Hyde Gets Wild

Of course he does. That’s why he’s Hyde.

It’s not like you’ll ever read a TDND™ blog title called “Hyde Gets Lifetime Movies & Chamomile Tea While Shopping For Dust Ruffles.”

What? You’ve not sure you’ve met him? Oh trust me, you’d remember meeting Hyde. Leigh remembers. And if he is anything he is wild. And perverted. And sadistic. And you get the idea.

He makes an impression, but he won’t double dip chips. He has some standards.

And apparently he got wild enough in Seek And Go Hyde Act IV to be deemed worthy by @erocovers to be a Feature Adult Story  in the latest issue of the Wild Nights Erotic News ePaper.

I am always humbled (and even a little surprised) to have my neophyte writing efforts chosen for republication in erotic literature collectives. Must be doing something right, I guess.

Now if you excuse me Mr. Swollen (heh) Ego that is Hyde wants a screen capture to show his “friends” on the inside.

What? You’ve not met his friends? Just wait. You will.

I have no choice.

– Scot

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Seek And Go Hyde Act IV

(To read Seek And Go Hyde Act IAct II or Act III)

You will have to forgive me if, for the duration of this story, my musings appear helter skelter.

I can feel Him peeking out through my eyes, wanting His voice to be heard since He was the one who was primarily there.

Hyde.

He was the one who was reveling in how deep my extremely engorged cock was effortlessly sliding in and out of Leigh’s splayed open cunt like a hot knife through mid August butter. So. Fucking. Slow. Leigh hates this, despises how I tease the shit out of her this way. She is all for the jack hammer, give it to me hard, fast and now so I can come fuck.

No.

And when wielding an erection that was so painfully thick it actually ached I damn well savored the opportunity to turn her into an incoherent cum slut, one who would cry and sob when she was not coating both of us with enough vaginal fluids to make our scene sound like a water park during Kid’s Get In Free Day. That drives her crazy. She loathes my turning her cunt into our personal shower head for two, how she cannot, and I mean cannot, control her squirting.

It all started with the outstroke. How my cock licked the part of her G spot closest to her pubic bone arch, that sweet speed bump on the near underside of her mound. I’m not kidding its a speed bump in that, with each tortuously long withdraw using the entire length of my oiled erection I felt her folds start to sweat, pulse, engorged to the point of fucking the velvet vise of bawdy humor. I loved how she started to ooze, flow, grow thick with lust and blood.

For I knew that her ability to retain conscious control of her orgasms was rapidly deteriorating. So yes, a speed bump. At a snail’s pace. The irony, as well as the overall physical and emotional sensations, was eye rolling.

My growls continued, escalating with each frantic cry. Her fingers clawed the raw flesh of her own ass, its bruised reality drawn closer to the surface via skin made taut by legs being held firmly straight, wide and open.

“EnnhhhhhHH” echoed again and again from her contorted face, her teeth clenched in a masochistic masterpiece of forced abuse, yet also arousal. Glancing down I could see her fingers digging deep into her well spanked ass of a fortnight removed. The way she timed each clawing gesture with my candle wax slow cock strokes was lovely.

The sight of my glistening cock splaying open her labia, flush with primarily her own secretions, was surreal. I’m not sure if there are colors worthy to describe how the hues of purple and pink played with each other. Perhaps Crayola can come up with a BDSM themed set?

I opened my hands slowly, keeping contact with her Achilles’ heel tendons. Then, with the care a golfer would apply their grip to a 18th green driver I reapplied my grip with firm fervor and conviction. Leigh whimpered at the sensation of another set of fingers digging into her flesh aside from her own. She knew what was coming. And she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Spreading her legs a few inches wider elicited a gasp of a scream, if such a thing exists. I adjusted my hips to better meet the new and wider access I had to her cunt, then started to fuck her with an increased pace.

“Uhhhhhhhhh…..” she throatily gasped as stroke after stroke found its mark with renewed vigor. The first splat of her juices against my hips told me everything I assumed was correct. She was going to release herself involuntarily all over me, and very soon at that. All that it would take was to continue my rapidly escalating strokes as well as talk to her own inner cock slut.

“Ohhhh, you stroke fucking love stroke this, don’t you stroke slut? You stroke love when stroke I make you stroke squirt all over stroke and there is stroke not a fucking stroke thing you stroke can do about stroke it, is there?” stroke

Leigh’s face contorted. Her mouth opened as if to say something to me, yet nothing but raw, frustrated lust came out. She started to grow red in the cheeks, eyes wide, her ridiculously swollen cunt folds squeezed my cock so tight my pulse could have been taken if she had been so inclined.  The muscles of her torso rose off the bed and contracted, arching the pointed nipples high atop her swaying breasts. And her hands! Fuck! They were practically shredding her ass from involuntary reaction to the pending wet eruption building inside her.

“Oooooh may I please come, Sir?!?!” she wailed, fighting off the release that was likely a simple reply away from soaking both of us.

“No….”

Her eyes grew wide, frantically looking for safe harbor, for mercy. She was literally a second from opening the flood gates, gates being fucked balls deep with vicious coldness.

Leigh was gagging through short, held breaths in a vain attempt to keep her sanity.

“Oh Please Sir, PLEASE may I come?!?!?” she pleaded.

“You may come,” I coldly replied in the midst of fucking her senseless, “but only if you say “I’m a pain slut” over and over when you do.”

Her face froze. Our eyes locked. I could tell this was a boiling over point. She hates to admit she loves to be made to articulate her own inner whore.

A few more cervix deep strokes and her body convulsed. I swear it felt like her cunt escaped and tried to eat my cock from the amount of blood that filled her velvet walls. Her face racked in frozen agony, just fucking gorgeous. A silent scream that must be what angels sound like when they orgasm filled the room, then a groan that would have woken the dead. Squirt after squirt anointed us both, our hips soaked in a glistening kiss.

Then she rasped out “I’m a pain slut, I’m a pain slut” over and over.

“LOUDER!!!” I roared as my cock surged beyond what I thought I was capable of owning.

“I’M A PAIN SLUT!! I’M A PAIN SLUT! FUCK I’M A PAIN SLUT!! OOOOHHH I’M A FUCKING PAIN SLUT!!” again and again, the multiple orgasms ripping through her body and soul, the sopping slap slap slap of our hips each spraying us both. All the while her hands practically drew blood from her sore ass as mine did to her ankles spread wide.

After almost two minutes of this she pitifully gasped and collapsed onto herself, her muscles limp from the ordeal. We both stayed locked cock to cunt, gasping for precious air.

A low growl escaped through my clenched teeth. Again and again that sound rolled across us. She thought she was done and looked at me as such.

Cold as ice I made a single slow, full stoke of her folds as I said “Now its your nipple’s turn.”

Hyde roared as Leigh, whimpering and whining, moved her fingers to their erect points while my molasses slow fuck strokes started anew.

Seek And Go Hyde Act V

Breaking Leigh – Epilogue

(Note – this epilogue will have little meaning if you have not read Breaking Leigh)

12, 018 words to describe thirty minutes Leigh and I shared one amazing June evening. In literary terms that constitutes a novella.

When I signed Act XI the other evening I felt empty, vulnerable, fragile. It was akin to cradling a newborn, or handling other extremely delicate items that have personal value beyond measure. In a way I guess I was doing just that.

A memory. A precious moment now frozen in the sands of time and, through the marvels of 21st century digital technology, in bits and bytes for all of you to share in with us. I’m still, as I lie here on our bed not even five feet from where the story unfolded spank by smack, feeling a bit off. It’s entirely possible I’m experiencing an extremely mild and rare case of second-hand (heh) Topspace as a result of verbally articulating the keepsake that is the memory of that night.

I admit to actually being mildly afraid to writing that final Act out of not just the fear that I did not have the writing chops to do the moment’s beauty justice, but also that I was not sure how I was going to react myself. But I did, I am glad I did, and I am appreciative of everyone’s patience (I know, I know…) as Act to Act slowly unfolded like a rose bud into a full bloom.

Truth be told the night did not end there. Aftercare was administered with the same feelings that I mentioned above. Leigh was gone. Her body was there, but she was so far inside her self that only her gorgeous, school girl outfitted shell was there. I helped her to bed, got her some water, then wrapped myself around her. I held her tight, soothed her tears, stroked her hair, whispered enough sweet nothings to write a novella in and of themselves. Limp is an understatement as far as her body. She allowed me the honor of taking about everything that makes her Leigh and trusted me with it while she soared in subspace. There were no emotions left to give, no sparkle in what now looked like a doll’s eyes all glassy and black, not even the ability to hold me.

When she came back a short while later it was with a perverted vengeance.

We fucked like wild animals. Viciously. Sweating. Physical. Primal heat. Raw. We tried to kill one another with cunt and cock. The resultant mess of vaginal fluid soaked bedding and semen splattered plaid skirt was downright pornographic. Hyde got to play with Leigh’s counterpart. If a seething fuck is possible, we seethed each other’s brains out.

And I could have easily written another five or so Acts about that. But I won’t.

No, the end was when she looked back at me with her face a shambles of tear induced chaos and meekly smiled. Actually it just occurred to me that was Leigh saying “Thank you” in silence right before she left me for subspace.

This was a difficult story to write for, as I mentioned, a number of reasons. And for a number of Peekers™ it was a difficult story to read, especially the final three acts. Your Comments did not go unnoticed. It never occurred to me that by sharing our new memory that it may rip the scar off an old one for others, a wound that perhaps they did not willingly submit to receiving. If any undue trauma or the like resulted as an after effect of reading this story I apologize for your pain. Please know that Leigh’s desire to do this, as well as her eventual breakdown, were all done consensually with compassion, care, consideration, concern and above all love.

It may sound odd to those who do not understand or participate in WIITWD, but as violently as I attacked her ass with hand and hair brush every one of those strokes was administered with her well being in mind. The emotions that streamed out of her eyes in rivers were as pure as you can find, streams of salted emotion that flowed from the same pools from which tears of joy flow. You have to trust me on this. If you have ever just started crying from overwhelming happiness, or a stimuli of that sort, that is a variation of what she shed in great, heaving sobs over my knee.

It is NOT easy to just let go. Leigh’s role in our dynamic is far more complex and involved than mine. For her to truly experience the wondrous joy of total freedom and release she needs to leave reality behind. That is fucking difficult. Know why?

Because people fear themselves more than anything else. Leigh would argue she fears snakes more than anything, but I digress.

In her poem Our Greatest Fear Marianne Williamson sums this up best when she states:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

And she is right.

Leigh was powerful beyond measure that night. And I was, and am, blessed to have her as my best friend, coffee drinking bud, wife,  lover, kitchen helper, dog player wither, joke cracker, confidant, favorite hugger, slice of caker, and yes, my slutty doll behind a closed bedroom door.

– Scot

A Peek Back 8-11

The keyhole this week, at time, felt more like an impromptu soap box, or even a pulpit.

Please don’t think of that opening sentence as my intentional attempts to be preachy. I’ve made no secret that I am a complete neophyte at all of this. Learning on the hand job, if you will. My musings are just that – my two pennies on whatever is on my mind. And its worth that much as well.

I very often plan various post such as stories, but often my random musings are either manifestations of ideas that have been simmering for a while are and ready for public consumption or, more often, something that just occurs to me.

The latter was the case this week. And the results as far as reactions, comments and page views were not just surprising but, in cases, humbling beyond my means to convey. When, in essence, complete strangers (well, y’all have to admit we are all strange!) take something you wrote and not just to heart but to their spouse…

…that’s humbling. Seriously. I don’t even know where to start with the magnitude, significance and overall “Really?” of that.

Serious shit for so early on a weekend, huh?

The blog had its second best week for views. July doubled June’s visits, which were two times as many as May. Closing in on 500 Peekers™. Twitter has exploded again (we really do have a lot of fun just bullshitting there). I don’t shamelessly shill for any type of Following of any sort anywhere. So these numbers reflect perverts, er, people who are curious, who want to peek through the keyhole and, if they like what read, share with others. Leigh and I thank all of you for the love, support and general debauchery you share.

And only one cup of coffee so far!

If you’re a first time Peeker™ Leigh and I welcome you to your initial peek through the keyhole. I strongly encourage you to view all of the established Pages, which can be viewed by selecting any of the tabs at the top of this page.

The Archives are an inclusive, running version of every post of note on this blog. If you have not read any or all of the stories, random musings, poetry, etc linked from The Archives by all means please grab a seat, perhaps some java, sit back and enjoy.

In that I want to go get more java, here is this week’s Peek Back:

The Unsafe Word – I very rarely beg. It’s Leigh that begs. That said, please I beg of you read this if you or someone you know is thinking about meeting a Dominant for the first time.

Interview With A Submission Vampire Vol.1 No.11 – Peeker™ extarodinaire Jodie Griffin wanted to know if I had limits and have safe worded. I kinda went off on a tangent while answering her question.

Coffee Kickstart My Blog – My weekly way too early on a Monday ramblings while trying to wake up. This past week I mused for over 1200 words! Yeah coffee!

Breaking Leigh Act X – The hairbrush finally comes out. Will Leigh finally cry from just spanking?

The Butterfly Chains – The newest story on the blog. If spread eagle chain bondage is your kink, you may want to read this.

An Open Letter To The Frustrated Submissive Wife’s Husband – My humble thoughts for a wife’s Mr. she wishes would become Sir as well. The response to this has been amazing.

Butterflies Flight Of  Fantasy – An ePaper thought enough of The Butterfly Chains to Feature it!

I Lost My Interview Cherry And With Coffee! – I was asked by the vivacious Bell of DD & D/s, an amazing spanking and DD & D/s blog, to share some things about myself and kink…over coffee! My first blog interview!

Done. Publish. Second cup of coffee. Ahhhhhhh…

– Scot

An Open Letter To The Frustrated Submissive Wife’s Husband

When I wrote An Open Letter To The Frustrated Submissive Wife I had no idea it would become one of the most popular page views on the blog. It was in response to not just a direct question from a Peeker™ via email but also, by a landslide, the most commonly used keyword search theme that finds TDND™.

It did not occur to me at the time that the frustrated submissive wife would ask her husband to read either that or other posts in The Archives. I know that the overwhelming majority of Peekers™ are female, which is cool. I also acknowledge that blogs like ours are, by all accounts, rare. Not many Sirs who are also Mr. to their Mrs. write. You hear about them all the time via their doll’s (that’s the term I use for Leigh so it’s what I am comfortable saying) blog posts, but never get to interact with them, read their thoughts, see their feelings first hand, etc. It’s always from her view, her recollection, her interpretation.

As I and Peeker™ Nation both learned throughout the drama that was the Torn saga (especially when Leigh interjected her own feelings and views) was that my perceived reality and Leigh’s couldn’t have been more different. It was an extremely valuable, albeit  emotionally and spiritually tortuous, lesson. But now learned, I am in a much better place to admit to myself that there are parts of my psyche that are just plain vile, perverted and sadistic…and that Leigh loves when I let who/what/it I know refer to as Hyde come out to play. The links on that page offer more insight.

Combine all the aforementioned and this is what I would like to say to you, her current guy and potential Sir:

To the Husband Of A Frustrated Submissive Wife,

I know exactly how you feel. Trust me, I was there.

Oh sure, some husbands just take to Dominating their wives likes ducks to water. But I’ll bet that you and I are the norms rather than the exception. To be completely upfront yes, it was my idea to start all of what you can read about in The Archives. But, based on my brief experiences sharing WIITWD…

Oh, that’s What It Is That We Do, a common BDSM acronym. You’ll learn more about that in time and so much more if you listen very closely to what I am about to share with you.

Remember her? You know, the woman who eventually became your Mrs.? Think back to the very first months or year of that courtship. Smiling evilly right now? Good! You should be. She was something back then, huh? Amazing sex on draft whenever you wanted it. Everything tasted better when you two went out on dinner dates. The music that you danced and did all sorts of naughty things to are still etched into your memory as a soundtrack of Life’s Greatest Hits. More than likely she was thinner then, obviously younger, and the mere sight and thought of you made her head spin, heart pound and pussy drip.

Perhaps there were no gray hairs yet, or if you are blessed with children what pregnancy, childbirth and raising infants can do to the female anatomy, let alone mentality.

And I bet you were kinky, or at least tried kinky shit. Sex someplace other than the bedroom is kinky. So are simple blindfolds made when you almost took her teddy off all the way. Or that time you pinned her arms down when you both were in the throes of an amazing quickie. Or how could you forget caving into that temptation to CRACK her doggy style arched ass while you fucked her into the Tuesday of next week…and she liked it.

But Time waits for no one. You now have responsibilities, perhaps a family. Those little people running around your house are demanding. You are both heavier, stressed, no longer each other’s focal point, maybe even starting to gray. And that’s OK. You take care of things, which she may not say as much but loves when you do so. Bonus points if it’s without being asked.

Sex is now mundane, perhaps even predictable. Hey, with the mortgage due and the transmission acting up its understandable. Bills, meals, yard work, the kid’s practices, can’t forget the job and all that stress.

Am I hitting home yet?

And, now to top all of this off, the woman who wears your ring wants you to not just take her sexually but even use her that way in what you think is a perverted manner. Roughly. Violently. Tied up and helpless. Made to beg to orgasm, then thank you for the privilege. Spanked to the point of tears, then fucked raw.

Maybe she wants to be forced to do things that even she finds humiliating and degrading. She saw this video online of this poor girl who was made to….

…and all the while you are thinking “WHO the fuck is this woman?”

For years she has been your equal partner (who am I kidding? She runs this show!). You were taught your whole life to be respectful, courteous, treat women with kid gloves. You love her more than anything and would never hurt a hair on her head, lat alone even think about raising your hand to her.

She’s your wife. Your lover. Carried your babies for you. Your best friend in the whole world. She balances the checkbook, buys the groceries, makes the meals, takes the kids everywhere like a fucking taxi, worries about how she looks, has her own job worries and issues…and wonders if you still feel the same way about her as you did when you first dated.

Pulse racing a little? Getting a little warm, or even pissed?

Good!

That means fuck yes you do care! If by now you’re still cold as stone inside do us both a favor and stop reading this. You have bigger issues to resolve than the fact that your wife wants to be your slut and you her Sir. But, if your face is slightly flushed and you’re using your selective male hearing because you’re so focused, listen very closely:

D/s (that’s Domination and submission) can bring “her” back. And not for the reasons you think.

Yes, the incredible “that only happens in pornography” sex will help. But in order to do WIITWD you need to communicate openly and freely. You need to respect any limits she has. That’s not to say you can’t push them, but you will respect them. Trust is crucial. It’s the riverbed communication flows over.

What is going to happen is that everything it takes to Dominate your wife, especially BDSM, will spill over into every other aspect of your now dull, predictable married lives. She, for everything else in your lives she makes decisions on and about, wants to not just NOT do that in the bedroom but completely made to do whatever it is YOU want. And I mean whatever.

She wants to have an affair. She wants to cheat on her husband. She thinks about another man constantly, one that will do the most heinously perverted things to her, in her, on her, with her and for her.

You.

She wants to cheat on her husband with her own spouse.

And don’t tell me you haven’t had the same kind of feelings. You’ve looked. We all do. So does she. But what if you could have a torrid affair and she not only knew about it but gave you her blessing as well?

You can. With your wife.

The Trust and Communication that flows out of D/s will blow the ashes off the embers forged during the infancy of your relationship, the same embers you thought were long cold and dead.

They’re not. They never die. Time and all its allies will heap a mountain of ash called Life and Reality on top of them, but they never stopped glowing. You may have grown colder, as did she, but the fire still remained.

D/s and BDSM, specifically what it takes to embrace them, will not just blow away all those ashes but restoke those embers to the inferno you remember burning in your and her eyes when you first dated.

You hold the key, or should I say rope and paddle, in your hands. What you do with it is up to you.

Now if you excuse me I feel an overwhelming desire to sext my wife. I cannot wait to see her eyes, kiss her lips, hold her tight and let our own rekindled flames burn brighter.

I love you Leigh.

– Scot

Breaking Leigh Act X

(To read Breaking Leigh Act IAct IIAct IIIAct IV , Act VAct VIAct VIIAct VIII or Act IX)

She initially resisted the idea of the hair brush.

Without going into too much detail, we’ll just say that she has bad memories associated with that from her childhood. Spanking, but not good pain. The baggage was heavy.

I was about to change that.

She had done such a beautiful job cleaning it, polishing it as I instructed her to. I had told her that “I want to be able to see my reflection.” The face of a mad man stared back from the gloss black finish the brush now proudly owned. There was a warm, soft luster to it. The candlelight made for the most interesting sheen dancing across its smooth facade. It reminded me of the way that a clean knife will allow light to dance on its surface.

I smiled at not just that she had, in fact, made a mirror out of her everyday hair brush but also how it’s slightly convex curve gave a fun house look to the glare staring back. Thinking back now I imagine Hyde probably enjoyed this exchange with me via this medium. He must have reviled in my eyes being distorted all monster-like. The irony.

Leigh had finally regained enough composure to warrant the commencement of the final act of her “punishment.” This would be virgin territory for both of us. Aside from some, in review, extremely poor and amateurish efforts with our flogger it had always been just my hand on her ass. Now we were not just introducing a serious striking toy but one that came with emotional history, and all on her already bright red ass cheeks.

I rolled that brush in my hand like a chef would a santoku prior to portioning a prize cut of meat. It was time to make the final cut.

Placing the back of the brush against her ass cheeks must have been a double-edged sword for Leigh. I’m sure the brush felt nice and cool against the scorched skin that was her ass, but there was also the mind fuck that this was really going to occur…and soon.

Just as before it started with soft, circular strokes, only now instead of the warm flesh of my hand it was the cold reality of her own hair brush. Back and forth the hard backside of the brush caressed Leigh’s soft backside. I can only imagine what must have been coursing through her mind and soul at it touched her, kissed her, played with her body and her mind.

But I can definitely recall the heightened sense of fear as she braced when it broke contact with her, meaning only one thing.

It was time.

The first CRACK was unlike anything I had heard before. Shrill, sharp, impersonal. It sounded like a kitchen accident when too much pressure is exerted the wrong way and simple physics gives you a lesson the hard way. It also moved so effortlessly, again the physics of leverage and torque.

It was extremely cold in its language, demeanor and result. That brush was all fucking business. A hand, even a violent one, is at least personal, warm. This was cause and effect, cold as fucking ice in its approach.

And I found that exhilarating. Fucking loved how it felt physically, emotionally and spiritually.

Leigh winced audibly, even though I had scaled back the force of the blow to a four, just like when we started. And within a few more CRACKS her breathing grew rapidly, more so than as a result of my hand at a much higher level of intensity. I knew immediately that she would in no way be able to take the same quantity of blows with a brush as opposed to my bare hand. Which made total sense. I expected as much prior to starting. However, the rate at which she was escalating into her meditative “place”, as she calls it, made it obvious the end was near.

That beautiful fucking plastic CRACK. I was almost drunk on its sound. Again and again I focused my attention to the quivering ass cheeks astride my lap, reveling in her misfortune. Leigh squirmed in an almost spasmodic dance as time after time that brush delivered a stinging blow to an already raw surface.

Her breath grew sharp, the occasional hissss of spit escaped her lips with those perfect blows that sounded like they landed somewhere up inside her. Her fingers clawed the old wooden floors in desperation, her muscles heaving rhythmically as the pace of the attack quickened. CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK filled the night, leaving less and less room for us both. It was if the brush had taken over, was now calling the shots, making us both its bitches. One to provide it life blood, the other to offer it.

“OoohhhhhhHHH” Leigh howled as the spanking’s pace began to crescendo. Seething sounds through clenched teeth matched the CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK blow for spit. It was if an actual fire was going to combust any second.

“Breath…” I reminded her as my hand started to become a blur, “Breath….”

CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK again and again, alternating each cheek with lovely impersonal abuse. Then ten in a row on the left cheek, her breath rising higher and higher. She gasped and panted, cute little fucking whimpers came in droves. Then ten on the right, only now she was so far inside herself it became a cacophony of audio erotica like I had never heard.

Back to the left cheek for twenty. She moaned and grunted as if she was choking to death. Now the right one for twenty. I was covered in sweat, my eyes ablaze, totally focused on her as I waited to hear the sound I so desperately wanted to rip from her fucking soul and give right back to her as a gift.

The sound of uncontrollable sobbing.

Breaking Leigh Act XI

A Peek Back 8-4

Is whupped an acceptable term?

I was that in spades last night. Even hearts. Work whupped me. How much so? It was a chore to sit down, which I hadn’t done all day. The floor beckoned like a siren to the rocks. Well they were actually pillows from the couch.

What, you’ve never jumped from one couch to another to avoid the lava flow river below?

Anyway, I had planned to write Act X of Breaking Leigh, the one where depending on my word count  (I try to keep posts to just over 1000 words) it was very likely the tears might finally flow. But, alas, my brain was so much overcooked oatmeal that I chose not to write.

I will never just vomit words to create content, be a slave to page views, etc., nor I am interested in accumulating scores of Peekers™ for the sake of scores of Peekers™.  If people wish to peek through the keyhole, they are welcome. If their own social networking efforts appeal to me, I will Follow back.

Coffee….more….coffee. Ahhhhhh…

If you’re a neophyte Peeker™ Leigh and I welcome you to your initial peeks through the keyhole. I strongly encourage you to view all of the established Pages, which can be viewed by selecting any of the tabs at the top of this page.

The Archives are an inclusive, running version of every post of note on this blog. If you have not read any or all of the stories, random musings, poetry, etc linked from The Archives by all means please grab a seat, perhaps some coffee (we’re big on coffee), sit back and enjoy.

So hoping I stay awake long enough to Publish this, here is this week’s Peek Back:

Interview With A Submission Vampire Vol.1 No.10 – Avid Peeker™ Kayla Lords wanted to know if we employed punishment in our D/s relationship. Now she knows the answer and why.

Monday Coffee Kickstart – Random musings on random topics with a barely functioning Dominant in need of a caffeine fix.

We’re Pink Leather Unicorn Awesome! Twice! – The most unique blog award image yet, more Scot  trivia (sigh) and a list of fucking awesome blogs you need to check out.

What Subspace Feels Like – The Fates decided we should hear this song. It shook us, as well as others from all the Comments.

I Inspired A Coffee Nooner – An off the cuff comment to romance author Miya Kressin on Twitter inspired her to write some java smut! You will never drink a latte the same every again, trust me.

Others Agree Subspace Feels Like That – Our .02 on the aforementioned song and subsequent post gets a feature mention in an ePaper!

Chain Of Rules Act IV – This latest act of the Chain Of Rules story focuses on two of Leigh’s most magnificent attributes not called eyes.

Seek And Go Hyde Act III – How hot is this? I needed to change my shirt after writing it. The Comments agree – probably the most scalding Act I’ve written thus far. Whew!

Just Cry – A very personal and special erotic poem for my doll, trying to capture a very personal and special moment.

I think I have the energy to click Publish. Maybe another cup of coffee will ensure you all read this today.

– Scot