Dear Angela:

I am in bed naked and hard and aching for you.

Please allow me to come soon.

Please tell me you want me to cry out for you.

Please oh please let come.

In heat,

Mr. Horny & Denied

(come on, Mr. H & D, did ya really think it would be this easy?)

WHY I SERVE YOU

Lost and alone
Seeking for a star

A night full of lights
Disguising the pole

Constant and true
You shine alone

Beauty of truth
Joy of desire

Warmth of heart
Depth of soul

My lack
Your supply

My soul renews
My hope reborn

……………….

Dear Angela,

I haven’t written a poem in thirty years. I wrote this for you.

What I was trying to say is that …

No matter how submissive in bed or life it isn’t enough to be a sub. Much of why I love you is because you are a leader.

I hope you like it.

Poetry is hard!

Love
sub boy toy

So Scunt ( AKA Debased Scunt, AKA Gentleman Slut) whom I kinda-sorta own, but not so much, since he’s quite the slut and pretty much any old Mistress will do when he’s itchy for some good old-fashioned persecution and mayhem, recently moved to a new place.

Recently single, Scunt found his version of the perfect bachelor pad:  close to work, lots of amenities, uber modern, a skylight. I’m certain he was thinking he could play on the vanilla side of life for a change, wowing the pretty girls with his slick new pad.

Nope.  Not a chance. Because a week after moving in, management installed storage bins in the basement.

And that changed everything.

Because those storage bins look — at least from Scunt’s perspective — very much like The Cage in which he longs to be held captive.

He begins obsessing, sending me multiple emails about The Cage, describing his twisted, craven fantasies. Oh he is in big-time heat.  The storage bins are taunting him, calling him. He walks past them every day; thoughts of the torture, the agony, the isolation, the craven abuse and neglect he would suffer if he were captured and held in the The Cage.

Then I open an email from Scunt with one sentence:

I decided to imagine that you had ordered me to get the hell over myself and into the cage where I belong.

And an attachment …

Be still my ‘lil Femme Domme heart!

That Scunt simply could no longer resist the belligerent mocking of the dastardly Storage Bins just about knocked me into Domme Space.   So with Scunt’s permission and a little bit of creative editing to keep him safe, here you have it: the reality of what Scunt is and what Scunt will always be.

So, mon sale petit cochon dégénéré, it seems the fancy place with the pretty windows and hardwood floors isn’t going to change a thing.  After all is said and done, you just can’t run from The Cage.  You can’t deny your pusillanimous heart’s traitorous desires.

Bachelorhood for you does NOT come with redemption.  You can move to heaven’s highest cloud and salvation will still elude you.

You are not The Continental.  The shampanya will not be flowing.  The party is over.

So get on your knees, kiss my ass, and crawl back into The Cage.

xo, Angela