CraigJustCraig

Tag: mental-health

  • Bondage as an act

    Rope engages both the body and mind in profound and fascinating ways, triggering a range of physiological and psychological responses. The sensation of rope on the skin activates the somatosensory system—especially the nerve endings in the skin and fascia that process touch and pressure. This stimulation begins to shift the brain out of scattered mental activity and into the parasympathetic “rest and digest” state, where healing, integration, and deep sensory presence become more accessible.

    Depending on intention and context, rope can evoke responses ranging from soothing comfort to cathartic intensity. Beyond the physical sensation, it quiets the noise of external distractions and draws awareness inward. This inward turn becomes a somatic anchor—a tether to the present moment that opens pathways for emotional release, spiritual attunement, and energetic transformation.

    By intentionally engaging the nervous system through rope, we invite a kind of sacred surrender—a state in which the body, mind, and spirit align in vulnerability, presence, and connection.

    Rope is more than physical restraint—it is a catalyst for powerful internal shifts. The combination of pressure, controlled stress, vulnerability, and deep trust initiates a cascade of neurochemical and physiological responses that reshape not only the body’s state, but also the emotional and spiritual experience of the scene.

    At the heart of this transformation is the release of endorphins, the body’s natural painkillers. Intense or restrictive ties stimulate these neurochemicals, which reduces pain and induces sensations of euphoria, relaxation.

    Oxytocin, often called the “love hormone” or “cuddle chemical,” plays a crucial role in the emotional and spiritual bonding that can occur during rope play. Released through touch, trust-building, and co-regulation, oxytocin promotes feelings of safety, intimacy, and attachment. It is especially active during aftercare, where grounding, cuddling, and affirming presence help partners integrate the experience. oxytocin supports “cathexis”—the investment of psychic energy,  process of attaching emotional significance to something.

    The experience engages the sympathetic nervous system, triggering adrenaline and cortisol. While often linked to danger, in a safe and consensual context, these chemicals heighten awareness, sensation, and excitement. increasing heart rate, sharpens focus, and flooding the body with energy. When experienced mindfully, cortisol can help release stored emotional tension, facilitating a cathartic, and spiritual, release.

    Following the scene, the body often shifts into parasympathetic regulation, producing serotonin, this feels like peace, safety, and completeness

  • Having Is Evidence of Wanting You Love that Pile of Shit

    Tell the truth Recently, I had a conversation with a family member—someone I love, but who has this looping tale they tell, over and over again: _“People never respect me. No one honors my boundaries. I’m always being taken advantage of.”_

    And of course, I listened. I nodded. I offered empathy. But eventually, I thought of Existential Kink By Carolyn Elliot , I couldn’t resist slipping into my kink and I gently asked:

    “What if part of you actually _likes_ it?”

    Their face changed, Their whole body stiffened, eyes flashing.
    And then came the chant,

    “I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I _hate_ it.”

    They went into a kind of trance like egoic possession.

    And there it was: _evidence._

    Because the idea that we could _secretly enjoy_ our suffering is so taboo, so offensive, so _kinky_, that most people’s egos can’t handle it. We’ve been so programmed to believe we’re only allowed to desire good things—light, love, abundance, healing—that we’ve cut ourselves off from the darker, equally potent eroticism of failure, frustration, humiliation, rejection.

    But BAAAABBBBYYYYY, let’s be real:
    That red-hot flush of shame you feel when you’re rejected?
    That stuck, paralyzed feeling when you can’t create or move or rise?
    That humiliating little drama you keep reliving in love or money or body?

    That’s not _just_ pain. That’s arousal.
    That’s your psychic masochist doing her damn job.

    “Fear is excitement without the breath,” Fritz Perls said.

    and pain is _pleasure without approval_?

    I felt it with my family member. Their loop—the one they claimed to hate—was _lit up_ with psychic charge. The pain was electric. Addictive. And they weren’t ready to feel the truth beneath it:

    “I actually love this freaky shit, unconsciously of course.
    I get off on being disrespected.
    I love standing in this pile of shit because my pile of shit._
    And I’ve unconsciously do this again and again.”

    That admission? That’s the key part.
    When we consciously embrace our unconscious kink, the pattern loses its compulsion. The taboo loses some luster. The shame becomes a choice. And we regain out power.

    This is about looking deep enough into your own psyche to _own_ the pleasure that’s been running the show behind the scenes.

    Because as long as you insist you hate it—without ever allowing for the erotic charge of it—you’ll stay stuck with it.

    But once you say:

    _“Okay, fine. I do enjoy being stuck.
    I do enjoy being broke.
    I do enjoy feeling unseen.
    I do enjoy the cycle of almost getting there, but not quite.”_

    Then you can ask:
    “What part of me wants this? And what does it _need_ to feel satisfied?”

    that’s where the magic happens.

    Because the game here isn’t to _abolish_ the kink.
    It’s to make the kink conscious.

    Let’s be clear: _none of us invented this shit alone._

    They belong to the collective shadow. To our lineages. To the traumas of civilization. To the twisted divine that clearly gets off on the entire opera of human pain.

    We’re not separate from that. We _are_ that. your kinky little Godself, playing out a drama so dense its got your l thighs clench and your loving it.

    Your stagnation, your heartbreak, your sabotage?

    It’s not random. It’s not a punishment. you are fucking jacking off

    And once you let yourself _feel_ the secret pleasure in that, really _receive_ it—without shame, without guilt. you can get better toy baby we got you

    Having is evidence of wanting. I’m not blaming

    But in a deeply magical, wildly empowering, power-bottom-of-the-soul kind of way.

    We don’t get what we consciously want.
    We get what we unconscious craves.

    So stop denying your desire for drama.
    Get _off_ on it.
    And then—once you’ve truly savored it. Find something new

    Because that’s how the real magic happens, slut.

  • On Somatic Resonance

    Ive talked about this before but i have learned alot more about after research and reading and practicing Stephen Porges, Peter Levine, and *Bessel van der Kolk in rope session. if your not familiar these are the authors Polyvagal Theory which essentially is how our nervous system responds and how that is influencing our social behavior and emotional regulation, Waking the Tiger which is how to encourage and recuit the body own systems for healing, and the body keep the score which is which show how you how your body and your mind actively reshape on another. This creates a Language to communicate with. while this is not strictly rope related it has help me craft session with more intention and precision.

    When I begin a scene, I’m not thinking about the restraint—I’m thinking about architecture. How the body folds or opens, how tension is built or released, how position speaks to you.

    Closed shapes like fetal, curled, knees tucked inward—often inspire feelings of safety, introspection, and containment. They activate the parasympathetic nervous system, inviting rest, digestion, and co-regulation.

    In contrast, open positions—arms wide, heart exposed, pelvis elevated, or exposed—evoke vulnerability, surrender, power, or display. These shapes carry both somatic charge and symbolic weight. To expose the belly is to show trust. To lift the chest is to offer the heart. to offer the neck is a sign of submission.

    “The way shapes we hold changes the way we feel.” A tied body is a speaking body. The body speaking is the psyche speaking.

    I have noticed a Listening Beneath the Skin. The body is more than a vehicle—it is an archive.
    Our fascia holds memory, our **nervous system catalogs our experience , and our posture encodes and outputs both our past and our reality.

    Have you noticed how different ties evoke different emotional states—regardless of physical intensity? For example, How a chest harness make someone feel held?

    Resonance teaches us to listen to the echoes of sensation. A tight waist line may feel like a good back stretch—or a trigger. A ascendion may feel like flying—or floating away .

    The I think the key is intention, presence and purpose. The body responds to our invitation sympathetic (arousal) and parasympathetic (release) systems creates a dances with transition. We charge, then we discharge. We constrict, then we soften.we bind and we release.

    Some of the studies presented show what the mystics have been saying: _Change your posture, and you change your consciousness._

    “Power poses” increase testosterone and lower cortisol. Upright postures increase confidence and social presence. Slouched shoulders invite withdrawal. These postures are chemical**.

    Have you noticed your baseline. I have build the structure with the natural shape; but in doing invite them to inhabit new shapes which corresponds to new states of minds. That is where the invocation comes in. When I tie someone into an open shape, I’m not just putting them on display—I’m summoning a version of them that may not always get space to speak. When I collapse their posture into a fetal fold, I’m not making them small—I’m offering sanctuary. Sometimes, the most powerful thing you can offer someone is a shape they forgot they were allowed to inhabit.
    I feel like we are braidingourselves into the nervous system.** We attune with our bottom with communication, with check ins, but on a deeper level im watching the way the breathe, where in the body is holding energy, where pain or sensitivity might be coming from. I looking for signs to tell me whether we are moving into regulation or dyregulation. so that kinda the language that is being spoken. The rope carries a current we activate with compression, with rhythm, with co-regulation. You create this kind of resonance and type of coherence. I think this is why sometime the rope session feels like therapy. or going to the chiropractor. its a kind of realign with self.

    The body plays “game” to survive.
    When threat is perceived, energy mobilizes: fight, flight, freeze.
    But rope invites new games.     a kind of ritualized renegotiion helping the body discover a new strategy, a new story.

    By intentionally altering state through posture, sensation, and presence—we give the nervous system a chance to complete unfinished survival loops or unfinished business. To release what was held. To try on a different possibility. This is why a session may end with tears. Or laughter. Or silence.
    Because something moved. the body finally had space to speak its own language—and be heard.

    I guess im trying to say the body is not passive—it is alive, intelligent, and aware.

    To tie well is to listen deeply.
    To be tied well is to trust fiercely.
    And to witness both is to remember what it means to feel whole.

  • reflections of the bald one

    Today, I had a fascinating conversation about why I use tantra and energy work in my rope practice and how I started down this path. It was such an insightful reflection that I wanted to share it here.

    When I first began tying, it was simply to learn a new skill. But as I practiced and studied—reading books, taking classes—it quickly became something I loved. The shift happened when I learned about somatics and tantra. I started seeing rope as a spiritual practice. Somatics taught me that we are connected beings, not only to each other but also to ourselves. Our bodies reflect our emotions, and unless we embrace all emotions, even the difficult ones, we remain influenced by invisible forces. It reminded me of the saying, ‘Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will rule your life, and you will call it fate.’

    Exploring tantra was initially challenging; I struggled to connect it with somatics. But when I began to see energy as a force that can be directed with intention, I gained clarity. This led me to explore intentionality, lifestyle mastery, and the art of loving, eventually guiding me to sacred kink, paganism, sex magick, and erotic hypnosis. Sacred sexuality became a path toward carnal alchemy, transmutation, and even entheogenics.

    I now seek a coven that embraces mysticism, ritual, and ordeal. I want to build a community with those who don’t avoid shadow but embrace it, who revel in wicked desires, and who see ordeal as a crucible for transformation. I seek those who view intimacy and the erotic as a powerful, expansive force—one that isn’t about control or reduction but about embracing the uncontrolled and the limitless.

    Reflecting on this journey reminded me of how much my rope practice has evolved. I’m still learning and growing, but it’s beautiful to see how far I’ve come and where I hope to go.

  • Breathless Bonds: A Journey Into Focus

    The room was quiet except for the sound of our breathing. Candlelight flickered, casting molten shadows on bare skin, and the air carried a hint of earthiness from the ropes in my hands. I guided your wrists together, resting them gently over your heart, feeling the rhythmic thrum of your pulse beneath my fingertips.

    “Close your eyes,” I whispered, my voice low and steady. “Feel it. Your heartbeat. Let it guide you.”

    Your chest rose and fell, the warmth of your breath mingling with mine. I began to loop the rope, slow and deliberate, as if each pass over your skin were a sacred incantation.

    “Breathe in for four beats,” I instructed, my voice brushing against your ear. You inhaled deeply, your chest expanding beneath the ropes. “Hold for two. Now exhale for four.”

    I felt the way your breath synced with mine, our rhythms tangling together. Each knot was a marker in time, each pull of the rope grounding us further into this shared ritual. The world outside dissolved, leaving only the two of us.

    “Let yourself feel it,” I continued, my words soft but commanding. “The air filling your lungs, the pulse in your chest, the way the rope hugs your skin. Feel how alive you are in this moment.”

    The tie progressed, the rhythm of your breathing steadying, though every now and then, I noticed it quicken—an involuntary response to the intimacy, the closeness. I smiled. “If the dizziness comes, let it flow through you. It will pass. You’re safe here.”

    Once the tie was complete, I rested my hands on your shoulders, grounding you. “Now,” I said, my thumbs pressing gently into the muscles at the base of your neck, “rock with me. Forward and back, just like this.”

    I swayed, my body brushing yours as I led you through the motion. The rocking grew smaller and smaller until, together, we found stillness.

    “Good,” I murmured. “Now side to side.” My hands guided your torso, the subtle shift of weight drawing us closer. Your breathing slowed further, your body relaxing into the rhythm.

    “Can you feel it?” I asked. “Your roots. Push them into the earth. Let them grow as deep as they need, as far as they want, until they naturally stop.”

    You nodded, your body leaning into mine, the ropes binding you to the moment as much as to me.

    “Now, feel your energy.” My fingers traced the rope lightly, teasing your skin. “Draw it in. Let it flow from your feet, through your legs, your core, and out through your arms. Feel it expand, past your body, beyond the ropes. Let it radiate into the room.”

    I felt the shift, the way your awareness grew. “Good. Now open your senses. What do you hear? The flicker of the candle? My breath? How many sounds can you name?”

    Your head tilted slightly, a dreamy smile playing on your lips as you listened, attuned to the space we shared.

    “Now, what do you see with your eyes closed?” I pressed. “The color of the floor? The shape of the door? See it in your mind. Visualize it. Walk around it in your thoughts. Look from another angle.”

    Your body responded to my voice, your posture softening. “Let your attention shift. What’s at the edge of your awareness? What do you feel against your skin? The rope? My hands?”

    You sighed, your breath shaky but content.

    “Focus,” I said, my lips just barely brushing against your ear. “Be here. Now. Let this moment consume you.”

    The stillness deepened, the space between us charged with an energy that felt ancient and electric.

    “This,” I whispered, “is the law of connection. Like calls to like. You feel me because I feel you. My breath matches yours. My focus anchors yours. Together, we make this moment magic.”

    I leaned back, letting you bask in the energy we’d cultivated, the ropes a sacred seal on our work. “And when you’re ready,” I said, my voice like silk, “you’ll return. But for now, let yourself linger in this trance. The balance. The calm. The power.”

    The ritual was complete, but its effects lingered in the air, like the final note of a song that resonates long after the sound has faded.

  • The Eroticization of Suffering: A Somatic Reframe

    Pain is not always punishment.
    Sometimes it is presence.
    Sometimes it is possibility.

    For those of us who live with chronic pain—or who play at the edge of sensation—there’s a kind of alchemy in learning how to meet pain not with resistance, but with attention. This is not just survival. This is art. This is kink. This is healing.

    And sometimes… this is erotic.

    The Body is a Site of Reclamation

    Chronic pain teaches you to live in negotiation. Your body becomes a terrain of both resistance and resilience. And in that negotiation, we can begin to ask:
    What if pain didn’t just have to be endured—but explored? Witnessed? Eroticized?

    This is not to romanticize pain. But it is to recognize that power lives in the stories we tell about it.

    That erotic power may not come from the pain itself—but from our relationship to it.

    11 Ways to Turn Toward Pain (and Possibly, Toward Pleasure)

    Based on Dr. Andrew Block’s chronic pain coping methods, with a sensual, kink-informed lens.

    1. Altered Focus

    Shift your attention.
    Focus on your fingertips.
    Imagine warmth blooming from the inside out—like candle wax pooling in your palm.
    Where the mind goes, sensation follows.

    This is edging without touching. Seduction by redirection.

    2. Dissociation

    Place your pain in a chair across the room. Give it a name.
    Tell it: you may exist, but you do not get to lead.
    Watch it. Study it. Undress its urgency.

    Even in pain, you are the one in control.

    3. Sensory Splitting

    Can you separate the burn from the ache?
    The throb from the sting?
    Dissect the sensations. Get curious.
    What’s sharp? What’s dull? What’s almost… delicious?

    Like teasing apart pleasure from pain—until you no longer care which is which.

    4. Mental Anesthesia

    Picture a cool numbing mist washing over your skin.
    A gloved hand administering a slow Novocain drip to your lower back.
    Let the sting go silent.

    A ritual of quiet. A consensual mute button.

    5. Mental Analgesia

    Imagine your body flooding itself with morphine.
    Or perhaps, endorphins—your own homegrown high.
    The drip is internal. The rush is sacred.

    Pain becomes the invitation. Relief, the climax.

    6. Transfer

    Warm one hand between your thighs.
    Place it over your aching hip.
    Let your body believe the warmth is medicine.

    This is self-sorcery. This is energy play.

    7. Age Regression/Progression

    Time travel to a moment before the pain.
    Or after the pain.
    Dwell there.
    Act as if this body were already whole.

    Fantasy is the kink. And sometimes, fantasy heals.

    8. Symbolic Imagery

    Pain as a red light.
    A blaring siren.
    Now dim it. Mute it.
    Turn the dial until it becomes nothing more than background.

    Your pain is a playlist. You are the DJ.

    9. Positive Imagery

    Picture a place where your body feels sacred.
    A sun-warmed rock. A bed draped in silk.
    A partner whispering “yes” against your shoulder.
    Let your nervous system believe it.

    Eroticism begins with safety.

    10. Counting

    Count your breaths.
    Count your exhales.
    Count the seconds it takes for the pain to crest—and then recede.
    Build a rhythm. Build a scene.

    This is a metronome for the masochist. A cadence of control.

    11. Pain Movement

    Move the ache from your lower back into your wrist.
    From your wrist to your fingertips.
    From your fingertips into the room.
    Release it.

    Pain is not fixed. It is fluid. Like desire.

    What If the Pain Is Not the Problem?

    What if the pain is the portal?
    Not to suffering, but to sensation?
    Not to punishment, but to presence?

    There is erotic power in reframing the body—not as broken, but as brilliant. As adaptive. As responsive.
    Kink practitioners have known this for centuries: pain can be information. It can be intimacy. It can be sacred.

    Final Note: Pain Is Not Always Sexy. And That’s Okay.

    This isn’t about glorifying trauma or dismissing the reality of suffering. Not all pain is erotic. Not all pain should be.

    But in the quiet moments—when you’re practicing breathwork, or visualization, or lying still while heat pools in your spine—there’s a chance to relate to your body not with shame, but with reverence.

    To ask not, “Why is this happening to me?”
    But rather, “What is this sensation asking of me?”

    And sometimes, the answer might be:

    “To listen. To slow down. To touch myself gently.
    To fantasize about what healing might feel like—
    and then breathe into that image
    until it becomes real.”

  • Last Night’s Scene: The Awakening

    I’ve noticed the changes our scenes have caused already. You’re more aware of your boundaries now. You defend them better. You advocate for them with ease. When we started, you knew no fear. That was admirable, but also dangerous—a blindness to the wisdom fear provides. We must have fear; it gives us information we’d otherwise miss. Fearlessness is not the goal; courage is. To be courageous, you must first know fear. Feel it. Confront it.

    I wonder what deadened your fear before. What shock or loss buried it deep? In time, I’m sure I’ll learn, as all truths reveal themselves. For now, we continue this process of awakening. Tonight, we honor the intentions you’ve set for yourself, the path you’ve chosen, no matter how difficult it may be.

    Your intention is clear: to stay true to yourself, to walk the path meant for you. My intention is equally resolute—to help you manifest that.

    We set the table, laying out the tools one by one. You watch, nervous yet curious, asking questions in a soft, wavering voice: “What’s that for? Are we using that too?” I see you trying to piece it all together, but tonight isn’t about certainty. It’s about trust—trust in your resilience and in the path you’ve chosen. Doubt and hesitation are killers of magick, and we won’t let them take root.

    I smile as I move slowly, methodically, setting everything in its place. I see the tie settle into your body, and I feel your nervousness climb to new heights. Life, like a sadist, waits for consent—neutral until given direction and purpose.

    When I lay you on the table, I ask for a mantra, a truth you want to make real. Your words are beautiful, full of power, and I tell you to hold them close as we begin. You’re secured now. I ask you to move, and you laugh nervously: “Wow, I really can’t move.”

    “You only know the half of it,” I reply, securing my favorite cuffs to ensure your helplessness. Tonight, you must endure.

    Small bites along your body tease the reality of your immobility. I let the helplessness settle over you like a weighted blanket. My aura expands, filling the sanctuary, feeding off the pain and pleasure you radiate. I return to the rack and carefully select the next tool.

    Your nipples, so sensitive, now house my clamps. A bear claw rakes your flesh, drawing out gasps and shivers. Tucked securely in your bonds, I let the knife skitter across your skin, leaving surface-level nicks and cuts—just enough to imply the danger.

    You’re slipping now, retreating into the world we’ve created together. I hear your mantra echo in the space, grounding you as I step through the door you’ve opened. Your subconscious is waiting for me, beautiful and raw.

    “Lovely what you’ve done with the place,” I tease, as the ritual begins.

    I take the wax and trace the rune we prescribed. Tonight, it’s leadership—a heavy burden, but one you’re ready to bear. The wax drips slowly, deliberately, searing its purpose into your skin. Your screams shift to moans as the heat transforms into acceptance.

    You slip further into the trance—not quite as deep as during the Table Challenge, but deeper than before. Your consciousness takes a back seat, and your subconscious takes the wheel, repeating the mantra like a sacred hymn.

    By the time we finish, you’re utterly still, the ritual’s purpose etched into your body and soul. I pour the same care into aftercare as I did the scene, cleaning and soothing with precision. We read together, grounding ourselves in the mindset needed for this work—the awareness, the responsibility, the magick.

    You’re more receptive tonight, still unfolding from within yourself. That’s okay. Your journals will help guide you until next week, when we’ll take the next step in this journey.

  • questions from the group chat

    My mistress was the greatest teacher I could have asked for when it came to topping. Serving her taught me the intricacies of power dynamics and the responsibilities of a top in ways nothing else could. Through service, I learned not just what to expect from a bottom, but how to anticipate their needs, read their responses, and hold space for their experiences.

    I served her for years before I ever considered topping, and even then, my first experience was as a service top for one of her friends. That meant my introduction to topping came from the lens of a bottom—understanding submission, surrender, and trust before ever stepping into the role of a top. That perspective shaped me. Topping was never about wielding power for my own gratification; it was about receiving power as a gift and asking, What would you like me to do with it? How do you want to feel? What emotions are you prepared to receive?

    Even after leaving my mistress, when I was asked to service top, I carried that same understanding with me—giving what is desired, not just what I want to give. Over time, I expanded my skills to include all styles of play (with a few exceptions), but I never forgot the feeling of making her proud. The weight of her commands. The way structure and discipline shaped my sense of fulfillment. The deep satisfaction of being trusted to serve.

    Now, every time I top, I ask myself:
    • What feelings am I drawing out?
    • What emotions am I shaping?
    • What fantasies am I bringing to life?
    • What desires or taboos am I touching on?

    Topping, for me, is deeply empathetic, but also intentional. I constantly ask, How did this make you feel? because I know what sensation I was aiming for—but did it land the way I intended?

    Not everyone shares my background, so I’ve also become a corrupter of sorts—exposing people to new sensations, desires, and experiences so I can later build on them. Maybe they’ve never felt real embarrassment before—so I introduce just enough to spark curiosity, then nurture that desire. Over time, they start fantasizing about it, longing for it. And once they crave it, I have new tools to satisfy that hunger, deepen their pleasure, and push them further into their own discovery.

    This is how I top. It’s never just about control—it’s about exploration, emotion, and fulfillment.

  • before you engage, know this

    I do not hide who I am.
    I don’t downplay it. I don’t dress it up.
    I don’t lie about who I am.
    I show up exactly as advertised.

    You don’t need to decode me—I’ll tell you flat out:

    I’m a sadist.
    I move in the realms of fear, pain, pleasure, and surrender.
    My path is intense. My kinks are dark.

    I am not here for your comfort.
    I celebrate my darkness. I honor and seek the abyss.
    I show you my fire, my darkness, my pleasure.
    I don’t tone it down.
    I don’t offer comfort. I offer intensity.
    I don’t want fans. I want energy, I want honesty, and I want devotion.

    This is the body, mind, and soul set ablaze.

    My kinks are not cute. They are not digestible.
    They are dark, deep, and dangerous to the unprepared.

    This is edgeplay, pain, degradation, fear, sacrifice, ritual, and power—expressed with precision, purpose, and consent.

    I walk the path of hedonism, debauchery, and indulgence—

    Pleasure is my power. Indulgence is my devotion.
    The erotic is my altar. The shadow is my sermon.
    And this practice is my truth.

    I don’t offer entertainment. I offer awakening.
    And awakening is not comfortable.

    I negotiate with clarity and intention.
    If I tell you I’m going to do something, and you agree to it—you are responsible for that agreement.

    If you choose to dance in darkness, step into the abyss, and merge with my will—you must also accept the consequences.

    Once you step into my temple,
    once you sip the wine,
    once you kneel at the altar—
    you are accountable.

    If you chase the flame,
    you don’t get to be shocked when it burns.

    If you comes into my space without intention, without honesty, without readiness—
    you will be removed.
    Not out of pettiness, but because I have a responsibility to protect my work and my energy.

    I don’t tolerate dishonesty, disrespect, or shallow engagement.

    If you’re not grounded, focused, and serious, then you do not belong in this space.
    That’s not a punishment—it’s protection.

    This is a sanctuary.
    A path for the devoted, the willing, the aligned.

    This is sacred, sadistic, shadow work.
    This is practice(cultivate experiences connecting with something beyond your self). philosophy(systematic study of existence, knowledge, values, and reason,). power(the ability to act, influence, or produce change).

    I mix the erotic and the spiritual. I use ritual, altered states, shadow play as tools of expansion.
    Pleasure isn’t just something I enjoy—it’s something I use.
    This is the fire of shadow and flesh.
    This is the unrelenting truth of ecstatic soul.

    this is a path of integration and reverence.

    I seek the disciplined, the passionate, and the willing to engage deeply.

    Those who understand that showing up here comes with expectations.

    I give my time, my energy, and my presence fully.
    That must be reciprocated—whether through time, contribution, support, effort, or service.

    Access is granted only through alignment, action, and sacrifice.

    If this feels like too much
    If this does not resonate,

    If this path does not stir your soul,
    if this current does not call you home—

    turn back now.

    This will swallow you whole.

    But if it does…

    if it speaks to something deep inside you

    If you want depth,
    if you’re ready to be broken open and reshaped with care, cruelty, and intention—step forward.

    Strip bare.
    lay down your offering.
    And step into the flame.

  • I was talking to a goddess

    She didn’t speak in words, but in heat, in breath, in the ache behind my ribs:
    “You are not responsible for their feelings.”

    …I used to believe otherwise.

    I shackled my worth to people’s moods, contorted myself into someone else’s idea.
    I made myself small.
    I apologized for existing.
    The fear of abandonment, of rejection, of being too much and not enough at the same time.
    Boy, what a time.

    Then came the revolt.

    I told myself I didn’t care.
    I wore detachment like armor.
    If I couldn’t please them—fuck them.
    I became loud with boundaries and quiet with vulnerability.
    But I wasn’t free.
    I was still ruled—by them.

    Then came a knowing:
    That I can hold space without setting myself aflame.
    That my needs matter.
    And that theirs did too.

    I was not taught this.
    I was taught to blame—either myself or them.
    I was taught to focus on them and to lose myself.
    I’ve learned: feelings are not caused by others, but shaped by how we receive them—filtered through our own needs and expectations.
    Now, my work is to OWN that.

    This is hard to learn.
    Trauma trained me to see everything and everyone as dangerous.
    I forgot how to play.
    I forgot how to imagine.
    But my body remembered, even when my mind forgot.
    And shame clung deep.

    But pleasure is not sin.

    So I began to ask myself:
    What makes me feel good?
    Can I ask—clearly—for what I want?
    Can I speak in a language that is not vague or coded in shame?

    Instead of “Don’t ignore me,”
    I would say, “Would you be willing to check in?”

    Instead of “You don’t care,”
    I would say, “I feel lonely and need connection.”

    This is power.

    I wasn’t given these tools—I had to make them.
    Walking around yearning, yet terrified to feel it.

    Risk, with clarity.

    For the child in me who never learned.
    For the adult in me who is still learning.
    Knowing it’s safe to say:

    I don’t know where I’m going.
    But I promise: I know the way.