i've been writing at work.
i come in and my mind starts flooding with thoughts and i sit writing in long-hand on a small white lined pad. my emotions go from one extreme to the other, the writing, the thoughts, the emotions, they take on a life of their own, they're in some sort of meandering stream, taking odd turnings, saying truths, only to round the bend and come smack up against other truths.
all the thoughts are real. all the emotions are honest, all the truths are true. but there is no one truth.
and then i get home, and look back at what i've written, and don't want to post it. as if that will give it more weight that all the other thoughts and emotions and truths.
and i'm worried what my master's response will be.
see? right there. one of the truths. why did the words "my master's" come out? why not "the philosopher's? why not just "his"? i find i've been shying way from saying "the philosopher." it's such a playful designation, and it's hard to feel playful about him right now. there is no playfulness in our relationship right now. there is no humor. tho now that i say that, i can't help smiling at the few times first i, and then he, and then both together, burst out and continued laughing right in the middle of some intense perverted interaction (why do i refuse to use the word "scene"?). at least once, that happened when we were physically together... perhaps on his last visit. i can't remember why i cracked up, but crack up i did. and the catharsis of the laughter was nearly as good as from the caning.
so i referred to him as my master. hmmm....
perhaps because he was here again. at lunchtime. i love seeing that he's been here. it had been a few days. and then there he was in my stats. so reassuring, that somehow he is not removing me totally from his mind.
it makes me feel a bit of that connection again. that glowing ember inside of me. the one i think he never quite understood, couldn't quite give credit to - and because of that he couldn't believe i could be happy, even if not completely satisfied, through long periods of separation. i ALWAYS felt connected to him, every minute of the day. it's like my little bookshelf stereo. i turn it off but there is always this little red light on labelled "standby." the electric connection is never wholly severed.
but after i warded off a permanent break with this last chance idea of a 9-week silence, the light seemed to go out. the 250-foot long chain by which he held me seemed to have been cut because it felt as if he just needed to get away from me. so i was no longer carrying within me this eternally lit "we are open and alive" sign. and i felt so very very lost. and empty.
and then he showed up here. silently, but leaving foot prints. and i sent him the link to the post that said he was welcome and he came back late that night. then nothing for a few days. still, i felt better after the sighting and have been sporting pink panties ever since. still not the cute ones, sir, but today's were very very bright. and then at lunch you were here again. and a couple of paragraphs ago i checked and ou were back. and i felt so good.
maybe this can work after all, this break. i can know he's still thinking of me, and feel comforted and continue wearing the pink panties and the paper clip slave bracelet around my ankle. nothing is for certain, but i can think that there is the possibility that we can put it back together in September.
but i do miss him...
if he were calling tonight to put me to bed, i'd tell him how at work i was filmed for a video that will probably go on a website with a possibly big viewership. i did a good job. the filmmakers thought i did a GREAT job, and for real they were impressed.
and i'd tell him how my co-worker is hugely hostile and resentful towards me, which in an incredibly tiny office is a real pain. she doesn't even sit sight next to me and she complains about my sighing (!!) among other things, which in fact i think I do because i'm concentrating so hard that i forget to breathe - like when i'm giving you a blow job, master, and i have to remember to breathe through my nose so i don't gag. we're meeting with our supervisor tomorrow (there's only one more employee - the president). at least i know i haven't been hallucinating what i felt coming from her, and i'm trying to be more adult about it than she is.
and then i'd tell him how Marko was sitting next to me on the couch as i write this, and started kneading the top of my hand with his paw. and he needs a manicure so his nails are digging into my hand a little and i thought of how my master likes to dig his nail into me... into the palm of my hand... into my nipple... and it seemed as if Marko had received a message "hurt her. remind her. remind her that she is owned..." and i started to cry. just a little. just a little...
so yes, this has been a babbling brook of consciousness. there was no outline, no predetermined point... if i can't babble here than where can i babble? and if i bored you, readers, just go back and contemplate my nipple and tell me again what you'd love to do to it. and keep in mind that my lovely protruding nipple, which no bra can obscure from view, is not even hard in that picture. just think what it would look like after you subjected it to your evil whims.
and then sigh. because there's no chance you'll get your fingers or your teeth or your clamps or your clothespins on it.
because it is already owned.
and not by me.