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.