Well, no.
Not really.
Even though tomorrow IS Labor Day here in the U.S.
I saw my master.
Just for a moment.
He may have inhabited my dream for longer than that, but that's all I remember. An image of how he was, crossing the street, the one and only time we met in his home town. I see him as he was, crossing the street from the train station, his tall body, his broad cautious face, his hair, long thick hair like mine is now... was there wind? I seem to see it caught by the wind.
He was my master then. So I say master now. Just for this dream.
He is my friend now. A very precious friend. We have made that decision - well, he made the decision to be nothing more than that, and I accepted the decision, and am committed to the friendship, and cherish it so yes, we made the decision.
I'm a little slow.
OK, I'm a LOT slow.
I just, as I wrote the previous paragraph, realized why I saw him and am having these thoughts.
Tomorrow, Labor Day, was to have been the end of the Summer Silence. The day of re-evaluation. The day to examine where we had been and where we were and where we were going. Except it already happened, on a day that is now hard to celebrate as an anniversary because it now marks both a beginning and an end.
I am so attuned to ritual and observances that my subconscious notes them for me should I turn my eyes away for even a moment.
Tomorrow, I suppose, we should celebrate our friendship.
Which is no small thing.
The philosopher doesn't really have friends.
Not close ones.
Not friends that aren't his siblings.
So I feel honored.
I have a number of friends.
And a few close ones.
But none like this.
So.
Friendship.
And yet.
I saw him last night.
And this morning,
when I came this morning,
I thought of him.
Whenever I cum,
whatever the immediate inspiration,
whatever the procedure that brings me there,
whenever I cum with those loud painful sobs
that burst from my lungs
that pour from my heart
sobs that cause Marko to jump from the bed
whenever i cum
i think of you.
You still own my orgasms
whether you want them or not.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The friend and the fiend
yes, i’m still here.
i know i’ve been quiet for a couple of days, but i’m ok. it felt like a very long week – vacation recovery will do that. and then there was the democratic convention every night…
the philosopher called me twice this week. the first time was Monday evening. i was not surprised. i was down in the dungeon – oops, i mean the family room – watching the convention, and i had taken the cell phone down with me. i’m not like most Americans, i don’t keep it with me all the time – well, i did when the philosopher owned me, he would be quite irate if he called and i didn’t answer.
however, in this case i took it down with me because i KNEW he would call.
i knew.
it has been a week of telepathy.
so he called to hear from my own lips about my adventure with Motorcycle Man. and i told him, though not all the little details of how MM did this or that to me. i told him the important parts – that he was in the room with me the whole time, and that i couldn’t cum without hearing him say “Cum, kitten. NOW!” and i explained what i had said here and here, that our friendship was the most important thing. which it is.
i’ve been thinking about that, now that we are spending time together again. phone time, and not daily, but still time together. because of how our relationship started, the erotic component, and then the D/s dynamic which developed and took hold, were the biggest parts. we did talk about other things, but we’re both into ritual, and the rituals took hold.
it was when we were together that we had the full beauty of the friendship, the perfect calm and comfort of each other’s presence. we talked all the time, but i think that if we could have shut up we could have been happily, silently together for hours and hours, because it felt like the most natural thing in the world to have him here, to curl up on the couch, to cook, to shop, to walk down the street hand-in-hand.
so yes, i am happy having a focus on the friendship, and even without being able to say that i am owned, i am back to feeling safe and calm.
which means i am off the market for now. i’m happy. i’m not looking for a boyfriend. i’m not looking for a dom. i’m not looking for a master.
but during our Monday conversation, the philosopher asked a very valid question.
what about the blog?
will i keep it going?
will it no longer be a sex blog?
of course i’ll keep it going!
i feel more complete reconnecting with my writer self... the stuff just bubbles up out of me, especially the poems. it’s embarrassing, really, how they just flow, i tend to discount them because of that – they’re not real, they’re not art, if i don’t have to slave over them.
so i certainly don’t want to give up the blog. but i was starting to feel a bit… dry. i can’t see writing every day about how happy i am that the philosopher and i are friends. and at the moment i feel uncomfortable about posting old conversations from my slave kitten days.
maybe a new picture of Marko each day?
naah… i don’t think so.
now, i’ve mentioned before that i’ve been hanging out at that electronic cocktail party called FetLife. and i’ve been both bemused and somewhat embarrassed at the little following i’ve collected there of horny 30-year old men. i do love it that they are undeterred by my clearly stated advanced age – very reassuring should i ever want to pursue anything further. but just because someone says he’d happily spank me doesn’t mean i’ll be offering my ass any time soon. i’m clearer about that now.
still, i keep feeling restless, and deprived of inspiration.
and then a few days ago a very odd and evil man contacted me. he is of course smitten with my writing (hey – i can be snotty occasionally, can’t i? – that’s what happens when a slave kitten is unchained…) and he understands the power of the mind in bdsm. so we’ve been corresponding for a few days and he has become my demon muse. the things in his fiendish mind trigger the dark side of my creativity and poems and vignettes have been springing forth. i’m feeling more vibrant now that i’m being creative again, because i really did miss it.
Sacrificial lamb in the alcove was the first creative product of this… what? i’m not sure what to call it. perhaps “collaboration” is as appropriate as anything. in a way i feel like he’s not only my evil muse but my patron. in his fantasies i think i am his poetic nightingale in a gilded cage (or at least that’s my image). he doesn’t want my body; he already has a slave as an outlet for his considerable sadism. he wants the products of my mind. he is a patron who pays with praise and inspiration, and i respond with pieces that reflect his mind as filtered through mine.
so watch for weird pieces, perhaps bizarre poems and vignettes that demonstrate how my imagination works in his service. i’m still hoping my creativity can become broader, i’d still like to be able to write things i can show my mother. but for now i will continue to produce these oddities.
and cultivate the garden that is my friendship with the philosopher.
i know i’ve been quiet for a couple of days, but i’m ok. it felt like a very long week – vacation recovery will do that. and then there was the democratic convention every night…
the philosopher called me twice this week. the first time was Monday evening. i was not surprised. i was down in the dungeon – oops, i mean the family room – watching the convention, and i had taken the cell phone down with me. i’m not like most Americans, i don’t keep it with me all the time – well, i did when the philosopher owned me, he would be quite irate if he called and i didn’t answer.
however, in this case i took it down with me because i KNEW he would call.
i knew.
it has been a week of telepathy.
so he called to hear from my own lips about my adventure with Motorcycle Man. and i told him, though not all the little details of how MM did this or that to me. i told him the important parts – that he was in the room with me the whole time, and that i couldn’t cum without hearing him say “Cum, kitten. NOW!” and i explained what i had said here and here, that our friendship was the most important thing. which it is.
i’ve been thinking about that, now that we are spending time together again. phone time, and not daily, but still time together. because of how our relationship started, the erotic component, and then the D/s dynamic which developed and took hold, were the biggest parts. we did talk about other things, but we’re both into ritual, and the rituals took hold.
it was when we were together that we had the full beauty of the friendship, the perfect calm and comfort of each other’s presence. we talked all the time, but i think that if we could have shut up we could have been happily, silently together for hours and hours, because it felt like the most natural thing in the world to have him here, to curl up on the couch, to cook, to shop, to walk down the street hand-in-hand.
so yes, i am happy having a focus on the friendship, and even without being able to say that i am owned, i am back to feeling safe and calm.
which means i am off the market for now. i’m happy. i’m not looking for a boyfriend. i’m not looking for a dom. i’m not looking for a master.
but during our Monday conversation, the philosopher asked a very valid question.
what about the blog?
will i keep it going?
will it no longer be a sex blog?
of course i’ll keep it going!
i feel more complete reconnecting with my writer self... the stuff just bubbles up out of me, especially the poems. it’s embarrassing, really, how they just flow, i tend to discount them because of that – they’re not real, they’re not art, if i don’t have to slave over them.
so i certainly don’t want to give up the blog. but i was starting to feel a bit… dry. i can’t see writing every day about how happy i am that the philosopher and i are friends. and at the moment i feel uncomfortable about posting old conversations from my slave kitten days.
maybe a new picture of Marko each day?
naah… i don’t think so.
now, i’ve mentioned before that i’ve been hanging out at that electronic cocktail party called FetLife. and i’ve been both bemused and somewhat embarrassed at the little following i’ve collected there of horny 30-year old men. i do love it that they are undeterred by my clearly stated advanced age – very reassuring should i ever want to pursue anything further. but just because someone says he’d happily spank me doesn’t mean i’ll be offering my ass any time soon. i’m clearer about that now.
still, i keep feeling restless, and deprived of inspiration.
and then a few days ago a very odd and evil man contacted me. he is of course smitten with my writing (hey – i can be snotty occasionally, can’t i? – that’s what happens when a slave kitten is unchained…) and he understands the power of the mind in bdsm. so we’ve been corresponding for a few days and he has become my demon muse. the things in his fiendish mind trigger the dark side of my creativity and poems and vignettes have been springing forth. i’m feeling more vibrant now that i’m being creative again, because i really did miss it.
Sacrificial lamb in the alcove was the first creative product of this… what? i’m not sure what to call it. perhaps “collaboration” is as appropriate as anything. in a way i feel like he’s not only my evil muse but my patron. in his fantasies i think i am his poetic nightingale in a gilded cage (or at least that’s my image). he doesn’t want my body; he already has a slave as an outlet for his considerable sadism. he wants the products of my mind. he is a patron who pays with praise and inspiration, and i respond with pieces that reflect his mind as filtered through mine.
so watch for weird pieces, perhaps bizarre poems and vignettes that demonstrate how my imagination works in his service. i’m still hoping my creativity can become broader, i’d still like to be able to write things i can show my mother. but for now i will continue to produce these oddities.
and cultivate the garden that is my friendship with the philosopher.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Sacrificial lamb in the alcove
she stands in the domed stone niche
eaten by grey and by cold.
the cathedral night laughs at her
chilled naked breasts as she
reaches above for the stark iron hook.
she grasps, and gasps as tendrils of chain
embrace her and hold her arms fast.
or so it seems. in truth her bonds
are of her mind. they always suffice
as she welcomes her fate.
eaten by grey and by cold.
the cathedral night laughs at her
chilled naked breasts as she
reaches above for the stark iron hook.
she grasps, and gasps as tendrils of chain
embrace her and hold her arms fast.
or so it seems. in truth her bonds
are of her mind. they always suffice
as she welcomes her fate.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Scaramouche
Speak to me of spanking began life as a craigslist post. When in desperation, kitten turns to craigslist. The philosopher had tried to break up with me yet again. In truth, he HAD broken up with me. I merely forestalled the end by offering a summer of silence to give him the peace and freedom from distraction that he felt he needed to get back to work on his dissertation.
I was distraught. I was panicked. I was desolated and angry and frustrated. So I thought I'd fish for someone to amuse me while I waited for the scant chance that we'd put it all back together on Labor Day. And if the unthinkable happened, maybe I'd have someone in the wings waiting to comfort and spank me.
The responses were the usual mix. There are always those who don't read the instructions, who think that all they have to do is call me names, or sound tough, or sound pathetic, or crook their index finger, and I'll come trotting over for a spanking and a fucking. There were those who sounded interesting enough to merit a reply, and a couple of those earned correspondences that ran maybe a couple of weeks or so. Motorcycle Man's response stood out. He seemed to get what it was all about, and he did get to spank and fuck me.
And then there was Scaramouche.
His writing made me stop in my tracks.
How does one talk about it?
How does one describe the thrill of pleasure as the cane whips through the air, a few practice swings before the cruel work begins?
How does one explain the sensation, not anger, but certainly not kindness, that flashes through one's head as flesh is struck and marked?
How does one relate the deep satisfaction felt as tears are dried and sobs are comforted, and the cruelty ends and the kindness begins. . .
One doesn't.
One merely acts.
--
Scaramouche
Not just a good reply.
An amazing reply.
Writing that cut like the cane
and soothed like a hand stroking my head.
An insight into a sadist's soul.
I wrote back so fast I didn't have time to think. To listen. To know...
I wrote:
ah...
perfect.
the whistle of the cane through the air
the tension before the burning pain
the gasp, the scream, the moan
swollen tissues, humiliation,
seeping passion in response to cruelty.
i felt it all.
all but the pain
and without the stripes as
a souvenir of joy.
thank you.
you brought it all back.
(and Scaramouche yet, wielding a cane instead of a sword. very cute indeed. back in college when i was a theatre major, i acted in a costume drama, wearing a dress with a tight bodice, breasts pushed in and up, nearly flowing over the top. it felt amazing. a corset would be lovely, i think...)
my eyes were starting to open, but my vision was still fogged.
and then it started to nag at me.
a hint of recognition.
a fear of what i might have done.
until finally, 28 hours later, i wrote to Scaramouche again:
odd... reading over what you wrote... it reminds me of the man i've lost... might have lost... probably lost... he would have appreciated the name and the e-mail address, i think... and the scene you describe seems so familiar... it makes me sad.
it's a weird game i'm playing, writing to other people because i can't write to the only one i really want. practicing in case i really do have to move on. testing the waters, trying to console myself that at least i can get people to write back to me.
an odd sort of comfort. and it just keeps bringing me back to what i had. and somehow, you wrote as if you had been there with us.
I never heard from Scaramouche again.
Until last night when, in the course of a 48-minute phone call, the philosopher admitted that yes, he was Scaramouche. And he had recognized my style as well.
We just couldn't say goodbye.
It's not really like the old song. He didn't come back and kiss me. But I do have faith in the friendship. I feel as if we are again curled up on the couch with crossword puzzles and tea, in deep perfect companionship. We created something beautiful, and I have full faith that it will last.
And I really should have known from the second sentence.
Because there is no one like him.
I was distraught. I was panicked. I was desolated and angry and frustrated. So I thought I'd fish for someone to amuse me while I waited for the scant chance that we'd put it all back together on Labor Day. And if the unthinkable happened, maybe I'd have someone in the wings waiting to comfort and spank me.
The responses were the usual mix. There are always those who don't read the instructions, who think that all they have to do is call me names, or sound tough, or sound pathetic, or crook their index finger, and I'll come trotting over for a spanking and a fucking. There were those who sounded interesting enough to merit a reply, and a couple of those earned correspondences that ran maybe a couple of weeks or so. Motorcycle Man's response stood out. He seemed to get what it was all about, and he did get to spank and fuck me.
And then there was Scaramouche.
His writing made me stop in my tracks.
How does one talk about it?
How does one describe the thrill of pleasure as the cane whips through the air, a few practice swings before the cruel work begins?
How does one explain the sensation, not anger, but certainly not kindness, that flashes through one's head as flesh is struck and marked?
How does one relate the deep satisfaction felt as tears are dried and sobs are comforted, and the cruelty ends and the kindness begins. . .
One doesn't.
One merely acts.
--
Scaramouche
Not just a good reply.
An amazing reply.
Writing that cut like the cane
and soothed like a hand stroking my head.
An insight into a sadist's soul.
I wrote back so fast I didn't have time to think. To listen. To know...
I wrote:
ah...
perfect.
the whistle of the cane through the air
the tension before the burning pain
the gasp, the scream, the moan
swollen tissues, humiliation,
seeping passion in response to cruelty.
i felt it all.
all but the pain
and without the stripes as
a souvenir of joy.
thank you.
you brought it all back.
(and Scaramouche yet, wielding a cane instead of a sword. very cute indeed. back in college when i was a theatre major, i acted in a costume drama, wearing a dress with a tight bodice, breasts pushed in and up, nearly flowing over the top. it felt amazing. a corset would be lovely, i think...)
my eyes were starting to open, but my vision was still fogged.
and then it started to nag at me.
a hint of recognition.
a fear of what i might have done.
until finally, 28 hours later, i wrote to Scaramouche again:
odd... reading over what you wrote... it reminds me of the man i've lost... might have lost... probably lost... he would have appreciated the name and the e-mail address, i think... and the scene you describe seems so familiar... it makes me sad.
it's a weird game i'm playing, writing to other people because i can't write to the only one i really want. practicing in case i really do have to move on. testing the waters, trying to console myself that at least i can get people to write back to me.
an odd sort of comfort. and it just keeps bringing me back to what i had. and somehow, you wrote as if you had been there with us.
I never heard from Scaramouche again.
Until last night when, in the course of a 48-minute phone call, the philosopher admitted that yes, he was Scaramouche. And he had recognized my style as well.
We just couldn't say goodbye.
It's not really like the old song. He didn't come back and kiss me. But I do have faith in the friendship. I feel as if we are again curled up on the couch with crossword puzzles and tea, in deep perfect companionship. We created something beautiful, and I have full faith that it will last.
And I really should have known from the second sentence.
Because there is no one like him.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Clarity
calm
centered
no longer crying
clear eyes
clear head
clear path
at least for now
as for you, my
coterie of suitors
persistent in your courtship,
i’ll talk with you
i’ll write to you
i’ll even flirt
(oh, i love to flirt)
but i won’t play with you.
someday maybe.
but not now.
i can’t now.
i don’t want to now.
i own myself.
i set my own bedtime.
i choose my own panties.
i obey my own orders.
and i’m bound to the truth.
[with thanks to Motorcycle Man, for being
kind and funny and understanding, and
showing me how cute i look in a leather collar,
and for helping me to see.]
centered
no longer crying
clear eyes
clear head
clear path
at least for now
as for you, my
coterie of suitors
persistent in your courtship,
i’ll talk with you
i’ll write to you
i’ll even flirt
(oh, i love to flirt)
but i won’t play with you.
someday maybe.
but not now.
i can’t now.
i don’t want to now.
i own myself.
i set my own bedtime.
i choose my own panties.
i obey my own orders.
and i’m bound to the truth.
[with thanks to Motorcycle Man, for being
kind and funny and understanding, and
showing me how cute i look in a leather collar,
and for helping me to see.]
Sunday, August 24, 2008
kitten's big adventure: what she learned
it was a little adventure, really.
a chapter in a bildungsroman.
and what was to be slave-for-a-day was really only about 23-1/2 hours that broke down to maybe 1/4 slavery, 1/4 sleep, and the rest friendship.
and what did kitten learn?
a lot of little things and one big thing.
i can do without the pain.
i don't have to be anyone's slave.
i don't really need someone to cane my ass or run my life.
the philosopher wrote me on Saturday as i was trying to get ready to leave on my adventure. i had been having a hard time. i had been crying and would stop and then would start crying again. i wanted this adventure but was finding it too hard. i wanted to move on but wasn't really ready. i was happy to be desired but really only wanted one person.
he wrote to wish me luck, and told me to play safe. we exchanged a number of e-mails, and the things he said made me feel better than i had since July 1st. he told me to stop crying and i immediately did, although that didn't keep me from crying again on and off throughout the 24 hours. he gave me reassurance that our time together had NOT all been meaningless, and that talk of a continued friendship is not just empty words.
so i stopped crying and eventually started feeling excited again and raced up the highway to the man i'd promised could be my Master (yes, with a capital "M" - he's that sort of guy) for the next 24 hours.
the philosopher was there with me the entire time.
he was always in the room.
he was always on my mind.
and i couldn't cum until i heard him say
"cum, kitten. NOW."
and the big lesson i learned?
i can do without the sex.
i can do without the pain.
i don't have to be anyone's slave.
i don't really need someone to cane my ass or run my life.
i can't do without the close and complex ties of trust and affection and understanding.
i would rather have your friendship, however much you can give, however little time you can give, with no sex, no spanking, no setting of my bedtime, no deciding what color panties i should wear, no taking responsibility for my life, no expectations whatsoever... i would rather have that now, that friendship, than whatever "fun" i could find with anyone else.
and i drove back home
and unloaded the car
and fed the kitties
and opened a bottle of ginger beer.
a chapter in a bildungsroman.
and what was to be slave-for-a-day was really only about 23-1/2 hours that broke down to maybe 1/4 slavery, 1/4 sleep, and the rest friendship.
and what did kitten learn?
a lot of little things and one big thing.
- nipple clamps don't have to be all that bad and can have a significant psychological effect.
- say the word "punishment" and my voice will instantly change.
- i'm surprisingly much more comfortable in a leather collar than in a necklace, and i look awfully cute in one.
- i still can't come from fucking.
- it's nice to be fucked every so often but, no matter how talented the other party, it's nicer when it's by someone i've known for a while.
- i admittedly do get some perverted pleasure from being whacked with assorted implements.
- bdsm for me means way more than just kinky sex and stimulating pain and obeying orders; it is a rich psychological dynamic between 2 people who share close and complex ties of trust and affection and understanding, and without that is rather empty.
i can do without the pain.
i don't have to be anyone's slave.
i don't really need someone to cane my ass or run my life.
the philosopher wrote me on Saturday as i was trying to get ready to leave on my adventure. i had been having a hard time. i had been crying and would stop and then would start crying again. i wanted this adventure but was finding it too hard. i wanted to move on but wasn't really ready. i was happy to be desired but really only wanted one person.
he wrote to wish me luck, and told me to play safe. we exchanged a number of e-mails, and the things he said made me feel better than i had since July 1st. he told me to stop crying and i immediately did, although that didn't keep me from crying again on and off throughout the 24 hours. he gave me reassurance that our time together had NOT all been meaningless, and that talk of a continued friendship is not just empty words.
so i stopped crying and eventually started feeling excited again and raced up the highway to the man i'd promised could be my Master (yes, with a capital "M" - he's that sort of guy) for the next 24 hours.
the philosopher was there with me the entire time.
he was always in the room.
he was always on my mind.
and i couldn't cum until i heard him say
"cum, kitten. NOW."
and the big lesson i learned?
i can do without the sex.
i can do without the pain.
i don't have to be anyone's slave.
i don't really need someone to cane my ass or run my life.
i can't do without the close and complex ties of trust and affection and understanding.
i would rather have your friendship, however much you can give, however little time you can give, with no sex, no spanking, no setting of my bedtime, no deciding what color panties i should wear, no taking responsibility for my life, no expectations whatsoever... i would rather have that now, that friendship, than whatever "fun" i could find with anyone else.
and i drove back home
and unloaded the car
and fed the kitties
and opened a bottle of ginger beer.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Kitten sticks her nose out
Yesterday's post was about more than cats.
And today this is very hard to write. My eyes, as so often these days, are flooding with the tears that will stain my glasses, and sobs are roiling around inside my throat.
Wednesday night I went on a date. Just for dinner, followed by some very enticing appetizers in the parking lot.
Saturday evening, I embark on a 24-hour adventure.
I've been writing this post in my head for a while and now I can say none of it. It's too painful. I am happy about what is to come. It is the right thing for now, especially as it is time- and emotion-delimited due to assorted practicalities as well as honest assessments of who we are and what we need. Me, I need to feel desired. I need to be kissed, and held, and fucked. I need to be dominated and trained and owned, even if only for a few months. I need to explore what the philosopher and I really only just embarked on, and see how much of my attraction to it all, the fulfillment I felt, came from the bonds that seemed to exist between me and the man I thought owned and loved me, and how much is a deep part of my own soul that is happy to be free in submission and perhaps even in a form of slavery. (Note that I say "a form of slavery" - I'm too quirky and independent to swallow the concept as a whole giant hunk the way some people view it.)
I've lost my train of thought... Ketzel was crawling all over me and potentially all over the laptop...
I have happy feelings about the man who will be my temporary Master. He is funny and smart and intelligent and constantly surprising me. I also know that I am still filled with feelings for the philosopher, and I know that he kept telling me I needed to find someone else, although I didn't WANT to find someone else... I know I shouldn't feel unfaithful, but somehow as I write this it feels like that's what I am, that I should have waited the required year of mourning... I don't want him to think that I don't still love him and miss him even if he doesn't want me to still love him and miss him.
But I do
still
love him
and
miss him.
And yet.
I will have my adventure.
And we'll see what those 24 hours do to me
and how many more little adventures there will be
before my new Master leaves town.
And I hope the philosopher will forgive me.
And today this is very hard to write. My eyes, as so often these days, are flooding with the tears that will stain my glasses, and sobs are roiling around inside my throat.
Wednesday night I went on a date. Just for dinner, followed by some very enticing appetizers in the parking lot.
Saturday evening, I embark on a 24-hour adventure.
I've been writing this post in my head for a while and now I can say none of it. It's too painful. I am happy about what is to come. It is the right thing for now, especially as it is time- and emotion-delimited due to assorted practicalities as well as honest assessments of who we are and what we need. Me, I need to feel desired. I need to be kissed, and held, and fucked. I need to be dominated and trained and owned, even if only for a few months. I need to explore what the philosopher and I really only just embarked on, and see how much of my attraction to it all, the fulfillment I felt, came from the bonds that seemed to exist between me and the man I thought owned and loved me, and how much is a deep part of my own soul that is happy to be free in submission and perhaps even in a form of slavery. (Note that I say "a form of slavery" - I'm too quirky and independent to swallow the concept as a whole giant hunk the way some people view it.)
I've lost my train of thought... Ketzel was crawling all over me and potentially all over the laptop...
I have happy feelings about the man who will be my temporary Master. He is funny and smart and intelligent and constantly surprising me. I also know that I am still filled with feelings for the philosopher, and I know that he kept telling me I needed to find someone else, although I didn't WANT to find someone else... I know I shouldn't feel unfaithful, but somehow as I write this it feels like that's what I am, that I should have waited the required year of mourning... I don't want him to think that I don't still love him and miss him even if he doesn't want me to still love him and miss him.
But I do
still
love him
and
miss him.
And yet.
I will have my adventure.
And we'll see what those 24 hours do to me
and how many more little adventures there will be
before my new Master leaves town.
And I hope the philosopher will forgive me.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The love that lingers
Marko and Ketzel are not my only cats. The kittens (as I persist in calling them, even though they are now 5 and a half years old) have an older brother. He lives in a box on the mantle. He is dead.
And even after 5 and a half years, I am crying as I write those words.
He was what I called a morning coat cat - like a tuxedo cat, but grey and white, with a funny black spot on his nose that went all the way through to the roof of his mouth and the softest fur you could imagine. He was a regular American shorthair, but those grey and white cats all seem to have this very soft fur, as if they never really lost their kitten fluff.
He was with me for 13 and a half years. I got him as a funny-looking kitten about a half year after my cancer surgery, when I realized that my lonely recuperation would have been a whole lot better with some furry company. He was with me through the rest of my lonely marriage in a dark, lonely so-called city in southeast Michigan. I didn't work outside of the home, so he became spoiled by the dependability of my presence, and I became dependent on his affection. He was my child and my comfort and a soothing familiar. The depth of our bonding had only one down-side: the pain of losing him.
Ex-hubby #2 and I left the country for a year. I came back for a month, but didn't make it back to Michigan. I did phone, however, and left a message for the friends who were renting our house at a discount, since it included the cat. (Me, I thought they should have paid extra!) I later heard that the cat listened attentively when they played the message, clearly recognized my voice, and meowed and rubbed against the answering machine. He knew me and loved me, and then was so pissed off at my deserting him that when we finally came home he wouldn't come out of the basement and I had to go down, find his hiding place, and gather him into my arms.
There was never any question of custody. He was my child. He endured the drive east, and then a second move to the house I eventually bought. I like to think he approved of the house; it has lots of windows and plenty of squirrels and birds to watch and lust after. He was a mighty hunter in the old days.
And then he got sick. It was never quite clear what the cause was, and despite thousands of dollars and my newly nurtured talent for giving pills and insulin shots, I couldn't save him. (Damn, I'm having a hard time writing this... if this were paper rather than a laptop, the letters would be blotched by tears.)
The point of all this is that while I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone or anything before, I already knew what I would need to do after he died. I would need new cats right away. Two of them. Siblings. Kittens. Because I knew I would be desperately in need of an armload of fur and warmth and love and active little tongues.
It wouldn't mean I mourned him any less. But the pain would be too hard to bear all alone.
When the time came, it was clear. I couldn't ignore it any more. And when my best friend offered to go with me, and I held my feline son in my arms for the last time, he was so tired, he had had enough, I swear he asked me to let him go, he asked for the first time in his 13 and a half years to be put down on the vet's examining table. So I put him down. And I was there by his side as with every ounce of love I had in me I let him go.
It was a Wednesday. I had taken the day off from work and announced that I would be out for the rest of the week. And why. I let him go because I loved him, and for the rest of the week I mourned him, and cried till my body hurt from the violence of my sobs. On Friday I said Kaddish, even though it's not quite kosher, but who at a GLBT shul would dare deny anyone the right to mourn a pet with the same ritual they had mourned the friends and partners they had lost to AIDS. We were already out of the mainstream by our very existence. And love is love and loss is loss. And you do what you can to ease the pain.
By Sunday, I was still in pain but I could feel it was time for the next step. He was here in the house with me - he is STILL here with me and not just because of the wooden box on the mantle. He was always just out of sight, I was sensing him running by out of the corner of my eye. But I needed something more. I needed the languid warmth and furry bodies and scratchy tongues. So I hit the internet - thank you petfinder.com! It was early for kitten season but I finally found some and even had a choice and by Tuesday the house was filled with 2 lively loving balls of fluff who raced around the house and exhausted me and delighted me and filled me with an almost desperate love.
Yet I continued to mourn.
Marko did his best. I swear he channeled his predecessor, and grew as fast as he could because he knew that much as I loved their tiny kitten antics, I needed an armload of warm and weighty male cat. So he put his mind to it and sped past his little sister with a serious determination that just made me love him more.
I loved them so much, those kittens. I love them still, each in their own particular way.
Yet I still mourn. I still sometimes call Marko by the wrong name. I still see him go by, my old cat, just beyond the edge of my eye's reach. There are 2 pictures of him on the refrigerator and his ashes sit on the mantle in the box they arrived in. I had thought of burying them under an azalea bush, but couldn't bear to be parted from him.
I will never be parted from him.
Some people need to wait a year or longer after one pet dies to get another. I couldn't. I needed the comfort.
But I never stopped loving him.
I never stopped missing him.
And I still grieve his loss.
And even after 5 and a half years, I am crying as I write those words.
He was what I called a morning coat cat - like a tuxedo cat, but grey and white, with a funny black spot on his nose that went all the way through to the roof of his mouth and the softest fur you could imagine. He was a regular American shorthair, but those grey and white cats all seem to have this very soft fur, as if they never really lost their kitten fluff.
He was with me for 13 and a half years. I got him as a funny-looking kitten about a half year after my cancer surgery, when I realized that my lonely recuperation would have been a whole lot better with some furry company. He was with me through the rest of my lonely marriage in a dark, lonely so-called city in southeast Michigan. I didn't work outside of the home, so he became spoiled by the dependability of my presence, and I became dependent on his affection. He was my child and my comfort and a soothing familiar. The depth of our bonding had only one down-side: the pain of losing him.
Ex-hubby #2 and I left the country for a year. I came back for a month, but didn't make it back to Michigan. I did phone, however, and left a message for the friends who were renting our house at a discount, since it included the cat. (Me, I thought they should have paid extra!) I later heard that the cat listened attentively when they played the message, clearly recognized my voice, and meowed and rubbed against the answering machine. He knew me and loved me, and then was so pissed off at my deserting him that when we finally came home he wouldn't come out of the basement and I had to go down, find his hiding place, and gather him into my arms.
There was never any question of custody. He was my child. He endured the drive east, and then a second move to the house I eventually bought. I like to think he approved of the house; it has lots of windows and plenty of squirrels and birds to watch and lust after. He was a mighty hunter in the old days.
And then he got sick. It was never quite clear what the cause was, and despite thousands of dollars and my newly nurtured talent for giving pills and insulin shots, I couldn't save him. (Damn, I'm having a hard time writing this... if this were paper rather than a laptop, the letters would be blotched by tears.)
The point of all this is that while I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone or anything before, I already knew what I would need to do after he died. I would need new cats right away. Two of them. Siblings. Kittens. Because I knew I would be desperately in need of an armload of fur and warmth and love and active little tongues.
It wouldn't mean I mourned him any less. But the pain would be too hard to bear all alone.
When the time came, it was clear. I couldn't ignore it any more. And when my best friend offered to go with me, and I held my feline son in my arms for the last time, he was so tired, he had had enough, I swear he asked me to let him go, he asked for the first time in his 13 and a half years to be put down on the vet's examining table. So I put him down. And I was there by his side as with every ounce of love I had in me I let him go.
It was a Wednesday. I had taken the day off from work and announced that I would be out for the rest of the week. And why. I let him go because I loved him, and for the rest of the week I mourned him, and cried till my body hurt from the violence of my sobs. On Friday I said Kaddish, even though it's not quite kosher, but who at a GLBT shul would dare deny anyone the right to mourn a pet with the same ritual they had mourned the friends and partners they had lost to AIDS. We were already out of the mainstream by our very existence. And love is love and loss is loss. And you do what you can to ease the pain.
By Sunday, I was still in pain but I could feel it was time for the next step. He was here in the house with me - he is STILL here with me and not just because of the wooden box on the mantle. He was always just out of sight, I was sensing him running by out of the corner of my eye. But I needed something more. I needed the languid warmth and furry bodies and scratchy tongues. So I hit the internet - thank you petfinder.com! It was early for kitten season but I finally found some and even had a choice and by Tuesday the house was filled with 2 lively loving balls of fluff who raced around the house and exhausted me and delighted me and filled me with an almost desperate love.
Yet I continued to mourn.
Marko did his best. I swear he channeled his predecessor, and grew as fast as he could because he knew that much as I loved their tiny kitten antics, I needed an armload of warm and weighty male cat. So he put his mind to it and sped past his little sister with a serious determination that just made me love him more.
I loved them so much, those kittens. I love them still, each in their own particular way.
Yet I still mourn. I still sometimes call Marko by the wrong name. I still see him go by, my old cat, just beyond the edge of my eye's reach. There are 2 pictures of him on the refrigerator and his ashes sit on the mantle in the box they arrived in. I had thought of burying them under an azalea bush, but couldn't bear to be parted from him.
I will never be parted from him.
Some people need to wait a year or longer after one pet dies to get another. I couldn't. I needed the comfort.
But I never stopped loving him.
I never stopped missing him.
And I still grieve his loss.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The hand of friendship
Last Saturday, I wrote: "I cried every day while I was away, and other losses make me cry for him more. I miss him and love him and were he to reach out a hand in friendship I would take it in mine."
On Monday, I let him hear me cry.
He did reach out his hand in friendship.
And last night we talked.
Monday was the memorial service for the woman I knew who was murdered by the Taliban. I'd been crying ever since I heard about here death, tears that swept through me on top of the ones for lost love and lost friendship. And Monday night my tears embarrassed me, since in fact I didn't know her all that well. She was a presence for me, a significant flavor from the year I spent working on and off at a place I cared about and believed in and learned so much from. A place I really wanted to stay but where ultimately there was no role for me. So I sat and cried and listened as people spoke and we drank and everyone cried and sometimes couldn't help laughing. And then I cried more because it's such a waste, that kind of loss of someone trying to do good. And it's such a waste to have a chance at happiness, a chance at love, and let it slip away, because who knows when suddenly there will be no more chances left.
And mostly, I realized, I cried because I could think of just one person in this whole fucked-up world whom I wanted to call when I got home. Whom I wanted to call right then, not even wait till I got home, whom I wanted to turn to, to cry to, who could, who used to, make me feel safe and small and owned. Whom I loved and, once, thought had said he loved me but it was so soft and my response was even softer, so that he probably didn't even hear, so he probably couldn't realize that maybe I had mis-heard him, and I never wanted to ask because I preferred to believe that he had really said it.
It had come after yet another of the times we fought our way back from his breaking up with me. I always used to fight it, to hang on, to do everything I could to persuade him. Until this time. When I knew it was no use.
But still. He was the only one I wanted as I sat there crying. And when I came home, I told my better judgment to fuck off.
"Fuck off, Better Judgment! I'm writing him."
And I did.
Yesterday, the next day, he wrote back.
We are still friends, J---. we still have that, I hope.
I will call you tonight. I want to hear about your friend.
It was hard to read, in a way.
It was hard to have him call me by my real name.
To not be called "kitten", which was all he had ever called me when not with my friends, that tore me up. But I was glad he wrote back.
Even if I would give almost anything for him to allow himself to go back to calling me kitten.
The timing was a bit odd, as I was just getting ready to go out to dinner. I said I'd e-mail when I got back, somewhat late. And a little while after I returned, he called.
He was kind, if somewhat restrained. He invited me to cry, and I took full advantage - both because of the one death and then all the deaths in the last few weeks, and then because of losing him. Because of losing faith in what I had thought we had.
There were things he had said in that last, ending e-mail that made me feel it had all been a lie, a year and a half of self-delusion. He said he had been in a very bad place when he wrote it, which of course I had known but it had all hurt so badly that I had no faith that there was or ever had been anything to try to rescue. And now I could feel it hadn't really been so much about me, it had indeed been a lot about him, and I felt a little safer.
He held back a lot. He said barely anything about himself. In a way that wasn't new, but the absence of confidences used to be filled in by playful, intense, creative, manipulations of my mind and cunt. Still, a bit of the absence was eased, a bit of the artificiality of silence was erased. He had said on July 1st that whatever happened he hoped we could remain friends, but after August 3rd, the anniversary of a beginning that was now an ending, I didn't think it was possible. I felt like an encumbrance that had been thrown away.
So now I have hope. Not of a reunion as master and kitten - because perhaps he was right all along, there is no place for a relationship in his life. Certainly not now. And sometimes I wonder if there ever will be. Though you never know. Some people just get there later than others. Even ex-hubby #2 finally fell in love and learned to sacrifice his own self-interest to make someone else happy. I don't think that's the issue with the man who made me feel that he owned and loved me. I don't think it's a question of his being selfish. I'm not quite sure what it is, and I really need to stop trying to analyze him. All I can say is that he was dear to me, and still is, and that I feel a little more whole now that we have talked and that there is the possibility of friendship and that I can e-mail him again.
Some of you were right, of course, he HAS been reading here, incognito. I asked why, and he said he wasn't really sure, except that I had been so much a part of his life for a year and a half that he just couldn't stay away. I hope he decides to take off the mask now. There's no need. I'll know he's out there whether or not I see him pop up in the stats.
And I will be open about what I'm up to, when I feel the urge to share. I need to find solace. And I need to explore. We delved into things, the philosopher and I, that were new to us both when brought into real life. And something about it works for me as more than just fun. I've learned things about myself, found things inside myself, and I want to go deeper. But I don't think I'm ready to fall in love again. Not yet. And part of me will always be looking for him in other people.
But whatever I do
and with whomever I do it
I will always be here for you
for whatever you need.
I will love you as friend
if not as a lover, and you've
met my friends,
and you know that this
is a serious vow.
PS - I didn't cry as much today...
at least not at work.
Not till I got home
and sat on the floor
feeding Marko
by your chair
and started to sob
and finally took one half
of one of the little pills
like the ones they gave me
to help me stop crying
two weeks after
September 11th.
On Monday, I let him hear me cry.
He did reach out his hand in friendship.
And last night we talked.
Monday was the memorial service for the woman I knew who was murdered by the Taliban. I'd been crying ever since I heard about here death, tears that swept through me on top of the ones for lost love and lost friendship. And Monday night my tears embarrassed me, since in fact I didn't know her all that well. She was a presence for me, a significant flavor from the year I spent working on and off at a place I cared about and believed in and learned so much from. A place I really wanted to stay but where ultimately there was no role for me. So I sat and cried and listened as people spoke and we drank and everyone cried and sometimes couldn't help laughing. And then I cried more because it's such a waste, that kind of loss of someone trying to do good. And it's such a waste to have a chance at happiness, a chance at love, and let it slip away, because who knows when suddenly there will be no more chances left.
And mostly, I realized, I cried because I could think of just one person in this whole fucked-up world whom I wanted to call when I got home. Whom I wanted to call right then, not even wait till I got home, whom I wanted to turn to, to cry to, who could, who used to, make me feel safe and small and owned. Whom I loved and, once, thought had said he loved me but it was so soft and my response was even softer, so that he probably didn't even hear, so he probably couldn't realize that maybe I had mis-heard him, and I never wanted to ask because I preferred to believe that he had really said it.
It had come after yet another of the times we fought our way back from his breaking up with me. I always used to fight it, to hang on, to do everything I could to persuade him. Until this time. When I knew it was no use.
But still. He was the only one I wanted as I sat there crying. And when I came home, I told my better judgment to fuck off.
"Fuck off, Better Judgment! I'm writing him."
And I did.
Yesterday, the next day, he wrote back.
We are still friends, J---. we still have that, I hope.
I will call you tonight. I want to hear about your friend.
It was hard to read, in a way.
It was hard to have him call me by my real name.
To not be called "kitten", which was all he had ever called me when not with my friends, that tore me up. But I was glad he wrote back.
Even if I would give almost anything for him to allow himself to go back to calling me kitten.
The timing was a bit odd, as I was just getting ready to go out to dinner. I said I'd e-mail when I got back, somewhat late. And a little while after I returned, he called.
He was kind, if somewhat restrained. He invited me to cry, and I took full advantage - both because of the one death and then all the deaths in the last few weeks, and then because of losing him. Because of losing faith in what I had thought we had.
There were things he had said in that last, ending e-mail that made me feel it had all been a lie, a year and a half of self-delusion. He said he had been in a very bad place when he wrote it, which of course I had known but it had all hurt so badly that I had no faith that there was or ever had been anything to try to rescue. And now I could feel it hadn't really been so much about me, it had indeed been a lot about him, and I felt a little safer.
He held back a lot. He said barely anything about himself. In a way that wasn't new, but the absence of confidences used to be filled in by playful, intense, creative, manipulations of my mind and cunt. Still, a bit of the absence was eased, a bit of the artificiality of silence was erased. He had said on July 1st that whatever happened he hoped we could remain friends, but after August 3rd, the anniversary of a beginning that was now an ending, I didn't think it was possible. I felt like an encumbrance that had been thrown away.
So now I have hope. Not of a reunion as master and kitten - because perhaps he was right all along, there is no place for a relationship in his life. Certainly not now. And sometimes I wonder if there ever will be. Though you never know. Some people just get there later than others. Even ex-hubby #2 finally fell in love and learned to sacrifice his own self-interest to make someone else happy. I don't think that's the issue with the man who made me feel that he owned and loved me. I don't think it's a question of his being selfish. I'm not quite sure what it is, and I really need to stop trying to analyze him. All I can say is that he was dear to me, and still is, and that I feel a little more whole now that we have talked and that there is the possibility of friendship and that I can e-mail him again.
Some of you were right, of course, he HAS been reading here, incognito. I asked why, and he said he wasn't really sure, except that I had been so much a part of his life for a year and a half that he just couldn't stay away. I hope he decides to take off the mask now. There's no need. I'll know he's out there whether or not I see him pop up in the stats.
And I will be open about what I'm up to, when I feel the urge to share. I need to find solace. And I need to explore. We delved into things, the philosopher and I, that were new to us both when brought into real life. And something about it works for me as more than just fun. I've learned things about myself, found things inside myself, and I want to go deeper. But I don't think I'm ready to fall in love again. Not yet. And part of me will always be looking for him in other people.
But whatever I do
and with whomever I do it
I will always be here for you
for whatever you need.
I will love you as friend
if not as a lover, and you've
met my friends,
and you know that this
is a serious vow.
PS - I didn't cry as much today...
at least not at work.
Not till I got home
and sat on the floor
feeding Marko
by your chair
and started to sob
and finally took one half
of one of the little pills
like the ones they gave me
to help me stop crying
two weeks after
September 11th.
Monday, August 18, 2008
A time to mourn
Back from mourning the loss
and celebrating the life
of the woman murdered by the Taliban.
I'm not really in the mood to write
but didn't want you all to worry.
I'm going to curl up with Marko now.
and celebrating the life
of the woman murdered by the Taliban.
I'm not really in the mood to write
but didn't want you all to worry.
I'm going to curl up with Marko now.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Please don't be so hard on him
I know you are all trying to be supportive.
I know you all are trying to be protective.
And certainly I need that, and the comfort, too.
But please don't be so hard on him. He's not a bad man. He is sweet and caring and protective and loving in his way. He has his weaknesses. He has his faults. But then so do I. I can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, and my mood swings, like his, are no joy to deal with. He was pretty angelic about them for a long time.
He was perhaps right all along in saying he shouldn't get involved with anyone until the dissertation was finished, but somehow the universe brought us together. And perhaps, too, he needed it, the connection, much as he tried to escape it.
It's true that I am grieving. I cried every day while I was away, and other losses make me cry for him more. I miss him and love him and were he to reach out a hand in friendship I would take it in mine.
Many many relationships, even those of long standing, can't survive the stresses of grad school. I had hoped I could finally get it right, that I could be what he needed, that I could be the one he could really love. But there was too much against us, I suppose: distance and dissertation and emotional problems on both sides.
Nothing is ever one person's fault.
And he gave me so much... so very very much... he couldn't accept that, he couldn't believe that, he kept thanking ex-hubby #2 for leaving me with lowered expectations. But he is a lovely man, a sweet and gentle and sadistic man who made me very very happy.
And I only hope that one day he can accept and believe that what I say is true.
I love you, John. Whatever else happens, whatever choices we each make, please know, please believe, please accept that I loved you and love you now and that you DID earn that love.
I know you all are trying to be protective.
And certainly I need that, and the comfort, too.
But please don't be so hard on him. He's not a bad man. He is sweet and caring and protective and loving in his way. He has his weaknesses. He has his faults. But then so do I. I can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, and my mood swings, like his, are no joy to deal with. He was pretty angelic about them for a long time.
He was perhaps right all along in saying he shouldn't get involved with anyone until the dissertation was finished, but somehow the universe brought us together. And perhaps, too, he needed it, the connection, much as he tried to escape it.
It's true that I am grieving. I cried every day while I was away, and other losses make me cry for him more. I miss him and love him and were he to reach out a hand in friendship I would take it in mine.
Many many relationships, even those of long standing, can't survive the stresses of grad school. I had hoped I could finally get it right, that I could be what he needed, that I could be the one he could really love. But there was too much against us, I suppose: distance and dissertation and emotional problems on both sides.
Nothing is ever one person's fault.
And he gave me so much... so very very much... he couldn't accept that, he couldn't believe that, he kept thanking ex-hubby #2 for leaving me with lowered expectations. But he is a lovely man, a sweet and gentle and sadistic man who made me very very happy.
And I only hope that one day he can accept and believe that what I say is true.
I love you, John. Whatever else happens, whatever choices we each make, please know, please believe, please accept that I loved you and love you now and that you DID earn that love.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Banished into silence
The silence is hard. It feels so artificial, having no contact at all, after we were so much a part of each other's lives for nearly a year and a half. I was so tempted to e-mail him... there was an article in the New York Times about egg creams that I wanted to share with him... he claims to be a New Yorker and he's never had an egg cream!
But I don't want to upset him if he's trying to cleanse his mind. He seems to think that being distracted by our relationship, what was our relationship, is keeping him from writing. I don't want to risk adding to the distraction. I don't want him to blame me.
So I remain silent. Submissive. Even now...
But I don't want to upset him if he's trying to cleanse his mind. He seems to think that being distracted by our relationship, what was our relationship, is keeping him from writing. I don't want to risk adding to the distraction. I don't want him to blame me.
So I remain silent. Submissive. Even now...
Too much loss, too much death
I wrote this yesterday as a letter to the philosopher. Sending it to him would have been a big mistake - first of all because I doubt he has any desire to hear from me and second because in any case I feel like I still owe him the rest of the summer without any threat of disruption by me. He has no idea how much he hurt me, but I still want to protect him. I don't want to do anything to threaten his ability to write.
I wrote this yesterday, but was distracted from sending it by an insidious series of e-mails from a very persistent friend. It's best I didn't send it, but I still feel the need to say these things, and this is my journal now, so here it is. There is a lot of pain in here, at the end of a week that has been both fun and painful - and not the kind of pain that a submissive slave kitten craves. There have been way too many tears, and they don't show signs of stopping any time soon.
The world can be an ugly place.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
L--- got the news this afternoon that someone we knew from work was killed in a murderous Taliban attack while on a humanitarian mission in Afghanistan.
Yesterday I heard that someone else we knew suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack two weeks ago.
Another friend is dying of cancer and has maybe a couple of weeks to live. Her husband came here earlier in the week to bring assorted items that she is selling and giving away.
There is too much loss. It sneaks up on us. It surrounds us. It jumps out at us from behind bushes. Death is unavoidable.
And all of it makes me think of you.
I miss you like hell. I loved you, which I suppose was my mistake. It was a love you didn’t want, a love that just complicated your life. It was a relationship that just complicated your life, a mistake, an accident, and I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry for that.
But I miss you like hell, and I hear about all these deaths and all I can think of is what a waste. What a waste not to grab life and love when it’s there. Because you never know when the chance will be snatched away from you.
Yes, I know it’s silly to be saying these things relative to you. If you saw me as no more than a diversion that got out of hand, a disruption that added nothing to your life but complications, then there was, there is, nothing to be grabbed. It never existed.
And that is very hard for me to believe.
Then again, I suppose I am easily fooled.
I miss you like hell. I loved you. I still do, which shows how stupid I am. I’m your friend and I thought you were mine, and it feels crazy after a year and a half to suddenly have nothing.
And I swore to myself that I wouldn’t contact you but then I heard about our friend in Afghanistan and all I could think of was you and the waste of loss.
Please forgive me.
Thursday 14 August 2008
I wrote this yesterday, but was distracted from sending it by an insidious series of e-mails from a very persistent friend. It's best I didn't send it, but I still feel the need to say these things, and this is my journal now, so here it is. There is a lot of pain in here, at the end of a week that has been both fun and painful - and not the kind of pain that a submissive slave kitten craves. There have been way too many tears, and they don't show signs of stopping any time soon.
The world can be an ugly place.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
L--- got the news this afternoon that someone we knew from work was killed in a murderous Taliban attack while on a humanitarian mission in Afghanistan.
Yesterday I heard that someone else we knew suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack two weeks ago.
Another friend is dying of cancer and has maybe a couple of weeks to live. Her husband came here earlier in the week to bring assorted items that she is selling and giving away.
There is too much loss. It sneaks up on us. It surrounds us. It jumps out at us from behind bushes. Death is unavoidable.
And all of it makes me think of you.
I miss you like hell. I loved you, which I suppose was my mistake. It was a love you didn’t want, a love that just complicated your life. It was a relationship that just complicated your life, a mistake, an accident, and I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry for that.
But I miss you like hell, and I hear about all these deaths and all I can think of is what a waste. What a waste not to grab life and love when it’s there. Because you never know when the chance will be snatched away from you.
Yes, I know it’s silly to be saying these things relative to you. If you saw me as no more than a diversion that got out of hand, a disruption that added nothing to your life but complications, then there was, there is, nothing to be grabbed. It never existed.
And that is very hard for me to believe.
Then again, I suppose I am easily fooled.
I miss you like hell. I loved you. I still do, which shows how stupid I am. I’m your friend and I thought you were mine, and it feels crazy after a year and a half to suddenly have nothing.
And I swore to myself that I wouldn’t contact you but then I heard about our friend in Afghanistan and all I could think of was you and the waste of loss.
Please forgive me.
Thursday 14 August 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Unchained
i miss it
every time i get dressed, i miss it
every time i get undressed, i miss it
after a year and a half, my ankle looks bereft.
it will take time...
like the marks of a hempen rope, the remnants will fade
one day
every time i get dressed, i miss it
every time i get undressed, i miss it
after a year and a half, my ankle looks bereft.
it will take time...
like the marks of a hempen rope, the remnants will fade
one day
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
A Plea
such a poor kitten
cruelly dis-owned
stripped of her chain
thrust out of doors
pet door closed and boarded over
faced with life alone and feral
who will take her in from the wild?
who will feed her
who will train her
who will pet her
who will cane her
who will fill her twitching cunt?
even grieving
even crying
kittens need to know their place.
she never stops hoping
she never stops listening
she never stops praying for what will not pass.
but until that miracle
till the impossible
who will accept her and bid her to serve?
let him step forth now.
cruelly dis-owned
stripped of her chain
thrust out of doors
pet door closed and boarded over
faced with life alone and feral
who will take her in from the wild?
who will feed her
who will train her
who will pet her
who will cane her
who will fill her twitching cunt?
even grieving
even crying
kittens need to know their place.
she never stops hoping
she never stops listening
she never stops praying for what will not pass.
but until that miracle
till the impossible
who will accept her and bid her to serve?
let him step forth now.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Branding
I wrote this for the philosopher at his command. There were in fact supposed to be two stories, one about branding and one about a tattoo. In my mind, the tattoo story would have been a sweet one. It never got written. My dark fantasies about branding seized my mind and possessed it until the following story was written. Or perhaps "wrote itself" would be a more accurate description. It was so dark that I couldn't shake it for days afterwards, and the philosopher was, I think, disturbed by what had crawled out of the mud of my soul. He didn't want me to share it. This was for him alone. But he doesn't own me any more. He sent me away. And I took my stories with me. This seems a good time to reveal what festers below.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You approach the cage where she cowers hopefully. Wordlessly, you unlock the door, reach in, and haul her out by her hair. She scrambles after you, tears springing to her eyes from the pain. There is always pain. But she doesn’t complain. This is her lot. And this is her joy. This is her safety.
“Get dressed, slave. Today you will be branded.”
There is in fact no need for words. No requirement for explanation. But you play her emotions like a freshly-tuned harp. You like the fear that springs to her eyes.
You push her towards the bed, where you have laid out the day’s clothes. A tight pink t-shirt, stretchy and clingy. Tight clingy jeans with a thick hard seam that will cut into her cunt as she walks without the protection of panties. Sandals. Once she has clothed her nakedness (damn those public indecency laws), you replace her cold metal choke chain with the black leather band embossed with Celtic knots. Hooking a leash to the collar’s O-ring, you wrap the chain around your fist and with close control almost drag her out of the house and towards the car. You know such brutality is unnecessary. Just addressing her as “slave” sends her so deeply into subspace that she would do anything. But there is something dark in each of you that needs to be nourished, and you have both become addicted to the intensity.
Unquestioningly, she assumes her place in the driver’s seat. There is an odd irony to the fact that you don’t drive, but the power is always yours as she guides the machine.
For safety’s sake, you address her as “kitten” when you give her the directions. Her consciousness is too far depressed when you call her “slave” for her to be trusted behind the wheel.
You arrive at a featureless warehouse. One of many. Again, you use more force than necessary to remove her from the car and push her towards the door. You don’t need to knock. They are expecting you.
As the door is opened, a scream of such terror and pain issues forth that you almost regret the decision to come. But you harden your heart, and your cock hardens, too. You know it is time. This is the final test.
Scream aside, you are greeted with a business-like cordiality due any customer. At the reception desk, your reservation is confirmed and your credit card taken. You have elected to perform the procedure yourself. You are given a sheet of instructions, which are reviewed as she trembles by your side. You don’t look at her. You just sense her trembling. Again, a small part of you tries to cry out its doubts, but you quickly gag it. As you will gag her.
You are ushered into a medium-size room. Something about the rough wood lining the walls gives it the atmosphere of a stable stall. It is unadorned save for the assortment of implements hanging from wrought iron hooks. You can tell that she has caught sight of the display by the way she quickly lowers her head and drops her eyes. She had returned to subspace as soon as you removed her from the car, you had sensed it immediately, and now the potential for torture is sending her even further. Good. When she is that far away, she is protected from the worst of the pain. You like to hurt her. She wants you to hurt her. But there is a line you never want to cross. The damage to her soul could be worse than to her flesh. You’re just not sure where that line is.
In the middle of the room stands something between a sawhorse and a massage table. The top is padded; the legs are slightly splayed, with O-rings at the base of each one. A rectangular space is cut out of the top towards one end.
“Strip, slave.”
She obeys with despatch. Wearing so little, she is done in seconds. You propel her towards the table and with an extra little shove push her face down. She lies still. You know that she would hold position for whatever you chose to do, and the absoluteness of her submission thrills you. But it is imperative that she remain perfectly still for what is to come, and there is something in the act itself that makes you want to see her bound in place.
From your messenger bag you take a set of four shackles. No soft leather bands today. You snap the shackles around her wrists and ankles, run short chains between the rings on the metal bands and those on the table legs, and with a sharp snap secure each limb with a lock. The locks are another excess, another symbolic demonstration of her helplessness. You are getting off on all the symbolism. Your mind is cold. Your cock is hard. Your resolve is firm.
Her breasts are hanging down through the opening in the tabletop. Sliding under the table, you adjust her tits so they are perfectly placed. You twist each nipple, pleased to find them already erect. Fear drives her arousal. In your hand you hold a set of Japanese clover clamps. Dispassionately, as if connecting jumper cables, you attach one end to each nipple, then give a sharp tug on the chain to drive the clamps deeper into the tender flesh. She gasps, but does not cry out.
You aren’t done. You want to impress on her how owned she is, how helpless, how subject to torture and invasion. Your casual claiming of her every hole will inspire the sense of humiliation which is yet another trigger for her submission.
The bag yields a butt plug, a dildo, a ball gag, and a blindfold. Silent all this time, you now accompany your actions with the words that you know will destroy whatever is left of her spirit and dignity.
“Look at you, slave. Your cunt is dripping. What a pain slut you are. Well, there will be plenty of pain for you soon enough. The only lube this butt plug will get is what it can scoop out of your slut-hole.”
You fuck her cunt roughly with the butt plug, then spread her ass checks and drive it into her anus. A few strokes with the dildo are followed by dire warnings of what will happen if she lets it drop.
You walk around to the front of the table and yank her head up by the hair.
“I love to hear you scream with pain, slave. I love to hear you scream. But today I will gag you, slave. You hate to be gagged. And so I will gag you. I will gag you so there will be no doubts. I will gag you, slave, because you are mine.”
And so you do.
There’s only one thing left. One thing left to drive her deeper inside herself until she completely floats away. And so you blindfold her.
It’s almost time. You walk back to the foot of the table and contemplate her ass. At first, you thought you’d brand her right cheek, at the fleshiest part, but then thought better of it. You want it somewhere that will be safe from your hand and your belt and the cane. So you choose a spot on the upper thigh, where it is still padded but unlikely to be struck. You eye your canvas, fixing the image in your mind before you change it forever. Then you walk to the wall and press a buzzer next to the door.
A man appears and hands you a rod of iron. It is the brand. If you strike within the next minute, it will be the scientifically determined temperature to inflict enough damage to leave a perfect impression without risking a trip to the emergency room and the dangers of the questions that would raise.
The brand was designed to your specifications. Now seen in reverse, the blunt simplicity of its form mirrors the simple brutality of the way you treat your slave. Two plain letters. One vertical line serving them both. This is your hallmark. She is your creation. But it is not purity that will be guaranteed by this stamp. Your hallmark is a sign of the depth of debauchery to which you both have sunk. A purity of sorts, perhaps, for nothing mars the strength of the bonds which, you must admit, enslave you as much as they do her.
But no time for introspection. You must, in truth, strike while the iron is hot. Resisting the temptation to soothe her hair and whisper assurances, you take your position behind her, raise the iron rod, take a breath, and press the glowing tip down into her soft flesh.
Your slave’s skin sizzles, a steak on the grill.
A muffled cry of torment issues from behind the gag as her body jerks slightly despite the tight bondage. You count off the recommended number of seconds as the odor of burning meat rises off the table. You choke back a wave of nausea.
In seconds it is done. The brand is removed. You stand there with the implement in your hand, swollen with power. Then tossing the iron to the ground, you stride around to your slave’s head. Wordlessly, you tear off the blindfold. Wordlessly, you unbuckle the gag. Wordlessly, you unzip your pants, and with cock in one hand and her hair in the other, plunge your heated erection down her throat.
You are beyond holding back. The rape is short and savage. It is one more act of claiming.
She is yours.
You hold her head to your crotch as you subside, your fingers still entwined in her hair. And as the fever passes, your grasp eases into caresses. Gently, you disengage her jaws from your wet, soft cock. Keeping one hand on her body at all time, you reach under the table and remove one nipple clamp and then the other, massaging each screaming nub as it is released. Continuing to the back, still in constant contact, you slide out first the butt plug and then the dildo, smiling with wry reassurance at the juices that drip from her cunt. Finally, you unlock the shackles from the table and remove them from her limbs.
She has started to shake. With sobs and with shock. You gather her in your arms and whisper words of love and bemusement.
“What a pain slut you are, slave.
What a cock whore.
What an obedient little cunt.
I own you, slave.
I own you.
Your body bears my initials.
Your flesh bears my brand.
There is no escape.
You are my kitten.
You are my slave.
You are my selkie.
You are whatever I want you to be.
You are mine.”
19 April 2008
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You approach the cage where she cowers hopefully. Wordlessly, you unlock the door, reach in, and haul her out by her hair. She scrambles after you, tears springing to her eyes from the pain. There is always pain. But she doesn’t complain. This is her lot. And this is her joy. This is her safety.
“Get dressed, slave. Today you will be branded.”
There is in fact no need for words. No requirement for explanation. But you play her emotions like a freshly-tuned harp. You like the fear that springs to her eyes.
You push her towards the bed, where you have laid out the day’s clothes. A tight pink t-shirt, stretchy and clingy. Tight clingy jeans with a thick hard seam that will cut into her cunt as she walks without the protection of panties. Sandals. Once she has clothed her nakedness (damn those public indecency laws), you replace her cold metal choke chain with the black leather band embossed with Celtic knots. Hooking a leash to the collar’s O-ring, you wrap the chain around your fist and with close control almost drag her out of the house and towards the car. You know such brutality is unnecessary. Just addressing her as “slave” sends her so deeply into subspace that she would do anything. But there is something dark in each of you that needs to be nourished, and you have both become addicted to the intensity.
Unquestioningly, she assumes her place in the driver’s seat. There is an odd irony to the fact that you don’t drive, but the power is always yours as she guides the machine.
For safety’s sake, you address her as “kitten” when you give her the directions. Her consciousness is too far depressed when you call her “slave” for her to be trusted behind the wheel.
You arrive at a featureless warehouse. One of many. Again, you use more force than necessary to remove her from the car and push her towards the door. You don’t need to knock. They are expecting you.
As the door is opened, a scream of such terror and pain issues forth that you almost regret the decision to come. But you harden your heart, and your cock hardens, too. You know it is time. This is the final test.
Scream aside, you are greeted with a business-like cordiality due any customer. At the reception desk, your reservation is confirmed and your credit card taken. You have elected to perform the procedure yourself. You are given a sheet of instructions, which are reviewed as she trembles by your side. You don’t look at her. You just sense her trembling. Again, a small part of you tries to cry out its doubts, but you quickly gag it. As you will gag her.
You are ushered into a medium-size room. Something about the rough wood lining the walls gives it the atmosphere of a stable stall. It is unadorned save for the assortment of implements hanging from wrought iron hooks. You can tell that she has caught sight of the display by the way she quickly lowers her head and drops her eyes. She had returned to subspace as soon as you removed her from the car, you had sensed it immediately, and now the potential for torture is sending her even further. Good. When she is that far away, she is protected from the worst of the pain. You like to hurt her. She wants you to hurt her. But there is a line you never want to cross. The damage to her soul could be worse than to her flesh. You’re just not sure where that line is.
In the middle of the room stands something between a sawhorse and a massage table. The top is padded; the legs are slightly splayed, with O-rings at the base of each one. A rectangular space is cut out of the top towards one end.
“Strip, slave.”
She obeys with despatch. Wearing so little, she is done in seconds. You propel her towards the table and with an extra little shove push her face down. She lies still. You know that she would hold position for whatever you chose to do, and the absoluteness of her submission thrills you. But it is imperative that she remain perfectly still for what is to come, and there is something in the act itself that makes you want to see her bound in place.
From your messenger bag you take a set of four shackles. No soft leather bands today. You snap the shackles around her wrists and ankles, run short chains between the rings on the metal bands and those on the table legs, and with a sharp snap secure each limb with a lock. The locks are another excess, another symbolic demonstration of her helplessness. You are getting off on all the symbolism. Your mind is cold. Your cock is hard. Your resolve is firm.
Her breasts are hanging down through the opening in the tabletop. Sliding under the table, you adjust her tits so they are perfectly placed. You twist each nipple, pleased to find them already erect. Fear drives her arousal. In your hand you hold a set of Japanese clover clamps. Dispassionately, as if connecting jumper cables, you attach one end to each nipple, then give a sharp tug on the chain to drive the clamps deeper into the tender flesh. She gasps, but does not cry out.
You aren’t done. You want to impress on her how owned she is, how helpless, how subject to torture and invasion. Your casual claiming of her every hole will inspire the sense of humiliation which is yet another trigger for her submission.
The bag yields a butt plug, a dildo, a ball gag, and a blindfold. Silent all this time, you now accompany your actions with the words that you know will destroy whatever is left of her spirit and dignity.
“Look at you, slave. Your cunt is dripping. What a pain slut you are. Well, there will be plenty of pain for you soon enough. The only lube this butt plug will get is what it can scoop out of your slut-hole.”
You fuck her cunt roughly with the butt plug, then spread her ass checks and drive it into her anus. A few strokes with the dildo are followed by dire warnings of what will happen if she lets it drop.
You walk around to the front of the table and yank her head up by the hair.
“I love to hear you scream with pain, slave. I love to hear you scream. But today I will gag you, slave. You hate to be gagged. And so I will gag you. I will gag you so there will be no doubts. I will gag you, slave, because you are mine.”
And so you do.
There’s only one thing left. One thing left to drive her deeper inside herself until she completely floats away. And so you blindfold her.
It’s almost time. You walk back to the foot of the table and contemplate her ass. At first, you thought you’d brand her right cheek, at the fleshiest part, but then thought better of it. You want it somewhere that will be safe from your hand and your belt and the cane. So you choose a spot on the upper thigh, where it is still padded but unlikely to be struck. You eye your canvas, fixing the image in your mind before you change it forever. Then you walk to the wall and press a buzzer next to the door.
A man appears and hands you a rod of iron. It is the brand. If you strike within the next minute, it will be the scientifically determined temperature to inflict enough damage to leave a perfect impression without risking a trip to the emergency room and the dangers of the questions that would raise.
The brand was designed to your specifications. Now seen in reverse, the blunt simplicity of its form mirrors the simple brutality of the way you treat your slave. Two plain letters. One vertical line serving them both. This is your hallmark. She is your creation. But it is not purity that will be guaranteed by this stamp. Your hallmark is a sign of the depth of debauchery to which you both have sunk. A purity of sorts, perhaps, for nothing mars the strength of the bonds which, you must admit, enslave you as much as they do her.
But no time for introspection. You must, in truth, strike while the iron is hot. Resisting the temptation to soothe her hair and whisper assurances, you take your position behind her, raise the iron rod, take a breath, and press the glowing tip down into her soft flesh.
Your slave’s skin sizzles, a steak on the grill.
A muffled cry of torment issues from behind the gag as her body jerks slightly despite the tight bondage. You count off the recommended number of seconds as the odor of burning meat rises off the table. You choke back a wave of nausea.
In seconds it is done. The brand is removed. You stand there with the implement in your hand, swollen with power. Then tossing the iron to the ground, you stride around to your slave’s head. Wordlessly, you tear off the blindfold. Wordlessly, you unbuckle the gag. Wordlessly, you unzip your pants, and with cock in one hand and her hair in the other, plunge your heated erection down her throat.
You are beyond holding back. The rape is short and savage. It is one more act of claiming.
She is yours.
You hold her head to your crotch as you subside, your fingers still entwined in her hair. And as the fever passes, your grasp eases into caresses. Gently, you disengage her jaws from your wet, soft cock. Keeping one hand on her body at all time, you reach under the table and remove one nipple clamp and then the other, massaging each screaming nub as it is released. Continuing to the back, still in constant contact, you slide out first the butt plug and then the dildo, smiling with wry reassurance at the juices that drip from her cunt. Finally, you unlock the shackles from the table and remove them from her limbs.
She has started to shake. With sobs and with shock. You gather her in your arms and whisper words of love and bemusement.
“What a pain slut you are, slave.
What a cock whore.
What an obedient little cunt.
I own you, slave.
I own you.
Your body bears my initials.
Your flesh bears my brand.
There is no escape.
You are my kitten.
You are my slave.
You are my selkie.
You are whatever I want you to be.
You are mine.”
19 April 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
kitten struggles with memories
it's nice being here. i love it here. and yet...
i'm with friends, which is good... except that these are friends who have met the philosopher, people for whom he was my boyfriend, a context in which he was more than just a fantasy relationship. my friends saw how happy i was. how happy WE were? WERE "we" happy? WAS there a "we"?
the tears linger just beneath the surface.
and then they break through.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
the next day:
doing better.
camp is starting to work its magic.
the friends
the music
and yes,
chocolate.
i'm with friends, which is good... except that these are friends who have met the philosopher, people for whom he was my boyfriend, a context in which he was more than just a fantasy relationship. my friends saw how happy i was. how happy WE were? WERE "we" happy? WAS there a "we"?
the tears linger just beneath the surface.
and then they break through.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
the next day:
doing better.
camp is starting to work its magic.
the friends
the music
and yes,
chocolate.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
kitten flees the city
Actually, I'm not fleeing at all. I'm off in the mountains at what the philosopher insisted on calling "band camp". A week of friends and music and late nights and escape. A week of distraction, I hope. I've left some posts for around every other day. I do have internet access there but not sure how much I'll be logging on so don't fret if I don't answer comments. I'll catch up when I get back and will be happy to know you've still been reading.
Have a good week!
Have a good week!
Friday, August 8, 2008
The un-training of kitten
How, in fact, do you do it? How do you un-train a slave? Is it like deprogramming someone who has been brainwashed by a cult? Three-days-a-week therapy to wipe away the effects of well-meaning but misguided parents?
I still twitch when I feed Marko. I carry his food down to the basement family room. To the dungeon. I sit on the floor while he eats, I sit on the floor by the maybe-or-maybe-not Eames chair. I watch him eat. And I twitch.
I sit on the floor, and I watch my sweet nervous cat eat, and I feel him there. The pervert who played at being my master. The sweet philosopher who was such a comfortable companion. I sit, and it starts. I am helpless. Helpless against the swelling and dripping of my cunt. And helpless against the memories.
Did Pavlov ever work on this? Did Pavlov ever try to release his dogs from the urge to salivate at the sound of the bell?
Do I want to be set free? Let my body cling a little longer. Let it pretend that I am still owned.
There will be enough time for wandering lost in unwelcome freedom.
I still twitch when I feed Marko. I carry his food down to the basement family room. To the dungeon. I sit on the floor while he eats, I sit on the floor by the maybe-or-maybe-not Eames chair. I watch him eat. And I twitch.
I sit on the floor, and I watch my sweet nervous cat eat, and I feel him there. The pervert who played at being my master. The sweet philosopher who was such a comfortable companion. I sit, and it starts. I am helpless. Helpless against the swelling and dripping of my cunt. And helpless against the memories.
Did Pavlov ever work on this? Did Pavlov ever try to release his dogs from the urge to salivate at the sound of the bell?
Do I want to be set free? Let my body cling a little longer. Let it pretend that I am still owned.
There will be enough time for wandering lost in unwelcome freedom.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
I can't leave my slave shirt behind...
a man's crisp white dress shirt
the first gift he brought me
long planned and presented
his first visit here.
i wore it to serve him
he called it my slave shirt.
i wore it to sleep or
wore nothing at all.
i'm packing for camp now.
we'll be in the mountains.
it's cold there at night...
there's but one thing to wear.
i'm bringing my slave shirt.
i can't go without it.
i'll sleep in his arms or
in nothing at all.
the first gift he brought me
long planned and presented
his first visit here.
i wore it to serve him
he called it my slave shirt.
i wore it to sleep or
wore nothing at all.
i'm packing for camp now.
we'll be in the mountains.
it's cold there at night...
there's but one thing to wear.
i'm bringing my slave shirt.
i can't go without it.
i'll sleep in his arms or
in nothing at all.
Doubts
kitten sighs
kitten remembers
kitten wonders
was any of it real?
was it ever more than distraction?
did it only delay his progress?
did it add nothing to his life?
was he ever honest?
a few times, perhaps.
a few extracted admissions
honesty when he saw how much evasion hurt. honesty about a problem that could have been dealt with, like so many of his problems could have been dealt with, if only he'd gone to see a goddamn doctor!
but maybe he didn't really want that level of intimacy. maybe it was all just another sign of his cowardice. His word, that. Cowardice. Not a good character trait in a man who plays at being a Dom.
And last year, this time last year, when he said i shouldn't call him during my week away - he said don't call me, kitten, i want you to concentrate on having fun playing with your friends... and it was too hard for me, too hard to go from wake-up calls and good-night calls and e-mails back and forth and 3 whole days together... it wasn't really about me, was it? because he was so wrong about what i needed, and he usually wasn't wrong.
But it wasn't about me. It was about him. Which was fair, of course. No relationship should ever be about only one person's needs.
It was about him. Which was OK. it was about him. HE needed the break. He needed to go back to being alone. He needed to go back to his protected life, to escape from all the intimacy, if it really is intimacy when you're prone to pretend.
He could have said that, you know. He could have said that and I would have responded quite differently. I wouldn't have been happy but I would have said OK, you need this, rather than crying NO, NO, you're all wrong. I DON'T need this. I need YOU!!
Did you not have faith in me? Did you not have faith in yourself, that someone could love you, could want you, if you revealed all your truths?
i thought there was no anger.
i thought there was just grief.
i thought there was just loss
but maybe some anger is allowed.
just a little...
as seasoning for the tears...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
written yesterday,
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
at lunch,
the way i used to write down my thoughts of lust and submission when he tried (and ultimately failed) to keep me from e-mailing him from work.
kitten remembers
kitten wonders
was any of it real?
was it ever more than distraction?
did it only delay his progress?
did it add nothing to his life?
was he ever honest?
a few times, perhaps.
a few extracted admissions
honesty when he saw how much evasion hurt. honesty about a problem that could have been dealt with, like so many of his problems could have been dealt with, if only he'd gone to see a goddamn doctor!
but maybe he didn't really want that level of intimacy. maybe it was all just another sign of his cowardice. His word, that. Cowardice. Not a good character trait in a man who plays at being a Dom.
And last year, this time last year, when he said i shouldn't call him during my week away - he said don't call me, kitten, i want you to concentrate on having fun playing with your friends... and it was too hard for me, too hard to go from wake-up calls and good-night calls and e-mails back and forth and 3 whole days together... it wasn't really about me, was it? because he was so wrong about what i needed, and he usually wasn't wrong.
But it wasn't about me. It was about him. Which was fair, of course. No relationship should ever be about only one person's needs.
It was about him. Which was OK. it was about him. HE needed the break. He needed to go back to being alone. He needed to go back to his protected life, to escape from all the intimacy, if it really is intimacy when you're prone to pretend.
He could have said that, you know. He could have said that and I would have responded quite differently. I wouldn't have been happy but I would have said OK, you need this, rather than crying NO, NO, you're all wrong. I DON'T need this. I need YOU!!
Did you not have faith in me? Did you not have faith in yourself, that someone could love you, could want you, if you revealed all your truths?
i thought there was no anger.
i thought there was just grief.
i thought there was just loss
but maybe some anger is allowed.
just a little...
as seasoning for the tears...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
written yesterday,
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
at lunch,
the way i used to write down my thoughts of lust and submission when he tried (and ultimately failed) to keep me from e-mailing him from work.
Lithium Update
The doctor says I'm stable.
The doctor says she's pleased.
The doctor laughs as I admit
I should have done this long ago.
I'm doing well now, master.
My moods don't bounce around
the room. I held up my end, John.
Perhaps you'd love me now.
If it weren't too late, John,
if it weren't too late,
perhaps,
perhaps
you'd love me now.
I should have done this long ago...
The doctor says she's pleased.
The doctor laughs as I admit
I should have done this long ago.
I'm doing well now, master.
My moods don't bounce around
the room. I held up my end, John.
Perhaps you'd love me now.
If it weren't too late, John,
if it weren't too late,
perhaps,
perhaps
you'd love me now.
I should have done this long ago...
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
The Spirit in the Laptop
i took the chain of paper clips off my ankle and placed it with his toothbrush in the drawer filled with his underwear.
i took his picture off my desk at work. i no longer gaze at him as i sit at my computer. i put it in the bottom drawer along with the picture of the beautiful smiling baby who is his niece and godchild. I can't quite bring myself to take them home. i wouldn't know what to do with them. but they are off my desk.
i haven't removed his phone number from pride of place in my cell phone speed dial. not that it matters. he got that phone just for calling me and will probably get rid of it. maybe he already has. it is redundant. i, too, like in England when someone is laid off - i, too have been made redundant. as his kitten, his slave, his selkie, i have been made redundant. he doesn't need me. i am an unneeded part of his life. i complicate it. i make things more difficult. i am a distraction. he'll need something else to blame now for not finishing the dissertation.
but the big thing... the hardest thing... the action that would be like ripping out my heart even more than it already has been... i cannot remove his photo from my laptop. it would feel like erasing him from existence. it is such a sweet and cozy photo, spread across my screen. just the slightest trace of a smile on his lips, his beautiful thick hair so close in color and texture to mine, he sits engrossed in a magazine, a cozy afghan across his knees.... i was always snapping pictures, trying to capture him, that look, the atmosphere of him, the comfort of having him here in my house... so illusory, such a fantasy. but for those few days at a time it would feel like OUR house, it felt like he belonged here, even the cats knew he belonged here.
it doesn't really hurt me to see the photo. i think it would hurt me more to have it gone. maybe eventually i can do it... but not yet. he is part of me.
and our computers brought us together.
so not yet.
for now, he stays.
i took his picture off my desk at work. i no longer gaze at him as i sit at my computer. i put it in the bottom drawer along with the picture of the beautiful smiling baby who is his niece and godchild. I can't quite bring myself to take them home. i wouldn't know what to do with them. but they are off my desk.
i haven't removed his phone number from pride of place in my cell phone speed dial. not that it matters. he got that phone just for calling me and will probably get rid of it. maybe he already has. it is redundant. i, too, like in England when someone is laid off - i, too have been made redundant. as his kitten, his slave, his selkie, i have been made redundant. he doesn't need me. i am an unneeded part of his life. i complicate it. i make things more difficult. i am a distraction. he'll need something else to blame now for not finishing the dissertation.
but the big thing... the hardest thing... the action that would be like ripping out my heart even more than it already has been... i cannot remove his photo from my laptop. it would feel like erasing him from existence. it is such a sweet and cozy photo, spread across my screen. just the slightest trace of a smile on his lips, his beautiful thick hair so close in color and texture to mine, he sits engrossed in a magazine, a cozy afghan across his knees.... i was always snapping pictures, trying to capture him, that look, the atmosphere of him, the comfort of having him here in my house... so illusory, such a fantasy. but for those few days at a time it would feel like OUR house, it felt like he belonged here, even the cats knew he belonged here.
it doesn't really hurt me to see the photo. i think it would hurt me more to have it gone. maybe eventually i can do it... but not yet. he is part of me.
and our computers brought us together.
so not yet.
for now, he stays.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
If a masterless samurai is a ronin, what does one call a masterless sex slave?
A samurai without a master. A ronin.
Loyal, disciplined, pledged to serve,
left now with no lord, no focus for
his life. And what then of the sex slave,
alone, disowned, unbound? What to call
the fuck toy, whose holes are left
to wither and dry? What name shall serve
a submissive kitten, ear to the night
for the order to kneel? Poor minette,
turned out of the house, roaming
the streets in a pack of the masterless,
searching, bereft, for a collar to fill.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The odd thing about this little poem is that what I intended was a quick, light post - a bit of comic relief to off-set all the sad, soul-wrenching sighs. Because in fact I'm feeling much better today - though of course we all know that I'm prone to mood swings so I could be different in 2 hours... except I really AM doing better with the lithium. And it's a relief in some ways to have it over and settled. So what gives? Who knows... when I write it tends to be akin to automatic writing, and I'm never quite sure what will come out. Still my intent was a short and funny piece, NOT a poem, about how it suddenly occurred to me this afternoon that a sub without a Dom, a slave without a Master, is like a ronin. And really, shouldn't we have our own special name?! So suggestions are invited.
I've been wondering about another issue with names, which came up in an exchange with k (whose experience in many ways is so like mine) on FetLife. Here, I use the name oatmeal girl. It arose fairly naturally as an internet alias, and it's funny, and I like how it feels. But the philosopher called me kitten, from the third day. To him, it was my name, it's almost all he ever called me, and it was - IS - my submissive alter ego. Very occasionally, for fun, we used minette, which means sex kitten in French. I love French, and I love the saucy feel of minette. But kitten is my submissive alter ego. I think of a Dom standing over me, correcting my position as I kneel, as I try so hard to please him, and I am kitten. I think of him grabbing my hair, forcing my head into his crotch, forcing his cock into my mouth, forcing.... and i am kitten. i think of him pushing me against a dresser, ordering me to hold still, i think of him pulling his belt from its loops, folding it in half, raising it high, bringing it down as hard as he can, the fearsome awful welcome pain swallowing my flesh, devouring it, searing it... and i am kitten. and when he shoves down his pants and frees his cock, heeding its demands, driving it into my cunt, driving it into my ass, using me, claiming me, battering me... then i am kitten and nothing more.
Nothing more... i will sink into my submission and try not to remember... try not to remember when i was kitten... and so much more.
I'm doing a lot better! Really!! And then i start to write and it all comes back...
Love doesn't go away just because you've told it to.
Loyal, disciplined, pledged to serve,
left now with no lord, no focus for
his life. And what then of the sex slave,
alone, disowned, unbound? What to call
the fuck toy, whose holes are left
to wither and dry? What name shall serve
a submissive kitten, ear to the night
for the order to kneel? Poor minette,
turned out of the house, roaming
the streets in a pack of the masterless,
searching, bereft, for a collar to fill.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The odd thing about this little poem is that what I intended was a quick, light post - a bit of comic relief to off-set all the sad, soul-wrenching sighs. Because in fact I'm feeling much better today - though of course we all know that I'm prone to mood swings so I could be different in 2 hours... except I really AM doing better with the lithium. And it's a relief in some ways to have it over and settled. So what gives? Who knows... when I write it tends to be akin to automatic writing, and I'm never quite sure what will come out. Still my intent was a short and funny piece, NOT a poem, about how it suddenly occurred to me this afternoon that a sub without a Dom, a slave without a Master, is like a ronin. And really, shouldn't we have our own special name?! So suggestions are invited.
I've been wondering about another issue with names, which came up in an exchange with k (whose experience in many ways is so like mine) on FetLife. Here, I use the name oatmeal girl. It arose fairly naturally as an internet alias, and it's funny, and I like how it feels. But the philosopher called me kitten, from the third day. To him, it was my name, it's almost all he ever called me, and it was - IS - my submissive alter ego. Very occasionally, for fun, we used minette, which means sex kitten in French. I love French, and I love the saucy feel of minette. But kitten is my submissive alter ego. I think of a Dom standing over me, correcting my position as I kneel, as I try so hard to please him, and I am kitten. I think of him grabbing my hair, forcing my head into his crotch, forcing his cock into my mouth, forcing.... and i am kitten. i think of him pushing me against a dresser, ordering me to hold still, i think of him pulling his belt from its loops, folding it in half, raising it high, bringing it down as hard as he can, the fearsome awful welcome pain swallowing my flesh, devouring it, searing it... and i am kitten. and when he shoves down his pants and frees his cock, heeding its demands, driving it into my cunt, driving it into my ass, using me, claiming me, battering me... then i am kitten and nothing more.
Nothing more... i will sink into my submission and try not to remember... try not to remember when i was kitten... and so much more.
I'm doing a lot better! Really!! And then i start to write and it all comes back...
Love doesn't go away just because you've told it to.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Aiming for Acceptance
It is tempting to think that this is merely a disruption in service, only the latest break-up as opposed to the Big One. After all, we've rescued this relationship so many times before.
But perhaps that's the point. In the last year and a half, the philosopher tried to end things between us 4 times before now - unless I'm missing one. At number 5 it may be time for me to accept that this is it. We're up against too much. The philosopher himself is up against too much.
And the distance made it harder. We couldn't have that casual, friendly, loving time together that makes a relationship a full part of life, that knits together the whole of two people rather than just their kinky connection. We had that when we were together, but we weren't together enough. It wasn't the D/s that suffered, although certainly it is more fully satisfying when you have the physical experience as well as the very powerful mental manipulation. It was the rest of it. All the rest of it.
But a long distance relationship takes commitment and effort, and for all sorts of reasons the philosopher wasn't up to it - isn't up to it. The reasons are many and I am not judging him for it. In any relationship, you have to accept each other for who you are. I have to accept him for who he is. I have to accept and I have to let go.
It will take a while. And yes, I'm crying - though not this time those body-breaking sobs that ripped up my body after July 1st. Deep inside, I knew this was coming. I'm grieving, but I'll be all right. Eventually...
Sure, I'd be... I can't even come up with the right adjective for how happy I'd be if he woke up one day thinking: "this was a big mistake, why did I let her go?" I had a dream last night... but it was just a dream, wishful thinking, not something to hug to myself, not something to bring that smile to my lips every morning that I used to have... I'd wake up, and I'd remember I was his, and I would smile...
So yes... if he wrote... if he called... even as a friend... it's hard to let go when I felt closer to him than to ANYONE I've ever known. I felt so close... and yet he never gave me his own home address and never let me visit there.
I love you, John. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for all my parts in this not working out. And if I could prostrate myself on an altar and prepare the appropriate burnt offerings so that you could be free of your internal chains, so that you could write, so that you could finish, so that you could come out into the sunshine and open yourself to love, I would do it. I don't hate you, I won't hate you, I'll never hate you, you are too amazingly special for me to want anything for you other than happiness and peace.
You were my master.
You were my lover.
You were my very best friend.
And it is perhaps the last of these that it is hardest to lose.
But perhaps that's the point. In the last year and a half, the philosopher tried to end things between us 4 times before now - unless I'm missing one. At number 5 it may be time for me to accept that this is it. We're up against too much. The philosopher himself is up against too much.
And the distance made it harder. We couldn't have that casual, friendly, loving time together that makes a relationship a full part of life, that knits together the whole of two people rather than just their kinky connection. We had that when we were together, but we weren't together enough. It wasn't the D/s that suffered, although certainly it is more fully satisfying when you have the physical experience as well as the very powerful mental manipulation. It was the rest of it. All the rest of it.
But a long distance relationship takes commitment and effort, and for all sorts of reasons the philosopher wasn't up to it - isn't up to it. The reasons are many and I am not judging him for it. In any relationship, you have to accept each other for who you are. I have to accept him for who he is. I have to accept and I have to let go.
It will take a while. And yes, I'm crying - though not this time those body-breaking sobs that ripped up my body after July 1st. Deep inside, I knew this was coming. I'm grieving, but I'll be all right. Eventually...
Sure, I'd be... I can't even come up with the right adjective for how happy I'd be if he woke up one day thinking: "this was a big mistake, why did I let her go?" I had a dream last night... but it was just a dream, wishful thinking, not something to hug to myself, not something to bring that smile to my lips every morning that I used to have... I'd wake up, and I'd remember I was his, and I would smile...
So yes... if he wrote... if he called... even as a friend... it's hard to let go when I felt closer to him than to ANYONE I've ever known. I felt so close... and yet he never gave me his own home address and never let me visit there.
I love you, John. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for all my parts in this not working out. And if I could prostrate myself on an altar and prepare the appropriate burnt offerings so that you could be free of your internal chains, so that you could write, so that you could finish, so that you could come out into the sunshine and open yourself to love, I would do it. I don't hate you, I won't hate you, I'll never hate you, you are too amazingly special for me to want anything for you other than happiness and peace.
You were my master.
You were my lover.
You were my very best friend.
And it is perhaps the last of these that it is hardest to lose.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Penelope Mourns
The word came with a passing ship. He wasn't coming home. She always knew, really. He'd lost his way, and stubborn, male, and Irish he refused t0 ask for directions.
He blamed her. She clouded his brain, he said, obscured the horizon, bewitched him so he couldn't read the charts. Maybe a little, she thought. Maybe a little... but that wasn't all. He'd lost his way and he wouldn't ask for help.
She packed the loom under leering eyes while suitors jostled to head the line, so filled with their own greedy lust they couldn't see her emptiness. They'd find no joy between her legs. There was nothing there for the taking.
It would take a magic tongue - and no, not to to lick her awake, but to caress her with words, with metaphor, with undemanding attention with coaxing, with teasing, with poetry and cleverness, with everything she'd had before and then a little more. There were things he couldn't do... things she never spoke of... and more than that, this bold sea captain had such fears of love that all the dangers of his journey were nothing compared to the dangers of lying contented in her arms.
She stood by the window and stared out to sea, whispering prayers to the wind. "Be safe," she wept. "Be safe, sail straight, find your way, look at the stars. Ships will pass that know the way, they will help you, pull alongside and ask, you'll see, they know the way. "
"I'll never forget you!" she cried. "I'll never really let you go. With you I reached Olympus, with you I kissed the sky, with you I found true peace no matter what the pain to flesh and soul. There were moments, you know that, we had moments of beauty, beauty and union and friendship and love. I'll never forget that, I'll never forget you, go wander the oceans, I'll go on with living, there's no need to worry. No need to worry about me."
"But I'll worry about y0u," she sighed. "I'll worry about you. If I could, I'd stand there by your side, our hands together on the wheel, and together we would bring the great ship home. But I can't. I know. You need to make this journey by yourself. So go. I'll be all right. But should a passing ship bring word that you are still alive, I'll be better."
"And know this. Always know this. The door remains open to the traveler home from sea. Lover, friend, or stranger, all will find a welcome. Whether as master or guest, you always can come here."
"Go in peace, my Captain. Be at peace."
Then she sighed, turned away from the window, and went to feed the cats, leaving the plants to soak up her tears.
He blamed her. She clouded his brain, he said, obscured the horizon, bewitched him so he couldn't read the charts. Maybe a little, she thought. Maybe a little... but that wasn't all. He'd lost his way and he wouldn't ask for help.
She packed the loom under leering eyes while suitors jostled to head the line, so filled with their own greedy lust they couldn't see her emptiness. They'd find no joy between her legs. There was nothing there for the taking.
It would take a magic tongue - and no, not to to lick her awake, but to caress her with words, with metaphor, with undemanding attention with coaxing, with teasing, with poetry and cleverness, with everything she'd had before and then a little more. There were things he couldn't do... things she never spoke of... and more than that, this bold sea captain had such fears of love that all the dangers of his journey were nothing compared to the dangers of lying contented in her arms.
She stood by the window and stared out to sea, whispering prayers to the wind. "Be safe," she wept. "Be safe, sail straight, find your way, look at the stars. Ships will pass that know the way, they will help you, pull alongside and ask, you'll see, they know the way. "
"I'll never forget you!" she cried. "I'll never really let you go. With you I reached Olympus, with you I kissed the sky, with you I found true peace no matter what the pain to flesh and soul. There were moments, you know that, we had moments of beauty, beauty and union and friendship and love. I'll never forget that, I'll never forget you, go wander the oceans, I'll go on with living, there's no need to worry. No need to worry about me."
"But I'll worry about y0u," she sighed. "I'll worry about you. If I could, I'd stand there by your side, our hands together on the wheel, and together we would bring the great ship home. But I can't. I know. You need to make this journey by yourself. So go. I'll be all right. But should a passing ship bring word that you are still alive, I'll be better."
"And know this. Always know this. The door remains open to the traveler home from sea. Lover, friend, or stranger, all will find a welcome. Whether as master or guest, you always can come here."
"Go in peace, my Captain. Be at peace."
Then she sighed, turned away from the window, and went to feed the cats, leaving the plants to soak up her tears.
Happy Anniversary - ABORTED
for you, John.my master
my lover
and my very best friend.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
THE END
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Almost...
the last e-mail exchange before fantasy became reality.
the "lumpy odalisque" i refer to is the one we feature on this blog. the day before, i had been fretting over his coming to the door and finding this lumpy old redhead standing there. he had refused to allow me to send him a picture, and i was so afraid of seeing a look of disappointment on his face. but when i wept over being lumpy, he sent a new message with but 2 words: "Like this?" and the odalisque painting i then adopted as an alter ego.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Less than 24 hours now kitten. . .
- -
mmm...
i was so focused going downtown, and in my meeting, and then i come home, and you call me kitten, and the convulsions start...
when i was there i stopped to talk with some friends, and told 2 of them how you sent me that picture of the lumpy odalisque. they were blown away. it was the sweetest, kindest, most sensitive thing you could possibly have done. your actions belie your fierce domly persona... ;-)
or maybe it's having this outlet for your evil side that enables you to be so sweet and sensitive.
in any case, i am grateful.
and my cunt is screaming!
- -
Kitten. . .I want you in bed very early tonight. . .and I have to be in bed early. . .I'm getting up soooooooooo early tomorrow, and you know how your master likes to sleep in. . .
So you may as well get undressed now. . .
NOW!
- -
what!! but master i have so much to do! i'm sitting here on the floor of the dungeon with a huge box of papers, sorting and throwing out, rather than just shoveling them off the dining room table and losing everything for 2 years.
just because YOU have to get up at the crack of dawn doesn't mean *I* have to. tho i AM planning on getting up at 7 so i can get stuff done...
tho i don't suppose there's any reason why i can't be naked while i sort papers...
so ok, i'll send this message and take my clothes off.
grumble grumble... you're just trying to show how strict you can be because i called you sweet and sensitive, aren't you... you're afraid i'll spoil your reputation as a mean and nasty master.
pout...
- -
Yes kitten. . . do your chores naked. . . and imagine me standing over you with the cane. . . looking for the slightest imperfection to chastise. . .
- -
[whimper]
- -
No whimpering, kitten. . .
Chores!
- -
yes, sir!
;-)
when are you getting up tomorrow?
and what did you tell your brother?
(and what did he say...?)
- -
I left a message for him. . . he'll get back to me.
I am getting up very early. . .probably before six. . .the bus leaves at 10:00, but I have to claim my ticket and check my bag an hour before. . .I want to be at penn station by 8:00, to give myself plenty of time to get to the Port authority, which means i have to catch a 7:00 train. . .which means I want to be up at 6:00 at the latest. . .
Do you see why i don't travel?
;-)
- -
;-)
this is nothing. try flying. but then, if you're going someplace really interesting...
so you left a message for our brother? will he call you [as a silent alarm] while you're here? or while you're on the bus? ;-) this is going to be fun...
;-) ;-)
meanwhile, i talked to my folks tonight and told them not to expect to hear from me before Monday...
i hope you can sleep tonight...
- -
I probably won't sleep a wink. . .
(Didn't I say I would make you call you mother while you are tied to the bed, with me licking your clit? That's still on, right. . .?)
- -
i'll sleep just fine. ha!
nope. no call to my mom. no way. nuh-uh.
however, YOU are going to call the housewarming on Saturday, and talk to everyone in your family, while i have your cock in my mouth, trying not to laugh. yup! yum-yum...
- -
I wonder If I could keep my voice steady?
Probably not. . ."I just called to say. . .HELLO!. . .I mean. hello, how's everything going. . .?
(You are SUCH a disobedient kitten!)
- -
;-) ;-) ;-) ;-)
i am an amusing kitten, and you like me like that.
right?
(it's COLD down here without an clothes on!!!)
- -
You may put on a robe, kitten. . .I don't want you getting frostbite!
Although I assume the cold has you nipples quite hard. . .
- -
oh yes, like red pebbles, my nipples. you'd love them...
oh... i just remembered... you're going to see them tomorrow...
scary... is it scary?
or wonderful?
or both?
oh man...
- -
Both. . . mostly scary. . . but mostly wonderful too. . .
- -
ah, brilliant math, that...
but yes. mostly scary... and mostly wonderful...
sigh...
it'll be ok.
yes. it'll be ok. you and me. we'll be ok.
- -
Second thoughts, kitten. . . ?
- -
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
because my first thought is always you.
every morning.
and every night.
and now you'll be in my bed.
every morning.
and every night.
for three days.
mmm...
- -
Good kitten. . . me neither. . . this will be the most exciting thing I have ever done. . .
Wild horses couldn't drag me away. . .
How's the sorting going?
- -
the most exciting thing you've ever done? oh wow, i sure better be good...
;-)
you know you're just opening Pandora's Box. you're opning the door to all sorts of adventures now... dates and figs and egg creams and who knows what else?
sorting's going slowly... i keep getting interrupted by this wild Irish rover...
i can't wait to see you.
period.
you're the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me. no matter what happens tomorrow, you are still the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me.
and tomorrow will be fine.
- -
(such a naughty kitten. . . allowing her self to be distracted. . . !)
Tomorrow will be fine. . . and kinky. . . and fun. . . and sweet. . .
- -
not naughty.. just easily distracted..
and meanwhile, Ketzel is all over me. rubbing up against the computer, pawing at me, snuffling in my head... man, she must know there will be someone else here this weekend claiming all my attention.
i hope you're prepared to make it up to her.. ;-)
it's 10 o'clock, sweetheart. isn't it bed time for the world traveler?
you've got a long, hard day tomorrow.
VERY hard. for a very long time...
- -
(Kitten's sending Master to bed? Unheard of. . . !)
Yes, my naked, sorting kitten. . .I am going to try to sleep now. No phone call tomorrow. . . the next time you hear my voice. . .
It will be for real. . .
Until tomorrow. . .
- -
it's always been for real, John.
it's always been for real.
we just didn't know it until the third day...
try to sleep.
i'll try to focus.
there will still be a big mess, and i'll blame it all on you ;-)
and it won't matter. as long as you're here.
have a good trip, my brave Captain. have a good trip.
good night, master.
- -
Good night, kitten. . .
the "lumpy odalisque" i refer to is the one we feature on this blog. the day before, i had been fretting over his coming to the door and finding this lumpy old redhead standing there. he had refused to allow me to send him a picture, and i was so afraid of seeing a look of disappointment on his face. but when i wept over being lumpy, he sent a new message with but 2 words: "Like this?" and the odalisque painting i then adopted as an alter ego.
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Thursday, 2 August 2007
Less than 24 hours now kitten. . .
- -
mmm...
i was so focused going downtown, and in my meeting, and then i come home, and you call me kitten, and the convulsions start...
when i was there i stopped to talk with some friends, and told 2 of them how you sent me that picture of the lumpy odalisque. they were blown away. it was the sweetest, kindest, most sensitive thing you could possibly have done. your actions belie your fierce domly persona... ;-)
or maybe it's having this outlet for your evil side that enables you to be so sweet and sensitive.
in any case, i am grateful.
and my cunt is screaming!
- -
Kitten. . .I want you in bed very early tonight. . .and I have to be in bed early. . .I'm getting up soooooooooo early tomorrow, and you know how your master likes to sleep in. . .
So you may as well get undressed now. . .
NOW!
- -
what!! but master i have so much to do! i'm sitting here on the floor of the dungeon with a huge box of papers, sorting and throwing out, rather than just shoveling them off the dining room table and losing everything for 2 years.
just because YOU have to get up at the crack of dawn doesn't mean *I* have to. tho i AM planning on getting up at 7 so i can get stuff done...
tho i don't suppose there's any reason why i can't be naked while i sort papers...
so ok, i'll send this message and take my clothes off.
grumble grumble... you're just trying to show how strict you can be because i called you sweet and sensitive, aren't you... you're afraid i'll spoil your reputation as a mean and nasty master.
pout...
- -
Yes kitten. . . do your chores naked. . . and imagine me standing over you with the cane. . . looking for the slightest imperfection to chastise. . .
- -
[whimper]
- -
No whimpering, kitten. . .
Chores!
- -
yes, sir!
;-)
when are you getting up tomorrow?
and what did you tell your brother?
(and what did he say...?)
- -
I left a message for him. . . he'll get back to me.
I am getting up very early. . .probably before six. . .the bus leaves at 10:00, but I have to claim my ticket and check my bag an hour before. . .I want to be at penn station by 8:00, to give myself plenty of time to get to the Port authority, which means i have to catch a 7:00 train. . .which means I want to be up at 6:00 at the latest. . .
Do you see why i don't travel?
;-)
- -
;-)
this is nothing. try flying. but then, if you're going someplace really interesting...
so you left a message for our brother? will he call you [as a silent alarm] while you're here? or while you're on the bus? ;-) this is going to be fun...
;-) ;-)
meanwhile, i talked to my folks tonight and told them not to expect to hear from me before Monday...
i hope you can sleep tonight...
- -
I probably won't sleep a wink. . .
(Didn't I say I would make you call you mother while you are tied to the bed, with me licking your clit? That's still on, right. . .?)
- -
i'll sleep just fine. ha!
nope. no call to my mom. no way. nuh-uh.
however, YOU are going to call the housewarming on Saturday, and talk to everyone in your family, while i have your cock in my mouth, trying not to laugh. yup! yum-yum...
- -
I wonder If I could keep my voice steady?
Probably not. . ."I just called to say. . .HELLO!. . .I mean. hello, how's everything going. . .?
(You are SUCH a disobedient kitten!)
- -
;-) ;-) ;-) ;-)
i am an amusing kitten, and you like me like that.
right?
(it's COLD down here without an clothes on!!!)
- -
You may put on a robe, kitten. . .I don't want you getting frostbite!
Although I assume the cold has you nipples quite hard. . .
- -
oh yes, like red pebbles, my nipples. you'd love them...
oh... i just remembered... you're going to see them tomorrow...
scary... is it scary?
or wonderful?
or both?
oh man...
- -
Both. . . mostly scary. . . but mostly wonderful too. . .
- -
ah, brilliant math, that...
but yes. mostly scary... and mostly wonderful...
sigh...
it'll be ok.
yes. it'll be ok. you and me. we'll be ok.
- -
Second thoughts, kitten. . . ?
- -
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
because my first thought is always you.
every morning.
and every night.
and now you'll be in my bed.
every morning.
and every night.
for three days.
mmm...
- -
Good kitten. . . me neither. . . this will be the most exciting thing I have ever done. . .
Wild horses couldn't drag me away. . .
How's the sorting going?
- -
the most exciting thing you've ever done? oh wow, i sure better be good...
;-)
you know you're just opening Pandora's Box. you're opning the door to all sorts of adventures now... dates and figs and egg creams and who knows what else?
sorting's going slowly... i keep getting interrupted by this wild Irish rover...
i can't wait to see you.
period.
you're the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me. no matter what happens tomorrow, you are still the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me.
and tomorrow will be fine.
- -
(such a naughty kitten. . . allowing her self to be distracted. . . !)
Tomorrow will be fine. . . and kinky. . . and fun. . . and sweet. . .
- -
not naughty.. just easily distracted..
and meanwhile, Ketzel is all over me. rubbing up against the computer, pawing at me, snuffling in my head... man, she must know there will be someone else here this weekend claiming all my attention.
i hope you're prepared to make it up to her.. ;-)
it's 10 o'clock, sweetheart. isn't it bed time for the world traveler?
you've got a long, hard day tomorrow.
VERY hard. for a very long time...
- -
(Kitten's sending Master to bed? Unheard of. . . !)
Yes, my naked, sorting kitten. . .I am going to try to sleep now. No phone call tomorrow. . . the next time you hear my voice. . .
It will be for real. . .
Until tomorrow. . .
- -
it's always been for real, John.
it's always been for real.
we just didn't know it until the third day...
try to sleep.
i'll try to focus.
there will still be a big mess, and i'll blame it all on you ;-)
and it won't matter. as long as you're here.
have a good trip, my brave Captain. have a good trip.
good night, master.
- -
Good night, kitten. . .
Friday, August 1, 2008
Blush
4 days before our first meeting a year ago, on that Monday night, our e-mail conversation included a teasing reference to something I had done that the philosopher might regard as having been naughty. The following conversation comes from 2 days later. The secret is out.
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Wednesday 1 August 2007
I received it, you naughty kitten.
We shall take a million pictures like that. . . .
- -
;-)
the naughty part was having your address, which i found on the invoice that came with the cane. all i meant to do was send a postcard, but i couldn't find anything and then came across this. it's the real thing, a vintage photograph. a used bookstore on Antique Row acquired an album of pictures, all of which feature the model reading. they are selling the pictures off one by one. it was a struggle not to keep it for myself... but i really wanted you to have it, because i liked it so much. we can pop down there and you can see the others if you'd like. they had one on display, framed, and when i expressed interest the sales woman brought out the album.
it was sent with affection as well as with lust.
- -
And it was received with affection. . .and lust. . .and wild insatiable desire. . .
- -
oh god yes!
i can't wait to touch you...
(did you really blush? and where will you put it? maybe it should go on your office desk back at the college when school starts up again :-)
- -
Right now, I'm keeping it on my bedside table. . .
Maybe at my office at school. . . I'll have to check the Sexual Harrassment Policy on vintage pornography!
- -
mmm... i like that it's by your bed. you'll have to show it to your brother next time he drops by. say, look what my sweet little sex slave sent me!
- -
By then, I'll have one of YOU. . . and I can say "That IS my sweet little sex slave."
;-)
- -
hmmm... do you really think you'd show your brother a pornographic picture of me? my goodness, what has happened to the good little risk-averse Catholic boy i met 6 months ago?
;-)
- -
No I couldn't. . . unless. . . perhaps if I didn't tell him you were my slave, just a model that was hired. . . I could show him the picture. . . but he wouldn't know what he was really looking at. . .
Of course the word's "John's Slave" will be written across your breasts in lipstick, so he might put it together. . .
- -
;-)
it would still be pretty weird to tell him you'd hired a model to sit (so to speak) for pornographic pictures... ;-)
- -
Yes it would. . . it might be less weird to tell him that the model was in fact my sex slave. . .
- -
Ketzel is begging like mad for dinner, even tho she has 25 minutes to go. i have nothing on her when it comes to begging..
and then i really have to get back to my last round of errands for the day.
see why i don't get enough done?! you chain me to the laptop and make me talk to you. such a demanding master...
- -
Take off your panties, kitten. . .
And then go do your chores.
I will talk to you later. . .
- -
take off my panties? and then go do my chores??!!!
gulp.
yes, master...
thank you, master.
i will of course obey.
( i can't wait till i can crawl for you....)
till later.
- -
Bye for now, kitten. . .
- -
'bye... except you're always with me... your hand clutching my wrist... the collar around my neck... the cane never far from my poor aching ass...
and your sweet laugh in my ears.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Wednesday 1 August 2007
I received it, you naughty kitten.
We shall take a million pictures like that. . . .
- -
;-)
the naughty part was having your address, which i found on the invoice that came with the cane. all i meant to do was send a postcard, but i couldn't find anything and then came across this. it's the real thing, a vintage photograph. a used bookstore on Antique Row acquired an album of pictures, all of which feature the model reading. they are selling the pictures off one by one. it was a struggle not to keep it for myself... but i really wanted you to have it, because i liked it so much. we can pop down there and you can see the others if you'd like. they had one on display, framed, and when i expressed interest the sales woman brought out the album.
it was sent with affection as well as with lust.
- -
And it was received with affection. . .and lust. . .and wild insatiable desire. . .
- -
oh god yes!
i can't wait to touch you...
(did you really blush? and where will you put it? maybe it should go on your office desk back at the college when school starts up again :-)
- -
Right now, I'm keeping it on my bedside table. . .
Maybe at my office at school. . . I'll have to check the Sexual Harrassment Policy on vintage pornography!
- -
mmm... i like that it's by your bed. you'll have to show it to your brother next time he drops by. say, look what my sweet little sex slave sent me!
- -
By then, I'll have one of YOU. . . and I can say "That IS my sweet little sex slave."
;-)
- -
hmmm... do you really think you'd show your brother a pornographic picture of me? my goodness, what has happened to the good little risk-averse Catholic boy i met 6 months ago?
;-)
- -
No I couldn't. . . unless. . . perhaps if I didn't tell him you were my slave, just a model that was hired. . . I could show him the picture. . . but he wouldn't know what he was really looking at. . .
Of course the word's "John's Slave" will be written across your breasts in lipstick, so he might put it together. . .
- -
;-)
it would still be pretty weird to tell him you'd hired a model to sit (so to speak) for pornographic pictures... ;-)
- -
Yes it would. . . it might be less weird to tell him that the model was in fact my sex slave. . .
- -
Ketzel is begging like mad for dinner, even tho she has 25 minutes to go. i have nothing on her when it comes to begging..
and then i really have to get back to my last round of errands for the day.
see why i don't get enough done?! you chain me to the laptop and make me talk to you. such a demanding master...
- -
Take off your panties, kitten. . .
And then go do your chores.
I will talk to you later. . .
- -
take off my panties? and then go do my chores??!!!
gulp.
yes, master...
thank you, master.
i will of course obey.
( i can't wait till i can crawl for you....)
till later.
- -
Bye for now, kitten. . .
- -
'bye... except you're always with me... your hand clutching my wrist... the collar around my neck... the cane never far from my poor aching ass...
and your sweet laugh in my ears.
From me to you
I had this whole post written in my head... about how you were up at 5 in the morning, reading our blog, the posts labeled "dissertation," how I was so happy to see you in the stats, it's for a glimpse of you that I comb through them on and off all day, even though seeing you there meant the persistent demon of insomnia had struck again.
I had it all in my head, nicely composed - and then when I started writing it down, it just felt false and forced. So I'm just going to say all this stuff and hope for the best. Because while I know other people are reading it, it's really just for you.
I wanted to tell you how much better I'm doing, that the lithium seems to be having an effect now that I raised the dosage, I'm still taking ever so little but I feel much more stable. I'm safer to be around now.
I wanted to tell you that I'm so sorry you couldn't sleep this morning, I wanted to say that I hope you're making progress - not for me, this isn't about me, don't worry about disappointing me if it's not coming along, don't project that on me. I just want you to be happy, to feel good about yourself, one way or another.
Of course, maybe it's coming along... slowly, a page here and there, but coming, in which case I'll be so very happy, because you'll feel good when you finally finish this Quest. But if not, I won't think any less of you. I won't reject you, as I didn't reject you for other things. Still, if you are struggling, I do wish you would get some help. It just might make a difference.
You have ADD, I'm pretty sure of that, it's just like mine. Last week I had to reduce the dosage on my ADD meds to get my blood pressure down, and for days I couldn't concentrate, couldn't hold my mind to a task, nothing. And then I brought the dosage back up and I'm starting to be able to work again.
So if you're doing well, just ignore all this. But if you're not, please consider calling the health center. They're used to struggling grad students.
And know this, just in case... this isn't a request, this isn't pressure, this isn't about me, this is something to write down and file away... should you decide you can't go through it alone any more, I do still check the Gmail account for which only you have the address. And my phone is on all the time. Even in the middle of the night. Because that glow persists right behind my heart, I've gotten through the worst period and now I'm solid and safe and I see you in my stats - OUR stats - and I'm folded in warmth as fluffy and gentle as kitten hair. Even though I'm sorry that you're up at 5 o'clock in the morning.
So that's all. No dramatics. No tears. No sneaky seductive comments about slaves and chains and drinking out of bowls on the floor. (Sorry, I guess that was in fact a little sneaky...) But really. This is real world relationship stuff. And I just hope you can believe me when I still insist that I think you're worth it. Dissertation or no, you have made me very happy, and you need to accept the credit for that.
I know I should sign this with my real name. But I can't. When I'm with you, only one name feels right. You made it my name, and changed my identity forever.
Love,
kitten
I had it all in my head, nicely composed - and then when I started writing it down, it just felt false and forced. So I'm just going to say all this stuff and hope for the best. Because while I know other people are reading it, it's really just for you.
I wanted to tell you how much better I'm doing, that the lithium seems to be having an effect now that I raised the dosage, I'm still taking ever so little but I feel much more stable. I'm safer to be around now.
I wanted to tell you that I'm so sorry you couldn't sleep this morning, I wanted to say that I hope you're making progress - not for me, this isn't about me, don't worry about disappointing me if it's not coming along, don't project that on me. I just want you to be happy, to feel good about yourself, one way or another.
Of course, maybe it's coming along... slowly, a page here and there, but coming, in which case I'll be so very happy, because you'll feel good when you finally finish this Quest. But if not, I won't think any less of you. I won't reject you, as I didn't reject you for other things. Still, if you are struggling, I do wish you would get some help. It just might make a difference.
You have ADD, I'm pretty sure of that, it's just like mine. Last week I had to reduce the dosage on my ADD meds to get my blood pressure down, and for days I couldn't concentrate, couldn't hold my mind to a task, nothing. And then I brought the dosage back up and I'm starting to be able to work again.
So if you're doing well, just ignore all this. But if you're not, please consider calling the health center. They're used to struggling grad students.
And know this, just in case... this isn't a request, this isn't pressure, this isn't about me, this is something to write down and file away... should you decide you can't go through it alone any more, I do still check the Gmail account for which only you have the address. And my phone is on all the time. Even in the middle of the night. Because that glow persists right behind my heart, I've gotten through the worst period and now I'm solid and safe and I see you in my stats - OUR stats - and I'm folded in warmth as fluffy and gentle as kitten hair. Even though I'm sorry that you're up at 5 o'clock in the morning.
So that's all. No dramatics. No tears. No sneaky seductive comments about slaves and chains and drinking out of bowls on the floor. (Sorry, I guess that was in fact a little sneaky...) But really. This is real world relationship stuff. And I just hope you can believe me when I still insist that I think you're worth it. Dissertation or no, you have made me very happy, and you need to accept the credit for that.
I know I should sign this with my real name. But I can't. When I'm with you, only one name feels right. You made it my name, and changed my identity forever.
Love,
kitten
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