforms and misshapes all that is good.

Yes, I want you in my gold box with me and me in my gold box in your heart for all eternity – an unrequited love but worse for there is no poetry or romance in the longing and yearning and hunger only pain and suffering.

I want to ensnare you with my love, pour my sticky, sweet, nectar onto you and then protect you from the flies and wasps that will be drawn to you. Of course it is not protection really it is control, entrapment, selfish, greedy, suffocating, damaging love that I wish to suffocate you with.

Time in her Clinic.

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When alone with a man; him standing before her, she paused and waited. In no hurry she watched and waited. He is all alone, vulnerable and frozen to the spot under her gaze.

She watched and waited for the chinks to appear. Little teeny tiny holes at first. Some continue to expand, growing into fist sized tears, other holes remain small. Like bullet holes of vulnerability in his suit of armour.

She walked towards him looking into his eyes; they are sad, scared, full of shame and confusion. Circling each wound with her finger, tracing the raw edges and feeling the soreness under her gentle touch. She dipped in a finger, touching the delicate person inside; pulling out and tasting the essence of the human that is waiting for her to heal. He flinches and braces himself as she pushed her whole hand in through a large raw wound.

Here together in this room she strokes his pain. She made him feel whole, clean and normal….for a while.
Here in this room there are only her rules, she set the limits, he submits and becomes free. He can be honest and find release. Here in this room there are no secrets, there are no lies, there are no hidden boxes. They are base,  only animals…their true selves.

She dried his eyes and mopped his brow as the exertion of being honest is nearly too much to bear. On opening his eyes he feels everything will be alright, he can function; he can continue…he is at peace for the first time since he last stood before me.
It is time for him to go, she kisses his sweet lying mouth, bending down to lick the edge of each and every wound, pinching the skin together; the wound seals. He is ready to go back and into the world, his friends, his life; knowing that she, the only one who knows all of him and loves him as her own damaged boy.

I want my cake, I want your heart.

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I want my cake and to eat it, then I want to eat your cake and also save some of your cake for later.

I would also like to have a rummage in your pantry to see if you are saving any other cakes, maybe I shall even buy you the ingredients to make me more cakes – and I want to taste the love in them!

I want your heart on a plate – I will take it and nail it to my own. Using the nails that hung Christ on the cross – these are the nails that I will use. Nails used by mere humans to hammer home the eternal human fear of loss and pain. These are the only nails that I can use, that are worthy of using.

In return for this I can offer you longing, I can offer you want, I can offer you craving, I can offer you eternal hunger and yearning. I can offer you unrequited love without the poetic, romantic softening just the harsh reality of “it’s not fair!”

Come with Me.

You kneel before me. Her marks on your body; dribbling the liquid paint that signposted her being there. But, she has gone now, and all that you have left is me and I you. She filled the air, the space, the room. Her suffocating presence enclosed and enveloped us both. But now she is gone.

I sit back and gaze upon you. Your breathing returning to normal, the feeling coming back into your body, you are coming back to reality. The floor now hard under your knees and her tear marks are beginning to become sore as the body fights to heal itself.

Her job is done and you are now healing ; outside-in. My job, however is to take you further, take you to the places that you do not wish to go. In my reality there is no subspace surrender for you; only real life pain, no acceptance, no zone, no atonement for crimes once committed. Just you and I. You, are nearly spent, exhausted and broken whereas for me; my working day is just starting. I am refreshed, energised and aroused.

I sit and watch you uncoil and then recoil, as you realise it has only just begun. Your eyes blinking in the light that shines in from the now open window shutters. You have been safe in your dark world. Your dark world; eyes jammed shut. Your dark world, where you could cope with and expect dark things.

Now, it is time for the light, the reprieve, the rapture of the sun on your back, the rivulets of sweat drying and crisping in her gouges. Together my love, we will walk in the light, I will take you, you will be safe with me…I promise. Or maybe not safe, but safe in the knowledge that now is the time for you to take off your heavy armour, free yourself and then you will fly…fly into the light….Come with me.

“Come with me…Come with me…Now!” Pulling on your chain; you lurch forward from the wrists, the metal bracelets, heavy, bruising but so lovely on you. That blissful feeling of being yanked. “Come with me…come with me now!” I am standing, pulling your chain, your arms out-stretched in front, you clamber to your feet, falling forward and stumbling. That blissful feeling of being yanked into life. I see your erection and know that I am on task.

“Come with me now!” I am walking to the door, only one pair of footsteps on the stone floor; my boots, your naked feet make no sound. On opening the door, turning to smile I see your angelic face. Pale and ghostly, your eyes hollow and sunken; yet you manage to give me the most beautiful smile…you always do and it makes me happy.

“Come with me now!” I pull on the chain, tripping down the stairs you are out onto the gravel. I pull you up and we walk in silence; listening to the birds chattering about their day and the bees gossiping about the Queen. I am kind, I know that I am kind…it feels ok. It is nice to be nice, so I allow you to walk on the grass, I see the relief in your eyes as you step onto the cool wetness.

“Come with me my love” At the top of the cliff we make love, “Come to me my love” The warm sun upon your back, your sticky blood under my nails. “Cum with me my love, before she comes back for you”.

Scent Marking.

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When she has finished with you, you are kneeling in the centre of the room. Back marked with her whip, cane and cat, meek and near broken.

Standing behind you, I run my hands over your head, down your neck, onto your shoulders and back, feeling the raised skin, the heat of the welts. Stroking you with the faintest of touches, my icy cold finger tips on your silken skin.

My hands pushing down onto your shoulders, my touch becoming deeper, smooth yet pushing into you, onto you. The heal of my hand into the back of your shoulder my fingers bent, my nails hold you at the front, firm. A massage like no other. The mix of dull ache and sharpness, chronic and acute. Bending my knees, your warmth against my shins, my knee caps pressed firmly either side of your spine, the toes of my shoes at your coccyx.

Putting a hand down under your chin, I lift your head, pulling your face up to meet my gaze, like a beautiful flower turning to the sun. Back bent, curved around my knees, your chest stretched open, your neck; compression at the back, expansion at the front you find it difficult to swallow. I look at your lovely face, your pouty mouth, I bend forward to kiss your lips upside down. Licking the inside of your open mouth, I taste you. You shake as the contorted body fatigues. I release you and you spring forward then upright. The relief is visible on your face and you pant.

Stepping round you, lifting my skirt, I tell you to straighten your legs to the front. Lowering myself on to your cock. My open blouse allows us to be chest to chest, my legs bent around your waist, the heels of my shoes catching the downy skin on your buttocks. Grabbing hold of your scorched back, clinging onto you for dear life, my nails clawing at you as I buck hard from the waist, pulling you into me, harder, I fuck you, I take you, you are mine.

After I am done, I stand and send you back to her, so that she can see what she inspired me to do, my nail marks over hers. Like scent marking, a shot across her bows? Maybe.

How I work, the marks I make, the thoughts I think.

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I am a painter driven under the influence of collage.

Every artwork that I create; despite its’ independence, has hanging over it the fear that at any time it could be knowingly defiled, cut up or forced into intercourse with another.  Nothing operates in a vacuum and my artwork knows this.  It is highly aware that its’ existence is borne out of and dependent upon history, culture, economics, time, personality and ego.

I scrape, scratch, deform and reform. I hide, reveal, stick and pick.  I rub, melt, glue and screw.  The work is done zealously, spontaneously and develops out of what has gone before.  Ignorance is bliss in the art of searching.

I am strict with myself; I draw or paint the first thing that comes into my head.  Honesty is the best policy.  Language and understanding evolve from the processes of experimenting and experimenting some more.  Through working in an automatic, subconscious, spontaneous way I am compulsively seeking resolution to the unending, unrelenting, question of questioning.  A tiresome, burdensome, relentless push into the abyss of “but why?” and “then what?”.  A screaming, yearning, stomach churning journey to see what comes out, to see what happens, to see how I handle it.

When I paint I use whatever comes to hand to make marks or fill in space.  Ultimately satisfying the paintings need for my touch. The painting aches for my full attention.  I use small brushes to maximise the time I spend on each layer, which is completed in full before being defaced and the next layer started.  The editing and rearranging process is indicative of the constant battle between the exhibitionism of the artworks’ raw emotion and my rationale to quieten, categorise and ultimately intellectualise.  I thrive on these battles of will and seek more and more knowledge in order to undermine my own artworks.  To test their mettle and intellectual stability.  I want to unsure their footing and make them and myself fight harder and harder in order to achieve  exhilaration in my exhausting of their potential.