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.