Cum, slave. NOW!

the philosopher wants me to cum on command.

without touching.

i can manage it with touching. he gives me a countdown, and by admittedly stretching it out a bit, he gets me to cum by 1.

essentially, he scares me into cumming.

he knows me so well by now, my master. he knows that i need to hear threats of all the awful things he'll do to me. i think he's laughing at me underneath, while he threatens me, while he goes through the ritual, while he recites the progression.

he'll strip me naked, he says.
he'll remind me of how disobedient i've been.
he'll list all the misdeeds which have earned me horrible punishments.
he'll scold me.

just the mention of being scolded starts me down into subspace.

and that word.
punishment.
instant soggy cunt.

it's really all the standard stuff.
you've seen it here before.
he'll put the collar around my neck.
he'll make me crawl for him.
he'll make me lap up milk from a bowl on the floor.
he'll order me over the ottoman.
he'll beat my ass with his belt.
and then the cane...

he'll talk it all through.
his voice will get harder.
he'll threaten me with clothespins.
he'll tie me to the futon, he says.
he'll drip hot wax on me.

"from closer than last time?
so that it really hurts?"
i feed him the lines.
oh yes, kitten.
it will hurt a LOT!

"and then you'll put your hands around my throat..."

i have two guaranteed arousal triggers.
the thought of his hands squeezing my throat
and threats of caning.
they do it every time.

his voice changes again.
you'd better cum, kitten.
i'm going to count to 20,
and by the time i reach one,
if you haven't cum...

he never specifies what he'll do. he doesn't have to. just his voice scares the orgasm out of me. but not until he gets down into the single digits. maybe around 3. sometimes it takes all the way to 1. and he stretches out the count. but i do make it.

i do cum.
with what he calls my special little moans,
and then with huge wracking sobs,
i cum.

he loves it.
except that so far, it only happens with touching.
and he wants more.
he has set the bar very high for me.
the bar from which he will suspend me if i don't pull off this feat.

after all. what's the point of having a sex slave if you can't train her to perform new and wonderfully impressive tricks?

i reminded him that it's not only men who have performance anxiety.

and tonight he said:

"don't worry kitten.
this will be a long-term project."

and then he heard my voice change, and asked if i was crying, and i was shy, and then said no, not really, and then said maybe a little, inside... but the good kind of crying...

there are things we don't talk about.
there are things we don't say.
not directly.
and then sometimes...

sooner or later
i'll cum on command.
no touching.
just his voice
and his threats
and the way he suddenly addresses me as "slave"
and the safety of knowing
we have plenty of time.

we'll get it right.

i know we will.

i am your kitten
i am your slave.
i am your selkie.

say the word
and i will cum.

The heart that has truly loved never forgets

A difficult phone call, the last of the day,
picked up when I should have gone home.

A man.
They can be the hardest.
He was filled with pain.
With love. And with pain.
He spoke of his wife.
The cancer.
Disfigurement.
Her pain.
And his.
The love.
And the longing…

Later, I remembered this…

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

by Thomas Moore. An Irishman, of course...

The Orchid Room

A story inspired by a visit to the botanical gardens with an old friend and lapsed lover during an intimate visit conducted with the philosopher's permission. Details of THAT in a future episode. Meanwhile, this, from 10 April 2007.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
there is a very fat log above the path, just before a little bridge, with orchids growing from the top.

especially as a philosopher, you have some unexpected connections, and arrange for us to stay past closing.

these situations usually signal some expression of your cruel imagination, so i am disconcerted, but say nothing.

you order me to remove my clothes. i start to protest, but sensing it is hopeless, i obey, muttering under my breath about the things you subject me to.

you bind my hands in front of me, throw a heavy rope over the log, and raise my hands high above my head. with ropes around the posts at the end of the little bridge, you tie my legs apart.

walking around your helpless slave, you admire the view, probing here and there just to incite my curses. then reaching into the lush undergrowth, you pull out a previously unnoticed basket of vines and orchids, some on long stems and some individual flowers.

with studied deliberation, you wind the vines around my naked form, weaving in stems of orchids while inserting other blossoms into my hair, my bush, behind my ears, frequently stepping back to admire your handiwork and taking photos of your creation as it progresses. since you cannot avoid caressing my skin as you adorn it, i am soon moaning and writhing as best i can within the bondage of the ropes.

you smile at my distress.

finally, your work is complete. you look with pleasure at the piece of living art your slave has become. there is one last test. you insert a finger into the cavern between my thighs. you withdraw it covered with nectar.

satisfied, you pull over a small stool, also considerately left for you, and bury your tongue between my dripping labia.

it is time for the bee to gather honey

= = = = =

As I harvest your wild honey. . .careful not to spill a drop. . .

I inhale deeply, taking in the jungle scent of the orchids, and your excitement.

My kitten is a savage nymph. . .a sylvan goddess with bottomless passion. She dances naked through the woods, and bathes in mountain lakes. . .frolicking with the birds and the beasts.

But I have captured her, for a moment, and that passion is mine to play with for a while. . .

And I take advantage of it. . .tasting, touching, hearing. . .drowning in your body. . .

And your howls of desire can be heard for miles. . .

= = = = = =

you feed your desire, but only tease and incite mine.

i writhe with longing as your tongue plunders the honey comb.

i beg for release, but my tears only harden your resolve to display your mastery, as they harden the weapon growing between your thighs.

finally you cut me down, but for your purposes, not out of pity.

you lead my by my bound hands into the next room and lay me down in a bed of greenery. my hands are tied above my head to sprinkler pipe.

you spread my legs and gaze fondly at the sight within, as i whimper softly...

= = = = = = =

Your moans. . .desperation mixed with raw desire. . .inflame me.

I kneel between your legs, and spread them wide. . .wider. . ! Although I have been lapping greedily at your dripping cunt. more honey flows, more than I could ever guzzle down. . .

I take out my cock. . .huge and erect by now. . .and place the very tip against your glistening lips. . .

But I do not want to end your torture too soon. . .I want to hear you beg for it. . .

Do you want it, kitten. . .do you want me to fuck you?

= = = = = = = = = =

please, Master...
please...

you know i want you to fuck me

i am weeping for it
(for real)
my desire for you devours me
it never stops devouring me

i ache to feel deep within me how totally you possess me
your cock within me says it more definitely
than all the poetic words you send me

please fuck me
please cum within me
flood me with the fountain of your life,
with the cataract that rushes from your source
and paint my cunt with the colors of your soul

i am yours.

claim me.

= = = = = = =

Not yet, kitten. . .

I untie your hands, and lift you into a kneeling position, your hands tied behind your back. . .

I thrust into your mouth. . .

Suck me kitten. . .

= = = = = = = =

everything i feel for you goes into loving you with my mouth...
can you tell?

can you hear it in my moans of pleasure
as i feel the pleasure i am giving you?

i feel you grown even bigger as my tongue caresses you.
i am bound, you invaded my mouth,
but i suck on you with joy.

the world vanishes
you and i vanish
nothing exists but your cock and my mouth
and the tears that express my gratitude for being able to serve your lust.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Dommer ...cont.

i did everything he ordered me to do. and more.

i made all my phone calls.
i exercised.
i did one load of laundry.
i practiced.
i even tuned first! (a major task.)
i returned the equipment to the fired cable provider.
i picked up groceries.
i cleaned up my dishes.
i didn't get to clean off the table, though.
it's a never-ending job.
i had a last minute invitation to a party.
i got home very late.
i ran the dishwasher.
and then i embarked on the ritual.

he is so amazing at manipulating my mind, my master. which is why i say he does really own me. i carefully watch the clock, placing my call based on the time on the phone. we both use verizon - hooray for free phone calls! - so i know our times will be synchronized.

i press 2. he is first in my speed dial after the pre-set 1 for emergencies. i press 2, the phone rings, and my brain turns to mush. my voice changes, it becomes higher, it becomes gentler, it becomes much younger, and sometimes it is hard for me to get the words out. my thoughts become vague, my prodigious vocabulary becomes inaccessible, and i feel myself floating away into subspace.

he thinks it's very funny.

we are playing with the idea of branding.
it is play.
but it is very serious.
it is very powerful.
and it catapults me into subspace.

it was very late by the time i performed the ritual last night.
my message with the required photos wasn't posted until 2:40 in the morning.
but i wasn't falling asleep over it.

the room was warm with the glow of 5 red candles in candlesticks, plus a white tea light in a red glass holder. Marko of course was on the bed. i worked hard on the design for the brand, knowing basically what i wanted to do but wanting to get the balance right. not too delicate but not too heavy. strong but artful. i sketched it out first, rejected what i thought would be the final version, and then accepted a second try.

i photographed it under the candles, without flash, to capture the warm glow of the room. i was pleased with the photo i ultimately chose. it is, of course, a little artsy. i will share it only with the philosopher's permission, as i don't know that he would want to reveal his true initials.

writing with the ashes didn't come out so well. but i tried my best.

here is the message i sent with the photos. i have not corrected the typos, which are way worse than what i usually do. i present the message unedited as testimony to the state of my mind.

the philosopher owns my mind.

thank you sir.

it is done.

i hope you liek the brand id esigned. there is seomthing particularly perverted about making a slave design the brand which will be brunt into her own flesh.

i wanted to eb sure my body udnerstaood what was happening. i burnted the paper in a little custard cup, and then held the bottom of the cup to my things, where the brand might go, so i could feel the heat. it was a pwoerful moment.

the rubber band hurt a LOT. especially teh second snap. amde me a little nasueous. but at least by then i was in subspace from the burning.

i did my best to write good kitten with teh ashes, but as you can swee it is utterly illegible, it took a lot of effort to manage what i was able to do. i'm sorry not to have done better.

thank you for the tasks and the ritual. the idea of branding realy is frightening, but part of me years for the chance to demonstrate the depth of my submission.

i sent one more message, with three bonus photos:
- the welts left by the rubber band
- my naked torso with the chain collar falling down between my breasts
- a close-up of my breast, golden like a low-hanging full moon.

when i got home from the party, my orders for today had already been sent. as you can see. my first phone call is due at noon. i'd better get going. i have lots to do.

thank you master.

Subject: Ritual II

Again. . .your usual chores: exercise, cleaning, practice, whatever.

And again: messages at 12 noon, 2:34, 5:17 and 9:45.

And then: "The Tattoo.

You are to dress in your slave shirt, jeans, sock and shoes. . .and the collar.

Nothing else.

You are to go for a walk through your neighborhood. . .and this can be done in the course of doing other chores. You are to find and pick three different colors of flowers. . .bright, spring colors.

When you return home, you will draw a design for a tattoo, on an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of blank white paper. It should consist of the word "Slave" in elaborate script and ornately decorated in several colors. Use magic markers, and decorate the design with the flowers you have picked. Fasten them to the design with tape or glue.

Send me a picture. . .and preserve the original design. I will want to see it.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Dommer

As the philosopher continues to arise from his mid-winter meltdown and resumes in full glory his mantle of being my master, he is returning with enthusiasm to the job of controlling me and my life.

He didn't tuck me in last night, as his weekend is plump with tasks of his own. But he sent me these strict instructions at 12:31 am, having already promised that he would be keeping me busy.

Subject: Ritual

Saturday

You will call and leave a message at 11:59 am, 2:03 pm, 6:30 pm and 8:00. . . SHARP. . .pm

In addition, you will do your normal chores: clean off the table, laundry, go to the gym, practice santouri for 15 minutes or so.

Then, at some point during the day, or evening, you will perform the following ritual:

"The Branding"

You will gather the following objects: candles with holders, matches, plate, paper (the size of a post it note), a black magic marker, rubber band, chain collar, a glass of water, digital camera.

You will strip naked, and put on the chain collar. This is how you would be dressed for the real thing; bare, vulnerable, chained. . . OWNED.

Put a rubber band around your thigh.

You will turn off the lights of whatever room you are in (this should ideally take place in the dungeon, but privacy will dicate where you are able to do it.)

Kneeling on the floor you will light the candles, as many as you need for illumination.

With the magic marker and the paper, you will design a brand: my initials, simple and readable, yet aesthetically interesting. Do a good job. . .this is the mark that will be BURNED into your flesh. How do you want it to look?

Take a picture of your design, to be sent to me later.

Then, with a match, burn the paper on the plate (BE CAREFUL. I don't want you burning down the house. Have some water ready to extinguish the flames if they get too high). Watch as the paper burns. . .and is consumed. Imagine how much a brand will hurt. Snap yourself with the rubber band 3 times.

When it's all burnt, take the ashes and write "Good kitten" across your belly. Take a picture.

Send me the pictures, kitten. . . and check your e-mail tomorrow morning for the next ritual.

There are a couple of other tasks I have to do which are time-limited, such as returning my now unused digital cable equipment to Comcast now that I have freed myself from their incompetence. And the health club (from which I have now returned) closes at 4 pm on weekends. Plus I had a decidedly lazy morning in bed with Marko, and (having forgotten the philosopher's threat of a weekend full of chances to demonstrate my obedience) didn't check for mail from him until almost a quarter of 11. I've attempted to scurry since then, but Saturdays tend to be my day of rest so it has taken some effort to overcome sloth and now I will have to scramble. On top of all that, I've just been invited to an evening beer tasting at a nearby friend's (despite my not being able to drink much in the way of alcohol; I'm ignoring the issue of yeast and Passover...)

So I won't babble on now about the assignment, except to reiterate that I love having to leave phone messages at specific times throughout the day. And his rituals always have tremendous power.

Thank you, master.

And yes, I AM naked as I write these words. And yes, Marko is lying beside me beside the bed, knowing instinctively that he must protect me from any stray perverts that might wander by. Such a good kitten.

As am I...

Iron and Ink

do you really want to brand me?
scar my flesh with your initials.
or how about a sweet tattoo,
nestled there above my ass.

there’s no need to bind or chain me;
i will offer up my body.
go ahead and leave your mark.
stake your claim.
i am yours.

To the philosopher, with love and twitches

feeling twitchy
very sexy

need a spanking
want to suck you

perky nipples
swollen cunt lips

dripping
pooling
soggy panties

do you sense it?
hot desire
pure submission
trust unthreatened
proffered buttocks
warm moist slave mouth
limbs to tether
flesh to torture
virgin rosebud
begging pussy
begging kitten
at your feet.

‘tis the spring, sir
i’m your fucktoy
squeeze your hands
around my throat, sir
use me for your
evil pleasure
take me in your
loving arms, sir
wipe my tears and
kiss my mouth that
screamed with pain and
drank your cum.

‘tis the spring and
i’m your kitten.
i’m your selkie
i’m your slave.
‘tis the spring but
i’ll be patient
and I’ll be here
when you’re done.

On Shakesepeare's Birthday

SONNET 61
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.

FemDom in Kittydom

To Marko and Ketzel,
on the 5th anniversary of their adoption,
with an embarrassing amount of love.
Snores and hairballs and all.

Primary/Primavera

"The challenges that we face are bigger than the smallness of our politics." Barack Obama

Submissive? Who, me?

While extracting the pieces of Lupercalia from a long series of e-mails, I stumbled on the following conversation, which had inserted itself between the final episodes of the story. At the time, while I was delighted to be playing out my fantasies with a willing partner, they were still very much fantasies. We were just beginning to have me act things out at the philosopher's command, and as yet had not spoken on the phone. Remember, this was just 10 days into our acquaintanceship, and although we both felt that this was deeper than we expected, and I was so horny that I was contemplating throwing caution to the winds and jumping into bed with this stranger who already didn't feel that much like a stranger, we thought of this as a game we were playing.

Well, at least the philosopher did. I'm not sure about me. I was in such a haze of desire and wonderment then that I'm not sure I can recall things clearly except through messages we exchanged.

For a long time we referred to it as the game. We would check with each other weekly to be sure we wanted to go on. And then... certainly the relationship became real. The D/s? I'm not sure. I suspect it is more real for me than for the philosopher. Or maybe I'm more honest about that. I do think that it provides very real structure for my life and my psyche, a structure that is very beneficial. After all, my psychopharmacologist has declared my master to be "a stabilizing influence." And if anyone knows that I need one, it is she. (No, she does not know about the D/s, but she's a very smart woman so perhaps has figured some of it out. As it isn't relative to being treated for SAD and perimenopausal madness it doesn't seem that awful to leave it out of our discussions.)

Now I'm not one of those submissives who really thinks she is "owned" by another human being. And no, I don't really believe I am his slave. But there is something inside that finds great comfort in the idea of being owned, that really does feel owned, and that is grounded by that certainty. He DOES take care of me. Sometimes that is through his efforts at regulating my life. Sometimes it is through exploring our darkest of desires, which perhaps, in the sharing, frees us from any sense of unworthiness for having such thoughts. (We are currently creating some very dark scenes of branding, just the mention of which sends me so far down into subspace that I can barely speak. I can't imagine ever going through with it for real, but we are investigating ways of simulating the experience when we are finally together again.)

I CAN say that I am Pavlov's kitten, catapulted into twitches by the oddest things. I may not be conscious of my submission every minute of the day at work, but it does strike me from time to time. And as soon as I leave the room, it is there again. So yes, despite what I said over a year ago, I AM submissive in life. Just not to everyone.

Not to anyone but you, master.
Not to anyone but you.

[The following conversational volley began shortly after I came, an intense reaction to the tale the philosopher had been feeding me. I've cleaned up some typos, but otherwise this is as it burbled from our fingers. I found it rather amusing to read in light of how things eventually developed.]

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

Cum from my words. . .my mastery of you is complete.

You are now, quite literally, my slave.

= = = = = = =

i know. (do you hear the slight puzzlement in my voice?) it's beyond any deliberate choice. i couldn't resist you if i wanted to...

from where did you get such power?

= = = = = = =

How did you come to be so submissive? This can't have come from nowhere.

= = = = = = =
it has been there in fantasies. if we want to get freudian, it's probably a way to avoid being responsible for the magnitude of my sexual desires. i've never played it out with anyone. i've dropped hints, but no one has ever picked up on it.

i'm not really submissive in life. well, i'm dual. i was always the good girl, didn't want anyone angry with me, have horrible fears of rejection, the usual... but i remember as ... i'm not sure how old, maybe pre-teen? i'd have fantasies of being chased thru a forest, captured, tied to a tree... and then it went vague, i didn't realize the sexual component, i was pretty naive about sex altogether tho i was a champion masturbator from being a very small child.

i chafe against authority that i don't respect.

i've been wondering a little at how deep into this i am. i think a large part is the feeling of being safe, cared for. the ownership in our game is a gentle and loving one at core, and our interactions are playful, even when there is rough sex described.

and i am moved incredibly by the depth of emotions. i don't know how much of it is our minds being affected by our play, and how much is some mysterious and puzzling connection. but (and here i'm starting to cry again, i'm afraid) no man, including a (blissfully ex-) husband of 20 years has ever spoken, or written to me with such warmth, such passion. the men i've been involved with have been loathe to express emotion, and i have doubts as to how much they even had.

i have no idea how things would be if i tried to incorporate such play into a "real" relationship. i suspect it would be an aspect of the sexual relationship, which would be exciting, there would be pet names and such.

my ex-husband had a chronic illness which he refused to take care of, or wasn't capable of being responsible for. i dealt with a lot of crises. it feels good, here, to be the kitten, who is owned, petted, taken care of. it is good to be your slave, to be desired, to have a full and rich sex life, even if only in fantasy.

i don't know if that answers your question. i guess i don't really know what the answer is. i have a strong imagination, i have always been prone to sink into the atmosphere of the moment (it took me a long time to snap out of it after seeing Pan's Labyrinth). i lose myself in what we create together but don't feel lost. and i don't do anything i don't want to. i suppose i feel a little triumphant in a way at being able to experiment after all the lone fantasies.

do i seem too weird to you? I don't want to.

= = = = = = =

Not weird at all. . .you just have the most powerful imagination I have ever seen. Your ability. . . and desire to get swept away in a story is, apart from being really arousing. . .just fascinating to watch.

There's all sorts of control issues here, self-control, losing control, seeming to lose control. . . but I guess fantasy makes it all safe.

This dominance/submission dynamic is very powerful. . .and enjoyable.

Lupercalia

From the day the philosopher first wrote this for me, this has been my favorite story of his. In truth, that is due to the last three words They were written but 10 days after we met on line, but somehow they struck me as being more than just an appropriate ending for the story.

Like Dickens, the philosopher published serially. The installments came in gaps of perhaps 5-15 minutes, but I devoured each one on arrival and then waited impatiently for the next one. Of course, I also fired off responses to each section, including the observation that I had cum partway through. I've left out my comments along the way, but have inserted indications of the segments. I did, however, leave my response to the last three words.

Coming as this story did after my story Cold, I had already been given the identity of kitten. But in those days there was a tigress side that used to emerge as well, and it is that beast which is reflected in the story. As my submission has deepened, the tigress has all but disappeared. This wasn't a deliberate decision on my part, merely a reflection of the powerful impact the philosopher has on my consciousness.

Finally, note that I received this last year on the night before Valentine's Day.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Lupercalia

by the philosopher
Tuesday, 13 February 2007

She is a shadow. Less than a shadow, a mere whispered legend, of a beast that haunts the deep forest. Strange howls, which are probably the wind, are heard on certain nights. Young men of the town are occasionally found, scratches on their back, dazed from exhaustion, unable to say what happened to them.

But nobody has ever seen her.

I will see her. I will find the beast, and capture her, and bring her back.

I set my trap. . .baited with the sweetest fruits, and wild honeycomb. . .my instincts tell me that this is what the she-devil craves. And I wait.

Darkness falls, and the woods are silent except for the occasional owl-call.

For hours I wait, in the dark and the cold, until. . .

She is there. A fragrance fills my nostrils, I taste her scent on the night air. I see nothing yet, but a rustling of the brush tells me my trap is well baited. . .

A shadow approaches. . .
- - -
She doesn't see me, so intent is she on filling her belly with treats. The juices run down her chin, so careless is her greed. She is hunger personified. . .a lust that will never be satisfied, or tamed. . .

Or tamed. . .

I will tame her.

In one quick motion, I throw the net. . .it spins through the air, and covers her completely. She howls, and trys to escape, but I am upon her. . .

I tie the net closed, and wrap my arms around her, thinking nothing of the bites and scratches she lavishes upon me. I allow her rage to spend itself. . .then, grabbing a fistful of her hair, I force her head back. I hold her gaze for several long seconds, smiling when she is the first to look away.

Then I force my tongue into her mouth, again not caring when she bites my lip and draws blood. The stab of pain only inflames my lust, and increases my desire to possess her.
- - -
I kiss her through the net that still enwraps her body, my tongue arrogantly probing as deep as I can. When I pull away, she is gasping for breath, and just ever so slightly less resistant.

Still she struggles, more so when she sees the smile on my face, the smile that means that I intend to take full advantage of the situation.

Still grasping her hair, I cut away the net with a small sharp knife, leaving it around her legs to prevent her escape, and tying shreds around her wrists, binding them behind her back.

I then throw her to the ground.

Captured she is, but not yet tame.

Not yet.
- - -
She is an animal, a spirit of the woods, an arrogant sylvan goddess. She has never wanted for anything, taking what she desires from anywhere. . .or anyone she wants. The forest is her realm, and I an impertinent intruder.

But the goddess is about to learn that she is no longer in charge. Her days of power are over.

The first lesson is the most direct. I pull her to my knees, expose my massive erection, and again grabbing her hair, force it between her lips. She almost seems to forget herself, gobbling it down like it was a piece of fruit, but when she looks up and sees me watching her, anger flashes through her eyes. I firmly grab her jaw in a vice-like grip to discourage any biting. . .but something tells me this is not necessary.

In a few seconds I am roaring with pleasure, and dripping down her chin. . .her tongue sweeps across her lips, as she strives to swallow every last drop, and as she strives to comprehend her new situation. . .her pleasure comes last. . .
- - -
Her skilled, savage mouth has brought me to orgasm. . .but I am far from satisfied. I lift her up and throw her over my shoulder. I will take her back to camp, where her education will continue.

Once there, I put a collar around her neck, and fasten a long chain to it, the other end of which I tie to a stake in the earth. She is now a captive, with only as much freedom as I allow.

I stand just out of reach as she flies at me, trying to scratch my eyes out. She has never been so treated, and I can't help noticing the effect it has on her. Her nipples are hard, and I don't need to see the wetness between her thighs. . .her jungle scent fills the air.

When she has tired herself out a bit more, I strike again. . .lesson two. I throw her on her hands and knees, and enter her from behind, like a fox mounting his bitch. . .as in truth you soon will be. My pet my slave, my sexual plaything.

But that is a way off yet. The only thing you are aware of now is the burning pleasure in your cunt, as I thrust deep and hard, and pull out slow and gentle, then thrust again.

You squeal with each thrust and moan with each withdrawal, until together we establich a raucous rhythm, a profane music with which we entertain the dark forest.

The campfire burns out long before we tire of our grappling, but eventually we fall to the ground, spent and exhausted.

You couldn't escape if you wanted, given the chain around your neck. . .and as you lie there, a strange alien thought drifts through your mind unbidden, yet strangely welcome:

You don't want to.
- - -
I am awakened in the early morning, by a soft gentle nibbling at my cock. I open my eyes to find the beast sucking me with her preternatural skill. The lessons have had their effect. . .

I pull her to me, and we fuck again, gentler this time, but still wild and savage.

When we are done, she looks at me as if she expects to be let go. I have had my fun, but it's over now.

Little does she know.

I was not looking for a roll in the hay, or a cheap thrill. I am looking to ravish, to possess, to own.

I flip her over, and force her into a kneeling position. I spread her buttocks with my hands. . . those proud muscular buttocks. . .and bring the very tip of my cock to rest between them. I give her a second to realize the inevitable, and then I thrust.

Her howls, I am told, are heard from miles away.
- - -
I bathe her in a nearby stream. She is limp with exhaustion, and I have removed her collar.

There is no more resistance in her.

I put her in a wooden cage, that I have fashioned expressly for this purpose, and I tie a leather band around her ankle: My insignia.

I drape a cloth over the cage, and then I ride back into town, pulling the cage, and the treasure it possesses.

I bring it to the center of town, where people have gathered to see. They had thought I had gone to my doom, and were now thinking that I was attempting some fraud.

The crowd gasps as one, when the cloth is pulled back; a woman shrieks with terror. Never have they seen such savage beauty, such raw sensuality. . .and to see it caged is beyond imagining.

Suddenly a man calls out "I will give you a hundred sovereigns for her! For one night!" Soon you are at the center of a lusty auction, each male, and a few of the females, in the crowd desperate to have you, if even for a moment.

I silence the crowd with a gesture. I reach through the bars of the cage and run my fingers through your hair. Then, without raising my voice, as if I am merely stating a plain fact, I seal your fate:
- - -
"She is mine"
- - - -
Thank you.

That was the right answer.

On the first night of Passover

"Remember the day on which you went forth from Egypt, from the house of bondage, and how the Lord freed you with a mighty hand."

Tonight we celebrate our freedom from slavery.
Tonight we wish for freedom for all people.
Tonight I will be at the house of two leathermen.
They know I am kinky but don't get the D/s.
They do have a dungeon.
They just like to play.

Tonight we will speak
of freedom from bondage
and I'll try not to think
of the chain round my ankle.

I will always remember
the chain round my ankle.

You own me, master.
I am your slave
and in bondage I am free.


LATER...

Early in tonight's seder, my eyes were drawn to this commentary in the margin.

from A Night of Questions: A Passover Haggadah
published by The Reconstructionist Press

The seder includes numerous contrasting symbols: parsley in salt water and bitter maror in sweet charoses; death in the shank bone next to the egg of life on the seder plate; matzah both as a symbol of freedom and bread of affliction. What is the connection between these contradictions and freedom?

Human beings are deeply conditioned to crave the pleasant and the sweet and avoid the unpleasant. This is a natural tendency. However, to be free means relating fully to all experience and choosing how to act because we wish to realize our values and commitments.

As free beings tonight we embrace all experience and are not shaken or driven by our fears and desires to make our experience conform to our expectations. We are free insofar as we do not automatically identify pleasant and unpleasant with good and bad, with desirable and undesirable, with true and false. Freedom entails a perspective that is wider than our likes and dislikes.

---Sheila Peltz Weinberg

re-connection

i write here for a lot of different reasons and audiences.

last night's precipitous cry of despair in miniature was for my master. my lover. my best friend.

this morning's post is for you.

the public.

because of course i over-reacted. i often do, it seems. my emotions sit on my skin like a layer of baby oil. keeping me soft and ready to burst into searing flames at the slightest hint of friction.

the philosopher called. there was that technological glitch. he thought i was busy and had turned off my phone. so he turned off his phone, as he always automatically does - silly master - and dozed off. and just as i finished last night's post, he called back.

of course i was punished for last night's mishap. i'm getting punished a lot these days. i see this as a good sign. the philosopher is now very much my master again, the depressed and despondent grad student of last February has gone into retreat.

so i was punished.
scolded and punished.
ordered to put on the punishment panties.
i hate the punishment panties.

i was ordered to create them long ago, for who knows what infraction. once they were an ordinary, worn pair of white cotton panties. hanes. the kind the philosopher despises precisely for their ordinariness. i was ordered to write "BAD KITTY" across both the front and the back. in front, the K of KITTY rests just above my cunt. behind, BAD adorns one butt cheek and KITTY the other.

i get very fretful in the punishment panties. it is amazing and somewhat embarrassing, the power they have over my hyper-suggestive mind. a very bad punishment indeed.

this was followed by a rubber band caning. 5 strokes at the top of my left inner thigh. i knew this was meant as a bad punishment, so each time pulled the rubber band as far out is it would go before releasing it. the thin rubber band bit and cut and had me wriggling with pain.

it left welts.
and i had to take a photo.

it's not very focused, as i don't use flash for these close-in shots to prevent the subject from being washed out. but the welts are very clear.

the punishment did its job
as the the punishments always do.
my master was appeased
his slave felt very owned
his kitten was forgiven
the panties were removed
and 250 miles apart
we fell asleep in each other's arms.

defeated by technology

we have rituals, the philosopher and i.
they are the rituals of connection
the rituals of distance.
and sometimes
there's dis-
connection.

for me there is a
task and a joy.
the morning wake-up call.
he's a professor and a grad student
my philosopher of desire.
a ten o'clock scholar, with a
sex slave as alarm clock.

my master declares
the end of my day.
again a phone call,
to be answered promptly.
from 9 o'clock on
the phone
follows me everywhere.
delay displeases him.

tonight he was displeased.
my ear piece, snug in the
dark of my fanny pack,
was eavesdropping on
other people's salacious
chatter and
turned itself on.
the phone rang.
i pressed send
and heard
nothing.

poor frantic kitten
rummaging for the
guerilla saboteur
wildly pressing
again and again
failing to turn it off
no good at fitting it into place
too distressed to think
finally success
the icon is gone
call master back

and he has slammed the door shut

nothing but this
short and curt
"my phone is off.
leave a message."

he must be very tired.
i tell myself he must be very tired.
last class day before spring break.
papers to get graded before spring break.
a long day.
a long commute.

good night, master.
sleep well, master.
perhaps you will wake up briefly
long enough to turn your phone back on
so the voice of your sex slave can
rouse you in the morning.

and if i were there with you
you'd sleep snug and sound
happy with your kitten by your side
and you'd float up to consciousness
lured by the warmth of my mouth round your cock.

Marko likes pink panties, too

Forced Absence

i was not allowed to blog yesterday.
i was being punished.
i had been a very bad kitten.

actually, i was a very unhappy kitten. you could blame hormones, i suppose. one can always blame hormones and i did in fact have pms (at my age!!!) and an accompanying migraine.

but i was also suffering from the separation. i haven't seen the philosopher since Martin Luther King Day. and it will likely be a long time until i see him again. he has this weird idea that it's better for him not to see me until he finishes his dissertation. i sure hope that's serving as good incentive, because for me it's torture. though of course we do know that he likes to torture me...

anyway, sunday i was feeling down, and sunday night he didn't call, and didn't write that he wouldn't call, although sunday nights in fact are just a sometime thing. it's all in my expectations.

by monday i was in full pout mode.

my wake-up call was not what you would want to hear first thing in the morning.

at lunch time i found this message in my inbox. its disapproving tone was magnified by having come from his regular account, not our private one, which meant that it was under his own name.

Subject: Sullen Kitten

You sounded a bit sulky this morning, kitten.

A wakeup call should be bright and cheerful, or else
what's the point?

Plus, you used a rubber band without my express
permission. It is not your place to hurt yourself,
kitten. That is for me alone.

Punishment:

No blogging today. And when you get home, write out
the phrase "I will not be a sullen kitten" 50 times,
then send me a picture.

Is this clear?

i didn't like being denied blogging. but i appreciated the punishment. writing lines works well for me. being punished works well for me. it is focusing. it gives me the control i need. and it makes me feel taken care of. especially when i have pms or am otherwise moody, i need to feel taken care of.

(the rubber band reference was to my having snapped one around my wrists that morning, hard, in hopes of jolting myself out of my bad mood. it didn't work. it just got me into more trouble.)

i did write the lines when i got home.
and took pictures.
and sent them.
i do try to be obedient.

and then we had a long bedtime phone call, and i cried, and admitted to being afraid of saying how unhappy i was at his absence, even as i try to accept it because the most important thing is for him to finish. i carry fears of triggering another episode like last february, i'm afraid that if i cry over missing him that he'll put me out and lock the cat door and not let me back in. but he was sweet and comforting and accepting and said it was ok to cry, and did the best he could to gather me in his arms and soothe my hair and kiss away my tears considering we were 250 miles apart.

and then we talked about my trip to Harrisburg as a missionary for Obama, and we talked about the Catholic church, and we talked about this naked blogging business, and we talked about the cats. and i was his slave kitten and i was his girlfriend and i miss him horribly and i love him very much and i'm still suffering from pms today and still have a bit of a migraine but i won't be a sullen kitten and will at least sound sweet when i call if not quite perky.

and now i'd better get dressed and feed the cats and take the garbage out and go off to work and be a productive member of society.

though i can't help thinking...

memorial day is a national holiday.
it's a 3-day weekend.
even grad students need a little vacation sometimes.
don't they?

Matched set

Below are a pair of stories I've been saving up. Dominick wrote the first one in response to the fantasies he had elicited from me. It stunned me at first, and then brought forth my own version. Do please read his first. And keep in mind that mine was written with no in-the-flesh BDSM experience whatsoever.

This had not been my intent

written for me by dominick. see my version of the story here.
11 March 2007

I wrote this for you, and whilst it does not convey the intimacy i would like, it seemed to sate a creative streak i felt...
- - - - - -

this had not been my intent as I set out that evening, and I did not know what she expected would happen, but the progression felt entirely natural. I was curious, momentarily, as to what she was thinking as she lay on the bed, her hands bound above her head, her legs splayed, her feet secured at the far corners of the mattress, face downward, her head turned to one side looking at her upstretched arm. i would not consider myself a sadistic man, and certainly not lacking compassion for others, and was genuinely interested as I listened to her talk at the bar. i cared for her troubles, and I felt empathy as she described her sense of alienation, the troubles and travails of everyday life. it was not even that she was particularly alienated, she merely experienced the moments of ennui that we all feel. I really wanted her to feel a sense of companionship when I took her hand in mine, to let her know that she did have a friend, that I cared for her, despite having known her only a short time. we had laughed easily together, our conversation had been one lacking pretence, our gaze was one of shared warmth. having said that, I knew exactly what I wanted to do to her as I led her to the elevator and into the room that I was staying in.

I lifted her head slightly to slip the gag under it, forced her jaw open with my thumb and fingers on either side of her mouth, pushed it between her teeth, then clasped it at the back of her head. I moved the strip of fabric over her eyes and tied it, not too tight, behind her, ensuring that no light would reach her. I had asked, as we entered the room, if she trusted me, and she had said that she did. I looked at her, prone on the firm mattress, stretched, agape, and recognized that she was helpless, open to violation, mine. i ran my fingers gently from her shoulders down her back, and saw goose pimples rise on her skin, despite the warmth of the room. I kept running my hands down - over her buttocks, down her thighs, behind her knees and over her calves and saw her twitch slightly. I touched her lightly under her arms, tickling her, largely to see if the bonds were tight. Her muscles contracted and she pulled hard at the restraints, but could not move. I moved both of my hands firmly down each of her legs and felt the muscles under her skin pulled taught. I moved my hands back up the insides her thighs and felt the tendons on either side of her groin stretched to her legs spread wide across the bed. I pressed hard with my short nails until I could see faint red lines trail behind them. I sat astride her, the woolen fabric of my pants rough against her, as my fingers moved over her, pressing hard, creating four lined figures of eight on her skin. I moved down her body, my hand between her legs, fingers moving along her wide open sex, finding her wet, casually pushing against the contrast of soft flesh made hard as it became engorged, wiry hair and soft, tender slick skin, enjoying exploring the way that she felt. I made my fingers damp with her secretions, then spread her cheeks apart and moved my finger to her butt, resting it gently for a second against the sphincter, then pushing it a short way inside, watching the involuntary constriction at the touch, feeling the tightness of the muscle. then I stood, moved to the chair, retrieved the long slender crop, came back to the bed, raised it high above my head, kept it there for a short time, then brought it whistling down through the air, continuing the downward pressure as it hit both her buttocks hard, quickly wrapped down around her body then sprang back again, much as she moved her hips downward to escape the sensation, then brought them back up again. As I took the black rod away from her skin, I could see the red welt forming, a line neatly creating a perpendicular intersection across the skin, extending from one side of her body to the other. I raised the rigid strip of woven leather again, and repeated the downward motion, noticing the tension in her jaw as she anticipated the imminent sting, coming into contact with her slightly below the previous line, leaving it there for a short time. I could see her body wince as leather hit flesh, her head rose from the bed slightly, her hips moved down and the muscles in her legs flattened. I repeated the motion with the crop, bringing it down to create striations at small intervals from the top of her thighs to the small of her back. I then chose a single spot and brought it down ten times at that one place. I could almost see the blood rising to the surface of her skin, which was not quite broken.

she now lay still, the tensing and relaxing of her body seemed to have slowed. the blows did not rain upon her, but came in steady, almost hypnotic intervals. I brought the lash down one last time, then slowly took it away and moved to the side of the bed, lent down and felt the red skin. it was unnaturally warm to the touch, a strange contrast in color to the rest of her body. I reversed the earlier process, removing the blindfold, unclasping the gag, untying her feet then her hands. I stepped back to the chair, lit a cigar and watched as she blinked in the unexpected light, slowly moved her body, trying to find positions that did not cause her pain as the blood came back to her limbs. she rolled herself into a fetal position and self consciously wiped the tears from her eyes.

- - - -

comment by the author on 24 March:

the greatest difference between the story and reality is the end - to purport that I would be that cold after such a session is a little ridiculous - it would imply that I am completely callous, and although I may fantasize like that at times, or carry a scene through to a callous end, such as lighting a cigar and sitting back, the real end is when I offer comfort and tenderness. the fun of a scene is, to a degree, the closeness that develops, the trust and the intimacy, and having developed that, it is impossible to not be tender having administered so much pain, irrespective of the degree to which the person receiving the pain craves it. the tenderness may be the two you lying afterward, having had sex as a natural progression from the play, relaxing, or, especially, after a hard spanking, having had anal sex, which seems to develop a special bond.

We met in a bar

[my response to dominick's story. i appended the note at the end when i sent it to him. read his first.]

11 March 2007

We met in a bar.

A bad way to begin. I don't go to bars. And yet. We
met in a bar.

We met in a hotel bar. I was at loose ends, waiting
for things to fall into place. It was Spring. I was
restless. And I don't think straight in the Spring.

I sat at the bar. Even if I did go to bars I wouldn't
sit AT the bar. But it was Spring. I was restless. Not
thinking straight. Pretending I was in a movie.

It was like in a movie. A man sat down next to me. He
offered to buy me a drink. He didn't flinch when I
requested a Coke. Not diet. When it came, he led me to
a table. With a strong hand and an outstretched arm.
Well, a strong hand anyway, in the small of my back.
He wasn't leading me out of Egypt. But he definitely
had a goal in mind. I thought I knew what it was. When
all the time the audience was yelling No! Don't do it!

It was like in a movie. We sat at a table. We talked.
He listened well, and revealed enough to make me feel
comfortable. I did feel comfortable. And something
else. He was clearly in charge, a trait that only
recently I'd begun to find appealing. He sat
kitty-corner to me, not across the table. Our knees
kept bumping. He put his hand over mine, out of
understanding, it seemed. With affection, it seemed.
With confidence, most surely.

It was like in a movie. It was Spring. I coudn't think
straight. He was in charge. Whatever he asked for, I
would agree to.

I excused myself to go to the ladies' room. I felt his
eyes on me as I went. I found that my panties were
wet. I was not surprised. He knew my panties were wet.
I was sure of it. If he didn't know it before, he read
it in my eyes when I came back to the table.

It was like in a movie. He paid the check, helped me
out of my chair, took my arm, and led me to the
elevator. There was no need to discuss it. It was
Spring. I needed to get laid. I trusted him. Must have
been the accent.

He asked me if I trusted him. I told the truth, though
suddenly I wasn't so sure. But I ignored my doubts.
Something was making me ignore my doubts. I no longer
felt quite in control.

It was like in a movie. But I was no longer sure what
kind of movie. He took me in his arms. His kiss was
perfect - soft enough, firm enough, commanding enough.
He knew what he was doing. And it worked. I was ready
for anything.

He undressed me slowly and deliberately, running his
hands meditatively over each part of my body as he
revealed it. He kept his clothes on. He led me to the
bed, reaching for a bag on the way there.

It was like in a movie. I was watching it and I was in
it. Everything seemed to be happening very fast, but
in fact proceeded with steady focused care. He pulled
me down on the bed, onto my stomach, and straddled me.
I observed from a distance as he bound my hands above
my head. I felt ropes go around my ankles, and my legs
were stretched further apart than I'd ever managed on
the machines at the health club. There was strain,
but nothing I would actually classify as pain. Not
yet. That would come later.

Part of me was becoming alarmed, the part that was
still in my body. The observer wanted to see how the
movie ended. So I did not protest. He stroked my hair
and I looked up questioningly, but did not protest.
And then I couldn't protest, because now there was a
gag in my mouth. And then I wasn't looking at
anything, because he had blindfolded me. And now i was
truly frightened. And also frightfully aroused.

I stopped thinking. Now that I couldn't see, I focused
on feeling. I felt my helplessness, I felt the
bondage, I felt my vulnerability, and I gave myself up
to whatever was about to happen. I knew this was
something I wanted. I might regret it afterwards, but
for now this was something i wanted.

I gave myself up to it. Whatever he had in store for
me, I would submit.

His hands started to explore me. This didn't seem so
dangerous. It was exciting. I gave myself up to his
hands, and looked forward to more.

When he moved away from the bed, I thought he was
going for condoms.

I heard the first blow before I felt it, although I
didn't recognize it for what it was. The pain across
my buttocks was sudden, sharp. I would have gasped if
I hadn't been gagged. The inability to make any
comment drove me deeper into myself, but didn't lessen
the pain any. If anything, it increased my focus on
it. I braced myself for the invariable next one. Which
came, quite dependably.

There was something particularly appalling about the
deliberate, cold nature of the assault. He didn't say
a word. He landed one stroke after another on my
thighs, buttocks, and lower back. Even as the pain
melded into one huge mass, I could tell with the now
very small observer part of my brain that he was
carefully planting the stripes in a predetermined
pattern. Finally, he started whipping the same spot
again and again, and the observer disappeared. There
was nothing left but the pain. The helplessness and
the pain.

Finally, it was over. Still silent, he removed the
restraints in the reverse order they had been applied.
He moved away from the bed. I heard him settle into
the chair. It felt as if he were watching me. I heard
a match strike, and then smelt a cigar. A small part
of my old self flared up inside me. I hate cigars. But
it wasn't enough to wake me from the trance he had
whipped me into. I curled up in a fetal position, the
only position that didn't add to the pain. I curled up
and wept.

We met in a bar. It felt like a movie. An indie movie
showing at Sundance. A movie the audience might not
understand. The audience would see me weeping. The
End. But there was one more challenge left for the
filmmaker. How to make the audience know that the
whipping had driven out everything that was inside me.
And that, as the tears subsided, all that was left was
a deep peace.

NOTE: The interpretation of the woman's response was
pure speculation. I would be interested in hearing
your observations from experience.

solitary sunday

sundays are the hardest
i miss you too much

Doing our civic duty

[I don't know to what extent the philosopher's insistence on naked blogging was designed as punishment, and to what extent it was instituted as just another demonstration of his control, but it is a royal pain in the ass. but of course, that doesn't stop me from obeying - and I do feel very owned in the process.]

So it was back up to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania yesterday, for another visit to Obama headquarters. It's a wonderful old brick building about a block from the state capital and walking distance from a collection of Irish bars. Coming back felt very comfortable; I'm growing rather fond of the area.

I made the 2-hour trip with my best female friend and steady canvassing partner. Any pseudonym would feel false, so I will just refer to her as M. Last time we went door-to-door registering voters, explaing that you can't vote in the Democratic primary if you are registered non-partisan; in Pennsylvania there is nothing wrong with switching your registration for the primary and then back right afterwards.

Our previous visit saw us driving from one far-flung over-sized suburban house to another; in a heavily Republican area the independent houses were quite scattered. This time, we focused on registered Democrats, and our mandate was to persuade. We ended up doing all our work in a public housing apartment building across from the market building and not far from the Capital.

Now one key tenet of the Obama campaign is that we have to look and think beyond the distinctions that have always divided us. We needn't be bound by stereotypes of race, gender, class, income, and so forth. Still, stereotypes die hard, and our hearts sank as we contemplated our target territory. Would we be welcome? Would we be safe? Would we even be allowed into the building?

But the people hanging around outside on this unexpectedly beautiful day were friendly, and the guard distressingly lax about letting us in. The hallway walls were of cinder block but clean and brightly painted, and there were no traces of urine smells. At first we took the elevator, partly out of laziness but also, admittedly, from nervousness on my part about drug addicts or other attackers in the stairwells. Eventually we were shamed into using the stairs by a man we ran into in the elevator, and they were in fact as clean and well-lit as the rest of the building. ("What? Do you think we need the exercise?" I asked. "Yes," he replied bluntly.)

As usual with canvassing, a lot of people weren't home. The rest of our targeted Democrats were often at first coy about their preference, but in the end most confessed to being for our guy. Some just nodded their heads towards us, some pointed at our campaign buttons. One woman whose door decorations testified to her religiosity wouldn't open up for us but said from within that she likes Obama and is praying for him. I hope this has an effect, because one of our undecideds said that in the end she would pray and that God would tell her whom to vote for. I wonder who gets to make the phone trying to get His/Her vote?

We did hit a couple of Hillary supporters, and despite our curiosity we stuck to our orders and didn't attempt to satisfy our curiosity and find out why. And then there were our undecideds.

When you feel really strongly about something, it can be hard to fathom how anyone could possibly be undecided on the matter. But there are plenty who still struggle with the decision. One woman likes Obama but was afraid to vote for him because she thought very few other people would. We assured her that he seemed to have good support among the Democrats in the building and would quite likely win Harrisburg. Another shared the fear that many of us keep buried that such an extraordinary leader is just inviting assassination. We said we can't hold back in fear, we must move forward, we must have hope, we can't lose this chance to change the world. Many said the two candidates are a lot the same, and we agreed before sharing our own views and passions - from which I will spare you all.

Every time we've been sent out we've been firmly told NOT to go into people's houses. Our suburban jaunts have always yielded offers of water or coffee, and once each outing we've asked with a little embarrassment and a lot of gratitude if we might please use their bathroom. On this trip, the offers to come in were made from such a font of natural hospitality that there was no way we could think of refusing. Besides, what do you do when your target already has her door open, so she can call out greetings to her neighbors as they pass? We entered and found her lying in her recliner. Her body is hard to maneuver, her speech hard to understand. With difficulty she transferred herself to her wheel cheer and invited us to sit on the couch, so we could converse without standing over her. The cause of her problems was unclear, but I think she referred to some sort of accident when she was a young mother. She is of course worried about health care, and hates this stupid war. She doesn't need us to point out where the money is going that could buy her a new and better wheel chair. She will vote if someone can come and push her to the polling place at the school next door. She is white and calls the black woman down the hall "Mom."

Another visit was to the home of a woman struggling with asthma or emphysema and tethered by a long tube to an oxygen tank. A retired state worker, she, too hates the war. She, too, responds to moving beyond divisions of race and class and gender. And she admitted what the others never would - it was a lonely Saturday afternoon and she was grateful for some company beyond what the television could offer.

Then there was the black woman who seemed much younger than her listed 67 years. She mentioned something we'd never heard before. All the other black leaders, she said, kept hearkening back to how they had been slaves, to what had been done to them. She had heard all that in the 60s and ever since. Enough, she said. Obama doesn't talk that way. Obama doesn't get stuck on race. Obama doesn't linger on victimization. Obama looks to the future. He SHOWS what black people can do and be.

This woman had the cutest smile. We talked at the door for a long time, while I drank in her sunshine-flooded living room, filled with large healthy plants. I wished I could be photographing the faces of the people we met, filled with hope and fear and frustration and determination . Added together, they will decide our future.

And the one who made me cry? Small and bent over, she clung to the door knob to stay upright. She likes them both, she said, but thinks Obama should be president because he is the man. Clinton is good, she said, but she should be second to him. I stuffed down my urge to launch into feminist protest. Arguing wouldn't change her mind, and at least in this case her old-fashioned convictions helped our cause, though it wasn't help I really wanted.

She went on. She always votes, she said. And gets out plenty. Struggling with osteoporosis and who knows what else, 86 years old, living behind one door of many in public housing, she is always out there helping others who have less than she does. She puts together packets of things for the needy, and delivers Meals on Wheels. You'd expect she'd be on the receiving end, but she's the one out there giving. My eyes filled as we headed back down the hall.

Did we win anyone over? Who knows? But when they step (or are wheeled) into the voting booth, I'm sure they will remember those two white middle-class women who drove up from the suburbs to spend a Saturday afternoon walking the halls of their building, sitting on their couches, visiting and listening and earnestly speaking of someone who believes in tearing down walls.

Next stop - North Carolina?

Turning in an incomplete

please forgive me, master. i'm about two-thirds of the way done with a post about today's adventures Obama-izing, but am now too sleepy to finish. i promise i will complete my assignment tomorrow morning (or at worst tomorrow afternoon), and in the evening will give my readers the treat of receiving the story dominick wrote for me along with the one i wrote in return.

and now, to sleep... naked and cuddled down into the cool sheets, with that hot little kitty slut ketzel staking out turf at my feet. don't you wish you were holding my nakedness in your arms, tormenting my nipples as they reached towards November?

Declaration

[for the philosopher.
the rest of you are eavesdropping.]

there are bonds
far stronger than hemp
surer than iron
stronger than steel
and pain far greater than any
your poetic sadism
could make me feel.

i belong to you.
this isn't a game.
there are pockets of air in the house where you stood.
your spirit lingers in your chair.
a membrane of reality keeps your hand from my ass.
distance is a construct. we can destroy it.
doubt is a fallacy. we can deny it.
WE are reality. we can embrace it.

i can't imagine my life without you
and i don't intend to try.

yes, we can.
we can do this.
we are doing it.

and if i'm crazed enough to strip off my clothes before posting to my blog just because you told me to, then i am crazed enough to see this through.

as are you.

because...

Naked Blogger Alert

Especially for someone who professes to be so deeply submissive, I have been an awfully disobedient slave kitten lately.

I've been looking at my stats. A lot. I broke down and looked when we first began the Boobs for Bucks drive on behalf of Z. My master was not at all pleased, as he had banned them totally (banned stats, that it, not boobs), but he seemed to understand my wanting to see the effect of the sudden publicity. I wasn't punished. And I chose to take that to mean the ban was off. I should have known he would catch up with me eventually.

As I said, he was not pleased. He sees me becoming obsessed. He threatened to limit me to but one post a week. I protested, saying I'd lose my audience. I've got a new wave of readers since persephone put me on her blog roll (thanks, meg!). I do love the attention, especially since I saw (before I lost my stat privileges) that some of you newcomers are coming back for more. And I really loved seeing readers turn up from places I've lived. (Hej, Stockholm! Hola, Buenos Aires! GO BLUE!!!!)

But alas, no more. Except on special occasions. And who do you think the judge will be for that!

Anyway, he relented about cutting me back to one post a week. But he is a clever master, must come from being a philosopher, and he devised a cunning form of blogging bondage. I am only allowed to blog naked. It definitely limits my activities.

So here I am, at nearly 11 pm, sitting naked on the bed, the laptop on (of all places) my lap. Marko's at the foot of the bed - he always hovers nearby when I'm doing anything connected with the philosopher. He may be a bit of a wimp, that cat, but he's protective and possessive.

I'm not even under the covers as it's too damn hot in the house.

My cunt is covered by my PowerBook (yes of course I'm a Mac person!) but you can still see my tits. Or you would if you were here. Or if you'd all shell out just a bit to help rescue Z. I sure wish we could push it over into our first thousand at least.

I really do have stunning nipples. They're my mother's nipples. It's quite odd to think of one's mother having such sexy, exhibitionist nipples, but she does. And so do I. My sister has declared her jealousy that I inherited them. And my master is obsessed with them.

You know those bras with a bit of padding to help one retain one's modesty where respectability is recommended? You can still see the tips of my tits poking through. They look erect even when they're not. Just begging to be tortured, my nipples are.

Ooh, they ARE erect now. Just the idea of being looked at...

So I'll be blogging naked until further notice. And not peeking at my stats. And practicing music every day. And trying to be a very obedient slave kitten.

Maybe one day I'll get it right.

Butt plugs, anyone?

my master was inspired by my tale of anal sex obsession. always looking for new ways to control me, to tip me into subspace, he has declared his interest in outfitting me with a butt plug. or perhaps an anal vibrator.

anyone have a favorite?

kitten waxes sentimental

tonight i should write a sadistic sexy story,
a tale of lust and spanking
stuffed with salacious search terms
to lure the celibate and horny.
or perhaps it should be an essay,
feminist, ironic,
smartly suitable output
for a sex-crazed slut
of a submissive slave kitten.

but no.
not tonight.
tonight i am
lapped
by waves
of warmth,
cradled in feelings
too tender to name.

tears fill my eyes
salt like the sea
and i float
i float
i'm rocked by the tide
in perfect trust
i have no doubts
i know no fear
his special treasure
his sweetest possession
afloat on feelings
too tender to name.

Play

by the philosopher
Friday, 9 February 2007

[a birthday gift 6 days after we met, from the man who now owns me.]

Cats, they say, don't like water. "They" have obviously never seen my little kitten in the shower.

The hot water beats down on your soft flesh, soaking into your tired muscles, and melting away the tension and the stress. The scented lather, in great fluffy mountains, works its way across your body, herded by your wicked hands, until every intimate corner has been touched. . .

touched. . .

touched. . .

You snap to. No time for this now. . .no time to linger under the sensuous cascade. . .no time to stroke and pet and bring yourself to ecstasy. No, tonight is special.

Stepping out of the shower, you grab a large fluffy towel and begin drying yourself. You lay the towel out on the floor. . .it is VERY large. . .and kneel in the center. You start applying baby oil, taking huge gobs of it from a nearby bottle, and applying it liberally to your body. You twist and flex like a pretzel, making sure that every part of you is kissably soft. . .after all, every part of you will be kissed. . .and stroked. . .and explored.

Finished, finally (you were VERY thorough), you now stand before a three-part mirror, one that gives you access to every part of your body. Time to dress.

This is the hard part. You are not merely dressing yourself. . .not merely grooming. You are offering yourself to eyes. . . and lips. . . and brazen hands of another. This is not about what you want. . . about what you think looks good.

You must learn to see yourself as an object. . .an object of leering attention, of unrestrained lust. An object to be possessed. . . owned. . . used.

You let your eyes wander over your reflection. Will you satisfy?

You smile as you realize the answer is yes. . . yes. . . a million times yes. . .

Reaching into a jewelry box, you take out a wide necklace that fits snugly around your throat. More of a choker really. . .at least that's what it's called. But you and I know what it really is. . .

A collar. . .

You stand there, gazing at yourself in the mirror, fingering the collar at your neck, letting its full meaning sink into you. . .penetrate you. . .warm you. . .

Your hand starts to creep down your body, but you catch yourself. That's not for you. . .not tonight.

You select a pair of panties, pink, frilly, very fetching. You put them on, and carefully scrutinize your reflection, from all angles, turning this way and that, to get the full effect. Panties are difficult. . .sometimes they are a bother, to be simply ripped away; it's better to go without.

But sometimes. . .sometimes. . .they are a joy to peel off, like the wrapping being removed from a present, a special gift. As they make their way down your slightly parted thighs. . .glacially. . . torturously. . .slowly revealing the treasure they conceal. . .it drives me wild, and you know it . . . sometimes I remove them using only my teeth, like a dog tugging on a rope, playful and determined. . .the panties are important. . .

But the pair you are wearing are now soaked through, you naughty girl.

You seem completely unable to control your thoughts tonight. . .

- - - - - - - -

If I close my eyes, I can see my kitten, posing in front of her mirror, preening and grooming, anxious to please.

I can smell her fragrance, the sweat that glistens on her skin when she gets excited (and she's always excited. . .and exciting). I can see her rub the oil all over. . .and I can see her when she's naughty, touching herself without permission.

I see her remove her panties, damp and scent-filled.

I see her select another pair, a mere thong that conceals nothing, but emphasizes the soft curve of her hip, and draws the eye down, past her belly. . .

My kitten has chosen well. She poses again, turns this way, then that, as if she knows I can see, and wants me to look.

Then a dress, form fitting, scooped in the back, low-cut in front. The naughty girl has foregone a bra, and her insolent nipples are plainly visible, daring me to suck them.

Finally, a pair of shoes. Impossibly high heels. . .she teeters precariously, almost on tiptoe. I know she hates such shoes, finds them uncomfortable. . .but I also know that she appreciates what they do: thrust her breasts out, make her buttocks more prominent, her legs seem even longer and sleeker. She walks back and forth a bit. . .she is forced to sway, and she can't run. Her feet are essentially bound. . .she is rendered exposed and vulnerable.

Just as she finishes, and gives herself one final examination, the doorbell rings.

She struts over, fast as she can. . .and I can almost see the surprise on her face when she opens the door. . .

It's not me, but a large man in a driver's uniform. She starts to stammer that there must be some mistake, but he hands her a card. It says: OBEY.

She understand and nods.

She follows him down, riding the elevator in silence.

He opens the door of a long black car, holding it for her, waiting.

She looks around. I am nowhere in sight. She takes one deep breath, to calm her nerves. . .

and then enters the car.

The door is closed behind her.

- - - - - - - -

The windows of the car are tinted. . .you can see out, but no one can see in. There is a partition between you and the driver. It is opaque. No one can see you, you are quite safe. . .from everyone but me.

The driver has his instructions. You will know what they are soon enough.

A phone rings. You jump at the sound, and a quick search turns up the cell phone.

You answer. A voice, deep and familiar responds. "Hello, kitten. Are you ready?"

You can hardly speak, the blood rushes through your ears, pounds in your head, but you manage a breathy "Y. . .Yes."

"Good. I can tell by the sound that you are getting close. Are you wearing that scoop back dress I like? Take it off. Strip for me, sexy."

Your heart flutters as you realize I knew exactly what dress you chose, but you comply. Soon you are in nothing but your panties and your shoes. . .and your collar.

But what did I mean by "close", and what did I hear? The only thing you can hear is a crowd of people outside. The driver has parked near a stadium, and a game of some kind must be letting out. The home team has won, and the crowd is drunk and raucous.

"You may touch yourself now, kitten." From the tone of voice, you understand that you are required to. You look nervously out the window. Can you be seen? The glass is tinted. . .but. . .

The crowd is swirling around the car now. Revellers are climbing on the hood, pounding on the roof. . .pressing up against the glass, trying to see in.

Can they? You reach for your dress, try to cover yourself with your hands.

"No, kitten. . .I want you to masturbate. . .do it. . .for me. . .now!"

You reach down and are surprised by your wetness. You begin to stroke, to rub. . .and your breathing is rough and ragged . . .

The crowd is cheering, shouting. . .and as far as you know they are cheering for you . . .

Hot and Buttery

I've had a cock up my ass exactly once. Or maybe not. There is some disagreement on the matter.

It happened (or didn't) quite a long time ago. A gentleman of my acquaintance and I had finally allowed our mutual attraction to overwhelm our efforts not to complicate a perfectly good friendship. Still, my self-deluding mind managed to maintain my favorite fiction that "everything-but" equaled not at all, so when he (quite reasonably under the circumstances) attempted vaginal entry I pushed his penis away with a not very persuasive "No." What followed took me completely by surprise. He rolled me over, got on top, and entered me from behind. The question is which orifice did he enter.

At the time I was quite naive. It really didn't feel like he'd made it into the expected hole. It didn't hurt much - his organ, while effective, is not all that big. But it sure didn't feel like he'd made it into where he was supposed to be. My assumption was that he had missed the target, as I couldn't imagine that he really meant to fuck my ass. Or maybe he thought that this would be a legal way to respect my half-hearted protest and still get relief. Whatever it was, I was too embarrassed to say anything about it until years later. But when I brought it up he denied its having happened, saying that if he'd been in there he certainly would have remembered.

Whichever hole he breached, the result was unquestionable. My nether regions were thoroughly eroticized. Whenever I was having sex, my ass was aching for action. Not just my anus; the whole thing. I wanted to be touched, massaged, spanked, and whipped. There were lots of fantasies featuring a cat-o'-nine-tails. As time went on and I learned more about what could be done, I dreamed of gang rapes that including fierce and brutal ass fucking. I'd have given anything to have my lover insert his finger into my anus. The desire made me nearly scream, but I couldn't bring myself to verbalize it. I'd think I was dropping sufficient hints by responding enthusiastically to any stimulation within a mile of the magic spot, but obviously my moans and wriggles weren't a clear enough signal.

When I finally embarked on my epistolary erotic adventures, I noticed in my correspondents an enthusiasm about anal sex that I had never witnessed in my flesh-and-blood-and-semen partners. This corroborated what had been showing up over the last few years in the huge collection of erotica I was steadily accumulating. I reacted with fear and longing and immense curiosity, which led me to pose some very direct questions.

Somehow, my obsession with having my butt abused was conveyed fairly early on to Harry, and it featured largely in his professed lust for me. The electronic nature of our relationship made it a lot easier for me to question him directly about the attraction of taking me in that way. As I've mentioned before, I haven't told him about this blog so as not to feed his continuing hunger for me any further. Therefore, I don't want to include large parts of what he wrote me. Too bad, as some of it is quite juicy. He gave a very detailed, step-by-step description of the process which was equal parts instruction manual and attempted seduction. But aside from all the other reasons I had for refusing his requests that I surrender my anus to him, there was fear of his cock. He loved to say how fat it is. And that sounds just plain scary. I'm sure he's very skilled at what he does, but it just didn't sound all that alluring. Long and thin would have been fine, but I just didn't see a double-wide kielbasa in my ass's future.

Of course, I also posed my question to Dominick, and I do have his permission to present our discussion here. Plus, I love sharing his writing, and only wish there were more of it. As always, his images and use of words, combined with self-reflection and analysis, taught me a lot from both emotional and intellectual vantages. His mentoring helped prepare me somewhat for the reality that lay ahead. Somewhat but not fully. The reality of submission is far greater than any analysis, than any fantasy.

In my role as the ever-curious student, in the midst of answering his very probing questions, I asked: "I also wonder what the big turn-on is for men in anal sex. Is it the aura of the forbidden? is it the tightness of that orifice? the different texture within that passageway? Is there a greater feeling of violation and perhaps even one of rape because of the greater force required to penetrate? "

My mentor replied: "Lastly, you asked about anal sex. I think that the factors you mentioned certainly come into play - there is incredible tightness there, and a slightly different feeling when moving in and out - one that seems hotter and slightly buttery, being gripped from all sides, viscosity which is not the same as being in the pussy. It really is a delicious sensation. But it also sort of embodies all the things that we were talking about before - there is that sense of taboo, but also one of a degree of sadism, but sadism that you know the body can handle and even enjoy if it is done right, that real sense of doing something to another person, it is an act which requires a degree of strength - you have to push harder, you may have to hold her harder at first to make it work - there is that sense of male muscles working to exact pleasure, which feels good. and lastly, and I am usually loathe to admit this, but most women who enjoy anal sex talk of it as being, to a greater degree than vaginal intercourse, a creator of a sense of togetherness, partly because the woman feels that she is being more giving of herself, and also more filled. and that sense of providing something that a woman enjoys definitely creates a degree of reflected glory. there is, of course, pleasure in giving."

I know you are all dying to ask why the philosopher hasn't satisfied my curiosity. It would be easy to pass the delay off to his inherent sadism, but in fact we just haven't gotten to it yet. There is so much to explore, on top of which there is that maxim of the theatre to always leave them wanting more.

I am a greedy little kitten, and I do always want more.

[For another take on the current obsession with anal sex, visit this post by Duke Orsino.]

Overly sentimental

Happily home.

The visit went well, the traveling wasn't bad, despite having to change planes and hang out in Atlanta. The praise I received from my folks seemed to far exceed the little jobs I did for them, but obviously that wasn't the point.

The philosopher gave me permission to call him when I landed in Florida. I'm not sure if anyone could really hear what I was saying to him, but anyone who did manage to eavesdrop would have been a bit... shall we say perturbed? Unless of course they were kinky themselves.

My cunt twitched for much of the weekend. I was given arbitrary times for leaving phone messages, which always keeps me on edge and off-kilter. Lovely...

When I got to the gate on the first leg of the trip home, I sat down near a man who could have been assumed to be a dom. He was a large man, with large hands and large fingers and a shaved head. Of course, such assumptions are ridiculous. Deity has a post buried somewhere in his archives which describes his appearance as giving no hint of the sadistic mind behind the boyish face. All of which inspired the following bit of submissive sentimentality, tossed off on a pad of lined yellow paper as I waited for my row to be called. It doesn't end the way I want it to, but I'm too sleepy to mess with it. Anything about his sadism should always end with the caresses and kisses and murmured "you're my goode kitten now..."

Please forgive me for having nothing else to offer until tomorrow - and thanks to those who read and commented and donated while I was away.
* * * * * * * * *

he isn't scary looking, my master.
his face is sweet and open.
his height is enfolding, holding no threat.
his eyes don't glare, his hands are soft,
his hair is long, and red like mine.
his voice is...

his voice holds the threat.
he rules with his words and his voice.
i submit to his words and his voice.

and then to the cane.

and then to the cane and the pain.

talk amongst yourselves

knowing that one has done a good deed nourishes the soul. oh yeah, and the ego gets polished a little, too. still it doesn't hurt if on top of all that there is a more measurable reward.

i really do want to help Z. (Go back and read here about Z and her plight and here about how an orgy of sex bloggers is using blatant exhibitionism to help out a friend. And then please give. Every bit helps. End of pledge break.)

the thing is, right after word of the Boob Fest appeared around the blogosphere, my stats skyrocketed. (you're right, i shouldn't have known that, but i knew it might be happening and had to look. the philosopher sort of forgave me, but he'll make me pay. happy kitten!) hordes of new people stopped by, some read more than one page, and some have been coming back. to all of you, welcome.

one lovely thing about having new readers is that all but the most obsessed have not read my earlier entries. this is particularly useful now, as i am heading for that southern-most suburb of New York City known as Florida. somewhat to everyone's surprise, including their own, my aged parents (87 and 90) are still alive and functioning and planning everything tighter than the philosopher's hands around my throat. not that i'm complaining, as they have managed to unload their condo and are moving back north into a very good continuing care community where they have friends and security when they eventually need more care. i'm incredibly lucky. another few weeks and i don't have to worry any more about catastrophe - at least not as far as they are concerned.

however, it does mean i have to go down and help them pack and put up with their incredible obsessiveness. and the way the philosopher controls me is utter laissez-faire compared to what they try to do. but it's only for 2 nights. and i get a lot of points for it...

yes, i have issues with my parents.

the philosopher knows me well enough by now that he has ordered me to refrain from blogging while i am gone. he is a very protective sadist, and wants to limit my stress. i'll be checking e-mails, and maybe writing things if i am possessed by creativity. but i won't post until sunday night, and then perhaps only briefly.

meanwhile, may i suggest you go back to the beginning. read everything by the philosopher. pick your favorite label. fyi: i've noticed interest lately in the anal sex pieces, and have plans for a post on my research on why men are so hot for it. this will include a quote from dominick. if anyone wants to weigh in on the matter here, i would be delighted. what's so great about shoving your long fat hard cock into a tight little puckered anus anyway?

don't be shy... speak up. extra credit for comments of more than 3 sentences.

ps - i am becoming quite fascinated by the work accounts some of you are using for reading smut. looks like we've got some people indulging their lusts while selling cars and insurance. and you wouldn't believe what is going on behind the ivy-covered walls of some of America's most illustrious academic institutions...