New Welts for a New Year

There are limits to what I am allowed to post about my lessons. And the limits are redefined after each of my tutor's visits.

This time I may say nothing about what was done. Only about the effects.

So.
He was here.
I screamed.
I cried.
I came.
I smiled.

He left me with hot hard red welts, and hot hard red nipples that even untouched are screaming with pain. My neck is red and my hair is wild and I'm happy and drained and in a daze and my body is stunned and smiling and my mind... ah my mind...

I hope I can drive safely when I head back downtown for evening services. And I hope people take the look in my eyes for religious ecstasy. Which I suppose it is in a way. For I am certainly feeling worshipful. But not, at the moment, towards the God of the Jews.

I have my own God now. My own sadistic God at whose feet I gratefully worship by serving him in any way he commands. And I carry his welts as proof of the depth of my service. His welts that were so hot that they melted the frozen peas I used to reduce the swelling.

I learned many lessons this afternoon, in the time between day and evening services. I won't tell all of them here. But I will say this.

He is right. Well yes, of course, he's always right, you and I know that. But he is right about this particular thing. I am not a masochist. I am most definitely not a masochist. This pain I was subjected to, I would not seek it out on its own account. I happily, willingly, freely offer myself to it in order to please him, and I accept it gratefully as punishment and correction. But I suffered. I truly suffered. I screamed as I never have before, and I am sure this is not the worst that he will inflict on me. I am grateful that he used me for his sadistic pleasure, I am grateful that hurting me like that DOES give him pleasure, but he is absolutely right. I would never go to some stray sadist and say here, hurt me as much as you can because I crave the pain.

He is right. He is always right. I am not a masochist. I give him my body and my mind and my soul to torment for his pleasure, and it is in this service to him that I am fulfilled.

Thank you, Sir.
Thank you for allowing me to serve you.
Thank you for my lesson.
And thank you for finding me worthy of being trained.
I hope I continue to find favor in your eyes.

The birthday of the world

Today is the birthday of the world.
Rosh hashanah.
The beginning of the Jewish High Holy Days.

We say it is the birthday of the world.
But we also say it is the day the world was conceived.

Conception, birth, creation, it is an ongoing process, creation. We are constantly being created, born, re-born. We look around us, look back, rethink, make adjustments, and are born anew.

The universe is a great, continuous work of performance art. And our lives are part of that.

These are the Days of Awe. A time to look back. A time to look forward. A time to heal the world, on both an intimate and a grand scale.

I'm not sure how I feel about this whole God thing. I've had certain experiences that I don't like to talk about, experiences that made me doubt the doctrinaire atheism with which I was raised. Yes, there are Jewish atheists, and I was a third generation one. But I started to feel things, sense things... things that made even less rational sense than an orgasm-inducing stick of oak baseboard trim. My rabbi says I'm a pantheist. He doesn't seem to mind. Indeed, he sounds proud of me. I suspect he's a bit of a pantheist himself.

So I'm heading into 10 days of looking back and looking ahead. And looking into right now.

I can't help looking back. I have so many memories tied up with the holidays. The first time I came to my synagogue was shortly after September 11th. I came with the woman I thought I was in love with. I don't think I was really in love with her, but she broke my heart anyway. By Yom Kippur it was all over. We each kept seeing the man we were both involved with. Now THAT was an interesting story... I still see him every so often when he's back in town visiting his mother. I'm expecting another visit in about a month or so. I... um... no. Let's just say I'm looking forward to it.

I had my dyke haircut back then. I was trying very hard to be a lesbian. I failed miserably, but now I wonder if that didn't have to do with my unrealized submission. Another thing to think about.

Now my hair is thick and shoulder length and with only a few more white bits around the temples. Everyone says how gorgeous it looks. And I thank them and think how it's long and gorgeous because the philosopher ordered me to grow it. So whether or not I choose to think of him, I can't help it. My hair looks beautiful and it is his.

I sit there in services with my little notebook, jotting down good bits from our prayerbook, jotting down bits that people say, jotting down my own thoughts... and feeling every moment that I am in service to my demon muse, to the Sorcerer, who told me in no uncertain terms to get myself a notebook or 3. I think of the year past and of all the loss, and I think of the year ahead and feel both dizzy and safe. I have given myself over to his mysterious plan for me, and it feels good to have given myself over. I'm afraid of heights, I'm afraid of falling, but I close my eyes and let myself fall back, and whether he catches me or lets me crash to the ground I will accept my fate.

I don't believe in that kind of God. I'm not sure if I believe in God at all, although I seem to have a sense of something... I think I'm some sort of mystic... but I don't believe in a God who has a plan for me and everyone and that i just have to have faith that Someone has already written the script. If I do believe in God, it is one who said ok folks, see this world you find yourself in? It's your job to sort things out, to fix it, to heal it. If your dog is lost, I'm not going to pop down and find it for you. You have to take care of each other and figure it all out.

But for some reason, I believe in my demon muse, this man who managed to hunt me without making me feel defensive. I'm a cautious pet, I run from people who pursue too hard. But I never realized the danger I was in until it was too late. And now he has this plan for me, and I say yes, Sir, I agree, this is not a game.

And I look at the year ahead, and all I see is me walking forward into the mist. And if he's leading me over a cliff, so be it, because I'm not looking down.

And to all of you for whom this applies, and anyone else who wants it:

L'shana tova.

A gut yontiff, a gut yor.

Best wishes for a good holiday and a good year.

(And God, if you DO get the urge to meddle down here, could you please make sure Barack Obama wins the election?)

Ensorcelled

Some people have too much power for their own good.

No. Let me rephrase that. Because obviously having that much power does THEM a lot of good. It's the people against whom they wield their excessive power that need to worry.

And of course I'm not talking about "some people." I'm talking about one person. One man, the fiend, the collector, my demon muse, my sadistic Svengali.

I think I should be calling him The Wizard.

Or better still - The Sorcerer.

There are certain items that live at my house for when he allows me to serve him. For when he trains me to fulfill his goals for me.

There is a chain.

And there is a cane.

This is no surprise. I have referred to these items before, and they are not unusual items in a sadist's box of toys.

Except, of course, that they are not toys.
This is not a game.
We do not play.

There are things that he does to me with the chain...

And the cane? Well, you all know what one does with a cane.

Except that the Sorcerer has done something more. He seems to have bewitched them. Or me. I'm not exactly sure which. Perhaps both. What I AM sure of is that he has me scared.

I first discovered what he had done last Friday.

I have specific instructions as to where the chain is to live and what condition I must be in when I touch it. This, however, put me in a quandary, as friends were coming over for the first of my traditional debate parties, and I feared someone might catch sight of it when they went down the hall to the bathroom. The fiend, being as concerned about hiding our interactions from inappropriate attention as I am, readily gave permission to do what needed to be done to relocate the revealing objects. So without a thought, I moved the heavy length of chain into the drawer of the bedside table, and then reached out to move the cane from where it stood propped against the headboard.

That's when the trouble began.

I'm describing this all in a very lighthearted manner, but that's more a case of whistling in the dark than anything else. This whole thing really scares me. Scared me then and scares me worse now.

My fingers closed around the cane.
And I shivered.
I started having these little convulsions.
Little earthquake twitches of my whole body
Tears rose up into the base of my throat.
The little convulsions kept coming.
I think by this time I had put the cane in the closet and was sitting on the bed, computer on my lap, trying to tell him what was happening, except I kept having these little... almost like little seizures.

And then I started cumming.
I had one little orgasm after another.
They were small, but they were definitely orgasms.

And then I started to cry.
Just like after an orgasm.

I can't remember if the effect was repeated when I put the items back later that night. But I know what happened today, when I again had to put them away for a while.

The contagion has spread. It is no longer just the cane. It happens with the chain as well. Just reaching out my finger, touching the cold hard metal... the shiver... the sharp shake of my body... the convulsions following one hard on the other... the orgasms... the sobs...

It is now dangerous to touch both the chain and the cane, whether to hide them from prying eyes or to bring them back to where I can see them from the bed. I brought the chain back out and the reaction was so strong that I was truly afraid to touch the cane. I opened the closet door and just stood there, looking at it, head propped against the wall, afraid to reach my hand out, shivering at the thought of reaching my hand out, shivering at being so close to it.

As I have said before, I am no longer afraid of HIM. But I am starting to be afraid of what he can do. I am afraid of his power. I am afraid of his control - the control he already has and what it will grow into.

I am afraid. But that doesn't mean I am stopping. I have no intention of stopping. I'm too far gone. My submission is as absolute as is his ownership. I am not his slave but he owns me nevertheless. I am his creation, I am his pet, I am his toy, and I rejoice in what he is making of me.

And if that means I gradually lose control over my mind and my body, so be it. Adventures like this one don't come along all that often.

And I walk through the world with shining eyes.

Saturday night at home with the cats

Feeling good tonight. Feeling happy. Peaceful. Pretty. Light. Busy and focused but just mildly floaty.

I had my bangs trimmed today. That's enough right there to make me feel a bit lighter. There was just too much hair up there. Although it did feel weird to be calling up for an appointment to get my bangs trimmed without first getting permission from the philosopher. Unsettling. But I'm ok.

It was his birthday yesterday. We're in that short stretch of time when you could say he is only 21 years younger than me. Why, we're practically the same age!

Such a silly, meaningless thing to say.

We had a long post-debate phone conversation last night, divided into two parts: before and after my debate-party guests left. It was good. It felt really really good. It was all that other part of our relationship that was so wonderful when he would visit. A closeness, a comfortable closeness, an intimacy that comes from some intangible comfortable connection that has nothing necessarily to do with sex or submission. And yet, it can't be totally separate from it, as our swimming in BDSM meant revealing all our vulnerabilities and that sort of nakedness is bound to create an intense intimacy unless you are putting up steel-lined walls against it.

So we had that part. The warm friendly comfortable part. And it was good.

But I'm learning not to fool myself each time we have one of these comfortable interactions where I don't go off and cry or regret afterwards. I'm starting to accept that it is naive of me to trumpet "I am cured! I can see! I can walk!" after each one. It doesn't happen that fast. It just doesn't. But eventually I'll be ok. And I did feel good today.

So here I sit, on the couch, in the company of Marko and Hot Jazz Saturday Night, working on a volunteer project for next weekend, thinking about how I wish someone would make me independently wealthy so I didn't have to worry about work getting in the way of life and poetry and music and submission. And smiling.

I sent my first text message today, in response to one from the collector. A tedious project, sending a little text message, but I suppose I could get better at it eventually. Except that now I pay for each one, so I'm in no hurry to do a lot more - or wouldn't be if it didn't feel so wonderful. It made me feel very owned. On standby waiting for word of the needs or commands of my manipulative mentor. It's so curious how such a small thing can be so arousing with just a slight shift in context.

The feeling of being tethered made me shiver and glow. And although what my demon muse is creating with and through me is a completely separate issue from what is or is not going on with the philosopher, it does help, again and again, to know that I am a valued property and that my sadistic Svengali has enticing plans for me which I don't yet fully know or understand.

So I'm happy on the couch with Marko and my laptop, even with too much to do and not enough time to do it.

Besides, the new year begins Monday night as Jews celebrate the birth day of the world.

I am gestating. I am growing into something new and glorious. My tutor is sitting on me, Horton hatching his egg of many colors, and when I emerge he will spank me hard and I will cry and then burst into song.

And the world will look new.

Rainy Night Blues

curled up on the couch
listening to the rain
listening to the blues
watching the cat bury non-existent food
thinking of love
thinking of loss
remembering men and music gone by
my CD shelves are filled with the music of men gone by.
music and men, the men are better gone
but the music makes me shine.
the men are better gone.
all but one, the only one
to leave no music behind.

i just can’t keep from crying
sometimes.
but the sun’s gonna shine on my back door
some day.

Artifacts for grad students

Given that my relationship with my demon muse is grounded in BDSM (and the "S" most definitely stands for both submission and sadism), he is working hard at training me. My ass still shows traces of how hard he is working. But as I can never forget, his goal is far beyond making of me an obedient little sex-and-spanking slut. I am to be a Great Poet, revered down through the generations. Therefore, my mephistophelian manager was astounded and outraged to learn that I didn't carry around a little notebook for jotting down my priceless moments of inspiration. "Off with you!" he cried. "Get thee to a stationers!" (Well, more or less...)

So after work I wended my weary way to Staples. And emerged not long after with not one but FOUR notebooks. One is my Serious Writer's notebook, covered in fairly convincing faux-leatherette for which no calf sacrificed its tender skin. It has heft, it has narrow lines, it has sort-of-gilt edging... I love it passionately. That one is now carried with me everywhere my now-decidedly-heavier fanny pack goes. The other three are lighter, spiral bound, and nowhere near as obtrusive. One lives by my bed, one in the car, and the third at my office desk where it has a more subtle presence than the notebook which will be my legacy to the future.

It's not as if I hadn't thought about getting a notebook before this. At home, I've been writing on my laptop. But elsewhere, I've been scribbling on any piece of paper I could lay my hands on, snagging a small pad from office supplies and stuffing it in the bottom drawer of my desk, and then smuggling home the sheets of passionately kinky verse which I pen for the eyes of my perverted professor alone. So I did feel the lack.

But something stopped me. Because I was no stranger to having a little notebook tucked into my bag. In an effort to curb my compulsion to e-mail the philosopher straight through the workday, I had early on acquired a compact little notebook with even narrower lines (yum) on which I would record my lunchtime musings. I'd feel as if we were spending the time together, and would float back to the office on a cloud of submission and desire. At home, if I could manage to wait that long, I would transcribe my musings into a message and relive the fantasy pleasure of lunch with my master. Those were the early days. Later there were pages of struggling with break-ups and anger and frustration, as well the first time I dared to actually write down that I loved him. One of the scariest things I ever did in that relationship was allow him to see that page when he first came down to visit.

So little notebooks had connotations for me, and I held back. Still, I had been given a direct order from my torturing tutor, one I dared not disobey. So now I have my lovely notebooks, and they fill me with pride and a sense of identity as a Real Writer. A True Poet. This is no game. Well, the fiend had already said that when he accepted my service, and I never questioned him on that. But I thought it had more to do with his view of BDSM and service and submission and all that. Now I know better. I am his pet poet princess. My notebooks prove me so.

And years from now, when some poor beleagured grad student is trying to haul a dissertation out of my collected works, she or he will be grateful for these little books that give a glimpse into the lubricious secrets of my meandering mind.

Empty and Full

I don't feel like writing tonight. There is too much roiling around inside me. I don't want to look at it. I don't want to sort it out. I don't want to set it out on paper for anyone to see.

I'm not that much of an exhibitionist.

I have nothing to say. Nothing, and yet much too much. My mind is a library of odd occurrences, strange meetings, failed relationships, and broken hearts. One heart. Broken over and over again. It gets boring after a while.

There are too many people in my life. And yes, of course, you see what I'm getting at, too many and yet not enough. Too many people sort of in my life, but too few where I really want them. If I want them. Perhaps I don't. I look at the list, I look at the line, these mainly men, but even the women, who were here and gone and who pop in now and again, an old lover, a long-ago housemate and occasional lover, a close friend and permanent though rare lover, others I won't mention... I look at their resumes and there it is, right under name, address, phone (land line and cell) and social security numbers to help with the background search: "Emotionally (and otherwise) unavailable."

There are too many memories in my life. Too much sadness, even while, now, I am basically so happy. I'm writing, I'm creating, I have a mentor who is putting me back in touch with something inside myself that had been hiding in a cave for around 45 years, and even then never danced the way it does now. I write and write, every day, and I can see already, in just a few short weeks, the way the poems are improving. They are starting to be good. So I'm happy, and excited, and intellectually stimulated, and shining with an identity that feels like truly mine and not borrowed from someone else. It's mine from long ago, but crystalline, refracting everything around it into dancing rainbows, crystalline but with a molten flowing center inside. A different dance, a slow dance, warm and sensuous, that I was too young to know when the storms of puberty sent down boulders of turmoil to dam up the ancient poetry stream.

I need to find balance. I need to find peace. I keep saying oh yes, everything's ok, it's fine now, I've let it go, and for a while I believe it, and when challenged I say oh no, Sir, you're wrong, I'm fine... but my demon muse can always find new ways to torture me, and he has a bullshit meter so sensitive he can spot self-deception from halfway around the globe. He knows me far better than I know myself, and has from before we even met.

I do think I will be ok. I will find peace. And there are things I do know now, things I do understand, things I do believe now, that have made me feel a lot better. The doubts are gone. But the loss is still there. And the tears do come back. Like now...

I have nothing to say. Really. There isn't anything to say, and besides I'm a lousy typist and I can't see the keyboard when I'm crying. I have nothing to say. All I want is to curl up and cry and be held and cry and then stop crying and still be held.

You can't always get what you want.

Maybe a caning would do instead...

FLASH! Le petit prince joins Kids for Obama

Seen at the Barack Obama campaign office in Fairfax, VA .

Ode to Bruises from a Caning

Autumn makes its way across my ass
but in reverse, as crimson
dims to yellow, black, and green.
Gone the happy glow from painful blows
and calculated stripes from careful aim.
Still, with smiles and pride, I eye
your artwork made from flesh,
a tribute to the sadist's heavy hand,
and see in each emerging hue
a neon sign of how I serve
with metaphor and rhymes and squirms and pain.

(posted here with permission)

Everything hurts

I am not allowed to write about my sessions with my merciless mentor. I am not allowed to write about him, or what he does, or what he says. I may write about the writing, I may write about my responses to what is happening to me, but not about what happens when we are together. And there are certain things I may never mention at all.

Except tonight. The absolutely forbiddens are still forbidden. But I wanted to write about pain, as I squirm in my seat trying to get comfortable on a perfectly agreeable couch. And I explained to my torturing tutor that it would be hard to discuss without mentioning why I said ouch every time I sat down or got up or changed positions or rolled over in bed.

Different seats hurt in different ways. The wooden dining room chair curves around my ass for support, and pushes on some side sore spots. I didn’t even know I HAD sore spots on the sides of my ass; I didn’t realize I had been hit there. The car seat, while softer, pushes me back at an angle that torments the welts from the cane. My desk chair hurts all over, with special reminders when I get up or sit down. In between is the constant underlying ache that is determined to be the theme and variations of the next few days.

I suppose I could say I was surprised when my professor of pain said that yes, for this one time I could write about our session, and that I could share everything I’ve written him. But then I’m never really surprised. He has his reasons, whether I know them or not. His goals are clear, and even when he seems to be giving in to me I know better than to think I’m gaining the upper hand. He always has the upper hand, and when it lands on my ass it hurts. A lot.

Besides, I don’t want to be in control. I crave his chain, both real and metaphorical.

I am feeling rather squirmy about what is going to come, but in some ways I feel I owe it to you after these weeks of obscuring silence. I am going to stand before you as naked as I can be. (No no no guys, put away your dicks, not THAT kind of naked; I will be feeling much more vulnerable than from physical nudity… ah… and perhaps that is why he is letting me do this… )

This will be a long post, since I don’t mess around with his commands or I won’t be able to sit for a month. He is allowing me this one entry, so it is all going in as one. I will give you a fairly dry description of what he did to me, followed by the reports I sent him. Because that is what I have to do. Immediately after he leaves, I am to e-mail him with a report of what just occurred, and then the next day I must send a follow up report with the perspective of more time and, supposedly, a cleared head.

So.

I have my orders. I dress in a shirt and long skirt, both of which button. Barefoot. I chose not to wear a bra the first time because of something he once wrote me and since then always go without a bra, showing off my protuberant nipples. I am to wear a thong. Of course everything comes off very soon after his arrival. I let him in. He enters as if he owns me, as if he rules this world he allows me to live in. I am more used to it now, but the first time it scared me. I was terrified of doing something wrong. I have, of course, made mistakes. And today it is hard for me to sit.

The first time he was here, I risked that my tyranical trainer would be gone before my housemate got home, so we went down to the dungeon. The next two times we confined ourselves to the bedroom. Or should I say, HE confined me to the bedroom. He does what he wishes. I do what he wishes.

Really, I don’t have a chance. He can get anything out of me that he wants, and not just with the threat of corporal punishment. He already knows me all too well. Not just because he is clever and perceptive and has the sadist’s knack of sniffing out weakness. It’s this blog. He had already seen me naked and vulnerable weeks before he set foot in the dungeon and ordered me to strip. He jumps on vulnerability, bats it around, licks it, sniffs it, and then sinks his teeth into it. Hard. He loves to make me squirm. He will cheerfully rub my face in my blatant hypocrisy, perhaps as part of his trying to make me more rigorous in my thinking, or perhaps just because he enjoys tormenting me. It hurts, but I welcome it. I welcome his making me face up to myself, just as I welcome the strictly enforced writing schedule he has decreed.

[Pause from writing while I change position. Everything hurts…]

So. He arrives. I let him in. Barely a word is exchanged. I inform him that for once my housemate came home on time but that I had requested that he stay in the basement. I had already closed the doors to the other 2 upstairs bedrooms to help prevent any screams from traveling down the heating vent intercoms to my housemate’s room below.

We enter the bedroom. Ketzel is there. She feels trapped, her tail puffs up to the size of a very fat hairy salami. She flees. The cats are both afraid of him. Maybe I should be, too. But I’m not. I don’t know why, but I’m not afraid of him. Not since the first time. He has found things inside me and he feeds them. He challenges me and he hurts me and he plays on my vulnerabilities and he makes me feel alive and he has taught me that I am beautiful.

I am not in love with him.

Not just because it’s not in the metaphorical contract. (Everything is metaphor with me, isn’t it?) I’m just not. I’m drawn to him, he fascinates me, somewhat like a snake before it strikes but also because there are other things I sense, other parts that I connect with more when we write than when he is here. I like him. I am grateful to him. I sense his power and succumb to it… I have wondered about this kind of inherent power and he has it, it’s not just posturing, it’s not a game, it’s very very real, and I glow from it. He makes me feel desired, not just as someone he can play with… this isn’t play. Not just for what physical pleasure he can take from me. He came after me for my mind, for my words, for other things that I haven’t even guessed yet, I’m sure there are other things, and for the pleasure of owning me, of owning these poems that spill out of me for him. He defines me, he lets me see myself, he helps me to grow, and he taught me that I am beautiful.

I don’t know if I was beautiful before. But now I am. I’ve stood there before the mirror in my bedroom, my naked back pressed against his clothed chest, my hair wild, shoulder length, and pre-Raphaelite red, and looked straight at us and known that yes, somehow, now, I am beautiful.

This post is supposed to be about pain. So here, before you read my drunken reports, I’ll get back to what he did to me.

He doesn’t waste time. He gestures with his head and orders me to remove all my clothes. Does he enjoy the sight of the lacy pink thong which I haven’t previously shown him? I’m not sure. I strip quickly. I think he looks me over. Perhaps he briefly touches me, turns me around, eyes his property. This is why I write reports immediately after he leaves, but I was too high this time to write a clear chronological account.

I have positions I must assume when he orders them. I like that. I like this simple, quick way of demonstrating my obedience. They are partly for that, I think, and also for practicality. There’s the one that gives him easy access to my nipples. He does enjoy my nipples, which as I’ve said before are pretty stunning. They’re pretty red at the moment, although not as sore as last night.

He does enjoy torturing my nipples, and I’m sure we’re only at the beginning of a long uncomfortable journey of exploration. He enjoys it but also, he has read this blog. He knows what I like. He knows what gets to me. He knows my fantasies. And he uses them all against me. He is a sadistic version of a fairy godmother.

He pinches my nipples. He tells me to fetch the long hard cold chain he brought me on the previous visit. He never wastes words. He knows how I feel about things closing around my neck. He clips one end of the chain around my neck. And then he plays with me, and plays with my fears, and plays with my desires, and he pulls at the chain around my neck, his hand close to my throat, and he hangs the chain down my back and brings it up through the crack in my ass and pulls and it hurts and brings it up into my cunt and pulls and I moan and the chain is tight around my throat and his hand is tight around my throat and the air is restricted and I look up at him with shining eyes and is this when he asks “Yes?” and I say “Yes!” with shining eyes and no doubts and he tortures me with the chain and he twists my nipples hard and my eyes are shining and I know this is right.

He orders me onto the bed. He wants me to recite my poem. He always wants me to read or recite one of my poems. Today it’s one I wrote just that day, they come out of nowhere, these poems, and this one was easy to memorize which is good, it works much better when I don’t have to try to read.

He is a large man, my cruel collector. And he uses his size against me. The first time he called on me, he had me stand facing the wall as I read my poem, and then pushed me into the wall with his whole body as I read again and again and again. This was indeed an example of performance art as I experienced my own poem words with my whole body and with his. The urgency the exercise gave it… I felt like I was back in theatre school. He isn’t just playing with me, he isn’t just hurting me, he is teaching me. I cannot emphasize enough how much he is teaching me. And not just about BDSM. Sure, there is that, but it goes way beyond that.

He orders me onto the bed. Hands and knees. Did I start reciting then? or not till later? I don’t remember. What I do remember is that he spanked me. Hard. This was a punishment. And it hurt. A lot.

He punishes me because I’m careless. I don’t focus well enough on my tasks. I have ADD but he doesn’t accept excuses. And he’s right. He does what he can to help me, I do believe he wants this to work, at the very least I suppose I amuse him but I do believe I please him and that I give him some of what he hoped to get from me when he saw whatever he saw in my FetLife profile. He breaks down my tasks, he gives me strict schedules, and he tries ever so hard to get me to focus and show him respect by getting rid of all the damn typos in my e-mails to him. And then eventually he has to punish me.

Pain. He is most definitely a sadist. I’m seeing only the tip of it. I felt bad at first, I knew I couldn’t give him what he needs. I do think I’m a masochist, but a mini-masochist, or perhaps more appropriately a fledgling masochist. And I wanted to please him, I so want to please him, and he would say but that’s not what I’m looking for from you and I would be slightly soothed but still. I wanted to please the sadist in him. And he would explain that it was all relative, that he knows I am sensitive, and that a lighter spanking would have the same effect on me as something much more brutal applied to someone who needs and can take a whole lot more. It’s the effect he craves. They do like to hear us scream and moan and whimper and cry, don’t they?

But what’s happening, and what I expected to happen, is that he is taking me on a journey into pain. And it’s not only that I can take more now. It’s deeper than that. He is teaching me about the intimacy of pain. The very first time, he stood me before him and pinched my nipples. I looked away, absorbing the pain, feeling it, giving myself to it. But he kept making me look back at him, made me open my eyes, and made me look into his eyes. And then I understood. I felt the flow. It wasn’t a violent moment, it was a poetic moment, and we looked each other in the eyes and it flowed between us, and there was this bond, as he gave me the pain and his desire to cause me pain and I took it and gave him back my pain in openness and vulnerability. I wasn’t just the passive recipient. It was a communion of pain and from then on I wanted more.

This time, I got more.

He spanked me. Hard. And then he caned me. Not with the cane I still have hanging in my closet, which I am loathe to let anyone else use. Not with any kind of cane you can buy from JT’s Stockroom or anywhere else that caters to perverts such as we are. My tormentor is both more prosaic and more poetic than that. His preferred instrument of torture is a strip of oak baseboard trim, its rough ends looking as if he broke it off with his powerful hands from a longer strip. It is heavier than the cane in the closet, and not as flexible.

It hurts. And last night it hurt a lot. Because he hit me harder than he ever had before. I was almost not sure that I could take it. And then he stopped. Because he was done. I think it was only 3 strokes on each buttock. It really hurt a lot. And it still hurts. And I revel in it.

And then at some point after he beat me, perhaps right after the caning, he had me get up off the bed. And he pulled me to him (I think I’m remembering this right) and he encouraged me to cry. And THAT surprised me. And I cried and felt safe and was once more reassured that I was traveling the right road. That we are creating a project together.

The poetry. Again, I can’t remember when he had me start reciting. I know he pushed me down on the bed and was on top of me and pushing against me and making me recite the poem again and again and again… My poems seem to arouse him at least as much as my nakedness, if not more... I thought I would give the whole poem here but it is too closely tied to things I may not mention so I won’t. There are some risks I would rather not take. But it is short and rhythmical and I will share the second half:

I have no doubts.
You flood me.
I am ready to serve.
I am always ready to serve.

He really likes this one

When he was done taking his own pleasure, he turned me over and seemed almost affectionate. He ran his finger down my torso and then (as he later had to remind me) took the jagged end of the cane and traced a line down the center of my body, starting below my breasts. The end of the cane is ugly looking and scary, but he ran it over me so gently, he scratched his initial into my skin as if it were a caress. He marked me with a caress. He scarred me with a caress. He brought the cane down further, barely touching my cunt with it and then I think drawing it over my thigh. He takes things slowly with me. We get into trouble when we go too fast.

He caressed me with the cane, he scarred me with the cane, and then he lay there with me while I touched myself and came for him and cried for him.

I think there was more after that. I can’t remember. He spanked me a bit more before he left, for his own fun, not for punishment, and it didn’t really hurt much. There was some more with the chain, I think. And then it is time for him to leave. I am in position down on the bed, chain around my neck. I must stay that way while he lets himself out. He always lets himself out while I am not allowed to move until I hear the door close. There is something very brutal and controlling about it but it doesn’t bother me. It feels right somehow, and accentuates this feeling of being owned that I revel in.

I was going to say “feeling of being owned and used” and certainly it felt like that the first two times. But this time was different. He gave me pleasure. He showed me tenderness. I felt more and more of the communion, not just of pain but of creation, and of my learning and growing and glowing in his hands. And of being beautiful. He wants me to tell you that he is this evil controlling creature, to make you all believe that you should be worried about me, that it is verging on an abusive relationship, etc. etc… it amuses him. But I can’t do that. Because he makes me beautiful, he is encouraging me to grow as an artist, he gives me faith in myself as an artist, he makes me wince less at calling myself a writer even as I’m wincing more at how much my ass hurts more than 24 hours later.

He is not an evil man, he is a curious and challenging man, and I am very very happy even if I don’t quite know where he is taking me.

So. There you are. With just one more thing before I give you the reports I wrote him right after he left and then this morning. Please accept my apologies for the varying tenses used in my description of what happened. I went a little spacey, but decided to let it stand because that’s what our sessions together do to me and what thinking about them does to me.

And now here is what I wrote him, offered with some measure of embarrassment. Drink it in now, because it is a glimpse you will not often be allowed, until the next time my seductive sadist decides it suits him to give you another peek.

- - - - -
Stream of consciousness report, 3rd visit

my left nipple hurts
a lot
i have beautiful welts on each buttock
beautiful hard welts on shiny red buttocks
my neck is red
there is a big J scratched down the center of my torso
i remember your tracing it with your finger
but never felt the scratch
thank you, Sir, for marking me
thank you for marking me again.
you have branded me as yours
and i welcome your marks
and i rejoice in being yours.

my left nipple hurts
a lot
it is throbbing
and reminding me of you
and of being with you
and of pleasing you
and of your using me
and of your punishing me
and of your giving me pleasure
and of your allowing me pleasure
and i thank you for all of it, Sir.
for the pain to punish me
and the pain to amuse you
and the pleasure that i hope gave you pleasure
and my tears of release that i hope gave you pleasure
or amused you
it doesn't matter
you wanted my tears
of pleasure and of pain
and that's all that counts.

everything looked kind of fuzzy
mainly because my glasses fogged, i think,
but also i suppose because my mind fogged...

i didn't feel as if my mind were fogged
but i remember the time i was hypnotized
to rid me of ptsd
it was very successful, only took the one session
poof, no more flashbacks.
but i never felt hypnotized...

i serve you, Sir.
i rejoice in serving you.
this is all about you, Sir.
but i'm not a slave.
i welcome you willingly
each and every time.
you make me happy, Sir.
you teach me.
you open worlds to me.
and as you held me against you
as you crushed me beneath you
as you closed the chain around my throat
as you closed your hand around my throat
as the chain scratched my anus
as the chain buried itself in my cunt
as YOU buried the chain in my cunt
as you twisted my nipple again and again
so that even now it pulses with the pain
as you spanked me, hard
as you caned me, harder
as i thought i couldn't take it and then i did
as you gave me just the right amount
to push me to where i started to wonder if i could stand it
and then stopped, and now i know i can go there
and then on a little further
each time a little further
as you took me and used me and hurt me
and made me an object for you to play with
i knew this was what i'd been waiting for all along.
finally.

sometimes fantasies are no more than fantasies.
sometimes they are true reflections.
and sometimes it takes someone else taking charge
to make them come true. and more.

and my nipple REALLY hurts!

thank you, Sir.

ps - i like to tell you that i'm happy. i want to be sure you know you make me happy. but i know i don't have to. i know you can see it in my eyes. still. i like to tell you, Sir. i'm happy and my nipple hurts and i will continue to work very hard to please you and try not to be so inadequately focused. and the new poem? it just came. it is a true expression. no artifice. and i am very glad you like it - and that i could memorize it. though i did start to lose it at one point, didn't i... and yes. i do think of you all the time. and serving you as your poet and your slut and whatever else... ALL of it makes me happy. and pleasing you makes me happy most of all. and my nipple hurts and there's a big J scratched in my skin and i suspect if it were winter i would wear a turtleneck shirt tomorrow and you give your commands and you hurt me and you use me and i feel so phenomenally alive i almost can't stand it. and when you crush me beneath you... and i look into your eyes... each time i see you... more and more i look into your eyes and i give myself to you with my eyes... and i am glad i can give you at least some of what you need, Sir. i am so glad you spotted something in my profile and lured me into wanting to serve you, and that you allow me to serve you with my mind and my body and now i'm just babbling on and on so i think i'll stop and have some dinner and lots of water because my cunt was soup and my nipple still hurts and thank you, Sir.

Thank you.

- - - - -

Second report, 3rd visit (the following morning)

Good morning, Sir.

I wish I could pee standing up.

Everything hurts.

And as I look back at that sentence, I realize I'm becoming horribly aroused.

It goes without saying that my butt hurts. A lot. I slept on my side and when I rolled over in the morning, I groaned in surprise. And smiled. Oh yes, I'll be thinking of you every minute of the day. I'll probably be wet and swollen every minute of the day, too.

You surprised me with kindness yesterday. I was touched and surprised. I loved it when you pulled me to you and encouraged me to cry after that hard punishment caning you gave me, a caning which surprised me at the level of pain and made me think I almost couldn't take it. But I could. And you knew that. You knew just how many strokes I could just barely take at that strength. And while it hurt like hell I am now so aroused talking about it that I surprise myself. And then you told me it was ok to cry, and let me find comfort against your chest. Oh, you do know about vulnerability, don't you, and you do know how to build on it by being both the torturer and the comforter.

You impressed me with the confidence of your sadism. You know what you like to do, and you do it. You know what you want and you take it. Your confidence makes me feel safe in your power, safe with your control, I am yours and I look up at you and I will go where you take me.

I felt like your toy. Not just because that is a phrase tossed around in BDSM-land but really. I felt as if you had stolen your sister's doll, I was your sister's doll, and deliberately and with sureness of purpose you were exploring what you could do with me. I am your toy and you keep me hidden away but take me out again and again and subject me to your outbursts of inspiration.

Everything hurts. My whole body aches. There are these beautiful welts on my butt, and bruises from last time. I love the double-edged bruises your found-object cane makes. Baseboard trim will make me tremble till the end of my days. And I always did like oak ... I suppose I should have gone for the bag of frozen peas right after you left, but I did want to start my report., and it's hard to type while lying on my belly... And anyway, I love the bruises.

My neck is stiff, my whole body aches, your initial is scratched into my torso...

My whole body aches.

My whole body glows.

It is all about you, I am pledged to serve you, but you gave me pleasure, you made me feel beautiful, I looked in the mirror as we stood there together, you made me LOOK beautiful, I believed you that I was beautiful, that I am beautiful, I FEEL beautiful, you hurt me, you used me, you have me by a chain around my neck and my mind, and you have made me beautiful.

Everything hurts and I'm glowing.

You are a magician and you own me.

Thank you, Sir. I can only hope that I made you feel even half as good as you made me. Though I suppose I should have faith that you know what you want and you take what you want and don't stop until you've gotten what you need. And I am truly grateful that you want to take some of what you need from me.

Thank you, Sir.
Thank you.

- - -

PS - it turns out it hurts to walk, too!

Stop grinning, you sadistic bastard.

I said that, and all of a sudden I missed feeling your body pressed against mine...

- - - - - - -

Addendum: I read over everything I wrote and the 2 reports I made and realized that I left out the exact same thing in my introductory description as I did in the reports. My torturer refers to it as punching me in the abdomen, but I don't think that is a correct description. He presses his fist against my abdomen and then pushes in. He orders me to soften, he wills me to soften, and I do, and i absorb him into me... it is an incredibly intimate moment, I do experience it as intimate rather than violent or sadistic... I give myself up to him, I open myself to him, it is a moment of pure trust, in some ways even more intimate than being fucked because it isn't as easy. Anyone can shove a cock into a cunt. But this... there is no open passage here, it is pure force of will and imagination and communion. And now he is inside me.

Kitten has fans

I feel good about my writing. I'm proud of it and don't really need other people to tell me that it's good.

Except I LIKE being told by other people that it's good. Especially by other writers.

Now that feels a little scary, to speak of "other writers." But I'm getting used to it. And certainly my sadistic Svengali is helping with that. And what also helps is when someone writes me out of the blue and asks if he can include one or more of my pieces on his site.

This happened just the other day, when I received this message from A PUBLISHED WRITER. (You know, as in published on paper, as in I actually have a volume of erotica with one of his stories in it and I recognized his name!)

- - - - - - - -
Howdy! I really like your site and would like to exchange links with you.

My own blog, Frequently Felt, is "A lobcock of erotic trivialities, oddities, and miscellanea transcribed with jaundiced talent for naught but a boxing Jesuit indulgence by a disreputable posse mobilitatis" which is silly-speak for a blog featuring fun and weird sex stuff.

I often feature articles on sex and sexuality like reviews, interviews, erotic artists, podcasts and videoclips. Please feel free to use any of this content as long as you reference it came from me. I, of course, will do the same.

As M.Christian I am also an extensively published celebrity author of erotica ... "with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, and Filthy; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll."

Please feel free to check out my home site at www.mchristian.com for information on my works and other fun erotic stuff.
- - - - - - - -

So I checked out the sites, and they seemed safe enough (meaning I didn't think he was trying to steal the products of my occasional bursts of perverted inspiration), and decided ok, I'll let him have The Performance. And not only did he forward me a lovely little comment proving that the story had achieved at least part of what it was designed to do ("Yes, that was a good one, felt myself growing stiff...."), and flatter me by calling it "a great story", but he ended up sending a horde of horny readers to me.

I'd like to say two things at this point. The first is that, except for We Met in a Bar, none of these stories would exist without the philosopher. Even the ones I wrote by myself. They reflect our relationship, they drew on our shared fantasies, and eventually they drew on our living explorations of what had previously been no more than fantasies. My name is on them, but he is a co-author.

Maybe that's why I'm not writing any more stories. At least not at the moment. It's true that I'm spending a lot of time working on poems. Part of that is to please my demon muse, my demanding tutor who guides me with both praise and punishment. (Kitten wriggles in search of a more comfortable sitting position...) But it's not that stories are forbidden. It's only that my inspiration hasn't run that way. Even the darkest of the old stories are filled with a love and playfulness that I'm not quite ready to get back in touch with. And I do miss that. I miss writing the stories. I miss the old joint stories. And I miss the love and the playfulness.

The love is still there. It will always be there, Although I am at peace now with the break-up, and with the philosopher's reasons. And I accept his reasons, and I accept, finally, with all my heart, I do believe that it did mean something to him, and I think in fact that this was what I needed to be able to let go of the hope that things could go back to the way they were. This was what I needed to be able to move on, while still saying that he and our friendship are the most important things, and that my fiendish writing instructor is not a replacement.

All this is by way of an apology to new readers who stop this way after reading The Performance and any future stories on M. Christian's site. There are more stories listed under the label "stories", and I also encourage you to read the philosophers words under the label "philosopher." (Oh, I do stun myself with my creativity sometimes...) But for now, the new creative stuff will be by way of poetry.

There have been other fans, including a writer I met on FetLife who asked me to contribute something to a site of his (which I suppose I should be thinking about), and I have posted some of my stories on FetLife as well. I am also to be found on Love Boudoir as a "center-stage featured blog." And now I am getting really embarrassed about all this boasting, but mainly it's to call people's attention to these other sites who are being so nice to me - and to tell you other writers to check out M. Christian's blog and if you think you have anything appropriate, to send it his way. He is definitely looking for new talent.

Three more things - and please forgive me if my mind seems to be wandering tonight...

1. I get more referrals from persephone's obedience (my friend meg's blog) than from anywhere else. That's a good excuse for me to mention her in the context of this post, but really I don't need an excuse at all. She is involved in a relationship with 2 amazing people, and not only are her adventures fascinating, but her analysis of it all is thought-provoking and instructive. Do please check her out if you haven't already.

2. I forgot. Oh no, wait, I remember... more embarrassment... um... it has to do with... no. Well... it's that I really appreciate that these people want to put my stuff out there, but that the praise I get from just 2 people means more than all the rest combined... whether as those 2 precious words held dear by any submissive, or a beloved friend's "I really liked that one"... these mean more than anything. So there.

3. To my reader in A2 - I would love it if you'd e-mail me and say "Hi." GO BLUE!

And now that I've babbled on meaninglessly, I think I'll stop writing so I can go lie down on my stomach...

The Poetry of BDSM

perversity, like poetry,
transforms objects
transforms words
transforms vision
transforms people
transforms hearts
and changes lives.

oatmeal boxes
paper clips
a magic marker
a tube of lipstick
blue bandanna
coil of rope
a shirt, a skirt
a small brown notebook
a pair of earrings
the color pink
a strip of wood
and frozen peas
glass of water
pot of tea
a bowl of milk upon the floor
licked while down on hands and knees

and a cold, hard chain.

our explorations
transform objects
transform language
transform pain.
paper clips and dried azaleas
never will be quite the same.

i will never be the same.

The Prey

she walked down the street.

first she felt his eyes
then she felt his mind

she felt his power
she felt his intellect
she saw nothing, but
she felt everything
he said nothing
but he said everything
she heard his footsteps
she heard his breathing
she heard his intentions
she heard his desire
she didn’t speed up
she didn’t slow down
she kept her eyes forward
she kept walking forward
she heard his soft breathing
she felt his warm breathing
not heavy, just breathing
he knew he could have her
she knew he would have her
she didn’t speed up
she didn’t slow down
she felt him behind her
she felt his warm breath
she felt his firm touch
she felt

he knew he would have her.

she was his.

Letting Go

My slave chain is now a pile of paper clips.
I took the long box from under the bed.
My notebook I put in the file with your name on it.
I loved you.
I love you still.
But it's time to move on.

How did THIS happen?

Sometimes happiness arrives unnoticed.
It sneaks up on you while your mind
is elsewhere. It comes in
disguise, as a song or a touch.
This time, it came as a dare.
I wasn’t afraid. I said that.
I’m not scared, I said. And
gave my credentials for wrecklessness.

I’m not. I’m not scared. I’m dazed,
perhaps, but as happy as any
good girl could be. I don’t question.
I cradle this joy that to others
would seem a changeling,
a monstrous creature delivered at night
by a clever demon, and left in place
of a safe and boring life.

I’m not scared. Surprised maybe,
But not scared. I write my poems,
I follow my orders, await commands
and try to please. My eyes glaze over,
my mind floats free, the words
come fast, my body follows.
All I need is two words: good girl.
I submit. And my life is complete.

This Day

It’s September 11th.
Again.

I’m feeling it this year, more than I have for a while. I used to think that this date would always be marked on the calendar in black shadows, but the last few years haven’t been all that bad. This year, though…

This year the tears are back. Right there on the edge. Just on the edge of the levee of my eyes. Just below the dam of my throat. My heart is swelling.

I’m not sure exactly why.

OK, that’s a lie. I know why.

There’s been so much loss lately… The philosopher... And many deaths…

I was working right in Washington DC on that day. In a government building. Maybe a mile from the White House. We were evacuated. I emerged into the sunlight suddenly unclear as to exactly where we were. But I was sure of one thing.

The world would never be the same.

I was right. Big surprise.

I’m an expatriate New Yorker. I don’t live there any more and pretty much haven’t since I left for college. But if something threatens my city, I react with a fierceness that startles me.

On that day I reacted with fierceness and grief. And tears. That’s MY city! How dare they do that to MY CITY!

I didn’t stop crying for 2 weeks. It took drugs to stem the flow.

Drugs followed by 2 years of therapy.

It’s the loss. It always comes back to the loss. The loss and the lack of security. Don’t look away. Don’t turn your back. Don’t drop your guard. Or the next minute, everything could be gone.

Don’t take anything for granted.

Tell the ones you love that you do love them.

Do.
Love them.

I'm trying not to write... REALLY

I've been banishing poems as soon as they peek around the door, Sir, but this was one was too strong for me. Damn it, Sir, with all due respect, you lit a fire in me, and merely declaring "Down to coals with you!" doesn't always work.

I'm trying, though, Sir. I really am.
I'm trying to obey.

I always want to obey.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
10:09 am

Sit at computer and twitch
Twitch
Yes I'm on time-out but still
Twitch
Heartbeat starts racing up hill
Twitch
Evil air fingers give pinch
Twitch

Brain doesn't want to slow down
Squirm
Easier when I'm at home
Squirm
Leaving my laptop alone
Squirm
Chasing the kitties around
Squirm

Ramp.
Down.
Calm.
Down.
Don't.
Twitch.

Now.

Submit.

Catching my breath

My sadistic Svengali has decided that I need a time out. Not as a punishment - though I suspect there's a possibility of one of those as well, and due to something he mentioned in passing, the thought fills me with dread and... other things...

He thinks I need to breathe. And given that he is regrettably always right, I must admit that I do. I'm overheated. My mind is racing, my blood pressure is up, I hear a phrase or open a catalogue and suddenly a poem comes spouting out.

And the poems are good. I have to accept that, too, because he says they are and he says WHY they are so, and the reasons are usually things I wasn't even aware I was doing. Of course, I eat up the praise, and of course I very much want to please him. And except when I make him crazy I think I do please him. But I'm so inspired, so wildly blissful from the stimulation, mainly intellectual but admittedly not always, that I'm verging on the manic. Which is a pretty strange state for me to be in at the beginning of September.

It's not surprising, really. I'm high on a cocktail of drugs, and they're each addictive on their own. Just imagine the potency of the alternate reality of subspace combined with the exhilaration of creative inspiration on top of that dependable stimulant, praise... and isn't it amazing how with all the extravagant things someone can say about you (well, about me, anyway) the most delicious, the most treasured, the most effective, the one that makes me want to both curl up and hug myself and sit up with big begging eyes and say "yes, Sir, please, Sir, what else can I do for you, Sir? Anything, Sir. Anything. Anything just for the chance of your calling me 'good girl' again..."

See? I'm utterly overheated.

So I've been given a time out. Silence. And no homework. For at least a couple of days. With the suggestion (not an order, but his suggestions carry a lot of weight) that I stay away from any websites that might disrupt his effort to restore my equilibrium.

I don't argue with that one. He hasn't known me very long but already he knows me very well. I need to try to go cold turkey for a bit.

So, I'll try. And I'll get some bills paid, and curl up with the cats, and get to bed early and try not to wake up before dawn with endorphins splashing through my body at the prospect of what delicious adventures the new day will bring.

After all, it's only a couple of days...

At the nexus of art, sex, and bdsm

She stands on the pedestal
naked and trembling,
arms pulled above her
held taut by the chain.
Her feet grip the marble
her thighs slightly parted.
He smiles at the droplets
that slip from within.
Pygmalion had nothing on
this greedy curator,
watching her face betray
pain, joy, and fear.
Eying his property,
planning her torment,
he knows she'll submit
and is glad that he's near.

(posted here with permission of the owner)

Every night is a school night

I feel like a schoolgirl
submitting my homework
to the critical eye of my
wry sadistic tutor.

There is no room for error
and no excuse for typos.
The course is pass-fail.

I yearn to please him.
I will not fail.

Lesson 1

i had my first session with my demon muse yesterday.

i choose my words carefully, as is appropriate for a captive poet. "Lesson"... "Session"... certainly not a "scene" although considering that my jailer has an innate sense of drama you might think it to be an appropriate term.

but we're not playing. it may be fun (for my tormentor anyway). it may be arousing (no comment). but the project we are embarked on is very serious.

something is puzzling me. i'm finding in myself an unwillingness to describe what happened. it would make a great post, i can tell you that much, but it was so rich, so fulfilling, so intense, so very deserving of the term "training" that i'm loathe to reduce it to "he said this" and "he ordered me to do that" and "he made me recite my poem over and over while..." i feel greedy, and as if by describing it i would diminish it.

he's not joking about my being his literary service slut. he is indeed training me to write better, with more creativity and more discipline. it's ironic, really... i remember being jealous of Gray Lily last winter when she said she was taking a writing course. well, now i have a private tutor, and am receiving very special attention. it's true that most writing courses don't involve BDSM as a teaching tool, but i can attest that it is a superb technique for focusing the mind.

i'm stalled again... i have things i could say, i even know how i would phrase them, and i just... can't. i don't want to. i am being trained and molded and taught and transformed. i feel strong again. we are collaborating on a creative project, and i suppose you could say the final work of art will be me, but i think it's something else, it fits with the subtitle of this blog. it's performance art and the process is at least as important as the outcome.

and if the process involves a butt that still hurts 24 hours later, it's a small price to pay.

besides.
i deserved it.

He says i'm beautiful

He says i’m beautiful.
i’m dubious.
He says we’ll work on it.
i look in the mirror.
i seem to have changed
and it’s not just the hair.
can beauty blossom
on the shores of sixty?
perhaps. and it helps
not crying every day.
but if i am beautiful,
and i’m hearing it more,
it isn’t really new.
and as my hair lengthened
over all these months
i grew into my self.
i glowed from being owned.
and even as we are
such friends as we are now
the glow is with me still.

Life makes its own decisions

Sometimes, things happen very very fast. Which can really blindside you if you never imagined they existed.

This change in my life I never imagined existed. Not for me. Not now. And certainly not quite this fast.

In some ways I’m not even sure what happened. Or how. One day I start getting odd messages from an evil man whose over-the-top enthusiasm for my writing makes me laugh. A day or so later, I’m inspired to write a very dark piece which I don’t feel like posting here. By Saturday we were having some horribly long volleys of messages and I was still teasing him for the way he worshiped my words, but I was distracted and aroused and aching to please him.

On Monday, Labor Day, I begged him to let me serve him. I am perhaps the first literary service slut in history.

Monday was very odd. It could have been a very rough day – the day on which my poor philosopher would have called to discuss where we went from here – if he hadn’t already dismissed me by e-mail on the anniversary of his taking possession of me as his slave kitten, his selkie, and as his best friend. It could have been a very very difficult day.

But it wasn’t.

The philosopher wrote me after reading about the fiend and about my dream, acknowledging what the day would have been. I was so, so happy, spending all that time writing back and forth, talking about the film i had seen (Starting Out in the Evening, which I liked a lot), learning that the dissertation is going well now and that i’m free to ask about it whenever i wish. Things are good between us, however they might be defined.

Meanwhile, my demon muse and i continued to write throughout the day, and… and i have no idea what happened. I’m not going to share the conversation; it loses something in translation and feels too intensely personal. Too intense. Very personal. Mainly, there was all this frustration on both sides that the other just couldn’t understand what needed to happen next. My fault, really, for being so afraid of rejection and for not knowing the rules.

What i CAN say is that by Sunday i was desperately wanting to please him. The more nice things he said, the more intensely submissive i felt. i was drunk on it, i think… perhaps my intense desire to serve him was a way to jump in the barrel and drown in the sweet strong wine of his approval.

(and yes i know i have completely lost any consistency in my capitalization and i’m not going to correct it. you can see what happens to my mind as i write. certainly, when i’m feeling submissive “I” gets rapidly replaced by “i” – not as a conscious thing, just as a reflection of something very deep and very uncontrollable. except, of course, by someone who very much wants to control me.)

so yes. i am his service slut. his literary service slut. his imprisoned poet, his treasured pet. i'm not totally sure what he wants of me, but whatever it is, i will give, and will learn to anticipate. i do know that we won't see each other all that often - but then, i am used to that. and since much of what he is looking to accomplish with me is guiding and disciplining and inspiring my writing, e-mail works just fine. i am already seeing a difference. (and oh... i have a secret goal... aside from all the other things i hope to achieve through my demon mentor's training, i'd really love to be able to write a sonnet one day. i've wanted to write a sonnet for years.)

while i may not be totally sure of what my poetic dominant wants of me, it is quite clear and agreed upon what he doesn't want of me. he has no intention of being my boyfriend, and i am not looking for that from him. our goals are clear, the work will be hard, and our time together will be focused. it's true that i thought i was done with active BDSM for now, but every so often an opportunity comes along that is too rich and exciting and fulfilling and challenging to pass up. however, that doesn't change the fact that as far as Relationships go, with a capital "R", i'm feeling quite fulfilled at the moment.

because there is the philosopher. even as friends, even as we are, whatever we are to each other, i regard this bond between us as my primary relationship. and my sadistic jailer knows that. he respects that and he supports that.

i wonder if something like this would have helped things when the philosopher tried to break up with me as far back as last February. what with the stress of the dissertation, he has been feeling overwhelmed by the relationship for a long time. everything came to feel onerous – putting me to bed, giving me attention, giving me the control i needed, even accepting my love perhaps… i’m not totally sure, really. what if we had been able to think of this as a solution? someone for me to serve, someone to command my obedience, to give me attention, to praise me and to chastise me, to arouse me and control me, and to nurture my submission. i would still have belonged to the philosopher, we both would have had that to hug to ourselves to keep us safe and warm at night. but i would have been out of his hair and locked away safe until he was done and ready to resume life. and then we would have figured out together the new rules for a relationship that would work for us both.

but things don’t happen that way. we don’t always think of solutions when we need them, when life is coming apart, and i can’t imagine going shopping for someone to take me in hand. besides, that’s not how my life works. opportunities present themselves. people suddenly appear, people far beyond what i could have imagined. and then there is no choice. all i can say is “yes, Sir” and obey.

besides, the philosopher was always so possessive, even when he tried not to be, that i can’t imagine his having accepted such a thing.

so now he is my best friend, and i try not to say “yes, sir” when he calls me kitten. because i don’t ever want him to stop calling me kitten. and i still think of him a lot, i could never stop that, but am saved from brooding by this demon ex machina who commands my submission and demands my words and scares me and delights me and makes me tremble and makes me want to throw myself at his feet which maybe i can do later this week. how else should i feel about a man who likes my very feeble singing?

i am happy.

And today, I put the philosopher’s picture back on my desk. He is part of my life, whatever label we may stick on his role, and i like being reminded of that. Besides, he’s cute.

Hot & Sweet

in bed
with milk and 2 sugars