Knocking on the door of the mole hole

I am a worry wort. Which of course is not a very useful thing to be.

I look ahead too much. I conjure up things that could go wrong. It’s the downside of the same overactive imagination that makes me such a very satisfying submissive to own.

I had hoped to see my master this weekend. (See what a submissive mood I’m in? Normally I would have used “the philosopher” to refer to the man who delights and torments me.)

Note that I said I had “hoped” to see him. I didn’t expect to see him. I have a 3-day weekend ahead (4th of July for you readers not anchored to the United States in one way or another), and don’t have another one till Labor Day (beginning of September). I’m pretty new at my job, and what with vacation days taken now and then to facilitate trips to my aged parents and a week off in August for a music and dance camp, I don’t have any extra days coming in a while.

Not that a visit has to be confined to a 3-day weekend… but it would be nice. Especially since it means a guarantee of having the dungeon to ourselves when my housemate is at work. And part of me is decidedly relieved that neither of us have to face holiday weekend traffic. But still… I had hopes.

There was a 4-month separation over the winter and spring, due to academic and psychological pressures. I had hopes (that word again…) that perhaps the summer would be a little easier. There is still the pressure of the dissertation, but no teaching to gobble up time and attention.

The Fourth was thrown onto the table. No promises, no pushing, it was just there. Then a family party popped up. I knew that would take precedence; it sounded as if there might be some sort of happy announcement, and he has already missed family gatherings due to visits out of town to his mysterious woman friend in DC. I made a completely ironic comment that of course I could drive up and come with to the party – and was quite taken aback when he said “may-be” in a very funny inflection going first down and then up. Now although I’m dying to meet his family (they fascinate me!), I fully understand his discomfort with the idea – because I sure as hell am not rushing to take him to visit my family, despite their professed eagerness to meet him. (They know he makes me happy, and somehow, finally, that seems to be enough for them.) So I never really expected to go, and never really expected him to give up going.

But, trying to be a very well-behaved and submissive slave, I did manage to hold off nagging for a straight answer, and after a couple of very polite and well-spaced requests for knowledge, the verdict I knew all along was coming finally came last night – accompanied by no clues as to when a visit might indeed occur. Which left me feeling like a demanding nag, something I definitely don’t want to be.

And it left me feeling uneasy. Because I’m just not sure why he holds back so much about visiting. And has from the start.

I do know some of the reasons. He has doled out some of the reasons reluctantly. They always feel like gifts, little chocolate truffles with a sweet and sour center – sweet from the trust that it took to share his weaknesses, and sour because of the problems that crowd the room and the bed.

It was last night that he finally admitted that we wouldn’t see each other this weekend. I was supportive, not surprised, understanding, cautiously proposing other schedules – and all the while hoping I wasn’t being too pushy. All the while hoping that there wouldn’t be another 3-4 month separation.

I was so good as we talked before bedtime. And then overnight, the sour parts churned and I awoke feeling queasy.

I worry. I fret. I speculate.

He has described himself as risk averse – and although we can say he has lost his right to that title, it’s not really true. He has said he’s a control freak – and I think that, too, applies even outside the dungeon, as I think he likes to have control of his surroundings. I think it goes with being a homebody – a term that is also his. He curls up in his nest, his sorties outside limited in frequency and destination. He guards his privacy jealously, in sometimes curious ways. I have his parents’ address but not his own. (And no, you silly suspicious people, there is no way he is married.)

He is happy when he is here. The traveling is no longer a source of stress. He sleeps well here and is relaxed and seems to feel at home. He has met my friends, at his own request. His toothbrush faces mine and he has a drawer devoted to his underwear (along with my pretty white half-apron that I wear when serving him tea).

He used to fret a lot about the problems of a long-distance relationship, making me think he would have liked someone nearby with whom he could easily share meals and movies and sex and friendship. But maybe in some way this suits him. It is easier to control the disruptions of his mole-hole life. Not that I was planning on renting a U-Haul as soon as he finally landed his degree. I’ve done enough chasing of academicians around the country and around the world. I’m not eager to upend my own life. I like my little house and the 2 cats and my friends nearby. But there’s a hole that none of them can fill – and none of my toys can fill it either. It’s the hole that is filled when we are curled up together, when I feel his warmth next to mine, when the conversation about film and theology and politics and porn is not filtered through Verizon’s technology. I feel complete when he is here. I don’t feel lonely when he is here. I feel safe when he is here. And I worry that there’s some reason why he can’t handle being here more often than every few months.

So am I creating things to worry about? Maybe… there’s no denying that I’m a certified nut-job. And I’m pretty sure that, like me (we ARE too damn much alike), he has summer SAD, which like the winter version makes me want to curl up in my own mole-hole until the weather cools. But maybe he’s just one of those confirmed bachelors, like Henry Higgins, though perhaps not quite that extreme. He’s willing to let a woman in his life, but only on a very limited schedule.

I don’t think it’s because of me…

I hope it’s not because of me…

And I hope it’s safe to say these things without his crawling deep into the mole-hole and shutting the door after posting a big sign that reads:

”I Don’t Know What to Say, Kitten.”

- - - - - - -

Later...

we talked.
for a long time.
there are problems.
distance.
dissertation.
my mood swings.
we both have moods...
at least he's talking.
but he doesn't want the distraction.
he doesn't need the distraction.
he can't afford distraction.

we're so good when we're together... does this really mean we can't have a long-distance relationship because we can't be apart?

purrrr… the satisfied sound of a well-used sex slave

i’ve been purring for a couple of days now. purring and glowing. well ok, some of the slightly floaty out-of-it feeling could confirm my impression that the cold i thought i had banished has come back with extra troops. but mostly, i think – no, i KNOW – it stems from Friday night.

i was with my master Friday night.

now, normally this is the sort of statement which, on other blogs, makes me want to puke. first of all, i hate that term “master.” it sounds so forced, so presumptuous, so outright dumb! “master?” give me a break!

and yet… i address him as master. or sir. i refer to him as the philosopher. i rarely call him by his given name. J--- feels forced. weird. unconnected with the truth of this man i came to know only through his words and his soul. “master” is an honorific. a convention. more significantly, it is a tribute to the way we play, the scaffolding of our relationship, and the corset with which the man who owns and loves me corrects the posture of my life.

so yes. i address him as “master.” and that’s ok – as long as i don’t think about it. the same way i’m ok referring to God as long as i don’t think too much about what the word means. or doesn’t. then i get squirmy.

yes, then. i was with my master Friday night.

i can see having problems with “with.” for of course, he was 250 miles away. but it’s not that outrageous to say that i spent the evening “with” him considering we were on the phone for 2 hours. at least we had the sound of each other’s voice to feed the impression of being in each other’s presence. i could quibble about “with” but i’ll let that one pass.

my master fucked me Friday night.

now that one. that one just doesn’t fly. when someone speaks of having been fucked, i do expect there was some measure of bodily proximity. say you had phone sex, say you had electronic sex, say he stimulated you with his words, told you how to touch yourself, ordered you to fill your cunt with some plastic approximation of the penis which he was at that very moment surrounding with his fist. but don’t say he fucked you.

my master fucked me Friday night.

i stand by my statement. for surely, mere masturbation could never make me feel the way i have been feeling since that night. cold or no.

i’ve always been a champion masturbator. enthusiastic. desperate, as my hormones ran rampant while my marriage became an escalating insult to the name. i’ve been developing techniques and fantasies since before i was 5. the sexual fantasies surely came later than that, but i do remember rocking on my pillow and calling it “playing horsey.” i even taught my little sister. just as i taught her how to read before she hit kindergarten.

so it’s not as if i needed someone to teach me how to masturbate. and i was managing perfectly acceptable orgasms on my own. more than acceptable.

but there’s no question that what i did – what we did – on Friday night was in no way masturbating. and i will duly try to remember that the next time i am tempted to sneer at some other sub’s description of long-distance erotic activities in terms that suggest physical contact.

i was thoroughly possessed Friday night. with the impending threat of a new housemate limiting future screaming orgasms, i was fucked and threatened into cumming so completely that the afterglow has lasted 2 days. so far.

he phoned. no introductory pleasantries.

“take off your clothes, kitten.”

i was ordered down to the dungeon, soon alas to be restored to its alter ego as family room. i was given a list of implements to take with. i ended up bringing the whole box – meaning everything but the ropes and the cane. (there’s not that much, mind you. we are both afflicted with limited funds. i do have fantasies of a joint visit to a NYC toy store…)

i took my place on the futon, masquerading as a couch. (the futon was masquerading. i was obediently naked and hence ill-equipped to masquerade as anything.)

the pretty little purple butt plug entered my ass. push push pop oh! the philosopher made me walk around. very odd. it’s small, the butt plug. it didn’t feel all that invasive, i loved the feel of it going in, but walking around made me feel very strange. partly as if i needed to poop, an insistent turd knocking at the door and saying “let me out! let me out!” but also… my mind was starting to slip its moorings. and i felt very very owned…

the beloved blue and yellow vibrator caressed my nipples and nestled between my breast.

the purple monster dildo was forced into my mouth. it is huge, straining my lips to hold it in and rapidly banishing any ideas of using it for deep throat practice. it is huge and it tastes awful. but the orders to allow neither this invader nor the sweet little butt plug to escape their respective orifices inspired me to brace the harness end of the monster against the back of the futon couch while my tormentor reminded me to breathe through my nose.

finally, the vibrator, encondomed and lubed, was allowed entry to my cunt. not a lot of lube. just the tip, with that absurd little empty nipple to catch its cum. not a lot of lube because of course i was by then slurpy and swollen.

and so he fucked me. he drove into me. he set up house in my slippery subterranean abysss. he ordered me to fuck him from inside, clasping his cock, gripping his girth, squeezing and releasing in a burst of the Kegel exercises that i really should be performing every day.

the order to cum.

the threat of punishment – both as warning and as inspiration. i felt him standing over me, first with cane in hand, then the brand. the room filled with the smell of red-hot iron.

at last, permission to turn on the vibrator.

the count-down, stretched out with more threats to give me the time i need because i do need more training to achieve orgasms-on-command.

and then i came. as i always eventually do. well, almost always. and yes, it was loud and i sobbed. very satisfactory as far as my master was concerned.

oh – and the butt plug did pop out, and i had been allowed to remove the purple monster from my mouth so he could better hear my moans and frantic yes-sir’s. but he did take me in all my holes, which was his plan.

and yet that is mere mechanics. for it all comes down to this.

he fucked me.
he possessed me.
he took me and held me inside and out.

he sent me down into subspace and flushed out the detritus from the week that was, and left me cleansed and fresh and adoring and calm.

perhaps that’s why having sex is a double mitzvah on the Sabbath…

Communing with Kittens

There are three little kittens in this brick house.
One slave kitten and 2 feline kittens.

We haven’t lost our mittens.
We found each other.

Or rather, I found the other two.

Of course, to be precise, none of us are kittens exactly. Putting aside the issue of species, I’m well beyond what could be called a kitten. But such is the magic of a pair of creative minds when one of them is brilliant and manipulative and the other is embarrassingly suggestive, that not only do I often feel somewhere in the vicinity of being feline, I quite often enough feel ridiculously young.

As for the felines, I learned from somewhere that being fully domesticated puts cats into a sort of extended childhood, and their adopted human becomes the mother they would normally have left long ago. So they live in a suspended animation of kittenhood, in addition to being my ownly children (I like that typo – “ownly” - so will leave it as if it were a deliberate portmanteau word) and therefore eternally my babies.

Being a slave kitten in addition to their adoring mother, I observe them closely. They amuse me and delight me, and their snuggly presence is of especial comfort given the protracted absences of my owner and lover, my master and best friend. I observe them for amusement, and also in hopes of learning.

I had hoped to illustrate this essay with a picture of Ketzel in her “Look How Cute I Am” pose. But in truth, Ketzel cute is Ketzel in motion. She is the embodiment of squirm. The first Yiddish word I taught N, my old housemate cum friend, was shpilkes. My mother always defined it as having ants in your pants. My friend the eminent Yiddishist says it comes from the Slavic; the same word also means “pin” in Polish, which makes complete sense. Ketzel indeed has shpilkes. Oh, she’ll sit in the same spot for hours, seemingly sleeping but always aware of everything around her. I could swear that inside, her little mind is going click-click-click. She is the alpha kitty after all, and is responsible for keeping the house running smoothly – or at least according to her definition. She keeps Marko in line and does her best to protect our little plot of land from cats and squirrels and bunnies and birds who dare to cross the border. This despite being confined to the house and having such a clear sense of boundaries that she treats the door frame as if it were one of those invisible dog fences. Deer, she doesn’t argue with. A pair of deer once entered our little suburban yard and she watched with saucer eyes and drank of their beauty and grace as they pruned the tree and executed balletic leaps back and forth across the chain link fence that separates me from my boring boy neighbors.

But ah… Ketzel being cute. She cocks her head to one side and says “love me.” Once, as a very young thing, she tilted her head so far that she fell over. N and I laughed our heads off as she struggled to regain her dignity. She lies down on the carpet, rolls over on her back, tucks her little paws up under her chain and says “adore me.” One would think she wants her belly rubbed, but it is all a ruse. Come close and she will pop up, make her cute face, rub against the coffee table, beg to be groomed, and then refuse to hold still for it.

She’s a shameless flirt, my little girl. She just might get that from me. But I’m no alpha kitten. I have to control my flirting. I certainly can’t throw myself on the floor and proffer my naked belly to anyone who walks in the door.

She may get her shpilkes from me, too. I admit that I have a hard time sitting still for long periods of time. This is an interesting weakness for the fucktoy of a sadist with a penchant for bondage – not to mention having to hold still for a caning without the comforting restraint of ropes.

Ketzel demands attention, but she never begs. She presents herself for love and she never doubts she will get it. She is a princess and it is her due.

Marko, on the other hand, is just needy. Even as a baby, he always had that worried look, as if he were never quite sure the dream wasn’t going to end. It’s rather sad, in a way, how he almost desperately walks all over me and lies tight against me, begging for the security of my love. Which of course I give him. Maybe I should remember this, when I worry that the philosopher will walk away from me for being too needy.

And then I think again of Ketzel. For, in fact, her actions are basically the same as those of her fearful brother. But the sparkle and self-conscious cuteness with which she performs them are both endearing and reassuring. She wants my love and attention but has no doubt that she can survive perfectly well without them. She has me exquisitely trained, offering her love and displaying her cuteness as both a lure to play with her and a reward for feeding her. She looks like she is begging, but I suspect it is all for show, the crumbs of dignity she tosses to allow me to save face. Marko is not the only one over whom she rules.

It’s not a new idea, in BDSM. In the end, who owns whom? Who is the master and who the slave?

The philosopher claims to hold the leash in his hand. But we are both prisoners, and we smile and we snuggle in the cell that we share.

Scavenger Hunt

From over a year ago. April 29, 2007. We hadn't met yet. We hadn't seen pictures of each other. We just knew...

The philosopher begins:

(Here's a story for you kitten. . .I hope you like it. It will give you something to masturbate to. . . even though you are forbidden to masturbate tonight. It's a bit rough as stories go. . . but leaves room for all sorts of interesting elaborations. . .perhaps my naughty little kitten can add to it. . .)

My little kitten is nervous.

She was told the rules of the game, and she was nervous. "Rules" she thought. . .there was just the one: "Obey". The rest was in the hands of her master, who would never hurt her.

But still. . .

The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts and bringing her back to the present moment, the present location. Which was noon, at Union Station. She was sitting near a public phone, and it was this whose ringing had startled her. She swallowed hard. . . and answered.

"Go to the newsstand, kitten. Go to the stack of Cosmopolitan. . . the third one from the bottom."

Then a click. The game had begun.

She went to the newsstand, and obtained what she hoped was the correct magazine. It was: as she flipped through it, an index card fluttered to the ground. It read:

"Lost and Found. Manila envelope marked Odile Roissy."

She went to the lost and found, and inquired if anyone had turned in a large manila envelope with the name "Odile Roissy" on it. Someone had. . . and since it didn't seem to be valuable. . . the man behind the desk handed it over to her without seeing ID. Was he smiling as he did it? Did he know why your cheeks were burning?

She opened the envelope, to find a smaller envelope, and a note.

"Open in private".

She went to the ladies room, waited for an empty stall, and when she was alone, opened the smaller envelope. It contained a bright red thong, and further instructions.

"Put this on. Leave old panties behind. Go to bookstore. Story of O, page 43."

She did so, blushing furiously. The thing was thin and silky. . . offering her pussy hardly any protection at all. She may as well be nude. . .except that it was so smooth and silky. . .it felt soooo goood! She hung her old panties on the stall's coathook (a boldness that should earn her extra points, she thought) and left quickly, lest anyone should find them too quickly.

Exiting the restroom, she looked around. That must be the bookstore. . . a Barnes and Noble that catered to the commuter.

She found the only volume of the novel, and checked page 43. Sure enough, a message was scribbled there.

"Take a taxi to your favorite department store. Women's clothing section. Go to dressing room. Remove everything but the thong. Do not lock the door. Find package under seat."

She followed these instructions to the letter. The package hidden under the dressing room chair contained a message and an object. . . an object that made her catch her breath. The message read:

"Put this on and wait."

The object was a blindfold. She put it on.

And waited. . . all but naked, unable to see. The dressing rooms were monitored against shoplifters; what must the security guards be thinking? The thought made her cheeks burn even more. But she was good. . . she obeyed, sitting absolutely still, and straight, her legs parted slightly.

It seemed like hours that she waited. . . but she couldn't be sure.

Finally. . . the door to the dressing room creaked open slowly. . . she felt a finger tug at her thong, rubbing it against her by now soaking wet pussy. . . and the pounding of her heart almost obscured the whispered voice that appeared right next to her ear:

"Good kitten"
- - - - - - - - - - -

Thank you, Master.
i always like your stories.
i always like your messages.
i like everything you've every written to me.
when you bought me at the slave market,
you paid with words.

part of me wants to write the next chapter. part of me likes leaving it hanging. it is the unknown, the anticipation, the fear, which is always so exciting.

on the other hand, in addition to inciting flames, the story raised questions and comments. some are nitpicking, but sometimes i can't help getting out my red pencil... on the other hand...

1. would you like to have me wearing a thong? once i have money coming in again, i could get one, just for you. pink, if that's what you would prefer. or red, or whatever... a ritual object for me to put on at the beginning of any long session. i want to please you, i want to excite you.

2. once again you stirred up the warm feelings. warm feelings in my heart, as opposed to the burning in my cunt. when right off, you spoke of [my] master, who would never hurt [me]. you make me feel so safe, so treasured, so embraced and calm and happy. and you draw the net
tighter around me. even the tigress doesn't really want to break free.

3. something slipped right by me when i read it the first couple of times. how could i have been so slow? it only just clicked. now i know where it's going, at least now that it is in my hands. in my mind. thank you.

4. in the nit-picking category. i'll assume you'd know what was my favorite department store... tho do i actually have one? i don't dress like a normal Washington career woman, so either i go up to LL Bean's or to shops with pretty, brightly-colored rayon clothes, little tops to wear with jeans or khaki pants, which cling and show off my nipples... but in any case, you would have needed to specify which changing room within the dressing room. there are lots. (and i sure hope they don't REALLY have secret cameras looking into the rooms! that's a whole other movie... :-)

and now i will write...
- - - - - - - - - -

She gasped, and tears rose to her eyes, until they were as wet as her tantalized pussy. . . tears of relief, and, more than anything, tears of joy.

Until now now, she had assumed there had been a local accomplice. A friend from grad school, perhaps? (He must have SOME friends, somewhere, despite that fact that he almost never mentioned any.) Or perhaps a stray sibling; there were so many, it wasn't unlikely that one occasionally wandered down to DC. And there was no reason the accomplice needed to know the contents of the envelope, or of the package, or even the meaning of the index card.

She knew he had been testing her. But she never suspected what the reward would be for getting an A.

The reward was that voice. And the man who went with it.

"My perfect slave," the familiar voice now whispered. "My tigress. My selkie."

"My master..." she breathed, in wonderment and gratitude. "My master!"

She turned her face towards him, this man she knew so intimately, this man with whom she spent hours every night, this man whom she had never seen, whose picture she had never even seen, but who ruled her body and mind.

She still couldn't see him. She was still blindfolded. But it didn't matter. He was there.

He pulled her to him and kissed her. First slowly, gently, reveling in the taste of her, then harder, almost desperately, as if he couldn't get enough, as if his tongue couldn't go deep enough. Which it couldn't.

"Who owns your mouth, kitten?"

"You do, Master, you own my mouth."

His hands began to explore her breasts, cupping them, caressing them, eliciting sighs and moans, until he took the nipple of her left breast between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed and twisted progressively harder until she cried out in pain and pleasure.

"Who owns your breasts, kitten? Who owns your nipples?"

"You do, Master," she gasped. "You own my breasts. You own my nipples."

He reached down, he reached down and yanked at the thong until the strap broke. He reached down to the overflowing bowl of honey over which he had been salivating for months, that warm, wet, silky pool that inspired erections nightly and, far too often, daily as well. He
penetrated her with his fore and middle fingers, and his current erection nearly burst his jeans.

"Who owns your cunt, kitten?" his voice with hoarse with desire.

"You do, Master. You own my cunt. No one but you."

Regretfully, he withdrew his fingers. He couldn't wait until later, when they would return, followed by his tongue. Followed by his cock. Later.

"Kneel, kitten."

She slid off the bench and assumed the position of perfect submission. Kneeling, now completely naked, knees spread as wide as she could manage, her pussy open to him, available to him, offered to him. Head bent down, eyes beneath the blindfold cast down.

Placing his fingers under her chin, his fingers that were still wet with her juices, he tilted her head up, and completed the catechism.

"Who owns you, kitten?"

And overwhelmed with joy and desire, she replied,

"You own me, J---.
You do.
You know you do."

And he removed the blindfold.

They gazed at each other, drinking in features, adjusting the vague images they had held in their minds for so long. They sank into each other's eyes.

But there was no time now for self-indulgence. He reached into the small shopping bag by his side and pulled out a wide strip of leather, embossed with Celtic knots. He leaned towards her, and fastened the it around her neck. It was the long-promised collar. Reaching once more into the bag, he took out a chain, and fastened one end to a D-ring on the collar, slipping the loop of leather at the other end around his wrist.

"Stand up, kitten. Stand up, my slave."

She did her best to be graceful. And was surprised by how embarrassed she now felt at standing naked before him. She blushed and looked away.

He ignored her discomfort. And opening the door of the little dressing room, led her out into the store.

It was time for his final exam. The course? Dom 101.

Combatting kitten’s chronic tardiness

I have previously described how my position as the philosopher’s slave requires me to serve as his alarm clock. We are both bemused by how this simple task triggers in me such intense feelings of submission and erotic stimulation, not to mention fear of failure. The calls are usually a weekday event, made from work, which means there is always the chance that an incoming phone call will delay or cut short my own call to the cell phone for which I alone have the number. At least I don’t usually worry about forgetting to call, since my computer has been programmed to provide me with a series of reminders. On those occasions when I call from home – such as when he gives me the gift of allowing me to awaken him on the weekend – I am possessed by a cunt-tingling tension that I will somehow miss the exact minute.

My master’s wake-up time has varied. In the early days, he wanted me to ring him from bed at my own ungodly wake-up time of 6:30 am, after which he would go back to sleep. Except for the unbearably Type A members of the species, neither grad students nor professors are inclined to get up any earlier than they absolutely have to. Eventually, despite his delight at hearing my sleepy voice talking from his pillow to mine, the philosopher came to his senses , and the calls were ordered for his real wake-up time of 10:30. They have inched slowly earlier since then, and starting today we are experimenting with (gasp!) 9:00 am. Which is when I am due at work.

Except – and here’s the problem – I don’t usually make it to work by 9 am. I have developed this ridiculous tendency in the last decade of always being a little late. I horrified my master when he was here with my tendency to dither, as he called it. I always came up with something else I needed to do before we could leave the house. The delay in getting to work is even weirder, as I always manage to be just 10 minutes late, for no good reason at all. Whatever I need to do spreads out to fill that extra 10 minutes. Good thing the trip itself is only 10 minutes long!

However, starting today, I have a very powerful impetus to leave the house on time. If I don’t get to the office door by 9:00, I’ll be faced with the not very attractive choice of either calling my master late (obviously not an option when you are an alarm clock) or starting the call on my way up to the office, necessitating exposing the other people waiting for the elevator to a recitation of what I am wearing (pink panties and all) and then losing the call as the elevator heads upwards.

Do I have to tell you what happened this morning?

9:00 am. Right on time. There I was, unlocking the office door as I pressed #2 on my speed dial.

At last. When no one else could, my master found a way to cure my dilatory ways.

And thus the benefits of being a sex-slave flow over to the vanilla side of my life.

Thank you, master.
Thank you for your exquisite control.

I am such a lucky slave kitten!

“Obedience as an expression of fidelity”

The title phrase sits before me, scrawled in black magic marker on a post-it note the color of new spring leaves. It popped into my head last night, shortly before I headed off to bed, and while I didn’t want to stay up late expanding on the ideas already roiling around in my sleepy brain, I didn’t want to risk losing it.

Except now I don’t remember where I was planning on going with it.

It’s odd, come to think of it. Because when I finally awoke for good this morning, it was with the disturbing remnants of a dream in which I seemed to be involved with a sweet and sexy Greek man I met on a boat somewhere in the vicinity of Greece. I was doing my best to control my activities so as not to betray my promise to be faithful to the philosopher, but there’s no denying that I was drawn to the Greek and missed him when we parted. The dream left me feeling a bit off-kilter, though later, in recalling the behaviour of the man, I came to suspect that he WAS the philosopher, though in a different guise. I’m still puzzling over how to interpret it, but suspect it has to do with longing…

Meanwhile, since writing the above, I’ve been trying for hours to write a cohesive and meaningful essay on the topic, while dealing with constant interruptions of phone calls and cats and supper and laundry. And I’ve tossed it all out, because it was nothing but a bowl of mush. I do know where I’m headed... passing through keeping kosher and pink panties via symbols and reminders to submission, and obedience as a sign of commitment. There might also have been something tossed in about fidelity not necessarily meaning monogamy, though in my case, in this relationship, it definitely does.

But I'm giving up. Because draft after draft ended up gloppy. So I'm leaving it as a bright green post-it note, and if any of you want to improvise on it, you are more than welcome.

Later... my master called, and before he indulged his desire to hurt me, after which he brought me to probably the loudest orgasm I've ever had in my life, the mere fact that he was listening enabled me to present the whole theory in three short, clear sentences. The advantage of being owned by a professor, even if he is ABD. And he doesn't want me to worry about the dream, which I think in fact is about missing his physical presence. Still, we sure felt snuggly after he made me cum... and i'm feeling snuggly still... so g'night, all...

Solstice submission

The first day of summer. Or, as the Swedes more accurately say, midsommar. For just as the first day of winter is the turning point, after which we climb out of the valley of the shadow, midsommar is the end of the swelling of the days. The air grows thicker but the days grow shorter.

Still, it is a mental thing. We see today as a beginning. We give ourselves to the sun - except, of course, for confused worshipers such as I, who both adore and fear the sun for its power to grant both joy and death. Nothing like being a melanoma-surviving SAD-sufferer to create a constant approach-avoidance struggle with the sun god.

And then there is the philosopher, who brings light to my life on the darkest of days, and fills me with both love and pain. But while I shield myself from the sun with cloth and chemicals, I offer myself to my master naked and unprotected, body and heart and soul.

And I grow and I glow as his eyes and his cane burn through me.

9:30 am

[she slips away from her very public desk into an empty office and closes the door.]

good morning, master…

mmmph…. good morning, kitten…

did you sleep well, sir?

yes. yes, i did.

it’s so beautiful here today! it cooled off, it’s fresh and clean and sunny. i… i feel so… so snuggly this morning.

mmm… yes… you would snuggle down into the sheets…

mmm… so cozy… snuggly… and then i’d slide down… and take you in my mouth…

what are you wearing, kitten?

PINK PANTIES, sir!

very good, kitten. pink panties. and is that all?

oh yes, sir. i’m standing here in front of the window in pink panties and nothing else.

excellent. you must be making the people down below very happy. but wait. did i give you permission to display yourself?

no, sir, but –

no. i did not. and are you allowed to indulge your exhibitionism without strict orders from me to do so?

[tiny voice] no sir…

i’m going to have to punish you. you know that, don’t you?

you can add it to the list.

my, you’re being bratty this morning. yet another reason to punish you. tonight. and it will hurt.

[whimper]

now go back to work. i’ll talk to you later.

yes, sir. have a good day, master.

you, too, kitten.

good-bye, master.

good-bye…

[whispered] good-bye… i miss you...

The risks of being submissive

As you all know, I’ve been having a hard time lately. I don’t have to go over the litany of why. And for now things are looking better – the weather has relaxed, I found a new housemate, hormones have calmed for the moment. Oh, it’s true that the power is out again and we are under a 3-day water restriction due to a major water main break. But I was able to buy three big jugs of water and my nearby friends are outside of the emergency area so I’m not really worried.

But I AM starting to get a little concerned about the effect all my meltdowns may be having on the philosopher. No, he hasn’t actually said anything to make me think this, and maybe it’s just an expression of my insecurity and fear of rejection and all the other things that could also make him want to throw his hands up in exasperation. Or maybe it’s that I wouldn’t have wanted to be dealing with all my recent hyper-emotionalism.

The thing is, he has been making me feel safe. He makes me feel safe and small and young and taken care of. With the power of his words (occasionally augmented by our lovely toys, not to mention the smack of his hand, the thwack of his belt, and the brutal cut of the cane), he creates a masterpiece of mind manipulation, melting my brain, penetrating my soul, tearing my heart, exciting my fears, all to reach the goal of breaking me down until I dissolve into tears and he can gather me up and stroke my hair with his hand or his voice and welcome me back with the crooning refrain of “you’re my good kitten now…” (Of course it may take a week or so of long-distance teasing before we get to that point, but eventually we do get there.)

What I’ve suddenly started wondering is this. Looked at from a standard relationship point of view, it is certainly a situation to be cherished when the man you are involved with accepts you with all your weaknesses. Especially for me, having been the one who always did the caregiving, who was always understanding, who was always accepting, and who was rarely taken into consideration, having someone who is aware of the various stresses I’m under and who can somehow see past them while dependably almost singing “don’t cry, kitten…” in that delicious inflection he uses, or who imposes discipline and rubber band pseudo-canings to focus my mind and jump start it with little electric shocks of pain, or who gives me the gift of an orgasm so I can have a good sobbing cry and wash away the inner pain… this is an amazing thing. And I by no means take it for granted. Even if I am suddenly losing my way in overlong sentences.

But suddenly I’m worried. Could his encouraging my submissiveness be encouraging my neediness? Is there the chance it will become too much, too wearing, too annoying, when after all he is supposed to be focusing on his magnum opus? When will the balance be tipped so that his constant nurturing, rather than making him feel strong, will just exhaust him?

I’m used to taking care of myself. And for real crises, I do have a doctor and assorted chemicals. I love being taken care of, I love not having to pretend everything’s fine. But if it would benefit the greater good of the relationship, I’m also perfectly capable of being strong and stoic and focused on giving My Boyfriend the Grad Student all the support HE needs, and the focus HE needs, to finish the Damn Dissertation and get on with Life.

Either way, I need yet more reassurance (groan..) that things are ok, or new guidance and limits as to what kind of behaviour will be most satisfying and productive. (Oy. Even in trying to be strong and supportive, I end up being needy and submissive… is there any way out?)

At least the power has come back on.

Slumber

by the philosopher
Monday, 12 February 2007

Written 9 days into our literary affair,
after he ordered me to sleep naked.

As I write this you are naked, because it pleases me. The chain that you wear around your ankle, while admittedly covering some scant bit of skin, reveals far more. It strips bare your soul, declaring for all the world that you are a slave, the property of a mad stranger who keeps you as a pet.

The sheets feel good against your naked skin. The sensation probably kept you awake longer than you intended. . .perhaps you are awake yet, shifting uncomfortably, restless with desire, gorging yourself on the pleasure your nakedness affords.

Perhaps you try to stroke yourself to sleep, my feral kitten, and not with the slow fumbling strokes of a tepid housewife. . .you savagely rape yourself, plundering every last bit of pleasure from your warm depths. . .in vain attempt to satisfy the hunger your feel. (You didn't used to be so hungry. . .what has changed in the last week to turn a housecat into a tigress?)

Enjoy it, my pet. . .I don't want you to get used to the feeling, so I will not allow it often. But tonight I want my kitty to purr. . .

Because it pleases me.

New Housemate!

I finally found a new housemate. She is smart and funny and interesting and educated and 34 and Japanese. She is relieved to find someone who is all those things (except for 34 and Japanese) and not xenophobic. I am relieved to find someone who won't make me feel like a house mother.

She'll inspire me to be neater and cleaner and to cook more. I'll introduce her into the bosom of my friends who are my family. She's learning to play violin, and her practicing will spur me to properly obey my master's order to practice a little every day.

She will learn to love the cats. And she will keep me from being so lonely.

I've been very lonely. It was my loneliness as well as horniness that made me consider dating men again after admitting I was a failure as a lesbian. When the philosopher is here I am so happy, so full, so comfortable in having someone sharing my life, even if just for 4 or 5 days. And then he leaves, and till now I would have neither the freedom of the house to myself nor the support and distraction of a housemate with whom I could really relate.

I think I won't be as lonely now. I think I won't be as needy. I feel bad about how I've been subjecting my master to my moodiness. He is a saint for enduring it as he has been, and for doing his best to snap me out of it. But it gets old after a while, and I worry about driving him away.

I will always need you, master. I will always miss you. But I'll do better now. I'll go back to being the bouncy, irrepressible kitten who amuses you so. And it will be even more amusing for you to say the magic words and hear my voice change and know that you have sent me plummeting into subspace.

being there

this one's for you, master.

this one's just for you.

it's been such a hard week. more than a week. perhaps coming after the delight of having you here made it harder still. the heat. the power outage. the work stress. exhaustion. the stress of the housemate hunt. two sprained ankles. more exhaustion. more heat. more work stress.

and i had a melt-down. more than one. and despite your own exhaustion after struggling with the heat without the benefit of air conditioning, you were right there for me. even from 250 miles away i felt you were there for me. you were still in bed as i cried to you over the phone at 9:30 this morning, and you knew just what to say. you were there for me as surely as if you had your arms around me.

i obeyed, of course. when i went home for lunch i did just what you said. and a little bit more. i went to the bedroom. i took off my pants and purple panties. i opened the bottom drawer of my bedside table. i took out the toy box to remove a rubber band. but first i removed the collar. the pink dog collar with hearts on it. i fastened it around my neck and already felt safer. then i pulled out a rubber band, lay down on the bed, and pulled the rubber band over my foot and up to my thigh.

i stopped to breathe. then i pulled it out from my inner thigh as far as i could, silently counted down from three, and let it go.

SNAP.

it didn't hurt as much as i expected. or hoped. perhaps it is feeling worn out. like me. but i took in the pain, gave it time to echo through skin and muscle, and then repeated the exercise two more times.

i know you didn't mean this as a punishment. you did it to help cleanse me, to center me. i felt it as the gift it was.

after the third snap, i rolled over onto my side and let the tears flow, then got up and ate my lunch. i remembered to remove the collar before i went back to work. but i'm wearing it again as i sit naked on the bed writing these words.

i feel so guilty about all these times you take care of me. you are so good at it, when i need you it's like a little fire alarm goes off in your head and you are right there. i know what that feels like. i feel so grateful and so guilty and so afraid that you will tire of it.

yes of course, i know i've been there for you, too. and there are things i accept about you that belie the portrait of perfection that i love to paint. but still. i'm a fearful kitten, and insecure, certain that any day i'll be bundled up and deposited at the animal shelter.

and yet...

i came across a book yesterday. i stole but a few minutes to glance at it, but clever serendipity guided my fingers to just the right page and my eyes to just the right lines.

the book is An Uncertain Inheritance: Writers on Caring for Family edited by Nell Casey. the last story, by Julia Glass, is called "The Animal Game", which the author used to play with her young son Oliver. She came down with breast cancer and was in the two-sided situation of caring for her children while being very much in need of care herself.

the first section i came across, and which brought tears to my eyes, was this. which is for you.

[...] Dennis would rise, too, and we'd sit in bed, next to each other, awake for different reasons. "This really, really, really hurts," I'd gasp.

"I wish there was something I could do," Dennis would answer quietly. He didn't touch me; the mere idea of being touched was horrendous to me.

What I didn't tell him, but should have, was that he was doing something just by being awake with me. I began to understand that taking care of someone doesn't always mean doing something for that person; there isn't always a hot toddy or water bottle or an ointment to soothe. Being is just as important as doing. Being awake. Being present in the next chair. Being funny. Being smart in a surprising, useful way. Being sympathetically perplexed. Being a mirror for the expression of pain.

i wanted to read more, but couldn't. i was at work, already stressed from having too much to do, and the book hadn't come for me. but i looked ahead to the end of the story. the end of the book. and this is what i found. and this is for you.

I am reminded of the Animal Game, Oliver's wishing first to be the baby, then the protector; then next morning, the baby all over again. If we're fortunate, we trade these roles back and forth - dependence and dependability, helplessness and helpfulness; odd mixtures of both - in ever more complicated relays, all our lives, to the very end. Grown children care for parents, wives for husbands, brothers for sisters, friends for friends. Pretend I am just being born; we say when we are struck down by illness. Pretend I am resting because it was hard. Clean me. Hold me close. Take care of me - and then, let me take care of you.

Master? Are You Home?

it's been a hard week for the philosopher and me. not relationships problems. but the weather. the heat. neither of us do well with heat. a redhead thing? who knows. we have so many thing in common that it is hard to assign causality to any one of our shared characteristics.

my master hasn't been sleeping well. he has no air conditioning. he is exhausted and drained. i do have AC, and am quite self-indulgent about it, but the heat and humidity outside seeps into my soul and pulls me down. i'm tired all day and then return to life in the evening - not bouncing but settling in, resisting bedtime for way too long and returning to the sunlit world way too early. i drag through the work day and the cycle starts all over again.

so i haven't been up for writing cute and sexy. or dark and sexy. i'm discouraged over the housemate search, and sad at the thought of anyone here with me other than the man who felt like he'd always been here from within 15 minutes of the moment he first appeared at my door. and then i remembered our archives, and my eye lit on this exchange from last April, dating 2-1/2 months into our epistolary courtship., when the weather was very different indeed from this last week. and as i read it over i started to smile inside.

i hope the memories make my heat-oppressed master smile.
and that you can smile along with us.

ps - Paul, in a comment, asked why i have to blog naked. the simple answer is that my master ordered me to. no other explanation is needed. but if you really want the whole story, you can find it here.

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

Kitten stuck her head through the cat door and looked around cautiously. It wasn't a cat door, actually; more like an entryway designed for a full-sized Saint Bernard. She started to curse, thought better of it, and changed mid-epithet to a grumble. Sometimes that crazy Irishman of hers let his dry sense of humor get the better of him. Installing a cat door for her. Really! At least he was sensitive enough to put it in the back of the house, where her strange entrances and exits were less likely to be spied by a neighbor. Ah well, she shouldn't complain. Life with him was good, if a little unusual. He may have seemed insane at times, but then she was complicit by obeying his every demand. Willingly. They had created this madhouse together, and she was a happy inmate.

She hauled herself though the rest of the way, and stood up. It was dark downstairs, and she couldn't tell if he was home or not. She removed her coat and shoes, and wondered what to do about the rest of her clothes. She'd been punished the night before, in addition to being placed under one of his periodic NO TOUCHING, NO CUMMING orders, so she really didn't want to do anything to displease him, especially if the foul weather had put him in a foul mood. Did he want her naked or not? She decided to play it safe and keep her clothes on. This gave him the option of ordering her to strip for him or undressing her himself. She did decide to remove her socks and stockings, leaving the slave chain that gave her such pleasure and allowing her to approach him barefoot. Then she reached up to the hook by the door for the leather collar hanging there, and buckled it around her neck. She hated having anything around her neck, but she loved the collar, with the fine embossing in a Celtic knot design. She loved anything that signified her submission, that reminded her, and him, that she was his slave.

She just hoped he would be feeling generous towards her tonight.

No sign of life. Was he not home yet? or waiting for a false move so he could punish her? Uncertain what to do, she fell to her knees and crawled to the foot of the stairs.

"Master? Are you home?"

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

He sees her, but she doesn't see him. . .so he enjoys the sight of her nervous grace, her restless placidity, as she boldly seeks out the source of her fear and her desire.

He smiles as she puts the collar on, and waits kneeling at the foot of the stairs, meowing pitifully, and looking expectantly up into the darkness. . .

He creeps up behind her, and says, in his most comforting voice. . .

"I'm home, kitten"

(I've had a helluva day. . .quite exhausted. . .but I want to play with my kitten!)

= = = = = = = = =

She jumps 3 feet in the air at hearing his voice unexpectedly behind her. Her heart goes into double time, but not just from being startled. His presence always does that to her. His presence, his voice, his touch... She feels the flames of desire flare up, the true burning in her cunt... they were always there when he was there, and even when he wasn't, but it was a pain she was happy to endure.

His voice sounded tender, with a slight wicked touch, since obviously he knew she would be startled. But she also heard weariness, and was glad that it seemed he still wanted to make time for her.

She was his slave, and would do whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, to please him. This was what she lived for.

= = = = = = = = = = =

He stares lasciviously at her. . .his wolfish gaze wandering eagerly and arrogantly over her body. . .

(What are you wearing, kitten?)

. . .and he looks contemptuously at her clothes. . .the clothes that will soon be nothing but tattered rags on the floor. . .

= = = = = = = = =

The weather was windy and nasty, and she had dressed for comfort and warmth, not for seduction. Comfortable blue jeans that did nothing for her ass. A sturdy cotton turtle neck in a bright fuchsia that reminded her of the fuchsia hedges on Ireland's Dingle Peninsula, and therefore of him. Her usual blue Polartek zip-up top. Her favorite enameled kitty earrings, that didn't reveal the cat face until you were close up.

He didn't seem impressed...

What he did seem was hungry, and she was to be the main course.

= = = = = = = = =

She did not dress for seduction. . .and that's why she was so seductive. Beneath those plain looking jeans and serviceable top. . .was a purring sex kitten, his very own slave. . .his precious minette. . .

He gestures to the blue zip-up. . .

his eyes speak the inevitable command. . .

Remove it. . .


(Is it cold, sexy? )

= = = = = = = = = =

She removes the Polartek top and shivers. Not just because of the chill whipped through the old windows by the wind, but because she knows this is just the beginning. She doesn't know exactly what route it will take from here, but she knows that wherever he takes her, she will obediently, willingly, happily, gratefully follow.

She looks into his eyes, silently asking

"Now what, Master?"

= = = = = = = = = =

"To the bedroom kitten."

"Now."

= = = = = = = = = =

She thrilled at the urgency in his voice, and hurried to obey. Her only doubt was whether to get up there faster by running up the stairs, or to maintain her attitude of submission and crawl.

She crawled, feeling his eyes boring though her jeans into her now very vulnerable ass as he walked up behind her.

= = = = = = = = = =

He loves it when she crawls. . . offering her ass to him. His kitten was so transparent sometimes.

Now that she is in her bedroom. . .and can snuggle in bed if she gets too cold. . .

He undoes her jeans. . .and roughly pulls them down her legs and off. . .

= = = = = = = = = =

She loves when he undresses her. She loves when he is rough. Of course, she also loves it when he's gentle, but she loves it when he's rough, because it betrays the near desperation of his desire. A passion that matches her own.

She collapses to the ground when he yanks off her jeans, knocked off her knees by his urgency. She tilts her head up towards him, as if to say:

"Here i am, Master. At your feet. i am your slave. my body belongs to you. Take what you need."

(8 inches of rain in Central Park?!)

= = = = = = = = =

When the jeans are off. . .and his kitten is at his feet, so desperately, and coquettishly looking up at him. . .he softens a bit. kneeling down he kisses her. . .right above her cunt. . .firmly, but gently. . .

His lips can feel the fluttering of her pulse. . .

He removes her top. . .and now she is wearing nothing but her bra and panties. . .

(was it that much! all i know is that it kept coming down.)

= = = = = = = =

She moans at the touch of his lips.

She moans when he takes off her turtleneck, feeling an extra frisson of excitement when he briefly traps her hands above her head before fully pulling the sweater off.

She feels his eyes on her, boring though her underwear, and the flood in her cunt threatens to rival the ones that swept away refrigerators in New Jersey.

= = = = = = = = = =

He doesn't hear her moans so much as feel them. . .throbbing deep within him. . .

He lifts her up in his arms. . .carries her over to the bed, and gently lays her down.

He kisses her. . .a gentle peck on the lips. . then the neck. . .then the shoulder. . .and runs his hands over the warm pink skin of her legs and belly.

Then he ties her up. . .spread eagle. . .stretched out. . .exposed. . .

And as she gasps and struggles he whispers in her ear:

"I haven't decided if i will let you cum tonight, kitten"

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

She gasps! He was being so sweet, so gentle, signaling perhaps a night of rich if vanilla lovemaking. Which was never boring, their non-kinky lovemaking: their vanilla used fresh full cream and real vanilla beans...

And then tying her up, which always triggered crazed shocks of desire careening up and down through her bound body. Oh she loved when he tied her up, whether or not it led to pain or pleasure, or the fuzzy boundary between them.

But not to let her cum? Again? After she had suffered so the night before?

Tears well up in her eyes. She looks up at him pleadingly.

She says nothing. She is his slave, but she struggles constantly with being fully submissive. She doesn't want to give him any reason to test her further. She just looks in his eyes, and awaits his next words. Or action...

= = = = = = = = = =

Her expression is impossible to read. . .is she disappointed? Frantic with desperate desire? Resigned to her fate?

Her emotions wage war against each other behind her eyes. . .

But she submits. . .just as she has been trained to do.

He strokes her cunt through her panties. . .

(You may actually touch yourself kitten. . .but through the panties!)

= = = = = = = = =

He seems to approve of her response, such as it is, because he starts stroking her cunt through her panties. She moans, then whimpers, as her eyes cloud over. A nagging voice in her mind warns her to hold back, to not sink into the pleasure of his touch, in case he is cruel enough to leave her stranded on top of the waterfall.

But it is too late. It was too late 2 months ago. Once he touches her, she is gone. Gone, and doomed to whatever he has planned next. Which she is anyway. Because he owns this body whose responses he manipulates like an orchestra conductor.

= = = = = = = = = = =

Seeing his success with her cunt. . .he turns his attention to her nipples. . .rubbing them through the bra. . .pinching the nipples. . .

Enjoying her moans. . .

(You may also touch your nipples, kitten)

= = = = = = = = = =

Oh, god! Had it only been two days since he had touched her? It felt like a month.

Small sharp cries issued from her throat as he pinched her nipples, interspersed with the moans. Her breath came faster, and her cunt muscles started squeezing and holding, as if clenching around his cock.

She knew she shouldn't cum without his express permission. She tried to think about other things to bring her down a bit. Were they running out of coffee? But it was hard going. Her brain kept cutting out. She was nothing but a bundle of nerve endings, and they all belonged to him.

"J---? Sweetheart? Master?!! Oh god..."

She wasn't cumming. but she felt awfully good...

= = = = = = = = = =

With a bit of fumbling, given that she was tied up, he managed to unhook her bra, freeing her breasts. . .

Taking her right nipple in his mouth he sucked on it. . .HARD.

He played with her breasts, fondling, squeezing, caressing, licking, sucking. . .

All the while repeating his question. . .

"Do you want to cum kitten?"

(Your bra should be off now)

= = = = = = = = = =

Yes, Master!
Please, Master!

I do so want to cum
I do so need to cum.
I beg you to let me cum.

But I know that I am your slave.
I accept that I am your slave.
You own me.
You own my body.
And I know i must submit to whatever you have planned for me,
be it torment or relief.

(It wouldn't be so hard to free my breasts, as most of my bras hook in the front.)

= = = = = = = = = =

I hook a finger under the waistband of your panties. . .and slide them down. . .pulling them as far as your spread legs will let me. . .and then ripping them off you. . .

You are naked now kitten. . .and not just in fantasy.

take off your panties. . .

= = = = = = = = =

she looks up at him with her passion-clouded eyes. she feels her nakedness, she feels her defenselessness, especially positioned as she is, spread open before him.

the violence with which he removed her last shred of protection both excited her and frightened her. she knows it signals overwhelming desire, but it also sometimes precedes cruelty.

but in the end, she doesn't care.
gentleness or cruelty, she doesn't care.
pain or pleasure, she doesn't care.
as long as he claims her as his own
as long as he shows that he treasures his slave
as long as he betrays the depth of his desire
she doesn't care what he does to her.

honey pools on the sheets.
she strains against the ropes and writhes.
the kitten is on the edge of becoming a wild beast.
and only one man can control her.

= = = = = = = = = =

Gentleness tonight, kitten. . .

I lick at your pussy with long, slow strokes, making my tongue flat and wide. . .then sharp and pointed to tickle your clit. . .

I drink your honey. . .I guzzle it down. . .and I explore your velvety warmth. . .

I can taste you kitten. . .sweet and wild and wicked. . .

Touch yourself kitten. . .stroke your pussy for me. . .

= = = = = = = = = =

i am, Master, my sweet gentle master.
i am.

but i don't feel my finger.
i feel only your tongue.
i worship your tongue...

= = = = = = = = = = =

Fuck yourself, kitten.

I want you to cum.

Now.

= = = = = = = = =

and she cums.

her body arches up.
she strains against the ropes.
her head goes back.
she stiffens, she cries out, she tosses her head
she cries, the tears flow
she sobs out all the pent up tension from the previous two days.

finally, she starts calming down.
she sinks into the pillow.
still bound, she looks up into the eyes of the one who owns her
and murmurs ever so quietly
"J---?"

and smiles

= = = = = = = = =

And he strokes her hair. . .and kisses her tears away. . .and holds her in his arms. . .

And whispers. . .

"my good little kitten."

= = = = = = = = = =

Which is just what she wants him to do.

And just what she wants to hear.

Life is very very good...

= = = = = = = = = =

To bed now kitten. . .it's late. . .your master is tired. . .and happy. . .

= = = = = = = = = = =

Yes . . . to sleep.

i'm glad you are happy.
sleep well.
and may the only flood that enters your mind be one of honey....
honey from your happy kitten's cunt. which is yours. all yours...

good night, sweet Master.
good night.

= = = = = = =

Good night, kitten.

Maintenance Report

i’m not sure which of us loves this picture more, the philosopher or me. it is one of many by the Orientalist painter Jean Léone Gérôme depicting slaves being sold. and bought. and displayed.

the fantasy appeals to us both. especially this one.
the slave as object.
property.
being inspected to see if it is worth the price being asked.

it is one of scenarios he uses to talk me down into subspace. and something he does when we are together. forcing my mouth open. running his fingers over my teeth before he moves on to inspecting the rest of my body by sight and by touch.

i am nothing.
i am property.
i must be judged as to my readiness for use.

this morning i went to the dentist. i was way overdue for a cleaning, not because of neglect but because of lack of funds and dental insurance. my master reminded me ahead of time that i am merely his property, and that everything they did to me was being done on his behalf. if it were up to him, i would be strapped into the examining chair and he would be standing over me while the hygienist poked and prodded and made me bleed, all to make me fit for my master’s use.

my master suspected i would slip into subspace during the procedure.

which i did.

but not before wishing that he had ordered me to wear my lovely new purple butt plug. it would have made me feel even more owned…

i felt myself getting wet as the surrogate torturer inserted the little metal tip of her probe between my teeth and under the edges of my gums.

and when i finally arrived at my office, i sent the following e-mail to my master:

your property passed inspection, and is now cleaned, fluoridated, and ready for use.

Housemate Hunt – the saga continues

today i received my favorite response so far.
does he know i am submissive?

Subject: Ill move in [sic]

Im a 24yr old single blk prof male. Im in need of lower rent. I have a one bedroom that is disabling me to save money. Gas is to high so i wanna cut that in half. Im a real laid back easy going guy. Im what you need in your home. So call me so we can talk more about the future.
my cell is 301-xxx-xxxx and my office number is 202-xxx-xxxx
David

wow!
he’s already planning out our future.
do you think i should tell him that i’m already owned?

A Bed to Fill

I’m trolling for a new housemate. I cast my ads into the waters of craigslist and hope for the best. After all, that’s where I found the philosopher.

Or should I say, where he found me.

Lucky catch.

Just like with that other ad, people don’t read the instructions. Guys especially. Guys don’t read instructions. The instructions say to tell me about yourself when you reply. I don’t think this qualifies:

Hello,
I saw your ad at craigslist and I can meet the standards you're looking for on a roommate I'm looking for a room to rent in the silver spring area.
so if you are interested in showing me the place please e-mail me back with the address and a tel # where I can reach you.

This message was my absolute favorite so far:

im fred im 26 and work m-f
i work full time and all i can afford is 600 monthly.....

i could understand if u did not want me bring strange females home everynight

but if it was the same one everynight is this something u can deal with we need to clear this
up now......

besides that i recently quit smoking so im glad that u dont either....

and i hope obama wins to better our economy,lower gas and many more reasons

its just u in the house

I didn’t dignify either of these messages with an answer.

I’ve noticed that most guys who post housing-wanted ads don’t specify that they are men. They are used to being the default. Women always say they are women.

Jewish feminist bisexual submissive baby boomer seeks intelligent, considerate, open-minded housemate to share home with me and 2 cats and the occasional cane-wielding philosopher. Must understand the theory of loading a dishwasher. Bonus points if you know how to fix things and don’t mind getting up on ladders. Double bonus points if you will promise to leave the premises whenever the aforementioned philosopher comes to visit.

So I spent the unacceptably hot weekend scurrying around the house on two sprained ankles, cleaning and de-cluttering and vacuuming and laundering in a vain attempt to look respectable in time for this afternoon’s candidate.

He sounded promising. A real cat-lover and an NPR fan. We shared the names of our favorite panelists on Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. And of course he supports Barack Obama. That’s a must.

He looked agreeably non-attractive when he turned up at the door. I’d rather have a female housemate, but it is mostly men who respond so I’m no longer ruling them out, in which case it is better for all concerned if nothing stirs when I meet them. He looked a little dorky, and came over as polite and somewhat sad. Marko emerged almost immediately, sniffed him out, rubbed against his legs, and stayed around. A good sign.

We sat and talked in the living room, the carpet no longer grey with cat hair. We traded stories of family and depression, cats and antidepressants. We talked about Tucson. We talked about the fact that he would probably be around for only a few months. I asked what other things he had been looking at. He said there had been a number of places, but he had a skeleton in his closet that made it really difficult. And he had to tell me about it.

“I’m on probation”

[my heart sank]

“for inappropriately touching my nephew.”

[damn]

I tried to be generous. And sympathetic. He was clearly in pain, and mortified, and very very sorry. I wished I could help him out, and first thought well gee, pedophilia, at least the philosopher wouldn’t have to worry about there being any danger to ME.

But I knew it wouldn’t do. There was that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and that was the real reason I would have to say no. There were all sorts of rational reasons that one by one oozed around my mind. I knew if I was considering it, I’d have to run it by the philosopher. He’s a Catholic, albeit lapsed. He’s VERY unhappy with the way the church handled the cases of pedophiliac priests. I doubt he’d be thrilled with having a pedophile living with his pet.

The guy said he was open to talking about it, and I groaned inside and thought no, I listen to people’s problems at work on and off throughout the day, the last thing I need is to come home to a guy who has to supplement his one-on-one therapy sessions and group therapy sessions by sharing his angst with me.

And then I realized I had no choice. Even if I wanted to give him a break, I had no choice. How could I look my wonderful neighbors in the eye if I let a pedophile move in next door to them and their 5-year old son.

He was ever so nice and understanding when I explained. I said I had enjoyed chatting with him, which was true. I shook his hand and saw him out.

It’s an interesting way to meet people, this housemate search. A little bit like match.com, except there you’re not looking to immediately move in with the people you meet. And there I was definitely only looking for women. Plus of course it reminds me of that ad that brought the philosopher into my life. Except there I wasn’t planning on face-to-face (or even phone call) meetings with anyone at all.

After he left I took a shower. Not because he made me feel dirty but because I was all sweaty from the whirlwind of cleaning. I took off my clothes and stood under the spray and washed my hair and started to cry.

I already have someone I enjoy having around the house.
Someone I enjoy talking with.
Someone who cleans up kitty vomit like it’s
the most natural thing in the world.
Someone who inspires embarrassing urges to scrub the floor.
I already have someone.

I don’t want anyone else.

EPILOGUE: I wrote the above as a Word document, which I often do since I have to be naked to actually post here. Then I finished the laundry, put the clean sheets on the bed along with a light blanket, and folded them back to make the bed look welcoming.

It took a minute or two before I realized that I had turned back the sheets on both sides of the bed…

Power Loss

Wednesday, 4 June 2008

It is nearly 6:30 as I sit down to write. The power is out, victim of a series of over-enthusiastic storms that brought tornadoes to northern Virginia and killed one person. Good thing my laptop is fully charged. Good thing I don’t live in Virginia.

It was eerily quiet when I arrived home from work. Nothing whirred in the background. The cats were mildly disconcerted. I turned on the emergency radio, partly out of NPR addiction and partly for storm updates, but regret the loss of silence. It’s a crank radio in case the batteries die, with a flashlight option. I pulled out my Itty Bitty Book Light for evening reading. The house is well-supplied for power emergencies; I stocked up after Hurricane Isabel.

I wish you were here. There’s something especially intimate about being stuck without power. You would share my picnic of nuts and dried fruit, tomatoes and three-day old donuts left from Sunday morning’s indulgence.

We would curl up on the bed in the continuing evening light, reading books and unfinished sections of the Sunday NY Times. We would turn off the radio and exist in a world without immediacy. We would read and trade stories and laugh at the cats and at your irrepressible urge to pinch my nipples.

And when the natural blackout curtain fell over the street, we would feel our way down to the dungeon.

I twitched as I wrote that. The darkness of the basement will be absolute tonight. Traces of old pain and fear will emerge from every corner. Alone with the cats tonight, I’ll stay upstairs where civilization is as close as next door or the speaker of my little red crank-up radio. But if you were here…

We would feel our way down to the dungeon. I would be as if blindfolded. You would carry a flashlight in one hand and implements of torture in the other hand. I would carry candles, but unlit.

The sense of roaming dungeon demons nearly suffocates me. I shiver and moan. You chuckle and order me to strip, then propel me toward the ottoman and force me over it. Only then do you light the candles that earlier you placed in strategic spots. The shadows they cast just intensify the atmosphere.

I feel myself floating away, wound in the web of your sadism and desire, swathed in your sweetness and strangled by your lust.

Someday, it will happen. Someday you will be here when the power goes out. But your own power lingers, like the scent of wild honeysuckle that loiters round the house, uncontrollable, ineradicable. The fear and pain hover in the basement, the laughter and gentleness, the spankings and threats, the affection and perfect peace fill the entire house.

I miss you. But in truth you never left.

And when Barack Obama is declared the next president of these hopeful United States, you will be by my side.

a scrapbook of memories

this is our journal.

this is our memory book.

all those moments, fleeting and lingering.

dashing up to the bus station, right behind your bus.

your pleasure at seeing me with the pink dog collar around my neck - and the leash in the car. you hooked it into the O-ring and held on to your pet as i drove you home.

that first dinner i fed you, the cup of tea that pleased you, and all the dinners we planned together and the cups of tea i served you. every meal felt like a joint project, even with me doing all the work.

that first spanking. i so needed that first spanking.

dragging myself away from you on Friday morning, dragging myself away for a half day's work while you lounged among the disastrous sheets. how i would reassemble the bed, my bed, our bed, every day at least once, and how you would leave it looking like it was waiting for the chambermaid to gather up the crumbled sheets and haul them off to the laundry.

doing your laundry. washing your dishes. feeling it as a gift, an offering, a pleasure, rather than an onerous chore. (though i must admit i have doubts as to how long i would remain amused at the master's socks and underwear dropped on the bedroom floor exactly where he removed them...)

Friday afternoon at the regional park. at the butterfly exhibit. were you wondering if it would be worth it? we gloried in it, handing the camera back and forth, snapping dozens of amazing photos. walking down the paths, among the geese, peering at labels for plants and trees, sharing benches, planning a return visit with pinhole cameras. feeling peaceful, feeling together, our ritual comments of dominance and submission woven among happy companionship that was too comfortable to be called "merely" vanilla. even without the spicy teasing flecks of other flavours, it was vanilla made from precious natural beans, its richness dissolving in our mouths and flowing through our bodies. there is, in truth, nothing necessarily boring about vanilla.

the plans, the hints, the insinuations about the punishments to come on Saturday night.

all those little times my almost-ex housemate nearly caught us at very inopportune moments. the worst being when the toys and implements of pain were all laid out in the basement family room cum dungeon and she came trotting into the house looking for a lost debit card. she was not expected back for the rest of the night. even if one is not planning some perhaps shocking activities, how explicit does one have to be in reiterating again and again that she really doesn't want to be around that night - especially when she had told us she'd be gone until the following day. (luckily, the implements had been laid out on a bandanna and were easily gathered up and obscured.)

it was all pretty funny, really. and she would have deserved the site of me draped over the ottoman, my naked ass being soundly beaten by your belt.

the delight you got in my little eruptions-on-command. your goal, of course, is orgasms on command. isn't that what every dom wants? three-two-one-CUM, KITTEN! well, not quite... but something for sure. like a little seizure, almost, and eventually you couldn't even make it past "three" before i would give this little involuntary full-body shiver, the sort i used to get only from certain kinds of music. you kept making me perform - loving to see how dependable my reaction was.

doing crossword puzzles together, my intuition supplementing your logic, after which you would figure out why my answer was correct. experiencing it as a shared activity rather than competition. (another reason for you to send those thank you flowers to ex-hubby #2...)

i learned that it definitely helps to breathe when giving a blow job.

this is becoming too long. but we had 4 nights together! i'm trying to save them, pinning them down on the page like captured butterflies when they are so much more beautiful flying around our heads.

you wish you could post the face shots that show me deep in subspace. not quite completely gone, but definitely not all there. i sink so fast now... in these four and a half months apart, you have continued to train me with threats and scenarios, till a few words about branding leave me without the ability to speak.

i wish i could post pictures of you after i cut your hair. poor you, enduring my constant little corrective snips for almost 2 days afterwards, as i attempted to make it perfect. you have beautiful hair, thick and wavy like mine, a red slightly browner than mine, cutting off the overgrown locks brings your face out, brings your good looks out, makes me worry a bit that now you are too handsome and young-looking to want someone as old as me.

i exercised today. we both have bellies. i will demolish mine.

the caning.
you stopped at 4 strokes.
they seemed to be enough.
they were.
4 strokes.
splat across my ass.
horribly painful parallel lines.
i wasn't bound, just down on my knees,
ass in air, face to the carpet,
you said i rose up under the pain as if
trying to escape it.
i couldn't escape it.
and after the fourth, you got your wish.
i sobbed. i shook.
and my face was
wet with tears.
just 4 strokes of the cane.
the worst i'd ever had.
you beat me till i cried tears.

(oddly enough, there are no horrible bruises, although it does still hurt, and yesterday we could feel the line of the welt under my skin. one bruise is forming at the site of the worst stroke. swift application of that big bag of peas that clutters up my freezer did its magic. frozen peas. perfect for sprained ankles and caned asses.)

i'll write another time about the beautiful little purple butt plug you bought me. the magic power of that little purple butt plug.

Sunday night.

the last night.

i showed you Marianne's post about what i call hormone storms. i wanted you to see that it's not just me. i wanted you to see the comment i left. you make me feel that it's safe to show you these things.

Sunday night. how gentle you were. i needed to be touched. i needed you to be my lover. you make me feel safe. you make me feel it's safe to ask for what i need. which isn't something i could do with other men. or women. which isn't something i do easily. i did it with you. i let you know what i needed. and you gave it to me.

i admit it. i was sad all morning. i didn't quite cry. you had told me not to. "don't cry, kitten..." you said as i left you at the bus station. "don't, cry..." in that inflection you always use, almost mocking yourself and me. so i didn't. and i'm ok now, sitting up naked in the bed, the sheets returned to their orderly state, tucked in at the bottom, your underwear in the dryer with my missing black shirt that had been skulking among my exercise clothes.

i won't cry, master.

i won't cry.

i think about the weekend and smile.

i remember, and smile, and pet purring marko, who has resumed his place on the bed now that you are gone.

Kitten Reclaimed

spanked and caned and very very owned...