Prescribed torture

I thought I’d lucked out when I entered the sex club first thing this morning and didn’t see my normal purveyor of torture. Without him there, only three tiny females and one male ruled in the room. Since two women and two other men held the male’s attention, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Feeling confident, I strutted about the expansive space. Even in pain, I could take the chics out if I had to. My last candy bar weighed more than them. Clearly that meant I was safe, right? In store for only light play before the fun happened?

I should’ve known better.

Instead, management sicced two of the tiny females (from this point on known as Dommes-in-training) on me, and they were relentless, forcing me to do things with balls I’d never voluntarily do. Ever.
While other patrons watched me on display as they screamed out their own agony, it became apparent the female I had yet to meet was the head Mistress. Where others doled out pain, her hands induced blissful moans.

I couldn’t wait to have her hands on me.

After an hour, the Dommes-in-training noticed my fascination and giggled, telling me I was next. That should’ve warned me. And probably would have had agony not been humming its rage through my veins.

Yet as they continued to prepare me for her, my body yielded to their will, knowing pleasure was just one step away. I didn’t care that five people had already had her before me. I didn’t care that three more still waited for their turn after me. All that mattered was that soon she would be mine.

By the time they laid me at Mistress’s feet, I shook from my head to my toes, pain and anticipation warring for winner. It felt like I’d waited my entire life to know the gift of her hands, and I glided in a haze as she positioned me for her favor.

The first touch was pure heaven, I almost begged her to be my permanent Mistress and never send me back to HIM. In fact, the words hung on the tip of my tongue at the exact moment her hands morphed into ruthless talons digging at my already brutalized flesh and frayed muscles.

Four hours later, I’m still not sure how I managed to walk out of there on my own, but two things are certain: 1) I have officially renamed my physical therapist’s office “Scream My Name”, and 2) my gift to them upon my completion of my prescription to hell will be a t-shirt that reads “PT: The new S&M.”

A Day at the Park: Our Life

‘What’s wrong with your daughter,’ you ask

as I stare in puzzlement –

we’re playing and swinging at the park, same as you;

smiles as big on our faces as on all the others,

yet it’s me the question is directed to.

Not one greeting to my child did you attempt to make,

though your smile and whispered hello to me were nice.

I thought, perhaps maybe, we’d made another friend,

instead of just one more curious passerby.

With warmth, I scooted over and welcomed you

to join our exclusive shade from an oppressive sun,

where you, yes you, not a medical personnel,

asked for information, and really, for what reason?

You see, we have laws in this country that protect you and I,

and believe it or not, even the most vulnerable among us –

Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, or HIPPA for short –

perhaps I should inquire about your offensive halitosis?

Now, I’ll admit that last comment was not aimed at you,

just my anger getting the best of me.

Because no matter how many well-intentions

you might have actually had,

and the effort on your part I so clearly see,

well-meaning individuals such as yourself,

ask the same question everywhere we go,

and it makes me want to scream, ‘You’re missing the point. Wake up!

There’s a child here worthy to know.’

Not just her diagnosis or things she cannot do –

in fact, that’s not her at all –

she’s light, and she’s laughter,

and the song of my soul.

And honestly? We just came here to play ball.

(c) Sierra Kummings 2015

Ten Top Things Not To Say To a Writer:

Since ‪#‎TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter‬ is trending on Twitter, I decided to compile my own list. I kid you not, these are based on real life private messages I have received on social media, my husband’s own comments, and a few myths that are just too wrong to not include:

10. You write erotica? I bet you’re a fan of anal.

9. Good writers don’t have to promote their work.

8. When will you be done with that scene? Your characters are more demanding than you are.

7. Out here in the real world we work for our living.

6. Why are you yelling at me for interrupting you? You’re not even typing. You’re just sitting there doing nothing.

5. Here’s a little inspiration for your writing *insert body part picture here*.

4. It’s so cute how frustrated you get when your characters refuse to do what you want.

3. You’ve been editing for days. Aren’t you finished?

2. Anyone can write erotica.

1. There’s no more coffee.

What would your list look like for your job?

It’s all good…

I had plans… grand plans… to post something meaningful this week. Something that would make others think, perhaps grow in their life perceptions.

Because, you know, I’m deep like that.

Just ask my husband. He’s quite fond of saying my mind is a cavernous void.

I’m kidding. He doesn’t say that.

Out loud.

*ahem*

But in all seriousness, I actually started writing something last week, trying to stay ahead of the game, and then this week happened. I didn’t even pass go until Wednesday, when I finally saw the completion of the most heart wrenching letter to insurance I hope to ever have to compose.

Then it was Mutiny of the Booty for both my dog and my daughter (click at your own risk...again, I dare you…ha! I fooled you with the cute puppy, didn’t I?).

But the piece de resistance, of course, was that my leg choose this week to go numb… the same week my husband so wonderfully had to go out of town… and all of my daughter’s workers cancelled.

Pure tragedy that all compiled to cause me to miss out on a very important day. National Fast Food Day.

I know. How much more can one more person take, right? 

Apparently more, because I then had to say a final farewell to a friend long before their time. I had only eaten three minuscule pieces of that Hershey’s with Almond giant-sized bar when it met its untimely demise on my recently muddied kitchen floor.

Mind. Blower.

But before you start feeling sorry for me, don’t worry. All is not lost.

Know why??????

I’ll fight ’til I’m dead,
’til I’m buried and gone.
You’ll have to pry the chocolate
from my cold, dead grasp.
Though my week may have been shitty,
I’m still alive, and guess what?
It’s tequila day, bitches.
So you, life, can just kiss my ass.

…Profound words brought to you by Sierra Kummings #yourewelcome

My Anthem

Bent spine alone
does not my story tell,
nor the makeup-less shadow
spreading underneath my eyes.
Perhaps my scowl
reveals something other indeed
than the truth
you shouldn’t be surprised to find.
I’m not
angry,
frustrated,
hurt,
or a bitch;
or perhaps I’m all of those things.
I’d sort it all out for you
tonight if I could,
but exhaustion is
overwhelmingly tiring.

Sierra Kummings (c) 2015

Sneak Peek

After posting this on Facebook today, I had to chastise myself. How dare I neglect my loyal blog followers. Right? So here you are…and just for you I’ve added a few extra lines 🙂 As I’ve been rather tight-lipped about the first book in the Morrow family series, I thought I’d share a little of the journey from the second book.

Morrow’s Choice (Opening scene. Rough draft.)

2005

“But you like guys.”

Strawberry blonde hair flitted between her fingers. Silk she’d fantasized wrapping around her hands for months now. And timid little Bel didn’t back away either, even when she leaned in to whisper, “I like girls, too.”

“Since when, Sage?”

Air fanned her cheek at Bel’s ragged exhale. Am I getting to you, buttercup? “Since as long as I can remember.” She tugged on a few strands until their lips were mere inches apart. Hair flowed over her hand at the vigorous shake of Bel’s head. “Deny it all you want. Doesn’t stop it from being true.”

“But how did I not know?”

“You’re Sara’s friend. Yes, you’re an honorary member of our family, but you’re Sara’s friend first.”

“Ever kissed a girl?” A pink tongue flicked out to lick perfect lips.

“Not yet.” She bit down on her inner cheek to stop from sucking that tongue into her own mouth. Too much too soon would surely scare Bel away. She hadn’t intended for this to happen, hadn’t known her sister’s friend would stop by while the rest of the family was on vacation. Two days ago she’d started cursing her cunt boss for making her work during approved time off, and hadn’t stopped until a few minutes ago when she’d walked into her own backyard and found Bel sunbathing topless by the pool. A hastily thrown on shirt would never erase the image now seared into her memory. Pert breasts. Nipples puckered and waiting.

—–

So, what do you think? Curious about Sage’s story now?

A Mother’s Pride

Brown eyes

hold the power of heaven’s gaze;

lips

from which angelic noise escapes;

my beautiful daughter,

enchantress

since birth,

my will she became;

with no words

and only a smile

the world, she’ll change.

Sierra Kummings (c) 2015

Lawful Love

Not long ago,

my marriage,

it never could be.

Just decades past,

not centuries,

in this land of the free.

Unbelievable

though undeniable,

our shameful history.

Where skin color dictated

with whom one could be.

Just as then,

today celebrates

monumental liberties.

Battles hard fought

and won

for future progeny.

Discrimination eliminated?

Not even close,

Will it ever be?

Yet still, we must rejoice!

in this furthering

of marriage equality.

Sierra Kummings (c) 2015

Fatherhood

My Child’s Father

By her hand he guides her,

every step she makes.

Holds her, offers up his shoulder

when she’s upset or in pain.

His arms never falter,

though his back sometimes breaks;

his love only grows stronger

though his will it sometimes takes…

Sierra Kummings © 2015

What makes a father?

In my recently completed first novel (yes I’m smiling when I type that), Morrow’s Horizon, the leading man, Jacob Ramírez, has a fear of becoming a father. Without delving into specifics, suffice it to say, it goes way beyond the typical “I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m going to fuck up majorly” kind of anxiety. Or even the stereotypical “I’m afraid of commitment” guy reaction. Something that through a set of circumstances consumes him. In a way, his story centers around that. Because that fear underlies his very real struggle. For him, there is only one thing that makes a father, and he’s already proven he’s failed at that.

For me, I think I adapt my definition at each stage of my life. Growing up didn’t see much positivity in the way of shining examples of fatherhood. Though as I’ve aged I’ve come to terms with the fact that sometimes life precludes any ability to follow expectations. My own father, I think, chose the path of least resistance. For him. Though it didn’t always turn out that way for our family as a whole—or ever—he did the best he knew how. As a parent now, I’m finding my ability to judge that fading with each passing year.

I know the limitation my life has put on me: Mom to a child with special needs; never, ever getting the sleep I need (like ever); being unable to work outside the home (which makes the crazy in me even crazier); bad back + having to lift 40+growing pounds, and the 70 pound equipment that comes with her…those just but a few. And I know I fall short of the mother I want to be—the mother I once promised I would be.

So what then of fathers? Do I lower my expectations based on my own experiences? Do I raise them for the same reason? Or do I shift to a more balanced view?

I’d like to think I take the third option at this point in my life.

So here it is…my list of what makes a good father…are you ready for it?

…

Grace –

Grace to accept the fact that you will fail. Multiple times over. That your child will hate you, curse you, scream at you before it’s all done. Regardless of whether you’re doing it right or wrong.

Grace to accept the fact that they will fail. That sometimes they’ll be unlikable, cause you to drink (or at least fantasize about it), and will still throw tantrums at the wise old age of 38.

…

The ability to forgive –

Both yourself and your child. For being human.

…

Being humble enough to change –

Though everyone makes mistakes, some can only be made right by change. Most often in the midst of the strongest adversity. Fighting for that change, instead of against it, not only determines its success, but the success of the family as a whole.

…

Treat your children with dignity –

No matter what their circumstance, abilities, or motivations. Treat their situation with dignity. Always.

…

Love

Unconditional. Unequivocal. Especially on the days the kids are at their worst.

—-

That’s it.

My list.

And it looks suspiciously like the one I keep for myself as a mother.

So what about you? What defines fatherhood for you? As fathers, what do you strive for? As co-parents, what do you look for in your partner? As adult children, what do you admire or wish you’d had in your own parent?

Slow lick to heaven

Wet earth greets me

damp from the morning dew,

delights my feet,

tickles my toes

while a chill

caresses

my naked thigh;

brisk air, a sweetness

on my skin

I savor.

Like you…

tangy essence

that still lingers on my tongue,

our scents

combined

from lips

to lips

to lips

– silk to soft folds.

As the grass needs water

so do I need you,

heavy breasts

that tease the seam of my legs,

my belly,

my own small offerings

while my mouth

eagerly waits

its turn. 

Sierra Kummings (c) 2015