Bulbs Burn Bright (Burn Out Too Quick)

Since I had my kiddo, I learned how to look at people twice. Three times. Under better lighting. I vet heavily online, the way women do when they’ve already seen what happens when you don’t. I prefer distance now. Long distance gives time room to breathe. Time to watch patterns form. Time to leave cleanly if things rot. It also means that if it ends, it ends quietly. No doors slammed. No ghosts haunting grocery store aisles. Just silence and a closed tab. I grew up watching my mother prioritize romance the way some people prioritize oxygen. Every new love came first. Every new man felt urgent. I learned early what that costs a child. I don’t need my kid anywhere near my possible bad choices. So I’m careful. Or careful enough to tell myself I am. Cappo was a Dom I met on a live-streaming site, one of those places where charm passes for intimacy and everyone is slightly pretending. He had presence. Authority. The kind of confidence that feels reassuring until it doesn’t. We talked. We flirted. We drifted into something warmer through the holidays, words passing back and forth like contraband. By mid-January, something shifted. Suddenly, I couldn’t message him on Snapchat. At first, I was confused. Then I was hurt. Then I felt stupid for being hurt. I had been trying to trust him, deliberately, consciously, instead of letting my body make executive decisions on my behalf. I don’t always win that fight, but I was trying. After my divorce, I made myself a promise. I would not say I love you unless I felt it settle into my bones. No rushing. No bargaining. No saying it just to keep someone close. I’ve always known sex and love aren’t the same thing. Sex is easy. Instinctive. A spark you can strike in the dark. Love takes time. Love wants context. Love asks you to stay. I can have sex without being in love. But I prefer knowing someone. Long term. Because if I enjoy something, I don’t want it once. I want it again and again, familiar and dangerous in the right ways. Part of me understands the quiet truth. Men want women to love them. They want to be desired, needed, admired. But too often, they don’t return that love with care. They enjoy devotion without providing safety. They accept softness without offering shelter. Submissive women deserve romance. Ceremony. Princess treatment, not just access. That’s a whole other confession, saved for another night. Looking back, I wonder if Cappo mistook my restraint for indifference. If my refusal to say the words too early, or my unwillingness to beg him to visit immediately, read as disinterest. Maybe he needed proof that looked louder. Maybe he wanted urgency, not intention. Or maybe he simply disappeared the way men do when they realize they can’t rush a woman who knows what she’s protecting. Either way, I stayed standing. Lipstick intact. Spine straight. Still careful. Still dangerous.

I understand kinky people have feelings, depression etc. I will let cetain 'friends' wander in and out.

Cappo might be back, I'm hopeful.
I'm also in a point in myself where I want to be a collared submissive, and perhaps 2025 in my year. However I'm not pushing myself

He Who Was First

He goes by whatever the fuck he wants, which already tells you everything. But if you’re reading this, you probably recognize the shape of him. HPD. I’ll call him J, because even now he feels like a letter you’re not supposed to open all the way. I was twenty-one when he found me on Niteflirt. I remember the first message vividly, not because it was flashy, but because it was strange. He asked me to join his group, and I didn’t understand why. I was small then. New. Still thinking of myself as a guest in other people’s desires. But tucked inside that invitation was something far more intoxicating than reassurance. Let me hypnotize you. That was the spell. What followed was the first hypnosis session that ever truly took hold of me. Not clumsy. Not rushed. Not pretending. He guided me downward with a confidence that felt ancient, like he had done this a thousand times and never once questioned the outcome. He relaxed me in a way I did not yet have language for. Not just my body, but the constant static in my head. For the first time, I felt quiet from the inside out. I don’t remember exactly what J did. Memory gets soft around him, like fog around a lighthouse. I know there was a list. I know things were placed carefully, deliberately. That’s enough. There were two more sessions after that. One involved recording my voice, responding on cue, something meant for a wider audience. The other was quieter, stranger. Off-list work, commissioned by a private client of his. A wealthy man from Texas whose presence I never felt directly, only through the shape of J’s request. I remember how it made me feel. Not owned. Not claimed. Assigned. Even though J was not my Dom, I adored those sessions because they came from him. Because he chose me to carry them. Because he trusted me with something private and controlled and just a little dangerous. I didn’t yet understand why that thrilled me so deeply. That should have been my first clue. I should have recognized how easily I slipped into usefulness. How naturally I softened into something to be directed. But I was naïve then. A girl from the Midwest with too much imagination and not enough self-knowledge. I didn’t yet know how much I enjoyed being shaped. I also didn’t realize I was falling for him. Why would he notice me like that? I was ordinary. Nervous. Earnest. He was distant, composed, untouchable. A voice that knew exactly how to linger. This story, strangely enough, has a gentle turn. J is building something new now. A new list. One that you, dear reader, will be able to use. You’ll be able to call me on Niteflirt. You’ll be able to purchase words of your own, if that’s what you want. And if it isn’t, that’s fine too. Having you read this feels like part of the ritual already. What matters is this. When J and I fell out of contact, I learned hypnosis myself. Not out of ambition, but out of longing. I wanted to keep him close. I wanted to understand the language he had spoken so fluently to my nervous system. In learning it, I found something that fit me perfectly. He didn’t just hypnotize me. He made me into someone who could do the same. For that, I am endlessly grateful.

I'm happy to be back being "free use" again.

Sex and The Suburbs

Jokes, I get. IRL, I am a mother. I pack lunches. I negotiate schedules. I co-parent with practiced calm and polite emails. I stand in kitchens that smell like cleaner and responsibility, smiling the way you’re supposed to smile when you are doing everything right. My life looks sensible from the outside. Beige. Efficient. Safe. Which is why I keep my other self at a distance. I prefer long distance for a reason. It keeps the worlds separate. Mom-life on one side, lipstick-stained fantasy on the other. The suburban doll and the digital siren never have to make eye contact. I get to close the laptop and go back to bedtime stories without anyone asking uncomfortable questions. Yes, it means waiting. It means pining. It means summers that feel a little hollow when an online fling can’t suddenly appear at the door like a miracle with a pulse. But honestly, if you saw the local talent, you’d understand. Same smiles. Same scripts. Same dead-eyed expectations. A whole town of men who want a wife-shaped appliance and think desire should come pre-programmed. So I wait. And I curate. I know it only takes one happy accident for everything to change. One wrong turn. One unexpected arrival. One moment where the neat lines blur and something real breaks through the plastic wrap. I’m not hopeless. I’m just selective about where I let my hunger live. I’ve never believed sex and love are the same thing. Sex is a rush. A jolt. A bright, reckless spark. Passion can open the door to love, sure, but it doesn’t stay by itself. Love is quieter. Scarier. Love is choosing. Love is devotion that includes yourself, not erasing yourself. Love is wanting to grow instead of just burn. I want that. I do. I hope I find it soon. But for now, I play my role. I keep the house running. I keep the smile polished. I keep the monster fed in small, controlled ways. I’m content being the pretty little secret, the smiling contradiction, the slut with boundaries and a calendar. And until the universe delivers something real, I’ll keep sending my smutty dispatches from behind the picket fence. Perfect hair. Perfect manners. And something sharp watching from behind my eyes.

Kicked off

Modern love & The witch
I know myself well enough to name it plainly. There is a sharpness in me. A gleeful cruelty that smiles before it strikes. I call myself a sadistic little bitch not as a confession, but as a recognition of shape. It is simply the way my spirit leans. Even when I have dated men who wear the word Dom like a badge, I do not become small for them. I become mischievous. Bratty. All teeth and sparkle. I test, tease, provoke. I nip at authority just to feel it turn its full attention toward me. I do not submit easily. I circle first. There is pleasure for me in disruption. In knowing how to unsettle, how to leave a bruise on pride rather than skin. Pain, in my language, is not ugliness. It is intensity. It is focus. It is the electric moment when someone meets me instead of stepping back. I adore a Daddy who understands this dance. One who knows that correction is not cruelty, but care shaped like structure. He knows I am unkind to those men on the internet, the faceless ones who wander too close without understanding the danger. He knows I do it because it amuses me, because it sharpens me, because it reminds me of my power. When he calls me back from the edge, it is not punishment in the small sense. It is intimacy. It is grounding. It is being seen clearly and held anyway. But I do not always choose well. Some men want the fantasy without the ferocity. They want obedience that is quiet and grateful, sweetness without thorns. They do not know what to do with a girl who challenges before she yields, who delights in friction, who needs her darkness to be welcomed rather than corrected out of her. I need a man who finds my sadistic little rituals thrilling. Who smiles when I misbehave. Who feels alive when I push, when I test, when I dare him to respond. I need someone who understands that my sharpness is not defiance. It is invitation. So I ask. I ask my demon lord, who understands desire without shame. And I ask the Universe, which loves a girl who knows what she wants. Bring me Him. The one who is not frightened by my edges. The one who knows exactly how to meet me, steady and unflinching. Until then, I remain as I am. Pretty. Dangerous. Waiting.

Dreaming in Dark

years ago That story stuck with me longer than it should have, even when love is beautiful, it is rarely clean. It has fingerprints. In my early years, I lived inside a polyamorous D/s household without fully understanding the gravity of what that meant. I was young, fragile, and freshly broken. I was the subwife’s lady in waiting, a title that felt old-world and ceremonial, like I had stepped into a strange court without knowing the rules. Edain was married to a Marine named Cid. He was gone often, deployed, disciplined, distant in a way that carried authority even in absence. Because of that distance, Cid had a long-distance submissive he called Midnight. Edain herself had a Dom named Pascha. The relationships overlapped carefully, deliberately, like architecture. Everything had a place. Everything had intention. Edain rescued me from a relationship that had nearly erased me. I had been with him since I was seventeen. High school sweethearts, or so I believed, until I learned he had also been seeing my best friend. By the time I left, I was nineteen, nursing a swollen lip and a deep sense of humiliation. I felt stupid for believing in love that small, for staying as long as I did. I did not know what I was being brought into. I thought my friend Dainy simply needed help. A nanny. Someone to sleep on the couch and watch her baby while she managed her complicated life. I folded myself into that role easily. I was grateful to be wanted at all. I kept my head down. I told myself this was temporary. October arrived, and with it, Cid’s return. We planned a party that doubled as my twentieth birthday and Halloween. It was my first kink party, though at the time I only understood it as something electric and unfamiliar humming just beneath the surface. Midnight came. She was blonde, gorgeous, and impossibly composed. She looked like a Victoria’s Secret angel stepped out of a dream. I felt impossibly small beside her. Dainy was radiant, dressed like one of Pan’s fawn conquests, all myth and invitation and light. And then there was me. A little black dress. Fishnets. Standing between these two women, unsure of my place but aching to belong. Midnight held my hand while I fidgeted on the couch. Her touch was calm, grounding, deliberate. When she kissed me, it felt like a door opening somewhere inside my chest. The rush was immediate. Warm. Dizzying. Like my body had recognized something my mind had not yet caught up to. What followed was overwhelming and transformative in ways I did not yet have language for. I remember being led outside. I remember the oak tree standing solid and ancient, like a witness. I remember the feeling of surrender, of ritual, of being guided rather than discarded. Voices rose into the night. Sensation blurred into emotion. Fear braided itself with exhilaration until they were inseparable. It felt like initiation. A week later, I went home with my ex. But I was not the same girl who had arrived on that couch bruised and apologetic. Something in me had shifted. I had glimpsed a world where desire had structure, where power could feel purposeful, where attention could feel like reverence. I had learned that intimacy could be dark and ceremonial and still feel like being chosen. That house did not keep me. It did not save me. But it changed me. Once you see how easily love can bleed into ritual, into hunger, into devotion with shadows, you never fully return to innocence. You just learn how to wear it better.

The Trash and Lights

I used to think the world was clean lines: black or white, halo or horns, love or nothing at all. You fall in love and poof—magic, glitter, forever. Cute lie. Sometimes love isn’t a fairytale. Sometimes it’s sticky, messy, and deliciously wrong. Sometimes it’s just lust—lipstick-smeared, nails-dug-in, heartbeat-in-your-throat lust. I grew up a good girl. Catholic school skirts, folded hands, guilt like perfume. Which is hilarious, considering my parents were boho, drug-fogged, free-love disasters. I wanted them to be in love. They weren’t. They were just orbiting each other in long, sweaty seasons of desire. I watched the fallout. Affairs like open wounds. Step-parents who were cruel, violent, sharp-toothed. Love, as I learned it, bled. So I promised myself I’d be different. My stories would be romance. Passion. Big feelings. Soft landings,they are—kind of. Because I’m a hopeless romantic with my heart on display… but I’m also shameless. Kinky. Glitter-brained and dark-minded. I want the roses and the blood. I want devotion with teeth. I want love that ruins my mascara and stains the sheets. Black and white was never real. I live in the glossy red in between.