Thinking Over Coffee

Waking up, he stretches, bones popping and cracking as he slowly slides from the bed. His mind is already firing on all cylinders, like an electrical current of thoughts and images flowing seamlessly from one thing to another. It is a chaos he is comfortable with, and he doesn’t know how to be any other way. Deep inside, he knows If the chaos were to ever grow quiet and be stilled…he would cease to exist. He would no longer being the person that he is.

He looks at himself in the mirror, and runs his hand over his head, feeling his close cropped hair. It’s always short, and cut once a month, shaved almost down to the skin. For the last twenty-five plus years it hasn’t changed much. It is still just as dark as it was when he was in his late teens. Although, he has to admit, there is a just a little bit more grey showing these days.

There’s even more when his beard has grown out, and what that thought, he lathers his face with cream. Running the razor along his cheek, jaw and throat. It is a straight razor. One that once belonged to his grandfather, but still in excellent condition. He only started using it a year or two back, when he picked it up from the old home place. He smiles to himself, remembering the old man trying to teach him how to use one…and the bloody mess afterwards.

His mind continues to flow, going from one image to the next as he showers and dresses for the day. To an outsider, it would seem his thoughts were haphazard with no rhyme or reason to them. But, to him, it is a sense of organized chaos, compartments of information where everything is tied together by even the smallest of strands.

Making his way to the kitchen, careful not to wake the sleeping household, he pours himself his morning cup of coffee. It’s always one cup, every morning, over ice with a few drops of cream and a dash of sweetener. Then, content, he sits down at the breakfast table for a quick bite. Sipping his coffee, he continues to think and slips into an all too familiar compartment…

He can see her in his mind’s eye, soft body bared and exposed before his eyes. The beauty of her curves never ceases to amaze him, and the longing she evokes within him is almost overwhelming. He can feel the hunger for her burning him up inside, threatening to consume him completely. Does she realize just how much he hungers for her touch, and to have her body beneath him, responding to his touch?

Flexing his hand, he thinks about having her over his knee, ass raised and at the ready. He can almost feel the sting in his hand as he imagines bringing it down on her cheek. He can almost hear her yelp of pain and pleasure, at the first smack, as she tightens…anticipating more. He can see her legs, kicking slightly, as he alternates between each cheek, her yelps of pain turning into moans of pleasure. All the while, he’s holding her against his body with his other hand, letting her feel his arousal pressed into her side.

He snaps out of it just a bit, taking another sip of coffee as his thoughts shift to the concept of “impact play”. Does enjoying impact play make the one giving it a “sadist”? Does it make the one on the receiving end a masochist?

He doesn’t think so, because he isn’t a “sadist” in the strict sense of the term. He’s not into giving pain, strictly to give pain and doesn’t derive pleasure from inflicting pain or humiliation upon others. Impact play is interesting that way, and everyone is different. Some are into it because they are true sadists that take joy in being mean and brutal. While others…have a different outlook…knowing that there’s a time and place for everything. Knowing when too far is too far.

Though he has been known to use a paddle, or a brush, he doesn’t typically like to use implements in impact play. He prefers the feel of her flesh beneath hand and the pleasurable sting of his own flesh. This is a control issue for him, he likes to know just how hard he is striking and control the amount of force behind the impact.

He’s not opposed to open palm smacking her thighs, clit, ass and even breasts, savoring the intense look in her eyes. He’s also not opposed to marking her flesh, leaving her little reminders that make her smile later. But, he draws the line at permanent markings and damaging her beautiful flesh beyond repair. He will push her to her limits, and even beyond, but never hurt her for the sake of hurting her. And, striking her face is always out of the question.

His morning coffee finished, he makes his way out the door to greet the day…. the final thought on his mind as the door closes, “Even I have my hard limits.”

© AC Elliott, 19-Jul-18


Essence #134

He’s a dreamer, lost in vivid possibilities,
as he magically invokes images
from the thoughts swirling,
spinning around in his head,
often losing sight of where reality ends
and the dream begins.
Then, he remembers…he’s only human,
and magic isn’t real.
© AC Elliott, 18-Jul-18

My Offering

Meet me beneath a shade tree
Your eyes alight with primal desire
Once you’re there and close to me
Feel the flames of the smoldering fire
Fiercely beginning to ignite, burning bright
Embers of passion flowing from me to you
Radiating, carressing you soft and light
Illicit meetings with mutual moans and sighs
Needing your touch while you look in my eyes
Get down on your knees and drink my offering

©AC Elliott, 17-Jul-18

Drops So Sweet

Drops, so sweet
Fall on the tip
Of my tongue
Succulent in taste
Tantalizing my senses
Leaving me filled with desire
Wanting even more
Of that sweet nectar
Coating my lips
Teasing my tongue
With its sensual delight
So, I clamp my lips
Around the soft flesh
And run my tongue along
The oh so sweet

©AC Elliott, 16-Jul-18 (2015)

Essence #133

A loud “boom” sounds off loudly, unexpectedly, rousing him from his slumber and shaking his nerves. His breath is caught within his throat, chest tight with unhealthy anticipation, muscles tense and at the ready, fingers itching to reach for a means of protection. Then, he realizes, it is nothing more than fireworks, bright flashes of light leftover from the recent holiday. Mentally he’s aware of that very fact. Emotionally he is not, and it leaves him weakened, open for other things to slip in…or pull him in…as the darkness grabs hold and yanks him deep into his own mind.

He finds himself lost within his own mind, travelling the foggy corridors with no way out, except to move forward through the maze. Each footstep takes him deeper, into the twists and turns of his mind, as the darkness sets in around him, leaving him feeling trapped and caught in a web of introspection.

His own worst enemy…is himself, and he knows it. At times, his passion burns like the heat of the midday sun, eradicating all sense of caution and control. His feelings run deep, too deep at times. He’s a dreamer, that refuses to believe dreams can’t come true. He tries to make the impossible, possible, and has yet to learn…not all things are possible. He hasn’t learned to bite his tongue, instead, speaking when he feels it was what someone has to hear. He’s a fixer with the heart of a lion, that keeps people close, but never all the way inside.

As the web of introspection tightens around him, he realizes somehow, someone has breached his walls. He wonders how, and he wonders why. And, so, he struggles, caught in that web, and fights the urge to retreat further into the darkness… not wanting to add yet another brick to the walls surrounding him…


He retreats inside
tangled in webs of darkness
searching for a light


© AC Elliott, 16-Jul-18

Written as a Haibun, or at least an attempt at completing one. Those always seem to escape my grasp at times.