Phone Sex is NOT Obsolete!

I have made a small start on the probably impossible task of rescuing my house from qualifying as a toxic waste dump. Though maybe I should allow that to happen if it means I'd qualify for Federal clean-up funds...

Somewhere I came across the never-read March 16th issue of the Washington Post Magazine, which of course is far inferior to the New York Times magazine. Still, I was stopped from tossing it by a flashing glimpse of the cover story about "objects, habits and attitudes that are sliding into obsolescence." Because what treasured activity were they claiming to be as dead as a dodo? And a castrated, virgin dodo at that?

Phone Sex.

Now the philosopher and I used to have some great e-mail sex. We never stooped so low as to copulate via instant messenger - we are both way too verbal for such a short cut. But what a thrill it was when, in the middle of an excruciatingly hot e-mail session, he suddenly wrote: "Call me." And appended his phone number.

At first he said that we wouldn't use the phone often. It was to be saved for special occasions. But eventually the balance shifted and most of our scenes and love-making and torturously incomplete sadistic foreplay would occur over the phone. The philosopher would have the pleasure of hearing my voice change as I slipped into subspace (although he does say that he can always hear that shift in my written words). And he loves my little moans and whimpers, my pathetically useless pleas, and the loud cries and heaving sobs of the orgasms he grants me. You just can't get those in a text message.

So while I would certainly agree that CAC (Computer-Aided Copulation) has cut into the prevalence of phone sex, I can't agree that it has rendered obsolete what can justifiably share the name of Oral Sex with the more slurpy sort of act.

Anyway, here is the original piece on the topic at hand, plus the link to the complete article. See what you think.

Phone Sex

b. late 1870s -- d. mid-1990s

Once, the number of words you could type per minute was impressive only to an employer. Today, the hunt-and-pecker is seriously handicapped in a much more personal arena: sex.

Thanks to instant- and text-messaging, phone sex is going the way of the VHS. There are just too many advantages to being an SMS or AIM Casanova. You need not worry about phone bills or eavesdropping roommates; images can be swapped quickly or even live; and most IM and text sex can be pursued right at the dinner table or office desk, under the guise of getting homework assignments or checking the human rights situation in China. It's also low effort (even orgasm requires little but holding down a couple of vowel keys and hitting return, then gracefully exiting the situation with a quick BRB or TTYL) and can be saved for later enjoyment (control + c, control + v and voila).

Some are taking it a few steps further. With virtual reality programs such as Second Life, people create avatars of themselves and go on to have illicit affairs and even long-term relationships, often conducted solely with staccato onscreen messages.

Of course, a certain level of intimacy is lost. Giggles are gone; pauses all the more fraught. (Is he transported by passion . . . or IMing another girl concurrently?)

While it's doubtful these media could ever threaten the popularity of the actual act, there's no shortage of people eager to experiment with them. According to a survey conducted in Canada for the site Campuskiss.com, more college students take part in instant-messenger sex than in any kind of telephonic sex.

Because love means never having to say, "Can you hear me now?"

You can read the whole article here.

Boobies for Z

After protracted negotiations in smoke-filled rooms with a babble of other fiercely soft-hearted sex-bloggers, Marianne has posted the following enticing bribe offer:

As I wrote previously, our dear friend and fellow blogger Z needs some financial lovin’ from us all right now. Based on conversation that started here in comments, Ms. Cake has hatched a plan that would have sex-bloggers showing their boobies for Z. No, not to Z, for Z.

Here’s how it will work. So far, over $600 has been raised. We want at least $3000 (we want much more, but that’s an awfully good start). To that end, several bloggers are willing to submit photos of their breasts or other interesting bits for posting publicly. If that fundraising target is reached… you’ll see it all! Or at least more than you’ve seen so far.

Any bloggers who would like to donate their assets (on top of their cash) to this worthwhile project should just post all of the relevant information, especially a link to Z and her donate button, and let me know so that I can add your name to the list. I’ll also keep a link in my sidebar, so that you know how close we are getting, and whether there are new participants.

Generous (and generously endowed) bloggers so far willing to bare it for Z:

Akrazael
Duke Orsino
Having My Cake
Helga Hansen
Lina
Marianne
Oatmeal Girl (with the equally generous permission of the philosopher)
Penny
Ro
Z

Wanna see my delicious nipples? Please give to the cause.

The Beating

i've been trying to present my old writing in some sort of chronological order, but am offering this one now because my persisting sadness called it to mind.

i wrote it on April 20th of last year, before i had ever met my faceless correspondent, before my ass had ever been subjected to the lash of his belt or the cut of the cane. the following comments were among those i sent with it to the philosopher:

Thursday night. You had granted me permission to masturbate. i am relieved, pleased at how sensitive you are to the highly flammable nature of my cunt. i settle down into the bed. perhaps i pushed back the covers so from 250 miles away you could watch. tho if you could see from 250 miles away, a few blankets shouldn't have hindered your sight any. but it's a mental thing. tools to trigger my imagination, to take me to that place where everything is real.

You had just threatened me with more "cyber-lashings" in the coming weeks as you battled end-of-term aggravations, so i took off from there for my masturbation fantasy. and soon lost control of it. it happens. when i write, like with Pirandello, it happens. the stories, the poems, they write themselves. i merely live them.

The masturbation itself was no big deal. It did the job, but i feel so spoiled now by what we do together, which is so phenomenally intense that i wake up the next morning feeling as if we'd been making love all night. This felt lonely. It was the usual, the way you've trained me. breasts, nipples, my finger as your tongue, the palm of my hand - which oddly i hadn't done for a long time before you, but was how i used to touch myself when i was very young.

I came. not a huge orgasm, but i came. and then kept stimulating my clit, causing one little aftershock orgasm after another, so that my body kept experiencing these little sharp jerks in rapid succession. and i did call your name.

as for the story...

as i mentioned late last night, i was rather stunned the next morning, stunned by its cruelty. and as i thought it over, assembling the masturbation fantasy into a story, i suddenly realized that it wasn't about you. it was all symbolic and although you were cast in it, it wasn't about you, or only nominally so. it was all about my marriage, and all the psychological pain, and the neglect, and what revealed the true meaning was the wishful-thinking apology at the end. so while the orgasm wasn't all that strong, the story was, and in fact i held off writing it down because yesterday i wasn't quite ready to face it again. and do feel shaken now that i've written it.

but that's good. it was a helpful therapeutic exercise, albeit of an accidental nature. it's all part of letting the past go.


* * * * * * * * * * * *

20 April 2007


"Strip, kitten. Now. Strip and crawl up the stairs. I want to watch you crawl."

She stripped, removing everything but the paper clip slave chain she
wore at all times, and the beautiful leather collar, embossed with
Celtic knots, that she was required to wear only in private. His tone
was stern and cold. She knew he'd had a hard day. She knew the end of
the term would be difficult. She knew that what was coming would not
be pleasant. She knew it didn't matter.

She crawled up the stairs, feeling him following behind her. Every so
often he gave her ass a hard slap. Harder than necessary to encourage
her progress. Already, this was not pleasant.

She paused at the top of the stairs, although she knew what would be next.

"Crawl, kitten. Crawl to the bed and lie down on your belly."

She crawled. She lay down. One by one, he grabbed each wrist and
ankle, and tied them tightly to the four corners of the bed. She heard
him remove a host of items from the toy chest. She felt him grab her
head by her hair and pull it up, turning it to so he could see her
face.

"This isn't about you, kitten. You must remember this. It isn't about
you. But I need to do it."

He let her head back down, gently, which surprised and comforted her.
And then he gagged her. Which she hated.

"This isn't about you, kitten. So I don't want to hear you cry out. I
don't want to hear your pain."

And then he blindfolded her. And she was gone. Gone deep inside, where
she would hide until it was over.

He started with the back of the hairbrush. He didn't even want to
touch her skin. This wasn't about her. The hairbrush was a warm-up
spanking. Even now, even as he used her body purely as an outlet for
his own anger, he couldn't keep from being thoughtful. She meant too
much to him, he couldn't really block her out of his consciousness, he
knew he should prepare her ass for what was to come.

Her ass was mildly rosy. Her response had been stoic. It was time to go on.

She heard the leather belt being pulled through the loops of his
jeans. She heard and she braced herself.

The first stroke was hard. There was a pause. The next one was harder.
Another pause. And then he let himself go, whipping her furiously,
raining one blow after another on her defenseless body. They used to
advise punching a pillow, but he had his kitten's ass and he was going
to use it.

And kitten? She was deep in subspace, overwhelmed by the pain,
overwhelmed by his fury, not thinking. It was the only way to get
through it.

Finally, he stopped. He stopped, but only because there was more to
come. The swish of the cane in the air penetrated her numbed
consciousness. She groaned behind the gag. She groaned and he heard
her.

"Only six of them, kitten. I promise. Only six." He was almost
pleading with her to accept them. Of course, she had no choice. But at
least she knew it was almost over.

He hit her hard, and aimed the blows precisely. The pain was vicious.
But he hadn't lied. There were only six.

He was done. He stood there, looking down at her, looking down at her
bright red buttocks, breathing hard. He returned the cane and the
brush to the toy chest. He picked up the tube of soothing lotion, and
sat down on the bed beside her legs. Cautiously, he inserted one
finger into her cunt. She was wet. He was hard. But this hadn't been
about sex. He squeezed out some of the lotion, and with the lightest
of touches massaged it into her abused ass. She jerked away from his
touch at first, it hurt too much, but eventually the lotion eased the
pain in her flesh, although not the pain in her heart.

He rose. He untied each limb, methodically, deliberately. He sat down
on the bed again, this time near her waist. Finally, he removed the
gag. Finally he removed the blindfold. Finally he gathered her in his
arms, being careful not to put her weight on her poor buttocks.

Only then did she start to cry. She sobbed. She sobbed so hard he
thought her body would explode. She sobbed and he held her, he rocked
her, he held her close to him and stroked her head. He rocked her, and
whispered over and over

"I'm so sorry, kitten. I'm so sorry. It had nothing to do with you.
Please believe me. I'm so sorry..."

Hands Across the Blogosphere

Every so often, I put out an embarrassing plea for comments. I'm an insecure little submissive, desperate for approval. Actually, to hell with approval, I'd be content with regular signs of life.

One of my few dependable commenters has been Z. She not only comments, but leaves behind snippets of praise that make me blush. Z was one of my early inspirations to become a blogger myself. Good writing turns me on almost as much as threats of a caning, and Z can take responsibility for some of my literary orgasms. My brain is still too befogged by progesterone to be able to pin down what it is about her writing that I like so much, so you'll just have to check her out for yourself at The Naked Truth.

Now here is how this connects to the loud silence of most of my readers.

Z has somehow gotten herself into a major financial fix. Being horribly in debt myself at the moment, due to 2 years of on-and-off unemployment, I can fully sympathize with her plight. A friend has posted a little donation box on Z's website, and I am hoping that some of you might be moved to drop in anything you can spare. Devalued though the US dollar may be, every buck or two helps. Me, I've done my bit, which is rather a big deal for me since almost the only one receiving freely-given cash from me during my period of penury has been Barack Obama.

And the connection to this blog? Z's financial picture is such that she'll have to cut back on her Internetworking. So no more of her daily comments here for a while. Which will make the absence of even little hand waves from the rest of you that much more obvious.

Consider any donation you can make to be a guilt tax on your silence. Or think of it as just a small payback to the people who regularly reveal so much more than you will find in the occasional pictures of bare nipples, moist cunts, and proffered butts. Scattered across the blogosphere are the intimacies of our souls, complete with scars and running sores.

Help for Z will be a small thank you to everyone you have ever read.

sad...

i just left a reply to marianne's comment on my post "the cage." i kept using the word "sad." because i am. sad.

now i know, and the philosopher knows, that all my emotions this past week and until the earliest monday night must be taken with a box of kosher salt. since i am permanently on estrogen, or my entire vocabulary will vanish in a puff of menopausal miasma, i must take progesterone for 10 days every three months or dire things happen. well, things are pretty dire anyway during those 10 days, as i am wracked by emotional hormone storms. the philosopher is a saint for putting up with them. he knows what is going on and keeps things in perspective, for which i am truly grateful. so yes, some of this sadness is chemically induced.

but it has been coming over me pretty regularly every weekend, although i can be distracted by company and activity. still, i am sad.

part of the new regime after the last time the philosopher tried to break up with me was to eliminate weekend contact. he is under so much pressure to finish the Damn Dissertation that he is trying to reduce both other responsibilities and distractions. so no more phone dates saturday nights. often no tucking me in on friday nights. and with my wake-up calls cut short since i'm at the office, and thursday nights calls short because he is often tired, that generally leaves only 3 or 4 nights for a longer phone visit. (sometimes i get tucked in on a sunday night, but that doesn't always happen.

he mostly doesn't e-mail any more, either.

my master is a philosopher monk, stashed in his cell, searching for the secrets of the universe. and me? i try to have faith that it is working. i try to be patient. i said i would be patient, i would do whatever was necessary to help him finish. i don't want him to feel that i am a burden.

but still.

i am sad...

this is very hard.

i am glad he gave me this blog. it was meant as an outlet for me, he said. so i am letting out that i am sad. i miss him.

i miss you, master.

i miss having you here, of course, i will always miss having you here. this is a long distance relationship and that comes with the territory. i signed up for it with eyes wide open. but it is harder without all the little things that built our relationship, the e-mails, the teasing notes, the erotic play. i am allowed to cum, in fact i MUST masturbate with the vibrator 3 times a week but haven't always had the heart for it without your voice in my ear telling me what to touch and how, and then threatening me with horrible punishments if i don't cum by the time you count down from 10.

i do treasure the few long mid-week phone calls we have. we speak of politics and movies we've watched. we speak of the blog and my latest fantasies, and as we talk i slip into subspace and start writhing and giving my little moans and then you manifest your cruelty by ordering me to sleep.

we do NOT speak of the Damn Dissertation.

i love those few mid-week calls. but i suffer as i crawl through the arid desert that spans the weekend. i pine for a tug on the chain. every morning i see the paper clip- chain around my ankle but no longer feel it. i wish i were wearing a tight collar around my neck, or a bracelet or ring or something to remind me more forcibly that i am owned and that you have not forgotten me.

i don't really think you have.

but still.

i am sad...

sixology

tie me down.
make me strong.

six words, yes.
a memoir?
i'm not so sure.
more like a declaration.
a diagnosis.
a statement of condition.
a yearning.

i really don't want to get into playing games here.
no memes.
the philosopher gave me this blog so i would have An Outlet.
me, i have pretensions of being A Writer.
(sorry about that.)

but i'd heard a while back about the 6 word memoir, and was glad to be tagged so i'd be forced to try my hand at it. (i do love being forced...)

so here's the formal statement as presented by Z, who tagged me, and who clearly has a beautiful ass. i hate passing on chain things, and honestly don't know that i could come up with 5 people to burden with this. nevertheless, i am tagging:

1. persephone - because i think it could be a good exercise for her and she needs diversions these days.

2. littlegirl - because sometimes even the most focused grad student needs to take a break.

3. richard and amy (and megan) - because i love the vision of the 3 of them sitting around squabbling over the best answer.

and

4. the philosopher. of course, being a dom, he is under no compulsion to respond. but if he does, i will post it here. i'm curious as to what he will come up with.

The Rules
1. Write your own six word memoir
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post.
4. Tag five more blogs with links
5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

(P.S. The original instructions included linking to the original post, but that link has been lost. Z was able to trace it back to here but has no idea who decided to make it into a meme.)

the cage

coming home late tonight from a business dinner. (oh it does feel so lovely to be able to say that after having been unemployed on and off for 2 years - especially when someone else paid for the dinner!)

i was about a mile from home, coming up the dark road between work and my house. ahead of me was a pick-up truck.

in the back of the truck was a cage.

it took about a block to register. and then i felt it.

i was sinking into subspace.

i've had fantasies about being caged. usually, the cage itself is not enough. i also want restraint. at the very least, i see a leather collar around my neck. with a chain from the collar to a ring on the bars. sometimes it is a short chain, so that my movement is limited. sometimes it allows me to move around the cage, and is more a symbol than any sort of restriction.

the odd thing is that i don't see myself filling the whole cage.

nor do i see it as a huge zoo-size cage.

it is a pet cage, for i am my master's pet.
it is perhaps like a cage for crating a dog at night.

the cage is of normal size.

it is i who am small.

i am my master's kitten.
i huddle in the corner.
i await his return.
i am eager.
i am fearful.
he will pet me.
he will hurt me.

he will please himself.

and i crave it all.

False Alarm

i'm such a ninny.
a silly little kitten.

i misheard what was no more than a small sigh of exasperation. what the philosopher did say was that my hair is the one thing he CAN'T control, since he always gives in and allows me to get it cut.

i blame hormones.
and over-intellectualization.
excessive analysis of my stats.

i saw that he had come to our blog from Dominant Seven, where he would have seen Irch say he can't handle a long-distance relationship.

i saw that he had read my own post Leave of Absence, where i described how he had tried to break up with me for the third time (and which i recommend to new readers for a bit of explanatory history).

and i drew all the wrong conclusions.

i was punished with a rubber-band caning on my left inner thigh.
i had to write in my little book "i will not be a silly little kitten."
20 times.
i have to send him a photo.
i am banned from looking at my stats at all until further notice.
and i am to watch out for signs that my new job is taking too big an emotional toll.

(my co-worker says that after a while i'll be able to detach some while still caring. i hope so...)

so there we are.
i AM a silly little kitten.
and i am very lucky to be owned by this man who is both tolerant and strict, loving and controlling.

but i do miss you, master!

PS - since i am again banned from my stats, this would be a good time for you lurkers behind trees to peek out and show your noses.

Haircut, take 2

As discussed previously, the philosopher controls my haircuts. I request one, I beg for one, I repeat the explanation that hair grows better if it is trimmed regularly. Usually, he gives in and grants permission, albeit grudgingly and with dire warnings that it had better be ONLY a trim.

I was due for one on March 7, the Friday before I was to start this new job, but my somewhat bizarre hairdresser canceled due to a doctor's appointment. The following week, I asked the philosopher if I might reschedule, but he said I'd lost my chance.

So I waited. And this morning, during our wake-up call, I asked again. He did give his permission, but followed up with the statement that this might be the last one for a very long time. Maybe even a year. I started to sputter a protest, but stopped when he tossed off the comment that my hair was now the only thing he was able to control in this relationship.

It's hard enough having any sort of long-distance relationship. But with D/s there is perhaps a greater need for reinforcement. Sure, we can keep up with each other's lives, and during the week we usually talk twice a day. But the morning calls are short now that I make them from work, and having a set hour for my bedtime calls has evaporated along with my self-discipline. I AM being good about posting every day, a schedule imposed by the philosopher. But the job demands a lot in both time and emotion, and I'm not delivering as much truly creative new work as I would like to.

All of which means I'm worried. Internally I feel VERY owned and controlled, ALL the time. It is at the core of my being, and both my heart and my cunt throb with the joy and security of the 250-mile long leash that binds me to him. But it seems that perhaps he doesn't feel how tightly he controls me, and for reinforcing both my training and his sense of power we seem to need a way to get back into the rhythm of the rituals that forged the links in the chain.

I had an idea or two - I always seem to have ideas - but it is probably at least as important to me as it is to him that I NOT take control here. So all I am doing is publicly declaring that I will do whatever it takes to give back to my sweet sadistic master confidence in the power he has over me. I think I can safely say that it would help both of us if he were here and could cane me hard and fiercely, if he could use me as his fucktoy, if he could make me scream from the pain and sob uncontrollably. i would kneel before him as he drinks the tea i made for him, my nipples calling out to be horribly abused. he would deny me food except for what he placed in my mouth with his fingers or set on the floor for me to lap from a bowl too small for my face. he would deny me the bed, decreeing that i was to sleep curled up on the floor unless he required my services as his sex slave. and with each merciless lash of his belt on my ass, with each choking invasion of my throat by his cock as he shoves my head down into his crotch, he would be saying again and again, to both me and to him:

"YOU ARE MINE! MINE! MINE!"

but there is no visit on the horizon, and the Damn Dissertation rules all. so now what? what do we do to avoid becoming another casualty of distance?

please, master... (and i'm crying now)

please...

remember the old ritual?
remember the nightly catechism?

pinch your nipples for me, kitten.
hard until it hurts.
who owns those nipples, kitten?
to twist and to pinch and to suck?
who owns them?

you own them, master.
you own these nipples.

lick your lips, kitten.
who owns that mouth, to kiss and to rape?

you own my mouth, master.

reach down and touch your cunt, kitten.
are you wet?

yes, master, very wet.
i'm always wet for you.
i'm soupy and swollen and wide open.

who owns that cunt, kitten?
who owns that cunt, my little fucktoy?

you do, master.
you own my cunt.

who owns you, kitten?
who owns you?

you own me, master.
you do.
you know you do.

or you should know.
you own every breath i take.

tell me, master.
tell me what i need to do.

Too tired to be creative

How much to I believe in Barack Obama?

Enough to have forced myself out of bed at 6 am on a Saturday morning, for the 2 hour drive to Harrisburg PA, where my steady canvassing partner and I went door-to-door as part of a massive pre-primary voter registration drive.

How tired am I now?

Enough to not even try to edit the above over-long sentence into something more digestible.

Enough that I am completely incapable of coming up with something to post today that would sufficiently stimulate either arousal or serious discussion. So instead, I offer you another installment from our personal archives, sent to me by the philosopher on Day 6 of our correspondence, one day before we admitted that things were becoming rather heavier and more involving than either of us expected.

As you may have noticed, the philosopher has not been directly contributing anything to this blog. No posts. No comments. His primary responsibility is to finish The Damn Dissertation, and he is avoiding anything that might distract him from that all-important task. (Yes, Virginia, even doms have tasks.) But I love his writing, without which this relationship would never have existed, and am happy to share with you some of the stories and conversations that lured me and created that unbreakable chain that binds me to him.

He does contribute indirectly, with praise, occasional punishment, and constant inspiration. His presence sings in everything I write and in every breath I take.

NOTE #1: to you handful of readers from Pennsylvania, don't forget that this Monday, March 24, is the last day to register as a Democrat if you want to be able to vote in the Democratic primary. If by inclination or necessity you are normally registered non-partisan, it is quite legal in Pennsylvania to change your registration for the primary and then change it back thereafter. If you received a voter registration form in the mail, it must be POSTMARKED by midnight Monday.

NOTE #2: I met a number of very nice Republicans along the way yesterday. One of these was the head of the local Republican party. We had a very congenial chat, more as two people interested in politics sharing observations than as adversaries. Very refreshing. He commented that he had recently noticed a lot of Republicans switching their registration to Democratic. Concerned, he called them up to ask why. Some (not many) changed to vote for Barack because they think he can be defeated more easily. Some want to vote for Barack because they hate Hillary so much that if a Democrat wins they want to be sure it isn't her. Most changed because they think Hillary can be defeated more easily. Draw your own conclusions.

Crowd Control

by the philosopher
Thursday, 8 February 2007

Some people are afraid of crowds. . .agoraphobia it's called. . .but not you. If anything, you find them boring: masses of people, all hurrying this way and that, looking at their shoes as they rush to some dreary appointment or another. You have actually been groped a few times on the subway, an anonymous hand taking shocking liberties with you, and your reaction was. . .boredom. How pedestrian, how ordinary. A perfunctory grab, and then withdrawal. Even the perverts are drab and colorless.

The rush hour crowd is worst of all, a million identical drones all jostling to get by, ignoring everyone and everything that doesn't impinge upon their immediate progress. It seems the more people that gather, the less human they become.

You much prefer the absorbing company, the warm intimacy of a small group, or best of all, a single individual that you can spend a happy hour with.

But, unless I am very much mistaken, your opinion of crowds is about to be greatly transformed.

2,000,000 people a day filter through Union Station, and it seems as if most of them are here now. The nervousness that you feel, while out of the ordinary for you, is justified, if you have followed my instructions carefully. It's cold, so I had you meet me wearing your warm fur coat, your favorite boots. . .and nothing else. A single layer of soft fur separates you from the teeming masses of humanity, and any frotteur who tries his luck today will hit the jackpot. So you are blushing slightly. And then you are blushing a LOT, as the first buzz, short and sharp, takes you by surprise.

"Nothing else" is not quite right. You are wearing one more item, although it doesn't quite qualify as clothing. A lacy g-string, just enough fabric to hold a small vibrator in place, buried deep within you.

A remote control vibrator, whose button is in my hands, a man you have never seen face to face.

But I said I would be here, somewhere in this crowd, and that we would play. The range of the control is a hundred feet, so I could be anywhere; I could be anyone.

You are still recovering from the first buzz, and you glance around quickly, both to see if anybody has noticed your condition, and to see who might be responsible.

That well-dressed business man, talking into a cell-phone: is his mind really somewhere else? That grungily dressed college student: is he exploring some extra-curricular interests? That cop, twirling his baton with practiced skill: is he interested in more than protecting and serving?

The second buzz makes you gasp out loud, and several passers-by look your way, thinking you are in distress, but quickly lose interest and hurry on. But one of them has not lost interest, one of them is focussed entirely on you, and the second buzz lasts a bit longer to prove it. You reach out to steady yourself against a wall.

You are beginning to regret agreeing to this little game. . .or at least you would regret it, if you could think clearly. But the bustling of the crowd, and the buzzing between your legs, make thinking difficult.

The third, fourth, and fifth buzzes come in quick sequence, the fifth one lingering for a full three seconds. You inhale sharply through clenched teeth, trying not to scream. You are now leaning with both hands against the wall, in the posture of a prisoner about to be frisked (and that thought alone nearly drives you wild), as you shift your weight from foot to foot, trying desperately to maintain control.

"Are you okay?" A hand lightly taps your shoulder, and you turn to see an attractive young man. His words don't register immediately; your first thought is to throw yourself in his arms and kiss him deeply. . .he must be the source of your agony.

But no, there is only concern in his face, a kind stranger offering to help. You find your voice eventually: "N. . .no. . .I'm fine. . .I just need to sit down."

You stagger over to a nearby bench and sit there, blushing, sweating, fidgeting. You are unaware, although anybody watching you could not help but notice, that you are sitting with your legs spread, a very un-ladylike pose. It's as if you are inviting strange contact to your most intimate parts; offering them to anybody who wants them.

Your mind is racing now. Who is it? Who has the button? You have taken a new interest in these people now, no longer drones, each of them a potential ravisher. That bike messenger, his ebon skin wrapped around wiry sinew, is he the one? The uniformed soldier, on anti-terrorist duty, muscles bulging as he hefts his gun? You never realized there were so many types of men, so many colors and shapes to run your hands across, to lick, to taste.

The seventh buzz breaks the nervous tension that has held you so far. You enjoy the sensation unashamedly, without embarrassment. You don't care if everybody sees your pleasure. . .your body is common property now.

As the orgasm hits you, you have a thought that is not a thought, but a flash of raw, ragged lust: You want to be picked up and tossed into this sea of people, to surf this swarming crowd, as a million anonymous hands. . .soft and hard, man and woman, grubby and clean, black and white and tan and brown and every shade there is. . . strip you of your coat, and grope your body, and take you, again. . .

and again. . .


and again.

Cold (when it changed...)

Monday, 5 February 2007

On such a frigid day, I hope you are thinking of creative ways to keep warm.

I'll want to hear about them. . .

= = = = = = = = = = =

You phrase it as a request. But I take it as a command. Again, it is implied in your name, implied in your e-mail address. And so I tell you...

= = = = = = = = = = =

It's very cold outside. Even I can admit that. No more bravado about having grown up in NY back when even in the city there were real winters. No more crowing about the bright sun and clear air. This isn't Vermont and it is much too cold and I feel assaulted.

The cats know how to deal with the cold. They have adopted the heating vents as their personal fireplaces. They know what they are doing. When no hot air is forthcoming, Marko scratches at the grate to demand more heat.

Sometimes each beast will stake out its own favorite hot spot and sit there looking possessive. Sometimes I will find one stretched out in sleepy sensual satisfaction. And sometimes, if they are both in a good mood, the siblings will curl up together and lick each other all over, or stretch out facing each other, inviting languid caresses.

I will follow their lead.

Marko has momentarily deserted his post at his favorite pseudo fireplace in the basement family room, and I decide to give his method a try. It seems crazy to be taking off my clothes when I want to be warmer, but I crave the hot air along the length of my shuddering body.

I strip quickly - there is no one to tease – and stretch out on the carpet. By positioning my naked body in various angles to the little floor vent, I can direct the heated breath of my house onto whichever area of flesh needs warming.

I stretch out luxuriantly, sinking into a feline sensuality, responding to the hot air as if it issued from a lover's lips hovering over first my legs, then my breasts, and now, oh now he is blowing straight up between my thighs.

I am hot in more ways than one. Of its own volition, my left hand moves to my right breast and begins to fondle it almost absent-mindedly. Moans issue forth from my parted lips, and the hand, whose hand?, presses in deeper, moving in wider circles. My right hand finds itself moving downward, pressing deep into my belly to massage my womb, my pelvis starts rocking back and forth...

From somewhere deep in my subconscious issues a vague ghost, a haunting dream of a late-night visitor on a moonless night, faint scars left by a ruthless writer, uncertain signs of a violation of my mind... the memory triggers desire, the hot breath inflames it, the desire broadcasts a message, and the demon lover returns.

And now it is YOUR warm breath that blows across my skin, fueled by the fire of your desire. Your hand replaces mine on my breast, and takes possession. True to your name, your loving caress suddenly turns to a cruel pinch of my nipple. I cry out, and gasp with pain and pleasure.

And from then on I am lost, as your epic of ferocious lust explodes into life. Heat consumes me, and as my consciousness floats off into another plane, I think I will never be cold again.

= = = = = = = = = =

The heat is what drew me to you. I could feel it coming off of you in waves, from miles away standing out against the cold gray of the cloudy sky and the concrete ground.

Like a moth fluttering towards a flame, I followed it. . .and what I found was fiercer than any fire.

I watched for long minutes, my jaw dropped, as you stretched and curled, oblivious to anything but your own pleasure. Like a cat, a savage feral tigress, you crawled and prowled, and arched your back and stretched your arms and legs, searching for the perfect pose, the most comfortable spot in front of the fire. Your muscles, taut and lean, rippled beneath your shining skin. . .shining with a sheen of sweat as the warmth worked its way through you.

Pleasure was your only goal. Stripped of clothes and thought and propriety and decency, you only wanted pleasure, as much as you could grab. Your hands began to explore, bestowing a pleasure of their own. . .

And I could take no more. I was in the presence of a goddess and a beast, and I had to tame her.

I reached out. . .

And a perfect heaven was my reward. . .


(an amazing story)


= = = = = = = = = = = = =

And a perfect ending.

Thank you for liking it. I wanted to give something back.

And here in the world of our words I am yours to tame.

= = = = = = = = = = = =

We are taming each other, I think, exploring the edges of our imaginations.

= = = = = = = = = = = =

Tuesday, 6 February 2007

Find a sunbeam, and curl up nice and warm, my precious little kitten, my wicked little pet.

I dreamed of cats last night. . . gentle housecats, and wild tigers. . .sleek, darting cheetahs, and somber lionesses. . .they growled and roared and raked my flesh with their claws. . .as they toyed with me. . .

and then I was devoured. . .

= = = = = = = = = = = = =

and then i became his kitten.

A Gentle Interlude

by the philosopher
Sunday, 4 February 2007

I watched you sleep, taking advantage of a moonless night to climb
through your window. I peeled back the covers, gently, so as not to
wake you, and watched as you shifted and murmured, lost in some deep
dream.

I unbutton the men's dress shirt you wear as a nightgown, and open it
wide, revealing your perfect breasts. I pull down your panties, inch
by careful inch, down your thighs, past your knees and off completely.
Their obvious wetness nearly makes me lose control, but I promised
myself I would be restrained.

I wanted to torture myself, like a starving man at a banquet, knowing
that when I finally sated my appetite, the pleasure would be increased
beyond imagining. I would feast another night.

With a featherlight touch, I draw my finger down your collarbone and
between your breasts. I trace, in elaborate script, a string of words,
composing an epic of ferocious lust, using your silken skin as my
parchment. You groan and turn, and I'm afraid you might wake, but
your dreams have too strong a hold on you. . .dreams that my words
now penetrate.

What they say you will never know. . .they make no mark on your
conscious mind. But they violate your dreams, penetrating into the
unspoken recesses of your psyche. They will stay with you, haunting
your waking moments with their echo. . .

I leave, taking your panties with me as a souvenir of my visit. For
you, the only souvenir is a half-remembered dream, that rocked your
sleep like a tempest, and left you, in the morning when you awoke,
sweaty, flushed and inexplicably half-naked.

- - - - -

i'm not sure why i posted "Arcoiris" first, as this preceded it.

it has as much power over me now as it did then.

i do wear a men's dress shirt to bed. the philosopher brought me one on his first visit, and orders me to wear it. or not. like last night. he wanted me naked. available to him. from 250 miles away, he wanted to know i was available to him.

as for the starving man, torturing himself with denial? he waited 6 months before settling in to feed.

It's Spring!

Prurient Philosophers

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting


fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked


thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy


beauty . how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and


buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true


to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover


thou answerest




them only with


spring)



-- e.e. cummings (1923)

Yielding control

A week and a half into my new job, I finally got an e-mail account in my own name. We're a non-profit with a very small paid staff, so we have a tech consultant off-site. I was on the phone with him while he tried to straighten something out, for which he would need to act as if he were sitting in front of my computer, manipulating the cursor, while I would see it moving around on my own screen.

He did whatever he had to do to make this happen, and a screen came up asking a question to which I had to agree.

I had to give him permission to seize control my computer.

Control.

He would take control.

My cunt twitched. As it is twitching now.

Pavlov's dogs couldn't have been trained as well as I have been.

please, master, please don't be jealous. i know how possessive you are. and i love how possessive you are. but he was only controlling my computer. never me. and only for a few minutes. and i was twitching because i am your slave and i glory in your control. i rejoice that i have to watch the clock as it nears 10 am, i rejoice that i have to stop whatever i am doing and be transformed into an alarm clock, i twitched because no matter what i am doing i never stop being your obedient slave kitten and i crave these reminders that sneak into my consciousness at the most surprising times. i twitch, therefore i am. you own me, therefore i am nothing more.

you own me.

Utilitarian Objectification

i am an alarm clock.

i am set for 10 am. exactly.

i used to be set for 6:30 am. my wake-up time became his wake-up time. except he's a grad student so he got to go back to sleep while i yawned my naked way into the shower.

it started out as a task. a yank on the leash, an acceleration of control before we even met. he thought "she'll call, i'll wake up, she'll hang up, i'll sleep. two minutes, tops."

by the end of the first week, it was an hour of sleepy-voiced pillow talk. and more. mmm... much more...

when i was unemployed, i called later. from bed. even if it meant going back to bed to do it. when i got a temp job, i became one of those people i used to hate - one of those people i STILL hate - talking on the phone during the 20 minute drive, sinking further and further into subspace until after the last big light, when he started bringing me out so i could safely turn into the parking lot. we parted with him hard and me wet. mmm...

i was set for 10 am during my last period of unemployment. and he liked it that way. his sleep didn't get interrupted and he awoke to the reminder that he has a slave kitten who will do whatever he asks. what a way to start the day!

when i got this job, a real job, there was a quandary. how to give a little domly pull on my leash, how to give me that daily reassuring reminder that i am owned, how to get himself the service he desires.

the answer: a quick call from my desk, right there at work, forcing me to don my identity as an obedient and very submissive slave kitten in the midst of being a competent, sympathetic, hard-working, responsible member of American society.

already, from yesterday to today, the length of the call has doubled. at least. and i was left with my cunt wet and twitching, on and off, for the entire day.

he's an evil man, my master.

and why was i twitching?

because he reminded me of what he told me last night in a husky lust-filled voice.

he will keep me hog-tied on the floor beside the bed, all night, not allowed to sleep, watching the clock until the requested wake-up time arrives.

i will call out: wake up, master! wake up! it's time to get up...

and he will reach down and twist my left nipple. hard. my left nipple is the snooze button. being the sadistic bastard that he is, he will activate the snooze button at least three times before digging his nail into my right nipple to turn me off.

except, of course, that will just turn me on more.

how many alarm clocks leave a wet spot on the floor?

he's never hogtied me before. i'm not certain how easy it will be for him to access the snooze button when i'm in such a position. and on the floor yet. and i doubt my old rotator cuff injury could handle that position for more than 10 minutes. but there's no reason reality should interfere with a good fantasy.

because from now on, whenever i make my wake-up call, he will say something about the snooze alarm.

and my cunt will twitch.
and my panties (if i'm allowed them) will grow soggy.
and i'll stay slightly on edge throughout the entire day.

thank you, master.

The Inquisition

dominick's reply to my craigslist post stunned me. he struck hard at my embarrassing desires to be bound and beaten, but with a grace and compression of style that was completely missing in any of the bdsm ads i'd seen posted on craigslist. my reply ended in an attempt to let him know that this was what i was after:

Please continue to weave your web of words around me
now that I am bound to your bed, exposed to your view,
and helpless before your desire. You have captured me
with my own fantasies, somehow divined, and I beg you
to help me explore them more, thru your powerful
words. What happens next? And what can I do, within
the limits of our words, to bring you the pleasure you
have already brought me?

I await your command.

the rest of this post is his response. a long string of questions. i responded in utter submission. it never occurred to me not to supply anything he asked, although it took two long letters to do it.

he gave me a lot to think about. i wonder how different my answers would be now...

in the correspondence that followed, we returned to the issue of his "cold and clinical" desire to cause pain.

i love how he starts off with fairly straightforward questions and grows more and more intrusive, until finally his questions become bluntly arousing descriptions of sex and spanking, bondage and pain. my mind swam with the images he presented, thinking so THIS is what could happen to me... my cunt salivated, and i latched onto the image of his belt coming down on my ass. i claimed it for masturbation stimulation, until the philosopher brought my fantasy to life and proved it was all i'd hoped it would be.

= = = = = = = = = = =

what can you do, within the limits of our words, to bring me pleasure ? lay yourself bare, describe yourself...

tell me about your physical features. how tall are you ? how old are you ? how much do you weigh ? what size clothing do you wear ? do you have freckles, or is your skin without blemish ? do you tan well ? how would you describe the color of your skin ? what is your ethnicity ? what color are your eyes ? what color is your hair ? how long is your hair ?

tell me about your sense of personal style. is black a predominant color in your wardrobe ? do you think that great design can be found inexpensively, or that great design always comes at a cost, and everything else is a compromise ? do you feel comfortable in tight clothing, or do you feel excessively on display when too much of yourself is bared ?

describe your reaction to physical sensations. are you ticklish ? does it hurt when you are waxed ? do you dislike being waxed or see it as a necessary process, or even enjoy it ? how often do you exercise ? how do you exercise ? do you exert yourself until you are exhausted, or maintain an activity for a predetermined period of time ? do you exercise in the mornings or in the evenings ? how can you determine the onset of your period ? do you get acne ? can you feel your mood change ? do certain areas on your body become more sensitive ? when you begin to seduce yourself, as you fantasize, do you find yourself running your hands gently over your body, enjoying the sensation of your touch on your skin, or squeezing yourself hard, almost trying to cause pain ? do you use lubricant or lick your finger to create initial wetness, or is this necessary at all ? do you find that when you masturbate, you only require, or want, clitoral stimulation, or do you want to be penetrated also ? do you penetrate yourself with your finger ? which one ? how many ? do you have toys ? do you ever touch your anus when you masturbate ? do you find the idea of touching your anus repugnant ? when you touch your anus, whether with your finger or with something else, do you find it possible to relax enough to insert the digit ? is the sensation pleasurable ? do you always orgasm when you masturbate ? do you find that you can have orgasms of varying intensity when you masturbate ?

tell me about the last time that you had sex. how long ago was it ? how much did you like the partner ? was he well endowed ? did it matter to you ? were you exceptionally turned on by the time you had sex, or was it a perfunctory performance ? did foreplay include elements that were physically painful to you ? would you, or did you find it arousing to be caused pain ? why ? does the concept of pain change with your level of lust ? describe the sensation of being penetrated. is it possible to describe the physical sensation without involving emotional overtones ? is it merely, or absolutely, a sensation of togetherness, connectedness, or are there also elements of being taken, of giving yourself ? do you always orgasm as a result of sex ? if not, what percentage of the time would you not experience orgasm ?

you say that you have never felt restrained or restricted. what is your expectation as you lie there, helpless, perhaps slightly uncomfortable, on display, revealed to me ? do you imagine that I will act only tenderly to bring you pleasure, that I will, perhaps, go down on you, tease the tender flesh of your clit with my tongue, caress the nerve filled swell of your nipples ? do you imagine that I will exact the physical pleasure that your body can provide as you lie immobilized - force my cock between your lips, fill your mouth with its hardness, move it slowly out and then back in until it is slightly too far, creating an unpleasant but unavoidable reaction in the back of your throat ? that as you lie there, with your legs spread, the tendons on either side of your groin taut, your pussy slightly parted and your hands lashed to the head of the bed, that I will enter you, the undoubtedly accommodating flesh stretched as you feel me push against the many slicked nerve endings inside you. that I will push against you hard, filling and withdrawing, intent on exacting the sensations that only a warm, wet cunt can provide ? do you imagine that my desire may tend toward the more sadistic ? that, as you stand bent before the low dresser, your face pushed into its hard, wooden surface, your legs straight, the swell of your pert posterior taut as it bends at an acute angle, my cock buried deep inside you, that my joy needs you to feel the sharp sting of my hand on that stretched flesh before me. does the obvious passion of my pleasure allow you to bask in the reflected glow of each red imprint that I leave on your ass ? is there a mixing of the blissful heat that spreads from your crammed cunt and the burning of the spreading crimson across your flesh ? how would you feel if that same desire to hurt was more cold and clinical ? if you were, instead, lashed to the bed, your head turned to one side as your breasts pushed into the mattress, your ass exposed and nervous in the warm breeze that washes over it, and you heard the slide of my belt from the loops in my pants. does your fantasy of forced acquiescence include the sing of the leather through the ear for a split second before it spreads across your buttocks ? can you find pleasure in the welt that extends across the cheeks ? does this desire to hurt on my part, without an obvious degree of gratification, diminish the fantasy for you ?

tell me about the best sex that you have ever had. are there a number of "best" experiences, which are different ? what made these experiences the best ? is it possible to have "best" sex without entwining the emotions that you felt for your partner in the evaluation. can the best sex be purely a set of physical sensations ?

shaken, not stirred

is it a persecution complex if people really are trying to kill you?

i have a post all ready to go, but my heart just isn't in it. it's the next installment of the saga of dominick. mostly in his own words.

but i'm not feeling kinky right now. i'm too shaken for that.

i went to hear Bach's St. John's Passion at the National Cathedral. yeah, i'm Jewish, but i like a lot of liturgical music, the old stuff, and i like Bach, and a friend was playing in it who was staying with me while she was here from out of town and she got me a comp ticket. 4th row, yet!

well, i don't know much about the new testament. really, the only book i've read all the way through is Revelations, back in high school, because it was the source of symbolism for a play i was in at the time. so i was totally unprepared. and i couldn't hide from the text because not only did they hand out a program with the text side-by-side in German and English, and i always want to know what's going on (obviously not always the wisest thing), but also i do remember some of the German i studied umpteen years ago so couldn't escape all the references to die Juden.

when it was over i wanted to quietly slink away - and could understand why generation after generation people would go out and say "Hey! Let's go kill us some Jews!" really, who could blame them after what they'd had poured into their ears?

by the time i came home i was close to tears. i'm not even sure why it hit me this hard, but i'm very very shaken. i told my black housemate that it was as if she'd had to sit through Birth of a Nation, with the KKK as the good guys. because of course Jews aren't the only ones who have been the victims of genocide. and hatred has a habit of persisting, as well as of being politically very convenient to incite. and don't anyone give me any crap about the situation in Israel. that's not the issue here.

we never know the whole story. about anything. we certainly don't know the "truth" about what happened to Jesus because even 4 accounts written right after the events would have been different. we always see things through our own personal lenses, and the distortion becomes even greater when we recount the story to others. everyone has an agenda, conscious or not.

but injustice doesn't excuse injustice in response.

and i still remember my little great-aunt in Argentina showing me all the very old photos displayed over her bed. she pointed and said "this one was killed in a pogram in 19xx", "he was chased down and killed by Cossacks", "this one was killed by ..."

so even though Bach wasn't up there pointing at me, saying "look! there! the Jew. SHE killed Jesus!", i felt it very personally. and i was already feeling guilty when it started to sink in where things were headed. because in the early part, i was exceedingly disconcerted to find my cunt twitching and my thoughts straying to the philosopher at every mention of being bound or beaten.

so what is my greater sin - being a Jew or being a submissive masochistic fucktoy?

i don't even feel particularly owned at the moment. oh, i'm being properly submissive and undemanding and very very understanding. i know about grad students and the pressure they are under. and i especially know about THIS grad student. he's worth the wait, what we have is worth the wait - not just as a bdsm thing but as two people who, oddly enough, have a lot to give each other and are so very comfortable together. but for reasons connected with the Damn Dissertation we go days without any contact at all, not even e-mail. and now, because i'm working again and he doesn't get up till 10 am, we don't even have the morning wake-up calls. this week was worse than usual. we haven't been in touch since Wednesday night. it's too long for me. too hard. whether as a girlfriend or as a submissive masochistic fucktoy, it's too damn hard. i feel unmoored. the ropes are loosening. and i feel guilty at needing more. even just a little more. i'm so very afraid that it will all dissolve without a little more reinforcement.

i'm frightened.

i'm frightened by flickering images of ancient pogroms.
and i'm frightened by my needs for just a little more.
frightened that he will panic and run.

when all i need is to be held
when all i need is reassurance
when all i need is a gentle hand stroking my hair
and a firm hand grabbing my hair,
and a cruel nail pinching my nipple
and a dark voice demanding an answer

"who owns you, kitten?"

tell me, master.
tell me.
who owns me?

= = = = =

LATER...

i'm sorry, master.
i should never doubt you.
i should never doubt that you will take care of me.

thank you for calling.
thank you for making me feel safe.
thank you for denying my request for a haircut.

and most of all
thank you for saying
strictly and firmly
"you are spoken for."

YOU own me, master.
you do.
i know you do.

i will sleep in peace.

Feminist Sex Carnival

I was delighted to receive the following e-mail, though somewhat perturbed that I had to rescue it from my Spam mailbox:

= = = = =

Subject: feminist carnival of sexual freedom and autonomy

Hi,
I'm Lina from Uncool blog and I've just set up the Feminist Carnival
of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy. It is a blog carnival to promote the
sexual rights and freedom of women.

http://feministsexcarnival.blogspot.com/

I'm emailing you to let you know of it's existence mainly. It's to be
held every three weeks from 31st March - if you'd like to submit
anything that would be grand. And of course I'd be more than happy if
you'd like to host it, but as I say, I'm really emailing just to let
you know it's just been created. If you think anyone else may be
interested, it would be very kind if you could forward this email or
put it on your blog if you so wish.

I'm sorry this email is so impersonal - I'm emailing lots of people
here! Mainly, the people who I've been working with on this have
suggested you might like to be involved somehow, or else I've just
picked you off my blogroll!

Thanks for your time, all the best,
Lina

http://un-cool.blogspot.com
http://feministsexcarnival.blogspot.com/
= = = = = = = =

As an unapologetic feminist who remembers going to consciousness-raising sessions in the early 70s and still has her first-edition copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves, I'm looking forward to taking part in the carnival, though a little concerned about what I should wear... Which is nothing compared to my stress over what I should submit! For now, I'm thinking of "Keeping your cunt's cunt healthy" but would welcome other suggestions.

Do take a look at the Feminist Sex Carnival website. I particularly enjoyed reading the Wikipedia article on sex-positive feminism to which they link, and would be happy to discuss its contents here with any of my readers who are into theory. Plus of course I hope that any other sex-positive feminist bloggers who read here will spread the word.

mea culpa

i'm late.
i'm delinquent.
i'm supposed to post every day.
i missed the deadline.
i was at work
and then i exercised
and a friend is visiting
and we had dinner
and watched a dvd...

i'm not making excuses, sir.
just letting you know what i was up to.
i'm sorry, master.

what's the punishment for being late with a post?

tongue tied (a pussypost)

do you really want to enslave me?
then bind me with your tongue.
construct a web of little
licks and kisses over and
through my landscape's rises
and falls. climb the paired
hills of my tits, sinking your
teeth into the beckoning nipples
to keep from falling off in
a giddiness of lust. leave a
noose of spit and continue on
your rapacious way.

slither
down the slope and saunter over
my belly, stopping to lap at my
navel's empty well. take the
switchback trail over my womb,
encasing all in saliva's net,
only to pause
and smile
when you reach the red lawn's edge.

it is close-cropped, to please you,
for this invasion is invited. bury
your nose in what was once curls,
then continue towards the source.

now.
you sigh deeply,
pausing
at the shore.
push off, your tongue
both boat and oar,
explore deep into
the Amazon, sampling
native delights as you go.
never dry, the river floods
and rises, and you rise,
hard and urgent as you
drink, and sink
under your desire to possess.

and you do possess. your name
is scrawled on the delta
long before you plant your
staff and claim this land as yours.

M A S T E R' S C U N T

engraved on all the ancient maps.

return now to the dock, fasten
hard on the clitoral post, and
thrust your fingers deep into
the rushing brook. suck, now,
lap, lick, suckle, drink, tease
me with the tip of your tongue,
make of me a six-course meal,
there is no rush, make me beg.

make me beg.

and then, as you hear desperation
screaming for release, when you
know i am your prisoner, only
then, as if it just occurred to you,
present the option.

"kitten, do you want to cum?"

and when i say oh yes please master please please let me cum oh please i can't take any more it hurts from not cumming, please, i am your kitten, i am your slave, my orgasms are yours please please have mercy and grant me just one...

then pull your head from out my crotch, reach up and grab my tangled hair, look straight in my frantic eye and say:

i will count down from ten.
and if you don't cum
when i reach one,
i will cane you so hard
that you will work
standing up
for a week.

you twist my nipple brutally
you fuck me with your fingers
you continue your sadistic threats
and at one
i cum.

- - - - -

my response to Z's call for more pussyposts, and to Marianne's contribution to the effort.

Arcoiris

Tonight, I think I will paint you. Not your portrait. . .you will be my
canvas.

This is not a matter of adornment. You are a marble statue,
immaculate, pristine and perfect, and no application of make-up will
change or improve that one bit. Not the hasty rouge of a painted
harlot. . .this is something else.

This is. . .a defacement, a defilement, a brazen iconoclasm. The
marble goddess, aloof and untouchable, will be. . .touched. . .

Your back, I paint a deep blue, a cloudless sky, the pigment being
heaped on in sticky masses and smeared smooth with a brush. Then,
starting at the top of your spine, three blazing trails of bright
yellow, shafts of lightning splitting the heavens. You shudder, and I
know that the brush travelling down your back sends shivers of real
electricity spilling down your backbone.

Your buttocks I treat separately. . .the right one gets a vivid
reddish-purple the color of an exactly ripe plum. . .the left streaks
of red and white, like a pillow of peppermint candy.

On your right leg I am deliberately sloppy: drips and drops of whatever color I can think of mixing in haphazard ways, a muddy brown with flecks of orange and green and blue.

On the left leg, I am deliberate and disciplined: black and white
stripes, sharply contrasted and exactly straight, as if drawn by a
ruler, running from the top of your thigh down to your ankle.

Turning you around, I work on your front. The right breast gets a
floral design, the nipple being the center of a rose, and the petals
spreading out, the green stem reaching down, tickling your belly,
exploding in a bramble of green and yellow.

It can hardly be said that I paint the left breast. I throw away the
brush, and with the pigment that stains my hand, I massage and
squeeze, leaving grubby fingerprints all over, like a signature,
boasting of my handiwork.

Kneeling now, in front of you, in the posture of worship, but without
the intention, I turn my gaze to the sweet center of you. With a very
thin brush, coming to a point, and with jet black ink, I print an
intricate delicate pattern, geometric, complicated, engrossing, all
over the delicate lips and the soft surrounding skin. You don't
bother to conceal, as if you could, the thrilling sensation the brush
inflicts upon you. . .but I insist you stand still.

Then your face. I meet your gaze for just a second, and smile at the
riot of emotion expressed by your eyes. Your lips get painted a
bright, bright fucshia, like a neon sign. . .a color to make the
cheapest streetwalker blush. Your eyes receive a bright peacock blue
on the lids, and following the theme, green and blue feathers with
yellow spots across your forehead.

Finally I reach your hair. It's tied up in a ridiculously prim bun,
which I contemptuously undo, letting it hang loose. With whatever
fistfulls of color remain, I run bright streaks through it, standing
it up, stiffening as it dries.

You are complete, and I stand you between two mirrors, that you might
admire my work.

Turn around, look at yourself from every angle, over your shoulder
from behind. . .you are a work of art. An explosion of color. A mad,
tangled rainbow, refracted and scintillating.

You used to be merely perfect.

But now. . .

But now. . .


by the philosopher
5 February 2007

Let's play the politician and the whore...

... or the politician and the stripper.
... or the politician and the intern.
... or the politician and the same-sex lover.

i guess that last one wouldn't work for you, would it?

would you pay $4300 for a romp with me in the Mayflower Hotel?
harry would have taken me to the Mayflower Hotel.
he would have bound me in intricate patterns.
he would have forced a path into my anus.

he would not have made me happy.

YOU make me happy, master.
you are the only one i want.

so what's with these politicians, anyway?

a piece in the NY Times about the long history of politicians and sex scandals speaks of politicians being risk takers. there's a quote from a professor of clinical psychology that “sex and power are extremely connected, because they’re basically an expression of this huge energy that these people have.”

sex and power.

we know about sex and power.
we know about risk taking.
even you, my cautious philosopher king,
even you eventually
closed your
eyes and
jumped.

and as i drove home the short distance from the second day at my new job, drove home tired and content, i thought what a relief it was to take off my mask of competence, to sink into being your gratefully submissive little slave kitten the way i might plop into an old overstuffed armchair.

except that any minute a sadistic spring might pierce my disarmed butt.
and any minute ropes might twine themselves around my limbs
like the vines choking the way into sleeping beauty's castle.
and any minute your deceptively gentle hands might
encircle my throat and close just enough
to remind me that each breath that
fills my lungs is a
gift
from you.

the true risk would have been to say no.
the true risk would have been to walk away.
risking everything.
losing everything.

i am your kitten.
i am your slave.
i am your selkie.
and in truth, there was no contest.
you won by a landslide.
and you took the oath of office
with your hand on my breast
and your nail buried in my nipple.

Sometimes even sex bloggers don't want sex

Well... i suppose if the philosopher were here and demanding that i do my job as his little cockwhore, i would be delighted to comply. not that i would have a choice...

but writing about sex?

no thanks, not today.

i have a new job. i'm very happy to have a new job. i'm very happy to have this job. i'm very happy to have ANY job! it's been two years since i last had a permanent job.

but starting a job the day after switching to daylight savings time?

nunh-uh. very dumb idea. despite days of preparing by getting up much earlier than necessary for an unemployed girl, i just couldn't get to sleep early enough Sunday night. so i started off my new job with way too little sleep.

YAWN...

it's a good job. it's very very very close to home. i like my co-workers. but i may have managed to go almost the entire day without once thinking of being spanked or caned or fucked or led around on a leash...

hmmm...

my cunt is starting to twitch.

it's not dead after all!! i'm alive! i'm alive!!

we will return to our regularly scheduled perverted programming within the next few days. and i will try my sleepy best to keep you amused until then. of course, if people would comment, then i could write clever little responses. what i would really love is to hear if any of you wankers who found me through the masturbation-links blog masturbated to the masturbation post i wrote for you on Saturday. i'm a greedy little submissive slut in need of lots of approval and/or spankings to keep performing.

My First Dom

i will call him dominick.

which is not his real name. i don't know his real name. it's not his e-mail name, either. he asked me not to use that, which is a pity, because i couldn't make up anything i like as much. it has a grace, an implication of superiority finished off with an arabesque that gives the whole a touch of wry self-deprecating humor.

dominick responded to my craigslist ad perhaps an hour after the philosopher did. and his response froze me in my seat and seared my conflicted erotic soul.

i was very shy and, frankly, embarrassed about my fantasies of bondage and spankings and whippings. i couldn't bring myself to weave them into my ad in any blatant fashion. the best i could manage was a reference to "pushing our fantasies to their edge" and hoped this nearly invisible signal would lure the demons i sought.

when i asked later, each of the sadists denied noticing anything to make them think i was open to their fantasies of pain and dominance. but somehow, of the four best writers, three were admitted devotees of bdsm to some extent, and the fourth revelled in maintaining a stunning level of control of erotic encounters.

dominick was the last of the three doms to respond, but the first to mention ropes and pain. the philosopher's screen name and e-mail address referred to cruelty and The Story of O, but his words, while arousing and poetic, contained no hint of what simmered beneath.

i wish i could share dominick's words with you, but here, too, he asked me to hold back. there is the possibility that he might start his own blog, and he wants to reserve first right of refusal for himself. i do hope he starts one. there are relatively few doms with blogs, and fewer still with dominick's spare writing style and introspective clarity.

control screams from his words, in his message entitled merely "Words." he was miserly with his words. precise. i suspect that his bondage style is the same, using no more rope than is needed to get the job done, but with each wrapping around wrist and ankle lying in perfect proximity to its neighbor, each knot precisely placed for security, stimulation, and aesthetic effect.

dominick was the inspiration for my obsession with the possible existence of a dominant aura. if i met this man, if i didn't already know his tastes, would i feel his nature encircling my throat and my cunt? would i detect an aura of command in his voice as we volleyed meaningless phrases? if he placed his hand in the small of my back to lightly steer me through a door, would i welcome it as a sign of possession?

i have not met dominick in person, and by now we know too much about each other for a blind taste test to be feasible. i did meet dom #2, whose response popped up just minutes before dominick's. dom #2, whom i will call harry, became obsessed with fucking my ass, the virginity of which obsessed me, too. he wrote well, we corresponded for a while, and i finally agreed to meet him for lunch in a public place. i was already falling in love with the philosopher, but curiosity got the better of me. i knew i had no intention of ceding my ass, or any other body part, to anyone but the man who now owns me. still, the lunchtime rendez-vous seemed a good way to pursue my research.

the lunch was not a great success. i was nervous from harry's aggressive e-mail pursuit of me. dominick's detachment and meager correspondence were much more enticing than harry's oft-stated desire to claim me with shibari and buggery. physically, he did not attract me. i had expected this from his photo and age (about 5 years older), but one look confirmed it.

what ultimately killed the search for signs of obvious dominance and invalidated any results i might have gleaned was that harry, sensing my trepidations, decided to deliberately repress any gestures of dominance he might otherwise have displayed. unfortunately, this also served to distance his physical manifestation from his epistolary personality. we haven't met since, though i do still receive occasional testimony to my continuing existence as a source of erotic wishful thinking.

i always wondered why dominick never showed any interest in meeting, unlike most of the men who wrote me. i sometimes picked up an unidentifiable impression of distance, but decided that must mean he lived in one of the northern virginia suburbs of dc. to a resident of the maryland suburbs, that was as good as living in the antipodes, due both to misperceived physical distance and to virginia's general antipathy to gay rights and other liberal causes. dominick's use of "whilst" hinted at a british background of some flavor, and it turned out he was indeed originally from the antipodes. only recently did i discover that, like the philosopher, he was cruising craigslist that night from another city when he stumbled on my message in an online bottle.

our conversation continued in fits and starts. replies from him were rare but always welcome. they challenged me, they excited me, and they educated me. he bombarded me with questions. my answers clarified my desires and, i suspect, stimulated his own. it was dominick who inspired in me the specific desire to be spanked with a belt, which occupied my fantasies until the philosopher finally splashed his own belt across my buttocks, to the delight of us both.

i do have permission to share the rest of our correspondence, along with a story he wrote for me, which i will do over time after confirming his assent to each piece. we still write each other, as friends of a sort, i suppose. i update him on the progress of my relationship with the philosopher, and his replies and questions and interpretations of my experiences feed my unquenchable desire to understand. he does read this blog, and i hope he is pleased with my representation of our mutual dealings. if he feels moved to comment publicly i will be delighted, but have no expectations of that. one does not have expectations of such a man.

he is, after all, a dom.

Masturbating my Stats

Hooray, it's Saturday!

Or maybe I should call it Staturday. Today, I was reunited with my stats.

Hopefully I won't have to wait another week without studying them. Yesterday, I presented to the philosopher my case for checking my stats more often. This was based partly on my having been cured of my obsession by the week-long fast, and partly that I'd miss too much information if I didn't check them more often. I had hopes of success, as he had responded so well on the cunt maintenance issue.

But the man is too clever for me. He decided to link the two issues together, especially since he remembered my characterization of stat-checking as a masturbatory act. I now have 5 opportunities a week for self-indulgence. It is my choice how to apportion them. In some ways, being given that freedom makes me feel more controlled than ever. He really is a sadist!

I don't need my stats to reassure me that I have an audience. I know you all are out there. What fascinates me are the specifics: where you all are, how you all got to me, and who is coming back.

Two new details have cropped up. I'm finally drawing people from searches, and I've been listed in some unexpected places.

I think my favorite search word set was "submissive feminist cunt." Was this wishful thinking by some horny misogynist? Or someone who was specifically looking for this site but couldn't remember my address?

Then there are those two blogs, new to me, that are sending people here. One is http://nattyspanked.blogspot.com/ which seems an appropriate referral. Thanks, Michelle. How did YOU find me?

The other is something called http://masturbation-links.blogspot.com/ which is sending a fairly steady stream of customers to Keeping your cunt's cunt healthy. I took a peek at the website and could not immediately tell whether selection was focused on posts ABOUT masturbation or posts that would INSPIRE masturbation. I suspect the first become the second. In any case, thank you to Fred, and to all the new readers, many from the other side of the world, who have stopped here and maybe returned. I am honored and a bit titillated that my adventures and musings are providing fodder for your self-abuse. Although I doubt my distress over our Democratic primary results is doing much for your fantasy life.

I feel like I owe you more masturbation material, and my mind independently undertook the task with no conscious help from me. The following episode played itself out in my mind during this morning's half hour drive to synagogue. (Sacrilege! but it was unfortunately beyond my control... no one can control me but my master.) It reflects my tendency towards exhibitionism. I'm not sure what the philosopher's response will be. He is very possessive and jealous, even within his fantasies - and for the only time in my life I find this trait to be absolutely charming. I suppose that's because it is within the context of D/s, and he gives me so much in return. On the other hand, he has played with ideas of showing me off, so I hope in the end this pleases and arouses him as well as any visiting members of the masturbation mafia.

Because, as always, everything I write and do is really for him.

The Performance

She was resistant at first. Very resistant. He reminded her of the toys he would buy with the money. He described the cottage they would rent in the middle of a forest, and what he would do to her there. Her cunt flooded but still she resisted. He spoke of how proud he was of her, what a good little slave she was, and how he wanted to show her off. She started to soften. Then he grabbed her by the hair, pulled her ear close to his mouth, and hissed sternly, "Kitten? Do I have to get the cane? Or will you obey?" She recoiled at the hint of anger beneath the threat, and rapidly apologized and assented, sniffling a bit.

He found a tiny dark theatre-in-the-round, with steeply-raked rows of chairs on all sides. The seats were comfortable and covered in washable leatherette with plenty of leg room. He didn't want to risk a patron's hair being showered with cum from the member of the audience member behind him.

They placed a round bed in the middle of the small stage, and covered it with a fitted, cornflower-blue sheet, which would show off her red hair and pale skin as well as any wet spots. He knew she would create lots of wet spots. He knew she was an exhibitionist at heart.

The show sold out days ahead of time due to careful marketing through their blog and a grapevine of fellow perverts. Patrons filed in quickly. Some of them tried to be invisible while others greeted friends. Taking their seats, they considered the stage before them. Next to the bed was a chair, along with a table on which were displayed a blue vibrator, a very large purple dildo, a black butt plug, 2 cucumbers, 4 small empty bowls, and a cane with curved handle. Incongruously, there was also a Cuisinart food processor. A chain was locked to one leg of the bed, at the end of which was a thick iron shackle.

The house lights dimmed. Chatter died down. A large spot lit the bed while a smaller one illuminated the table and chair. A tall man walked out on the stage, his red hair smiling under the lights. Briefly, he thanked the audience for coming, which elicited a few chuckles, and reminded the assembly that the woman they were about to see belonged to HIM. They could watch but not touch, and were not to approach the stage.

The spots went out and the theatre was dark for about half a minute. When the lights came back on, a woman stood before them, eyes downcast. She, too, had red hair, and was clad in a man's white dress shirt. Her right ankle was surrounded by a chain of ordinary paper clips. Her legs and feet were bare.

"Strip, kitten. Now."

Trembling fingers opened the buttons one by one. The shirt slipped off her arms onto the floor. He said her name again, in a warning tone, and she bent over to pick it up, giving some of the audience a clear view of her anus and cunt lips. Hurriedly, she went to the chair and draped the shirt over its back. She then knelt beside her master's feet, looking up at him with trepidation.

"Now, kitten, show these good people how obedient you are. Show them what a good little sex slave you are. Lie down on the bed and spread your legs."

A little sob caught in her throat. Now that it was time, she didn't think she could do it after all. She murmured something, pleading.

"What did you say? Speak up. Let everyone hear you."

"Please, master... I can't... please don't make me."

"Now, kitten, don't be silly. Of course you are going to do it. All you need is a little spanking to get you in the mood. Right?" And sitting down in the chair he barked out "Over my knees. Now!"

Murmuring "Yes, sir," she rose from the ground and draped herself over his knees.

He started to spank, first lightly and then building up so that the smacks reverberated through the little hall, alternating with her small cries of pain. Men in the audience started pulling out their cocks, and the few women, most in skirts for easy access, fondled themselves through their damp panties.

SMACK.

SMACK.

SMACK.

Her ass started to glow and with each blow her body bounced against his own growing erection. He grabbed her hair, pulled up her head, and looked into her eyes. She was settling into subspace.

"Now, kitten. On the bed. NOW."

She roused herself enough to shake her head. She exasperated him, but he couldn't deny that this was making for a better show. And he was in the mood to hurt her, to punish her for how she was going to display herself. Yes, he knew this was illogical, as he was in fact forcing her to do it. But he was the dom. He didn't have to be logical.

"All right, that's enough brattiness. Now I'm really going to hurt you."

He stood up without letting go of her hair and dragged her to the bed. He threw her down on her belly, ass raised by a pillow and positioned near the edge of the mattress. Reaching down for the shackle, he clasped it around her left ankle. He knew it would boost her feeling of being owned, while forcing her to display her submission by holding still without being fully tied down.

She heard the leather slide through the belt loops of his jeans. He didn't hold anything back on the first blow.

He said nothing. He didn't make her count. He beat her hard, again and again, striking her cheeks and her thighs, making her scream, making her writhe, and making her very very wet. Her submission twined around her, clutching at her womb and driving from her consciousness everything but her master and her pain. She felt him kick her legs apart. The next blow, the hardest yet, caught her cunt.

Her anguished scream tore at the ears of the masturbaters.

He yanked up her head again. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

"Enough, kitten? I'm having fun but I don't think you are. Shall I keep beating your cunt, or are you ready to behave?"

The watchers couldn't catch her answer, but heard his "Good girl..." and saw him stroke her hair and kiss away her tears. Cautiously, she rolled over, gasping as she lay on her tender ass. She spread her legs under their eyes.

"Now show the nice people how you like to touch yourself."

Tentatively, she started to stroke around her clit, dipping into her cunt for a generous fingerful of honey. The beating had left her very sore but very aroused. It didn't take long for her to start writhing.

"Take your time, kitten. We promised a good show. Now move around the bed so everyone can see how red and juicy you are."

He released her ankle from the shackle, and she rotated around on her ass, finger never stopping its work, which was now focused right on her clit. Everyone got a good look indeed.

"Good girl... now let's see what we can stuff into you. Besides, I think it's time for a little snack."

The cucumbers were very fat, green and waxed. He had washed them ahead of time. Condoms wouldn't do for what he had in mind. And she was so turned on by the beating that there was no need for any more lubricant.

He handed her one of them, and she eased it into her cunt. Almost lovingly, she slid it in and out, raising her hips to meet the vegetable phallus. Pleasure showed on her face and little moans escaped her moist lips.

Silently, he touched her hand and withdrew the cuke, replacing it with the other one. As she continued to fuck herself, he strolled over to the table and nonchalantly proceeded to run the garden dildo through the food processor. He repeated the action with the second cuke, leaving her cunt gaping and hungry.

The slices were distributed between the 4 bowls and passed around the audience. Some of the masturbaters sniffed their portion and then rolled the thin slices around in their mouth before chewing and swallowing. A few took them in their hands and rubbed them over their dicks. A couple of the women tucked them inside their own slippery holes. Everyone was grateful for the unexpected treat.

Well, almost everyone. A few of the men had been identifying too closely with those fucking cucumbers, and were now a little nauseous from extreme castration anxiety.

Meanwhile, back on stage, kitten was getting restless, rolling around on the bed in her frustration. He smiled - he loved teasing her like that. He took the butt plug from the table. She had a virgin anus, and he relished the idea of humiliating her by invading it for the first time in public. She knew what was going to happen, she wanted it, and yet she feared it.

"Stick this in your cunt, kitten. Get it good and wet. This is the only lube you will have."

She obeyed. She was so aroused and wallowing in her submission that she was beyond protest. You could hear the slurps and sloshes as she rolled it around inside her.

He faced the audience and apologized. "I know we promised a pure masturbation scene, but I think she needs a little help on this one thing." He rolled her over, again propped her ass up on the pillow, and started easing the plug into her tight little hole. He had deliberately bought one a little too large for a first time. He couldn't pass up the opportunity to hurt her a little, to remind her that whatever she experienced, whether pleasure or pain, was at his whim.

She moaned, she gasped, she wriggled, he could tell it hurt, and he could tell she loved it. So could all the voyeurs. He sensed them craning forward and heard that they were moaning, too. He pulled the plug out a little before pushing it in a little further, dragging the insertion process out until with one final push he shoved it in as far as it would go. She was so aroused that the sheet was soggy with the honey dripping from her cunt.

He rolled her over onto her back, pulling away the pillow and tucking it under her head. For her, the audience had vanished; it was starting to fade away for him as well. He looked down at her fondly, lustfully, possessively, fiercely.

"Pinch your nipples for me, kitten. Harder! Pinch them, twist them. Until it hurts. Who owns those nipples?"

"You do, master. You own them." Her voice was small but definitive, and floated up to the last row.

"And your breasts, kitten. Gather them in your hands, squeeze them, push them together as if my cock lay between them. Who owns them, kitten? Who owns your breasts?

"You do, master. You own my breasts!"

"Lick your lips, kitten, those lips through which I will force my cock as soon as we are alone, those lips through which I will rape your mouth. Who owns them, kitten? Who owns your mouth?"

"You do, master. You own my lips. You own my mouth. It's YOUR mouth."

"Ah, you're such a good little slave. My perfect little fucktoy. Now take this huge purple monster of a dildo, which you hate because it's too big for you. Whose cunt are you going to fuck with it?"

"YOUR cunt, master. I'm fucking YOUR cunt. For YOU!"

"Who owns you, kitten? Who owns you?"

"YOU own me, master. You do. You know you do."

"YES! *I* own you. Others can look on your naked body, others can watch me hurt you, others can see how you fuck yourself, others can imagine that they are fucking you. But NO ONE gets to touch you. No one. You're MINE."

She fucked herself harder and faster, trying to remember that he owned her orgasms, she wasn't to cum until he ordered her to, she wasn't to cum until they got to the vibrator. She tried to hold herself back by thinking of the audience, but that only excited her more.

He knew her well, though, he was watching her face, he knew she was holding herself back.

"Do you want to cum, kitten? Shall I let you cum?" The question was almost gentle.

"Yes, master, please sir, please master, please let me cum. For YOU, master. Please let me cum for YOU."

He took from her the giant purple dildo, and handed her the blue vibrator. It had been a present from him. For his pleasure and hers. She LOVED her blue vibrator.

"Now. You are going to masturbate with your favorite toy. Any way you want. Fuck yourself. Stick it deep within you, turn it on, and let the vibrations seep into every corner of your body. Push it against your clit. Give yourself up to it, except for one tiny piece. Let these lovely horny people see how much you are enjoying yourself. Let them HEAR how much pleasure I'm allowing you. But keep holding back that one little piece until I give you permission to cum. Obey me, kitten, or you will be severely punished."

This was the hard part. Giving herself to it while holding back. Remembering that she was nothing, nothing but his sex slave, nothing but his fucktoy, nothing but his cockwhore. Remembering that her body was his, her pleasure and her pain came only at his hands or by his will, and that her orgasms were parceled out for his amusement alone.

He felt her struggle. They were bonded so tightly to each other that sometimes he wondered which of them was really the slave. He could barely control his desire to fuck her himself, barely control his desire to fasten his mouth on her clit, to let his tongue swim up the cavern of her sweet tight cunt, to force his cock down her throat and then roll her over one last time and drive it into her only slightly stretched ass.

Soon. Very soon. He just had to help her through this one last act.

"Now, kitten. Cum for me. Cum for me NOW."

She tried. She tried to let go. But she just couldn't. It was bottled up too tight. She was frozen with anxiety, with fear of not pleasing him, of not pleasing the voyeurs. She sensed that they were having a good time, and that some of them had cum already. But she did want to give them a grand finish. And most of all, she wanted to please her master. Every minute of the day, every breath she took, it was all to please him.

As he had at the beginning, he yanked her head up by the hair, and in a stage whisper pregnant with warning hissed "Now, slave. I'm going to count down from ten. And you had better cum by the time I get to one or I'm going to cane you. Hard. Harder than ever before. And I'll keep caning you till you either pass out from the pain or you cum for me. Is that clear?"

He almost never addressed her as "slave." It jolted her. She worked her clit with her fingers, spreading the juices around while the vibrator continued to buzz deep inside her.

"Ten.... Nine... Eight... kitten, you had better cum for me... seven... kitten, I'm going to cane you... six... your ass will be in shreds, kitten... five..."

The audience held its collective breath as it pumped and twiddled away.

"four... kitten, you'd better cum, you're going to be so sorry..."

He knew what he was doing. He knew how the threats excited her. It worked every single time. But just in case, he walked around the bed to the table.

He picked up the cane with his right hand and started tapping it on his left palm.

"three..."

She was rubbing frantically, desperately, reaching for the orgasm, so very afraid of disappointing him.

"two..........."

She felt him shove her legs apart, and then gasped as she felt the tap tap tap of the cane across her upper thighs.

"............ ONE!"

The cane smashed down, just missing her cunt.

She screamed.

And came.

And from the seats that ringed the stage, fountains of cum burst forth like fireworks and shot towards the ceiling.

All in all, a great success.

The audience tucked themselves back in and filed out.

On stage, she sobbed out the biggest orgasm of her life. He held her close, stroking her hair, kissing her eyes, whispering his love and approval to her hungry heart.