Scarlet's Real Magic

I only found the hidden mystery and adventure in my marriage when I gave up the fight for control. This is my journey to the wild place in my heart, and to His. ***

NSFW. 18+. If you're under 18, know that there is a time and a place for everything, and this is not your time ***

To all would be plagiarists: if you're tempted to copy something here and claim it as your own, if the space inside you is so empty that you want to steal something to fill it up, then do this: go outside, fall to your knees on God's green earth, and beseech the angels of creation to bless you with your own words. Then get up, go back inside, and do the work. Your own work. Nothing else will ever fill you up.

shy002 asked: How does it feel to be submissive I'm in my late 20s and just curious

vaginaandmagirl:

submissiveinseattle:

I will answer this as best I can for you; submission is an individual experience and will feel different for each person depending on the relationship.  I can tell you what it feels like for me (and I think most subs would agree) - it feels like freedom.

I’ve always been fiercely independent. I like to figure things out for myself, I have a hard time accepting help from anyone, and I have an intense need to exert control over my life.  Although I’ve found a lot of success this way, it’s a double-edged sword, because constantly attempting to exert my will over life’s circumstances is exhausting.

And that’s where submission comes in. D/s is about so much more than sex, it’s about a sacred place that I can let go of my reins and rest.  I can stop thinking and analyzing and over-analyzing, because it’s no longer my responsibility - I belong to Him.  He is my center, the eye to my emotional storm.  His dominance, and the trust and care that comes with it, is the deepest love I’ve ever felt.         

That said, a relationship like this is not to be entered into lightly.  It takes a lot of communication and trust to have a truly rewarding D/s dynamic. You’re submission is something that a Dom must earn.  If you wouldn’t trust him (or her) with your life, don’t trust him with your body.

absolutely beautiful

To be creative means to be in love with life. You can be creative only if you love life enough that you want to enhance its beauty, you want to bring a little more music to it, a little more poetry to it, a little more dance to it.

—Osho (via lazyyogi)

(via pinkprincess17)

Summer draws to a close tonight and tomorrow night, depending on your time zone. The exact moment of the autumnal equinox matters less than how we bid goodbye to a fleeting season. Whether you walked on the beach, picnicked  under an apple tree, cared for your roses, or met the dawn with a cup of coffee and a prayer at sunrise, the time for those things has passed.
How will you and I embrace Autumn? What will we do to mark this beautiful season?
Make it count, friends. 
xo, Scarlet

Summer draws to a close tonight and tomorrow night, depending on your time zone. The exact moment of the autumnal equinox matters less than how we bid goodbye to a fleeting season. Whether you walked on the beach, picnicked  under an apple tree, cared for your roses, or met the dawn with a cup of coffee and a prayer at sunrise, the time for those things has passed.

How will you and I embrace Autumn? What will we do to mark this beautiful season?

Make it count, friends. 

xo, Scarlet

Reset

We need a reset button, Roman and I, after time spent away from each other. A busy week, a busy month, a busy life—all chip away at who we are, the us-ness of ourselves, the married D/s we practice. He travels, I make my own decisions in his absence. He calls late at night, but I am already half-sleep swept and forget to tell him all the things I longed to discuss with him during the tumult of the day. 

He comes in late at night, still energized by business and busyness and the to and fro-ing of engagement with life; I am in my pajamas (even wearing bottoms, breaking a rule), irritable and ready for bed, and not open to hearing about his day. He opens the mail while I hover at his shoulder, then finally head to the bedroom and back to my book, giving up trying for a few minutes of his attention.

I turn out the light at his say so, but then he returns to his office downstairs, and hours pass while I toss and turn and wait for him to join me. Twice, three times, I get up from bed against orders, and walk on tip toe to the door and listen for his footsteps. Nothing. I return to bed, and stare out the window at the moon.

The weekend comes, and people flood the house. Friends surface like fish who have been hiding in the shallows all week, suddenly hungry for bread crumbs and company. The phone rings, the garden beckons, wine is poured, life resumes with a buzz and a hum. Laughter. Talk. Men with legs crossed at the knee, leaning back in their chairs, holding a beer and talking amongst themselves in deep, grumbly voices.

Women, perfumed and necklaced, bangly bracelets at their wrists, kissing cheeks “hello!” “how are you?” “how pretty you look!”  A bonfire is made in the garden, adirondack chairs are gathered in a circle, wine glasses are wedged into dewy grass. We’ll find them there in the morning, smudged with lipstick, and a night bug who drank himself to death.

The best part: goodbyes at the gate. The moon risen high. Roman’s hand in my hair, moving me inside, taking me to bed.

There I am reminded of who I am, and who he is. My hands are drawn above my head, I am told to hold onto to the bed frame while he devours me, turns me, spanks me, hears me whimper and cry out, I am music to his ears, he is power and force and relentless need to me.

We love each other to exhaustion. I ask for release, I ask again, my whispers become more urgent, his body is harder, his hands grip tighter, he says, ‘Yes. Now.”

We fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Reset. 

image

I am two women: one wants to have all the joy, passion and adventure that life can give me. The other wants to be a slave to routine, to family life, to the things that can be planned and achieved. I’m a housewife and a prostitute, both of us living in the same body and doing battle with each other.

— Paulo Coelho (via purplebuddhaproject)

(via metamorphosesofpsyche)