i'm obsessed with my stats.
way too obsessed.
yesterday i looked at them constantly, checking back every hour or so, identifying people i knew, wondering who was reading me from Italy.
i was masturbating my ego.
i'm not allowed to masturbate.
so the philosopher is not happy.
he knows i need to be controlled.
now i'm only allowed to look at them one day a week.
on saturdays.
my shabbos stats.
i'll go nuts!!
i'm already going through withdrawal.
but in fact i know he's doing the right thing and i will obey.
it makes me feel good when he steps in and takes control.
it both calms me and excites me.
i like to feel the choke chain tighten around my neck.
i like to obey.
anyway, i don't have a choice.
but it reminds me of the year i had a folk radio show on a college station out in the middle of nowhere. i'd work on those shows, i'd send them out into the cold mountain air, and hope someone was listening. and then every so often someone would say they had heard my show, they always listened, they had learned something, and i'd feel SO GOOD!
so i'll gather my own stats. a little survey...
could you just say hi and where you are? you don't have to say anything nice, or anything at all other than hi and where you are. and don't feel you have to do it if you've already commented.
actually, don't feel you have to do it at all. i'm a slave kitten and all that. i must be patient and accepting. but i'm asking very nicely...
this is an embarrassing request. i'm letting my needy sub side show. my inner curious kitten. but then i AM a needy sub.
(i'm tempted not to post this. it's a battle between dignity and insatiable curiosity, impulsiveness and self-discipline. unfortunately, dignity rarely wins.)
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Relieving creative constipation
I had a writer's block for over 40 years.
As a child and into my early teens I wrote poems and stories and little plays. They weren't great, but they were better I suppose than what most kids were churning out. My mother was accused of writing the poems for me.
Then adolescence settled in and the writing stopped cold. Oh, I could write parodies of songs ("I've got the Danish Blues, Gorgonzola on my mind..."), along with heated letters and e-mails to people who had done me wrong. But no more poetry.
It bothered me that I couldn't write. I felt as if something had been stolen from me. I added it to other evidence that I hadn't "fulfilled my potential."
Perpetual perimenopause eventually changed all that. Oh, it took over a decade of assorted strange symptoms, massive rages, fears of a heart attack, and losing access to most of my vocabulary. And for better or worse, I was one of that small percentage of women who, rather than losing their sex drive, become an overflowing cauldron of boiling, insatiable desire. I'd drool over the young male asses striding ahead of me and, like Dr. Strangelove, fight to maintain control of my hand, which wanted to slide up and down the beckoning crack between their cheeks. I couldn't keep my eye off crotches. I'd stare at women's breasts on the Metro. I really have a thing for breasts so can appreciate the philosopher's fixation on my nipples. (I lucked out and got my mother's protruding nipples. My sister will never forgive me.)
Skip ahead a decade or so, out of the miserable second marriage, past a bizarre hurtful relationship of sorts where the sex was great but the guy had even more issues than my cat Marko, past falling in love with that guy's supposedly ex-girlfriend and a brief attempt at trying to keep the balls of all three relationships in the air. By Spring of 2006 there was no one and I was dangerously horny and beyond blocking out my fantasies of being tied down and whipped, fantasies that dated back to maybe my pre-teen years when, life-long masturbator that I was, I had no idea of what I was really after when I imagined being chased through the woods and tied to a tree.
With a mixture of shame and excitement, I started poking around craigslist, where again and again I was drawn to posts about spanking. There really isn't much creativity in most of those posts, but to me it was brand new and made me crazy. I wrote back to one or two guys, but couldn't get what I was after.
That fall I came across a post that offered a very nice bit of erotic writing and invited other contributions in return. I thought "gee, I should be able to do that" and sitting there in my office tried to force something out. Nothing.
Suddenly, like a devoured box of erotic prunes, a flood of hormones replaced every drop of blood in my body. I was possessed with desire. I could barely keep from locking the door, laying down on the industrial carpet, and insinuating my hand down my slacks and into my soggy utilitarian cotton underpants.
Instead, I wrote. Or rather, a poem emerged, bursting forth fully-formed from my ensorcelled brain. Except for the fact that I wasn't actually wearing a skirt and didn't paw my breasts, it is a factual representation of what happened.
And that was it. The dam had crumbled.
I did write a few more poems that fall, enough to know that whatever had been holding me back was now gone. When I came to think about it, I wasn't really surprised. Perimenopause is adolescence in reverse, with the same unpredictable storms of unchained and confused hormones, and, for me at least, the same gripping fits of fury that, with sympathy for my parents, I recognized from my teen years.
Thus ended my writer's block. But the floodgates didn't really open until the philosopher came into my life and changed everything.
As a child and into my early teens I wrote poems and stories and little plays. They weren't great, but they were better I suppose than what most kids were churning out. My mother was accused of writing the poems for me.
Then adolescence settled in and the writing stopped cold. Oh, I could write parodies of songs ("I've got the Danish Blues, Gorgonzola on my mind..."), along with heated letters and e-mails to people who had done me wrong. But no more poetry.
It bothered me that I couldn't write. I felt as if something had been stolen from me. I added it to other evidence that I hadn't "fulfilled my potential."
Perpetual perimenopause eventually changed all that. Oh, it took over a decade of assorted strange symptoms, massive rages, fears of a heart attack, and losing access to most of my vocabulary. And for better or worse, I was one of that small percentage of women who, rather than losing their sex drive, become an overflowing cauldron of boiling, insatiable desire. I'd drool over the young male asses striding ahead of me and, like Dr. Strangelove, fight to maintain control of my hand, which wanted to slide up and down the beckoning crack between their cheeks. I couldn't keep my eye off crotches. I'd stare at women's breasts on the Metro. I really have a thing for breasts so can appreciate the philosopher's fixation on my nipples. (I lucked out and got my mother's protruding nipples. My sister will never forgive me.)
Skip ahead a decade or so, out of the miserable second marriage, past a bizarre hurtful relationship of sorts where the sex was great but the guy had even more issues than my cat Marko, past falling in love with that guy's supposedly ex-girlfriend and a brief attempt at trying to keep the balls of all three relationships in the air. By Spring of 2006 there was no one and I was dangerously horny and beyond blocking out my fantasies of being tied down and whipped, fantasies that dated back to maybe my pre-teen years when, life-long masturbator that I was, I had no idea of what I was really after when I imagined being chased through the woods and tied to a tree.
With a mixture of shame and excitement, I started poking around craigslist, where again and again I was drawn to posts about spanking. There really isn't much creativity in most of those posts, but to me it was brand new and made me crazy. I wrote back to one or two guys, but couldn't get what I was after.
That fall I came across a post that offered a very nice bit of erotic writing and invited other contributions in return. I thought "gee, I should be able to do that" and sitting there in my office tried to force something out. Nothing.
Suddenly, like a devoured box of erotic prunes, a flood of hormones replaced every drop of blood in my body. I was possessed with desire. I could barely keep from locking the door, laying down on the industrial carpet, and insinuating my hand down my slacks and into my soggy utilitarian cotton underpants.
Instead, I wrote. Or rather, a poem emerged, bursting forth fully-formed from my ensorcelled brain. Except for the fact that I wasn't actually wearing a skirt and didn't paw my breasts, it is a factual representation of what happened.
And that was it. The dam had crumbled.
I did write a few more poems that fall, enough to know that whatever had been holding me back was now gone. When I came to think about it, I wasn't really surprised. Perimenopause is adolescence in reverse, with the same unpredictable storms of unchained and confused hormones, and, for me at least, the same gripping fits of fury that, with sympathy for my parents, I recognized from my teen years.
Thus ended my writer's block. But the floodgates didn't really open until the philosopher came into my life and changed everything.
Desire
Desire is a demon
overpowering my will as I sit
in all innocence
contemplating columns on the screen
Womb clutching
powerless
before the power of random
lust
i gasp
and ache to pinch
my startled
nipples
Take pity, oh phantom tormenter!
Take form.
Be a hard
urgent
tactile
presence
Make me believe
that the wandering hands on my breasts
are not mine
that my swelling
parted lips
draw in more than air
that those aren’t my own frantic fingers
snaking beneath my skirt
Steal me.
I will surrender.
October 7, 2006
overpowering my will as I sit
in all innocence
contemplating columns on the screen
Womb clutching
powerless
before the power of random
lust
i gasp
and ache to pinch
my startled
nipples
Take pity, oh phantom tormenter!
Take form.
Be a hard
urgent
tactile
presence
Make me believe
that the wandering hands on my breasts
are not mine
that my swelling
parted lips
draw in more than air
that those aren’t my own frantic fingers
snaking beneath my skirt
Steal me.
I will surrender.
October 7, 2006
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
My Master's Chair
In fact, it was my father's chair. His favorite chair. When my parents moved down to Florida full-time, I claimed it.
It's an Eames chair. A genuine Eames chair. Well, at least my parents thought it was genuine. My friends have doubts. Still and all, it's a great chair. Black leather, rich curved wood, a welcoming lap, an ottoman. It sits down in the basement family room and is perfect for watching television.
Enter the philosopher.
He traveled down the coast, through one state after another.
He walked in my door.
He claimed me.
And he claimed the chair.
It, she, was always his chair.
She had been waiting for him all her life.
She opened her arms, opened her lap, and he slid right in.
He settled in.
He put his legs up.
He radiated dominance.
He sat in the chair.
He ordered me to strip.
He inspected my middle-aged nakedness.
He pinched my nipple, twisting past pleasure into pain.
I've been spanked over that ottoman.
I've been whipped with his belt.
I've stayed in position without bonds.
I've left wet spots on the leather
and lipstick from the words on my body.
Master's cunt.
The chair is in the basement, in the family room, in the dungeon. The chair sits near where my boy cat gets fed. Marko, my large neurotic loving boy cat. Marko has issues. He is fearful. Fearful, neurotic, and very very submissive to his cute and perky slut of a sister. So he gets fed in a separate spot, on a separate floor. Silly cat.
I feed her first, then bring his food down to his spot under the high basement window. He is always waiting for me. Sometimes he eats right away. Sometimes he paces, looks toward the stairs, worrying about who or what will jump him the minute he turns his back.
I sit on the floor by his food, hoping my motherly presence will make him feel more secure.
I sit on the floor.
I sit on the floor at the foot of the ottoman.
My cunt starts to twitch and I slip into subspace.
The chair is possessed.
Possessed by my master.
He owns the chair, as he owns me.
And his presence is always there.
I slip into subspace, and find myself close by his side. I am kneeling, my knees spread wide, or sitting cross-legged on the floor. My head is in his lap, and he is stroking my hair murmuring that I'm his good girl now, his good kitten, his perfect slave...
Sometimes a fog of uneasiness descends. I feel a tension, HIS tension. He needs to hurt me.
I feel the tension.
I feel the fear.
I feel the desire, both his and mine.
Marko's chowing down and I'm flooding my panties. Yet again.
This is a true story.
It always happens.
The cats are fed twice a day.
It's an Eames chair. A genuine Eames chair. Well, at least my parents thought it was genuine. My friends have doubts. Still and all, it's a great chair. Black leather, rich curved wood, a welcoming lap, an ottoman. It sits down in the basement family room and is perfect for watching television.
Enter the philosopher.
He traveled down the coast, through one state after another.
He walked in my door.
He claimed me.
And he claimed the chair.
It, she, was always his chair.
She had been waiting for him all her life.
She opened her arms, opened her lap, and he slid right in.
He settled in.
He put his legs up.
He radiated dominance.
He sat in the chair.
He ordered me to strip.
He inspected my middle-aged nakedness.
He pinched my nipple, twisting past pleasure into pain.
I've been spanked over that ottoman.
I've been whipped with his belt.
I've stayed in position without bonds.
I've left wet spots on the leather
and lipstick from the words on my body.
Master's cunt.
The chair is in the basement, in the family room, in the dungeon. The chair sits near where my boy cat gets fed. Marko, my large neurotic loving boy cat. Marko has issues. He is fearful. Fearful, neurotic, and very very submissive to his cute and perky slut of a sister. So he gets fed in a separate spot, on a separate floor. Silly cat.
I feed her first, then bring his food down to his spot under the high basement window. He is always waiting for me. Sometimes he eats right away. Sometimes he paces, looks toward the stairs, worrying about who or what will jump him the minute he turns his back.
I sit on the floor by his food, hoping my motherly presence will make him feel more secure.
I sit on the floor.
I sit on the floor at the foot of the ottoman.
My cunt starts to twitch and I slip into subspace.
The chair is possessed.
Possessed by my master.
He owns the chair, as he owns me.
And his presence is always there.
I slip into subspace, and find myself close by his side. I am kneeling, my knees spread wide, or sitting cross-legged on the floor. My head is in his lap, and he is stroking my hair murmuring that I'm his good girl now, his good kitten, his perfect slave...
Sometimes a fog of uneasiness descends. I feel a tension, HIS tension. He needs to hurt me.
I feel the tension.
I feel the fear.
I feel the desire, both his and mine.
Marko's chowing down and I'm flooding my panties. Yet again.
This is a true story.
It always happens.
The cats are fed twice a day.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
BDSM HGTV
we are designing a house, the philosopher and i. it's a fantasy house, accumulating details in little bursts of erotic inspiration. a fantasy house, but you never can tell.
he keeps me naked in our fantasy house, parading me boldly past a vastness of glass. we're creating our refuge amidst miles of trees. we're very considerate, protecting the neighbors from my screams.
we're surrounded by trees, but he has his favorite. it arises out back, in the huge open area that allows the sun to flood this home to our darkest fantasies. he hauls me to the tree by my hair, ties me hard against the rough bark, sometimes embracing the huge trunk, sometimes arms drawn behind so that i can watch him pull the belt from the loops of his jeans, watch as he folds the strip of leather in half, watch as he brings back his arm before striking, watch his erection stretch the blue denim as welts sprout profusely on belly and thighs.
sometimes he ties my wrists in front of me. he reaches for the rope permanently tied to a strong branch above our heads, lifts me up just off my toes, and attaches my wrists to the hand-forged iron hook at the rope's end. i know it is time for the cane. he loves to watch me dance as he canes me. he knows i'm not trying to escape his blows; i'm much too submissive for that. it's the pain. i can't help it. automatically i wriggle and dance to flee the awful aftershocks that echo down through my ass. i cry out with each blow, and my pain shrieks through the acres of forest. if the screams manage to reach civilization, they are ascribed to some strange wild beast.
in our passion, we are wild beasts.
he canes me, again and again and again.
and honey drips out of my cunt,
pooling beneath my dancing feet.
sometimes i think of bringing in a decorator. or perhaps we are chosen for one of those HGTV design shows, where 3 designers compete to satisfy your house lust. we lead them to the bedroom, and mention our need for hooks that will drop from the ceiling at the press of a secret button. a section of wall will disguise the door to the toy closet, with shelves and rods to keep all his evil implements at hand. we specify thick padding under the stain-proof carpet, to protect my knees when i crawl. which is often.
i demonstrate.
each designer smiles and nods and takes notes as if we were discussing where to put the pantry. each designer shivers only slightly as the philosopher twists my naked nipple and requests a color-coordinated cushion for his pet's cage.
"now here's where we thought of putting the dungeon..."
he keeps me naked in our fantasy house, parading me boldly past a vastness of glass. we're creating our refuge amidst miles of trees. we're very considerate, protecting the neighbors from my screams.
we're surrounded by trees, but he has his favorite. it arises out back, in the huge open area that allows the sun to flood this home to our darkest fantasies. he hauls me to the tree by my hair, ties me hard against the rough bark, sometimes embracing the huge trunk, sometimes arms drawn behind so that i can watch him pull the belt from the loops of his jeans, watch as he folds the strip of leather in half, watch as he brings back his arm before striking, watch his erection stretch the blue denim as welts sprout profusely on belly and thighs.
sometimes he ties my wrists in front of me. he reaches for the rope permanently tied to a strong branch above our heads, lifts me up just off my toes, and attaches my wrists to the hand-forged iron hook at the rope's end. i know it is time for the cane. he loves to watch me dance as he canes me. he knows i'm not trying to escape his blows; i'm much too submissive for that. it's the pain. i can't help it. automatically i wriggle and dance to flee the awful aftershocks that echo down through my ass. i cry out with each blow, and my pain shrieks through the acres of forest. if the screams manage to reach civilization, they are ascribed to some strange wild beast.
in our passion, we are wild beasts.
he canes me, again and again and again.
and honey drips out of my cunt,
pooling beneath my dancing feet.
sometimes i think of bringing in a decorator. or perhaps we are chosen for one of those HGTV design shows, where 3 designers compete to satisfy your house lust. we lead them to the bedroom, and mention our need for hooks that will drop from the ceiling at the press of a secret button. a section of wall will disguise the door to the toy closet, with shelves and rods to keep all his evil implements at hand. we specify thick padding under the stain-proof carpet, to protect my knees when i crawl. which is often.
i demonstrate.
each designer smiles and nods and takes notes as if we were discussing where to put the pantry. each designer shivers only slightly as the philosopher twists my naked nipple and requests a color-coordinated cushion for his pet's cage.
"now here's where we thought of putting the dungeon..."
Absentee Landlord
The philosopher is recovering nicely from his emotional flu. It makes me think of those hushed, tear-jerking scenes in old black and white movies, in which someone of perfect goodness, often a child or soft-edged young woman, lies desperately ill surrounded by her somber family. The doctor intones that all they can do is pray. And then - oh joy! The fever breaks, the tide has turned, she opens her eyes, and slowly comes back to herself, even more saintly than before.
I am by no means implying that the philosopher is a saint, but he did have me scared. And now he is returning to himself. I am again required to give him a wake-up call at 10 am on weekdays, and he is telephonically tucking me in at a night.
The recent lack of regular contact, combined with the absence of tasks, was making my ownership feel rather tenuous. The little things he had sometimes ordered me to do, and which I adopted as my own gifts of submission, were losing their meaning. I usually make a point of wearing pink panties until they run out, and will mention that fact in my wake-up call. The philosopher has a thing about pink. But last week my heart wasn't in it. I have a pair of what I call my slave kitten earrings - tiny brassy squares with a suggestion of a cat subtly etched into each one. I am usually drawn to wear them, not due to any command but from a combination of superstition and symbolic dedication. Last week I felt like a fake putting them on, but was terrified of the potential for disaster if I didn't. I never considered not wearing the paper clip slave chain that lives around my right ankle, but wondered whether that, too, was an empty ritual.
In the end, everything turned out fine, we weathered the crisis and renewed our commitment to communication. But my fears were well-founded on two levels. Any relationship, whether vanilla or D/s, needs care and feeding. Even when people are living together, the bonds that unite them can lose their elasticity and fray to nothing under the strain of lack of attention. But even if you only see each other at bedtime, even if stress has banished sex, a touch, a whisper, a snuggle can be enough to carry you through.
D/s makes absence worse, I think. Submission needs reinforcement, even more at a distance and even more yet during difficult times. What is helping me feel secure again is the return of a very effective task from our early days. I am given one or two highly arbitrary times at which I must leave a message on his cell phone. Oh, I do love this task! It's good for my ADD as it gives structure to my day, and it keeps me constantly focused on being owned. Once he has made the assignment, the philosopher can return his attention to his own tasks without distraction. As a bonus that is both pleasing and torturous, my cunt gets very very twitchy as I make my call.
I think we can manage for a while, if need be, without visits or even delicious extended erotic scenes by phone or e-mail. I'm not happy at the prospect, but it can be done - but only if we keep up other little gestures of affection and confirmations of ownership until our hero completes the quest of slaying the grad student-eating dragon and comes back to claim the princess.
(I was happy to discover that our new blog made a contribution to the normalization of relations. When we spoke Monday morning, the philosopher said that he had finally read what I had been posting all week, and commented that he didn't realize i was so upset. I must admit that I've tended to turn up my nose at couples who were using a blog to communicate, mediated by the comments of their readers. Hey, you guys, can't you just talk to each other? But even if I hadn't been banned from e-mailing, in addition to not wanting to add the burden of my sighs and tears, I found it easier to fully express myself in poems posted on the side of a potentially public brick wall. Hooray for modern technology!)
I am by no means implying that the philosopher is a saint, but he did have me scared. And now he is returning to himself. I am again required to give him a wake-up call at 10 am on weekdays, and he is telephonically tucking me in at a night.
The recent lack of regular contact, combined with the absence of tasks, was making my ownership feel rather tenuous. The little things he had sometimes ordered me to do, and which I adopted as my own gifts of submission, were losing their meaning. I usually make a point of wearing pink panties until they run out, and will mention that fact in my wake-up call. The philosopher has a thing about pink. But last week my heart wasn't in it. I have a pair of what I call my slave kitten earrings - tiny brassy squares with a suggestion of a cat subtly etched into each one. I am usually drawn to wear them, not due to any command but from a combination of superstition and symbolic dedication. Last week I felt like a fake putting them on, but was terrified of the potential for disaster if I didn't. I never considered not wearing the paper clip slave chain that lives around my right ankle, but wondered whether that, too, was an empty ritual.
In the end, everything turned out fine, we weathered the crisis and renewed our commitment to communication. But my fears were well-founded on two levels. Any relationship, whether vanilla or D/s, needs care and feeding. Even when people are living together, the bonds that unite them can lose their elasticity and fray to nothing under the strain of lack of attention. But even if you only see each other at bedtime, even if stress has banished sex, a touch, a whisper, a snuggle can be enough to carry you through.
D/s makes absence worse, I think. Submission needs reinforcement, even more at a distance and even more yet during difficult times. What is helping me feel secure again is the return of a very effective task from our early days. I am given one or two highly arbitrary times at which I must leave a message on his cell phone. Oh, I do love this task! It's good for my ADD as it gives structure to my day, and it keeps me constantly focused on being owned. Once he has made the assignment, the philosopher can return his attention to his own tasks without distraction. As a bonus that is both pleasing and torturous, my cunt gets very very twitchy as I make my call.
I think we can manage for a while, if need be, without visits or even delicious extended erotic scenes by phone or e-mail. I'm not happy at the prospect, but it can be done - but only if we keep up other little gestures of affection and confirmations of ownership until our hero completes the quest of slaying the grad student-eating dragon and comes back to claim the princess.
(I was happy to discover that our new blog made a contribution to the normalization of relations. When we spoke Monday morning, the philosopher said that he had finally read what I had been posting all week, and commented that he didn't realize i was so upset. I must admit that I've tended to turn up my nose at couples who were using a blog to communicate, mediated by the comments of their readers. Hey, you guys, can't you just talk to each other? But even if I hadn't been banned from e-mailing, in addition to not wanting to add the burden of my sighs and tears, I found it easier to fully express myself in poems posted on the side of a potentially public brick wall. Hooray for modern technology!)
Monday, February 25, 2008
If food be the music of love
if food be the music of love
then i am dining on a symphony.
a pretentious name for simple pleasures.
but can you deny that the melodies in a cup of Ceylon tea
could perfectly grace the program of any philharmonic?
and the memories, images both
sweet and sharp, flooding my mind and
my cunt as i wander the farm women's
cooperative market, stopping here and
there to share the triumphant glow
of two more primary wins
and hopes for the future.
hope for the future.
yes, we can.
we
can.
Ceylon tea
long leaf
organic
floral
tea bought to please you,
my owner
my lover
my master, my friend,
now warms my throat with comfort and submission.
a stop to chat with the spice man,
recovered from his Reagan ways
speaking now of change and peppercorns,
a future redolent of vanilla and thyme.
last stop the Turks.
spinach borek, spirited stuffed peppers,
and ever more talk of hope and of change.
immigrants, they are cautious with hope,
but repeat the stories of a young generation,
inspired to vote for the very first time.
and when i served these delights
for the very first time,
eyes on your face for signs of pleasure,
had i already kneeled before you for
the very first time? had you twined
your fingers in my inadequate hair
and pulled my head towards you
for the very first time? had you
placed the cold, heavy chain around
my neck, the chain that beckoned
from the pet supply aisle, the
chain that dwelled
deep in your pocket,
fantasy corporeal,
had you already choked me
for the very first time?
and my shirt.
was i wearing my
shirt as you tasted the
borek and saw it was good?
a man's white shirt, perfect
and blinding, that nightly
embraces your kitten,
embraces your slave,
a most treasured gift among
so many others - was i wearing it then?
had i already crawled for you, sir?
you commanded my nakedness,
kneeling and vulnerable,
cunt gaping wide at your feet.
with focused intent, you pulled
leather from belt loops,
freeing its cruelty along with your own.
you tossed and i crawled,
scuttling obedience,
the tool of my punishment clenched in my teeth.
"again, kitten."
and again i crawled,
frightened and dripping,
sinking with gratitude
in submission's sweet swamp.
had you already orderd me over the ottoman, master?
fully unrestrained, had i offered up my virgin ass
to your belt's leather lashes? had you swelled
with the pride of liberated sadism, had you
forced your cock into my greedy mouth, had you
claimed your right to my remarkable nipples.
had you twisted them till the pain stained my face,
had you proven it, master, my lover, my friend,
had you proven to us both that we weren't just playing,
had we accepted the evidence of an internet miracle,
had we bowed to the truth, master and slave,
lovers and friends, that hemp couldn't bind us
as tightly as our words had, that this wasn't
fantasy, that all this was real.
and then did i feed you, sir?
kneeling beside you,
borek and peppers
and eggplant and tea.
and i lay my head upon your lap
and you stroked my short hair
and i purred with contentment
and we sighed and knew peace.
we did.
we can.
yes.
we
can.
then i am dining on a symphony.
a pretentious name for simple pleasures.
but can you deny that the melodies in a cup of Ceylon tea
could perfectly grace the program of any philharmonic?
and the memories, images both
sweet and sharp, flooding my mind and
my cunt as i wander the farm women's
cooperative market, stopping here and
there to share the triumphant glow
of two more primary wins
and hopes for the future.
hope for the future.
yes, we can.
we
can.
Ceylon tea
long leaf
organic
floral
tea bought to please you,
my owner
my lover
my master, my friend,
now warms my throat with comfort and submission.
a stop to chat with the spice man,
recovered from his Reagan ways
speaking now of change and peppercorns,
a future redolent of vanilla and thyme.
last stop the Turks.
spinach borek, spirited stuffed peppers,
and ever more talk of hope and of change.
immigrants, they are cautious with hope,
but repeat the stories of a young generation,
inspired to vote for the very first time.
and when i served these delights
for the very first time,
eyes on your face for signs of pleasure,
had i already kneeled before you for
the very first time? had you twined
your fingers in my inadequate hair
and pulled my head towards you
for the very first time? had you
placed the cold, heavy chain around
my neck, the chain that beckoned
from the pet supply aisle, the
chain that dwelled
deep in your pocket,
fantasy corporeal,
had you already choked me
for the very first time?
and my shirt.
was i wearing my
shirt as you tasted the
borek and saw it was good?
a man's white shirt, perfect
and blinding, that nightly
embraces your kitten,
embraces your slave,
a most treasured gift among
so many others - was i wearing it then?
had i already crawled for you, sir?
you commanded my nakedness,
kneeling and vulnerable,
cunt gaping wide at your feet.
with focused intent, you pulled
leather from belt loops,
freeing its cruelty along with your own.
you tossed and i crawled,
scuttling obedience,
the tool of my punishment clenched in my teeth.
"again, kitten."
and again i crawled,
frightened and dripping,
sinking with gratitude
in submission's sweet swamp.
had you already orderd me over the ottoman, master?
fully unrestrained, had i offered up my virgin ass
to your belt's leather lashes? had you swelled
with the pride of liberated sadism, had you
forced your cock into my greedy mouth, had you
claimed your right to my remarkable nipples.
had you twisted them till the pain stained my face,
had you proven it, master, my lover, my friend,
had you proven to us both that we weren't just playing,
had we accepted the evidence of an internet miracle,
had we bowed to the truth, master and slave,
lovers and friends, that hemp couldn't bind us
as tightly as our words had, that this wasn't
fantasy, that all this was real.
and then did i feed you, sir?
kneeling beside you,
borek and peppers
and eggplant and tea.
and i lay my head upon your lap
and you stroked my short hair
and i purred with contentment
and we sighed and knew peace.
we did.
we can.
yes.
we
can.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Abstinence
Given that this is supposed to be a sex blog, there's not an awful lot of sex here. But then, there's not an awful lot of sex in my life these days.
What with the 250 miles separating me from the philosopher, and the chapter-and-a-half separating the philosopher from his PhD, there in fact hasn't been much body-to-body contact at all in the last year. But there was still plenty of sex. And a lot of denial of sex. Which can be pretty sexy in its own right depending on how it's done.
I hate not being allowed to cum.
I love not being allowed to cum.
Because I love being controlled.
Orgasm denial makes me feel ropes around my wrists. I feel a collar around my neck. Not the hard cold metal choke collar that the philosopher bought for me in the pet aisle of his neighborhood CVS or Rite-Aid or whatever they have out where he lives. It's a leather collar I feel, snug and definitive. There is a leash attached. Despite spanning 4 states, the line is taut. The philosopher looks up from his writing and notes the rising musk, as my fingers absently twine amongst the trimmed red cunt curls. He gives a tug, and cuts short my brief rebellion against his clear command of "No touching. No cumming."
Recently, as things grew difficult, he relaxed the order. Touching was ok but cumming was still out. The fondling was comforting but not all that satisfying. Still, it was better than nothing.
But now our words are few and far between. There are new rules as we curtail our interactions for the greater good. Since we started this diet about a week ago, I have been granted but 3 wake-up calls to him and the one precious night when he called to tuck me in. No long meandering sadistic loving babbling tormenting phone calls, though he did leave me with some beatiful rubber band welts when he put me to bed Friday night.
So there has been no discussion of my needs. And as the stress grows greater, I've gone beyond just touching. Not out of rebellion but out of need. There have been orgasms, efficient and powerful orgasms, with great heaving sobs and torrents of tears.
And what do I want now that I've confessed my sins? I'm not sure really. The philosopher is usually delighted to have an excuse to punish me. Of course, as he never fails to remind me, he doesn't need a reason, he can cane me whenever he wants. (He spanks me, too, and has a fine old time with his belt on my ass, but caning seems to possess an inherent air of punishment.) I'm not sure whether it's his Catholic upbringing or what, but he seems most satisfied when the beating is preceded by a recitation of my sins. He loves how upset the scolding makes me, even when the sins are either totally fabricated or highly embroidered versions of the high-strung behaviour that any kitten will manifest, even one that has been enslaved and should know better,
I could, in fact, use a good punishment. I feel cleansed afterwards, and leave behind significant wet spots. But a proper punishment requires a lot of attention, and the philosopher has set aside much of his sadism while he crawls at the feet of his cruel dissertation. So I don't expect a punishment. And that still wouldn't solve the problem of relieving my stress until my master can resume his duties.
I don't think a free hand in the matter is what I need, either. I've been feeling so much stronger and clearer since the philosopher has been controlling at least parts of my life that especially now, when I need to use my submission to get through this period of semi-detachment, prescribed limits would help.
So maybe a finite number of orgasms per week would do. Can one dom onesself if one's owner can't fulfill all his responsibilities due to other pressing matters? I doubt I could make myself feel the tug on the leash. But maybe it's worth a try.
Until then, those remembrances of canings past triggered a bout of nether twitching that needs attending to...
What with the 250 miles separating me from the philosopher, and the chapter-and-a-half separating the philosopher from his PhD, there in fact hasn't been much body-to-body contact at all in the last year. But there was still plenty of sex. And a lot of denial of sex. Which can be pretty sexy in its own right depending on how it's done.
I hate not being allowed to cum.
I love not being allowed to cum.
Because I love being controlled.
Orgasm denial makes me feel ropes around my wrists. I feel a collar around my neck. Not the hard cold metal choke collar that the philosopher bought for me in the pet aisle of his neighborhood CVS or Rite-Aid or whatever they have out where he lives. It's a leather collar I feel, snug and definitive. There is a leash attached. Despite spanning 4 states, the line is taut. The philosopher looks up from his writing and notes the rising musk, as my fingers absently twine amongst the trimmed red cunt curls. He gives a tug, and cuts short my brief rebellion against his clear command of "No touching. No cumming."
Recently, as things grew difficult, he relaxed the order. Touching was ok but cumming was still out. The fondling was comforting but not all that satisfying. Still, it was better than nothing.
But now our words are few and far between. There are new rules as we curtail our interactions for the greater good. Since we started this diet about a week ago, I have been granted but 3 wake-up calls to him and the one precious night when he called to tuck me in. No long meandering sadistic loving babbling tormenting phone calls, though he did leave me with some beatiful rubber band welts when he put me to bed Friday night.
So there has been no discussion of my needs. And as the stress grows greater, I've gone beyond just touching. Not out of rebellion but out of need. There have been orgasms, efficient and powerful orgasms, with great heaving sobs and torrents of tears.
And what do I want now that I've confessed my sins? I'm not sure really. The philosopher is usually delighted to have an excuse to punish me. Of course, as he never fails to remind me, he doesn't need a reason, he can cane me whenever he wants. (He spanks me, too, and has a fine old time with his belt on my ass, but caning seems to possess an inherent air of punishment.) I'm not sure whether it's his Catholic upbringing or what, but he seems most satisfied when the beating is preceded by a recitation of my sins. He loves how upset the scolding makes me, even when the sins are either totally fabricated or highly embroidered versions of the high-strung behaviour that any kitten will manifest, even one that has been enslaved and should know better,
I could, in fact, use a good punishment. I feel cleansed afterwards, and leave behind significant wet spots. But a proper punishment requires a lot of attention, and the philosopher has set aside much of his sadism while he crawls at the feet of his cruel dissertation. So I don't expect a punishment. And that still wouldn't solve the problem of relieving my stress until my master can resume his duties.
I don't think a free hand in the matter is what I need, either. I've been feeling so much stronger and clearer since the philosopher has been controlling at least parts of my life that especially now, when I need to use my submission to get through this period of semi-detachment, prescribed limits would help.
So maybe a finite number of orgasms per week would do. Can one dom onesself if one's owner can't fulfill all his responsibilities due to other pressing matters? I doubt I could make myself feel the tug on the leash. But maybe it's worth a try.
Until then, those remembrances of canings past triggered a bout of nether twitching that needs attending to...
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Leave of Absence
the philosopher is a grad student. he's writing his dissertation.
the philosopher is depressed. he needs to finish. he needs to focus. there's no time for kittens. he needs to take a break.
the philosopher tried to leave me.
i think i dissuaded him.
i held on through his tears, a mythic heroine outlasting the shape shifter, holding him close through dragon and snake. enchantment is hard to defeat with a cell phone, but i can be stubborn and maybe i won.
maybe.
i'm an expert in grad students.
ex-hubby #1 was a grad student. Harvard. he began his dissertation. the trash filled with crumpled paper in those days before PCs and recycling. depression descended. it coated the walls as well as his soul. there was nothing left for me.
one day the cloud lifted. surprise! didn’t there used to be a wife around here somewhere?
i'd been busy. i'd made new friends. i'd been learning to laugh.
i don't like neglect.
we were very young.
he was a nice man.
we loved each other.
depression is hard.
it wasn't his fault.
but it was too late.
ex-hubby #2 had a girlfriend. the one before me.
this ex-hubby was also a grad student. he broke up with his old girlfriend after a while. he didn't have time for her. he figured he'd get back with her later. meanwhile he had me for amusement, tossing me bits of time and sex like peanuts to the elephant. i devoured them gratefully, figuring that's all i was worth. counting myself lucky.
dissertation done, he broke up with me to get back with old girlfriend.
she laughed in his face. me, i wasn't that bright and again, gratefully, devoured the left-over peanuts. for twenty years.
we were a little less young.
he was not a nice man.
i loved him.
and this time, the depression was mine.
i don't like neglect.
but i took it.
and when the prison door opened, the damage was done.
still, stupidly, i thought there might be another chance for me. or maybe at the very least i'd get laid. but i wasn't that stupid. i made a list.
no academicians.
no musicians.
one out of two isn't bad...
so now i've got another grad student.
(or should i say, he now has me.)
but this time i have experience. i know what i'm in for. and i know the prize is worth playing for. so i accept the new rules. i accept the silent phone. i accept the stagnant inbox that was created just for him. i try not to cry. i don't want to be a burden. i want him to finish.
and i want to prove that this time i can get it right.
i WILL get it right.
eventually, we'll be together again.
and like before, it will be amazing.
let's not talk ages.
he's a very nice man.
it seems we're bashert.
i try not to cry.
and together we'll make it through.
- - - - -
i fall asleep on the couch and awake to find Marko stretched out on my legs. asleep himself, he is warm and soft and trusting. i reach down, touch his greyness, stroke his adoration, and wish that right now i could be that for you. that right now i could curl into you, warm and soft and trusting. our bond would transcend your struggles, our sleep would lick away your pain. somehow your closeness would fill me with peace and security. and somehow, through a magic as improbable as our meeting, i would breathe it all back into you.
the philosopher is depressed. he needs to finish. he needs to focus. there's no time for kittens. he needs to take a break.
the philosopher tried to leave me.
i think i dissuaded him.
i held on through his tears, a mythic heroine outlasting the shape shifter, holding him close through dragon and snake. enchantment is hard to defeat with a cell phone, but i can be stubborn and maybe i won.
maybe.
i'm an expert in grad students.
ex-hubby #1 was a grad student. Harvard. he began his dissertation. the trash filled with crumpled paper in those days before PCs and recycling. depression descended. it coated the walls as well as his soul. there was nothing left for me.
one day the cloud lifted. surprise! didn’t there used to be a wife around here somewhere?
i'd been busy. i'd made new friends. i'd been learning to laugh.
i don't like neglect.
we were very young.
he was a nice man.
we loved each other.
depression is hard.
it wasn't his fault.
but it was too late.
ex-hubby #2 had a girlfriend. the one before me.
this ex-hubby was also a grad student. he broke up with his old girlfriend after a while. he didn't have time for her. he figured he'd get back with her later. meanwhile he had me for amusement, tossing me bits of time and sex like peanuts to the elephant. i devoured them gratefully, figuring that's all i was worth. counting myself lucky.
dissertation done, he broke up with me to get back with old girlfriend.
she laughed in his face. me, i wasn't that bright and again, gratefully, devoured the left-over peanuts. for twenty years.
we were a little less young.
he was not a nice man.
i loved him.
and this time, the depression was mine.
i don't like neglect.
but i took it.
and when the prison door opened, the damage was done.
still, stupidly, i thought there might be another chance for me. or maybe at the very least i'd get laid. but i wasn't that stupid. i made a list.
no academicians.
no musicians.
one out of two isn't bad...
so now i've got another grad student.
(or should i say, he now has me.)
but this time i have experience. i know what i'm in for. and i know the prize is worth playing for. so i accept the new rules. i accept the silent phone. i accept the stagnant inbox that was created just for him. i try not to cry. i don't want to be a burden. i want him to finish.
and i want to prove that this time i can get it right.
i WILL get it right.
eventually, we'll be together again.
and like before, it will be amazing.
let's not talk ages.
he's a very nice man.
it seems we're bashert.
i try not to cry.
and together we'll make it through.
- - - - -
i fall asleep on the couch and awake to find Marko stretched out on my legs. asleep himself, he is warm and soft and trusting. i reach down, touch his greyness, stroke his adoration, and wish that right now i could be that for you. that right now i could curl into you, warm and soft and trusting. our bond would transcend your struggles, our sleep would lick away your pain. somehow your closeness would fill me with peace and security. and somehow, through a magic as improbable as our meeting, i would breathe it all back into you.
Friday, February 22, 2008
A post a day keeps depression away
Well, maybe not. But the philosopher has decided that I should post daily.
he is right, of course. i'm rather scattered and unfocused, and having specific tasks gives me a sense of direction and confinement which helps keep me facing the right way. It's as if he has put me in a harness, with a bit in my mouth. even at a distance he holds the reins in his hands. he tries to keep me going forward rather than straying off the path to munch on grass or chase a squirrel. it's odd using a horse image for a kitten, but it takes so much strength and effort to keep me controlled and progressing that I might as well be a large lumbering beast.
you may notice a measure of inconsistency in my use of capitalization. i am most definitely not one of those owned submissives who has adopted by choice or obedience lower case letters for herself and upper case for her Master (for example). since the beginning, the philosopher and i have been feeling our way through this relationship, which is rooted in D/s but is so much more. as he said to me very early on, we are making it up as we go along. our rules are our own. so don't go sending out the D/s Capitalization Police to haul me away. in any case, the only one allowed to imprison or otherwise punish me is the philosopher, and he is a very jealous and possessive master indeed.
no, the inconsistent capitalization is due to sheer laziness combined with weak typing skills. the fewer extra details i have to worry about the better.
a more important issue is - why a blog anyway? and for whom?
certainly, the world doesn't need another blog. if the curtains are ever opened and the public allowed to peek in, i don't expect the grass outside our fantasy house will be trampled by a greedy public hungry for the details of our relatively gentle bdsm adventures. so it's not for them - although of course any readers are very welcome, and invited to sit down with us for tea and oatmeal cookies. i will serve you wearing a little white half-apron and nipple bells.
is it for the philosopher? yes, of course, everything is for you, you own me and thus all my efforts are for you. i want to please you. i want your approval. i want you to be proud of me. i want you to stroke my hair and say "good kitten" in that voice that would make me do anything, endure anything, just to be caressed with those two little words.
but in the end, i must admit, it is for myself.
on April 13 of 2007, a couple of months into an intense on-line D/s relationship with the potential of becoming something more, i went roaming around Google looking for information and guidance and a clue as to what goes on in the mind and libido of a dominant man. i stumbled on roper, the English Gentleman, whose blog was unfortunately abruptly discontinued last october. i was impressed by his writing and helped by his musings. i wrote to say thank you, as well as to blurt out to someone, anyone, how my life had been turned upside down. he made some useful comments, suggested some blogs by submissives which i still follow, and asked if i'd thought to start my own blog. i was flattered, but dismissed the idea. the philosopher and i were learning, exploring, and had yet to meet in person, so i doubted i had anything to offer anyone else. however, roper and i continued our correspondence. he was the recipient of a sort of blog-for-one, serving as an outside ear, a helpful commentator, and a structure for my over-intellectualizing as i contemplated my desires, fears, and very wet panties.
i didn't comment publicly on anyone else's blog until after the philosopher and i met in person, 6 months to the day after i'd posted my ad to craigslist.
so why go public now? (if anyone but the philosopher is reading this, he must have given me permission to go public. it is all up to him.)
partly pride, combined with amusement and guilt, over having passed 1,000 peeks at my profile without my having anything to offer in return. (Congratulations to David for being the thousandth visitor, and thanks for letting me see that milestone. i suppose you should get some sort of reward?)
partly guilt (again guilt...) over the length of the comments i leave elsewhere, which has made me think i need space of my own where i can babble on for as long as i'd like.
partly the hope that if i am writing for the public i will learn to babble less.
partly the desire/need for approval and praise. i am a sub, after all... plus my self-esteem is a bit shaky these days and i need to be reminded that i am good at something.
partly in hope of inspiring discussion. do please tell me how clever i am. but after that please leave a long, thoughtful, challenging comment. not nasty. i really don't like nasty. i might get snide if you're nasty and i'm not sure the philosopher would approve.
well then. i've babbled way too much. in general, i'm hoping that blogging will teach me to trim and revise and edit, but this post is by way of an introduction so everything had to go in there. i'll be more efficient in the future. the philosopher will see to that.
he is right, of course. i'm rather scattered and unfocused, and having specific tasks gives me a sense of direction and confinement which helps keep me facing the right way. It's as if he has put me in a harness, with a bit in my mouth. even at a distance he holds the reins in his hands. he tries to keep me going forward rather than straying off the path to munch on grass or chase a squirrel. it's odd using a horse image for a kitten, but it takes so much strength and effort to keep me controlled and progressing that I might as well be a large lumbering beast.
you may notice a measure of inconsistency in my use of capitalization. i am most definitely not one of those owned submissives who has adopted by choice or obedience lower case letters for herself and upper case for her Master (for example). since the beginning, the philosopher and i have been feeling our way through this relationship, which is rooted in D/s but is so much more. as he said to me very early on, we are making it up as we go along. our rules are our own. so don't go sending out the D/s Capitalization Police to haul me away. in any case, the only one allowed to imprison or otherwise punish me is the philosopher, and he is a very jealous and possessive master indeed.
no, the inconsistent capitalization is due to sheer laziness combined with weak typing skills. the fewer extra details i have to worry about the better.
a more important issue is - why a blog anyway? and for whom?
certainly, the world doesn't need another blog. if the curtains are ever opened and the public allowed to peek in, i don't expect the grass outside our fantasy house will be trampled by a greedy public hungry for the details of our relatively gentle bdsm adventures. so it's not for them - although of course any readers are very welcome, and invited to sit down with us for tea and oatmeal cookies. i will serve you wearing a little white half-apron and nipple bells.
is it for the philosopher? yes, of course, everything is for you, you own me and thus all my efforts are for you. i want to please you. i want your approval. i want you to be proud of me. i want you to stroke my hair and say "good kitten" in that voice that would make me do anything, endure anything, just to be caressed with those two little words.
but in the end, i must admit, it is for myself.
on April 13 of 2007, a couple of months into an intense on-line D/s relationship with the potential of becoming something more, i went roaming around Google looking for information and guidance and a clue as to what goes on in the mind and libido of a dominant man. i stumbled on roper, the English Gentleman, whose blog was unfortunately abruptly discontinued last october. i was impressed by his writing and helped by his musings. i wrote to say thank you, as well as to blurt out to someone, anyone, how my life had been turned upside down. he made some useful comments, suggested some blogs by submissives which i still follow, and asked if i'd thought to start my own blog. i was flattered, but dismissed the idea. the philosopher and i were learning, exploring, and had yet to meet in person, so i doubted i had anything to offer anyone else. however, roper and i continued our correspondence. he was the recipient of a sort of blog-for-one, serving as an outside ear, a helpful commentator, and a structure for my over-intellectualizing as i contemplated my desires, fears, and very wet panties.
i didn't comment publicly on anyone else's blog until after the philosopher and i met in person, 6 months to the day after i'd posted my ad to craigslist.
so why go public now? (if anyone but the philosopher is reading this, he must have given me permission to go public. it is all up to him.)
partly pride, combined with amusement and guilt, over having passed 1,000 peeks at my profile without my having anything to offer in return. (Congratulations to David for being the thousandth visitor, and thanks for letting me see that milestone. i suppose you should get some sort of reward?)
partly guilt (again guilt...) over the length of the comments i leave elsewhere, which has made me think i need space of my own where i can babble on for as long as i'd like.
partly the hope that if i am writing for the public i will learn to babble less.
partly the desire/need for approval and praise. i am a sub, after all... plus my self-esteem is a bit shaky these days and i need to be reminded that i am good at something.
partly in hope of inspiring discussion. do please tell me how clever i am. but after that please leave a long, thoughtful, challenging comment. not nasty. i really don't like nasty. i might get snide if you're nasty and i'm not sure the philosopher would approve.
well then. i've babbled way too much. in general, i'm hoping that blogging will teach me to trim and revise and edit, but this post is by way of an introduction so everything had to go in there. i'll be more efficient in the future. the philosopher will see to that.
Monday, February 18, 2008
meow?
it isn't that easy
to give up a pet;
wherever you go,
she'll follow you home.
she'll follow your footprints
she'll follow your tears
no matter the distance
she'll follow you home.
you'll bar all the windows
you'll lock up your heart
yet there in the morning
she's curled at your feet.
we're bound to each other.
there is no escape.
so open your arms
and let me come home.
to give up a pet;
wherever you go,
she'll follow you home.
she'll follow your footprints
she'll follow your tears
no matter the distance
she'll follow you home.
you'll bar all the windows
you'll lock up your heart
yet there in the morning
she's curled at your feet.
we're bound to each other.
there is no escape.
so open your arms
and let me come home.
Don't Look Down
there is no detour.
the chasm looms.
a frayed rope bridge
shudders and bucks
in the sharp, savage wind.
take my hand.
together we can.
we can make it across
and continue the journey.
the chasm looms.
a frayed rope bridge
shudders and bucks
in the sharp, savage wind.
take my hand.
together we can.
we can make it across
and continue the journey.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
In the beginning...
Sex and words, passion and metaphors - w4m
Literate woman seeks intelligent man for creative erotic correspondence. Just saying how big you are and where you'd like to stick it won't do it. Must be comfortable with adjectives and metaphors. Let's create elaborate scenes, described in detail, exploring the heights of passion and pushing our fantasies to their edge with the power of our words.
I admit it, we won't get that special deep satisfaction and release that actual physical contact brings. But in some ways an on-line sexual conversation with a stranger can be even more intimate, revealing, and risky than jumping into bed, as we share our deepest longings and fantasies in a way that doesn't always happen face-to-face or body-to-body. So seduce me with the strength of your intellect and the power of your imagination, and I will open myself to whatever adventures you can conjure up, throw myself into your fantasies, and draw you into mine.
Age, location, race are all irrelevant. Your goal is for my heart to beat faster, among other obvious physical responses, when I see your name in my inbox, and for you to feel the same at seeing a message from me.
In your reply, give me a taste of what you have to offer.
"and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes." (in honor of the author's recent birthday)
[posted to craigslist Washington DC on Saturday, February 3, 2007 at 8:06pm]
Literate woman seeks intelligent man for creative erotic correspondence. Just saying how big you are and where you'd like to stick it won't do it. Must be comfortable with adjectives and metaphors. Let's create elaborate scenes, described in detail, exploring the heights of passion and pushing our fantasies to their edge with the power of our words.
I admit it, we won't get that special deep satisfaction and release that actual physical contact brings. But in some ways an on-line sexual conversation with a stranger can be even more intimate, revealing, and risky than jumping into bed, as we share our deepest longings and fantasies in a way that doesn't always happen face-to-face or body-to-body. So seduce me with the strength of your intellect and the power of your imagination, and I will open myself to whatever adventures you can conjure up, throw myself into your fantasies, and draw you into mine.
Age, location, race are all irrelevant. Your goal is for my heart to beat faster, among other obvious physical responses, when I see your name in my inbox, and for you to feel the same at seeing a message from me.
In your reply, give me a taste of what you have to offer.
"and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes." (in honor of the author's recent birthday)
[posted to craigslist Washington DC on Saturday, February 3, 2007 at 8:06pm]
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