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
"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
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
"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..."