Stream of submissive subconsciousness

i open my mind
i close my eyes
i welcome the image
and bow to the words

bow
crawl
beg
cry
teach me, Sir
teach me how to please you
tell me what to say
tell me what to do, Sir
tell me what you want
hurt my willing body
teach me how to write
teach me with your cane, Sir
teach me with the pain
gorge yourself on screams, Sir
and swallow down my words.
here, Sir. here they are.
here are my words
here are my poems
here are my metaphors
here is my soul.

and at the end
here they will be
tear tracks on my cheeks
welts upon my thighs
a mark upon my belly
and poems on the page.

How I lured them here

I collect the search words that bring the odd reader to my doorstep. Sometimes they are clearly old readers with vague memories of things I've written, trying to find their way home. And sometimes they are newcomers, stumbling into my fantasies and minimal adventures.

Having spent much of the day serving the fiend's needs for the products of my easily debauched mind, I thought I'd pop off a little poem based on some choice selections from my search word list. But I'm tired. It's Thursday. And I had to endure my doctor's telling me that the three separate results of my thyroid blood test totally contradict each other. So ok, I have to get the test re-done. But this sure better sort itself out. Because if after all those years of resisting lithium, I finally capitulate and find that just a little makes me semi-sane, and then find that it isn't even having the expected unfortunate effect on my thyroid production... now really, can you wonder that i should just want to wash my hands of everything and sink into submission?

So anyway, I'm worn out, and have one remaining task for the fiend (no, I'm not telling, but I'm looking forward to it ever so much...) which means I don't think I have a poem in me. Instead, here's a few sample search words that I have found amusing. And who knows what this list will bring me? (I do love the thought of the serious art students doing a search on the Boucher odalisque who found their way here. At least one obviously had a fun time exploring...)

~ the chair as a metaphor [the first one on my list after the philosopher set up our stat meter. I love this one!]
~ "my master" dog sex [icky...]
~ bad girl in egypt [hmm...]
~ clit chatter [?? a vagina gossip session?]
~ belt panties OR undies "i was punished with" [pretty specific, this one]
~ slave whip dress rope rape [oh yes... the search words alone are a turn on...]
~ cum out of my nose [no cum-ment]
~ the heart never forgets
~ stunning nipples [well, they are!]
~ public butt plug caning [another juicy one]
~ "her hands bound" "he exploded" orgasm [well, it's sure easy to get HIM to cum!]
~ "giving head to a cucumber" [nothing to add]

and my very favorite:

~ why does scaramouche have a big nose [from nyc.gov in Brooklyn]

Enjoy the scavenger hunt for where these searches took them.

PS - 5 more days... please consider voting early if you can... and it feels REALLY good to work for the candidate of your choice. There's still time to add your extra effort to making history.

Wanting...

I’m tired. I worked late again tonight and I’m tired. Not that late, not till eight, that was last week, and seven last night. It was only till 6, and then 10 minutes to home, most people would sneer at my kvetching. But the cats needed feeding and I need my downtime and I have my assignments for my most demanding tutor so I logged off and walked out and here I am home.

I love having cats. I love how they swarm, just two of them but they swarm, they turn up their faces and present a head or a nose to be touched, Ketzel rises up on her strong little legs and gives me a kiss on my nose with hers. They make me feel welcome. They make me feel loved. They make me feel needed as they act like they haven’t been fed in two weeks. And then I’ll find myself with one in my lap, and another hard against my legs, trading their heat for mine, trading their love for mine, and my drafty house feels like a home and my lap and my legs and my heart feel warm.

But you know, sometimes I’d like there to be more. More warmth, from a bigger body, a bigger human body snuggled up against mine. A big soft hard human body to snuggle and hold me and stroke my hair and kiss me for hours and not hurt me. Not hurt my heart and only sometimes hurt my nipples. Arms and lips and tongue and fingers and chest and legs and cock… yeah, sometimes a cock is nice… and losing myself in sensual touch instead of wrestling with the pain… to be aware of every tiny section of my body as it is explored and caressed and enjoyed for my pleasure as well as his.

I want to be loved. Sometimes, I just need to be loved.

There are many forms of intimacy, and many roads to reach it. I’m not saying that one is better than the other, or that I want only one or the other. And of course that can be a problem, too, wanting so much, wanting to be loved, wanting to submit, wanting to be caressed, wanting to be hurt even though I don’t really like the pain but I do find joy in offering my pain… Wanting more than one person is likely to be able to give me.

And I do have a lot now. I do. And I am grateful for it. But sometimes…. sometimes I want the rest of it. Sometimes I want to curl up next to someone the way Marko is now curled up next to me, and to feel someone’s hand stroking my hair and my skin the way I am stroking Marko, and to know that I will feel it again tomorrow… or if not then, at least next week… and that when Barack Obama lands that winning electoral vote he will be here by my side crying and laughing and drinking champagne and toasting a new, hopeful future.

So Marko… how do you feel about champagne?

Vote now - we can change the world

It's not too early to be sure it's not too late.

If you can, vote early.

You never know what could happen next Tuesday.
- long lines
- snow
- flat tire
- not enough machines
- broken machines
- confusing ballots
- attempts at voter disenfranchisement

Do it now.
This is too important.
Don't risk not being able to vote.
This is historic.
And your vote can be the one to make the difference.

The following states permit no excuse, in-person early voting at election offices and, in some states, other satellite locations:

Alaska
Arizona
Arkansas
California
Colorado
Florida
Georgia
Hawaii
Idaho
Ilinios
Indiana
Iowa
Kansas
Louisiana
Maine
Montana
Nebraska
Nevada
New Mexico
North Carolina
North Dakota
Ohio
Oklahoma
South Dakota
Tennessee
Texas
Utah
Vermont
West Virginia
Wisconsin
Wyoming

Source for this list is the National Conference of State Legislatures.

I've made it quite clear on this blog where I stand. I've worked for my candidate and I'll be out there again this weekend. So yes, I'd be happiest if you voted for my guy, and I'll be beside myself with joy and relief when he wins. I think most of the world will be happiest when he wins.

But beyond that, I care about democracy. I care about taking responsibility for our future. We have an amazing freedom here in the United States, we CAN vote, and yet an embarrassingly small percentage of us do.

A single vote can make the difference.
And it could be yours.
So vote.
And if you can
vote early.

Thanks to Deity for inspiring me to write this post today rather than next week.

When is a poet not a poet?

when is a poet not a poet?
when she’s a voodoo doll
stuck with pins
when she’s a twopenny nail
under a hammer
when she’s a slab of meat
pounded till tender
when she’s a hank of hair
grabbed and bound
when she’s the volume knob
turned so high
the knob on a lamp
twisted so tight
when she’s her own nipple
twisted
and pinched
and bitten
so hard
that you can hear the scream.

when she’s a scream.

and nothing more.

Crime & Punishment

adulation
obligation
vacillation
consternation
altercation
remonstration
education
castigation
flagellation
desecration
violation
suffocation
expiation
undulation
celebration
adoration

yes

The post that isn't

I'm too sleepy to write a post tonight. It's been a long, hard, stressful week, and I'm too sleepy to post. But I hate to leave it too long or you will all wander off in search of hotter, lustier, kinkier pastures.

I'm too sleepy to write tonight. I've been going to bed too late this week. I've been working late but still need the same amount of downtime so I've been going to bed too late. MSNBC until 1 in the morning. Dumb. Not a good way to lull myself to sleep.

I'm too sleepy to write. I stayed up late last night and didn't sleep well. All the stress triggered a manic attack. I thought I wasn't supposed to have manic attacks any more. I take lithium now. Though maybe it would have been worse without it, maybe it would have lasted longer, maybe I would have had a fit of road rage, stuck on the Beltway during rush hour, trying to get down to Virginia where yet another synagogue friend was sitting shiva for a parent. And now another member lost a parent today. That's three this week, on top of three during the High Holy Days. We could be aiming for an unwanted mention in the Guinness Book of Records. Both my parents are still living. I'm afraid to answer the phone.

I had a manic attack yesterday. I sent reams of ridiculous emotional ramblings to my perverted pedagogue and... I don't even know quite how to describe his reaction. Stoic? Philosophical? Wry and dry, that's for sure. And not at all sadistic. I deserved worse. And I suppose eventually I'll get it. But for now... thank you, Sir.

I'm too tired to be creative. It's Friday night. I owe you one. I was going to give you a lovely masturbation scene, a nice leisurely bit of self-love... hands passing gently over nakedness, bare back and buttocks reveling in the cool cotton sheets beneath... fingertips idly tracing loops around nipples, which strain towards the ceiling, pleading for abuse... fingers pinch, twist, but never enough, there's something that won't allow them to hurt the way he would... hands traveling down... doing things I can't talk about... traveling, touching, encircling, teasing... swimming in soup of honey and velvet... fingers probing, bending, curling, finding the spot.... a smile and a tear at memories of lessons to find that spot, that spot that should bear a different initial in honor of the guide who showed the way... a fierce twist of a nipple, a small cry, it was harder than expected, fancy that... and down in the dark of the Cumberland mine the fingers are slippery, they start to work harder, after all these years there's no thought involved, it could have been over in a minute or two but it's Friday night, a little self-indulgence is allowed... the fingers know what to do... little sounds escape, body tenses... how do you describe it... this feeling that builds... the fullness... the richness... the swelling... almost an itch... until it's too late... it's too late to stop... an earthquake... a girl-eating wave... an explosion... all those clichés are but vain attempts... pure feeling can't be pinned to a board like a butterfly, it would lose its essence, just like the butterfly... and then... yes... now... it happens... sometimes cataclysmic... sometimes a gentle sigh... and then a pause... and then body-wracking sobs.

And then sleep.

I need to sleep.

So I won't write this post tonight.

Heat and the Hunt

Two cats
furry and soft
an equals sign
in front of the heat.
They know their place,
these self-coddling kittens.
They nose out their place
and claim their own places.
She gets the best spot,
my pert alpha kitty,
who dommes her mom and her
mouse of a brother.
But he gets his.
Or tries to,
when hormones ignore
the surgeon’s quick snip.
Lectures on incest
don’t seem to faze him.
Protocol ignored,
past failures forgotten,
he’ll prove he’s a man
or a tom
or a dom.
He throws himself on her
he gets her by the neck
his teeth
her throat
howls and moans and hisses…
She shakes him off,
her tail a kielbasa
too bristled to eat.
It happens every time.
But there is always a next time.
Men.
They never learn.
But then, neither do I.

There's a bruise on my neck

There's a bruise on my neck. I knew there would be one. The spot has been tender for days. I knew there would be one and I wanted one. I've been surprised there hasn't been one before this.

There's a bruise on my neck. I can hardly see it. I have to angle my head up and try to catch the light without creating shadows with my chin but then I can't look down into the mirror to catch sight of what must by now be a little greenish.

When the philosopher put his hands around my neck it was a guaranteed trip into subspace. His hands needed only hover over my throat and I felt the chute open and I was sliding fast. I loved it. They would close around my neck but never press hard. He didn't need to. The threat alone would do the trick, just as the threat of horrible spankings, of merciless canings, of (shudder) branding, would hoist me up and over the dam and tumbling down into a body-wrenching, soul-rending orgasm.

It was magic, it was art, it was a dance, and it was beautiful.

It was totally safe.

I think I am still totally safe. What collector would risk the very existence of a valued object that he pursued and won and brought back for his own? So I don't expect he will strangle me to death. But oh, the glorious steps along the way...

I am not allowed to write about what happens during my torturing tutor's visits, about what he does to me, except as specifically allowed. And I was allowed to just this once, which should give you at least a taste. Of course, given that my life as my demonic dom's pet could be subtitled The Perverted Education of Kitten, things progress from lesson to lesson, a progress I will not detail until and unless I am instructed to.

Still and all, there is a bruise on my neck. And in the earlier post I spoke of his chain and his hands. And my neck. And I stand naked before him and offer my neck in trust and obedience and frank adoration, and there is such intimacy in such pure trust and things become a little hazy and I am never afraid and he has shown that I need never be afraid and I look in his eyes and I'm never afraid. Not from this.

And then he gives me my life. Not in giving me back my breath. That's easy. Anyone can do that. But he gives me myself. Myself as a writer. I still struggle with my neuroses and my whole alphabet of mental disorders and my stubborn feelings for you-know-who and on and on... I won't bore you with the mundanities of my silly life. They mostly don't cast such big shadows any more. Mostly.

But I feel strong. There's the strength that comes from submission, feeling taller, prouder, such an odd thing when it comes from submitting one's will to another. But then it's a strength that comes from saying yes, this is who I am, this is how I live best, knowing that someone is looking after me, to one extent or another, whether by making sure I get to bed on time or making sure I'm not tossing away my talents, which he believes in.

So therefore I believe in them. Which makes me stronger.

He takes me seriously, my menacing muse, my perverted professor, and he makes me better. He makes me work. He focuses me. He told me I'm beautiful and I looked in the mirror and I saw it. He says I'm a writer, not just someone who writes, and I look at my poems, I look in my mind, and I can almost see what he sees. He believes in me, I am his treasure, he takes a cloth to me and he makes me shine.

And he takes my breath away.

Thank you, Sir.

Thank you for giving me my life.

The Poetry Sweatshop

Tucked away in an old, abandoned factory on a back street in an eastern town is a poetry sweatshop. Gone are the days of a poet summoning creation in a light-filled study, a cat on the carpet, flowers on the desk, and a maid serving tea and scones as the afternoon sun relaxes towards the horizon. The economy is bad and working conditions have suffered.

The lucky poet may have some sort of patron, or even owner, but not all are provided with a suitable workplace. Patrons, too, are suffering, and many must board out their poets like horses. Poetry sweatshops are stables for poets. But here, the writers aren’t allotted even as much as a stall to work in. There is one room filled with small desks to which each poet is chained by the leg. The desks are outfitted with a small computer, a small notebook, and one pen. Replacement notebooks and pens must be requested via the poet’s patron, and God forbid the computer should crash. There is a strict limit of two bottles of water a day, to prevent too many bathroom breaks, especially among the women writers, whose claim to small weak bladders is regarded with suspicion.

Two over-enthusiastic foremen supervise production. They are authorized to deliver brief words of praise for copious output, and swift, harsh, if brief punishment for distraction or what is deemed laziness. Here, writer's block never lasts long. The foremen are not charged with determining quality. That falls to The Owner of the establishment.

The Owner takes his responsibility towards the advancement of the arts very seriously. He is also a thoroughgoing sadist, and enjoys a bit too much his work in quality control. He maintains a side room just for that purpose, where more serious punishment is administered for work that does not meet his high standards. Patrons may also use the room for expressing their own disapproval, or, for an extra fee, have The Owner express it for them.

By deliberate design, the punishment room not only lacks sound-proofing, but has windows that open into the work area as a warning to any poets who may be slacking off. Of course, there is always the chance that the occasional weak-stomached writer will be distressed and distracted by the screams bursting forth from the next room, but over time they learn to control their reactions. The desk chairs are hard, and not kind to newly-caned bottoms.

There is one desk set slightly apart from the others. Here sits and slaves the poet belonging to The Owner himself. Other than the location of her little workplace, only two obvious characteristics distinguish this writer from the others. One is that, in addition to the chain from her ankle to the desk, there is a choke chain around her neck which is attached to the back of the chair. The second is that she must work naked.

Periodically, The Owner will take his pet poet off to a private room for instruction and correction. Her screams are heart-rending, but she always returns to her desk with head held high and a glow on her tear-stained face. She sits gingerly for the next day or two, but her production always improves.

She has no complaints and considers herself lucky. They say “You gotta suffer if you want to sing the blues.” The same can be said of writing poetry.

Certainly, The Owner is in total agreement.

painpleasurepainmmmm...

He was here tonight.
The cats are still disconcerted.
He hurt me tonight.
He hurt me and I screamed and I cried
and I begged for more.
He hurt me and I begged for more
not because I liked it
but to please him.
I did please him.
And he hurt me.

He scared me this time.
It was the first time, really.
Not the whole time
but there were moments...
moments when I felt this fear.
Fear of what he would do to me.
Thinking about it now,
somewhat rationally
though still floating in a haze
of endorphins and oxytocin,
I know that there is nothing to be afraid of.
I know that I can always sit up and say
"Stop. That's it. I don't want this."
But I don't. I didn't. And maybe
that's what scares me.

He hurt me.
He hurt me more than before.
Or maybe not. I'm not sure.
I was feeling very vulnerable
even before he let loose his
sadistic will on my pale naked body,
so maybe things just hurt more.
Certainly, I found them harder to deal with.

He scared me.
He hurt me.
A lot.
I screamed.
A lot.
More than ever.
And I cried.
I was crying even before the first blow.
I cried and I screamed and I sobbed and I came.

He hurt me.
And he marked me.
I feel like his property.
I always feel like his property
but even more after a visit.
I feel like his property
and that makes me feel proud.

I learned things.
He taught me things.
I treasure the lessons,
the direction he gives me,
the requirements,
even the punishments
because they point the way.

I think I pleased him.
I hope I did.
Because that's all that matters.

I will be floating for days.
I'll be hurting for days, too,
and am glad I have the weekend
to tend to my wounds
(well, not wounds exactly
but I wish I could go topless
for the next three days...)

I will be floating for days
and happier for even longer
and I think that I pleased him
and I do want to please him
and there are things to remember
and I'll write him more poems
and I'll float through the pain
and admire my bruises
and sleep like a baby
as long as I don't roll over
on my front or my back
and I'll float through the weekend
and eventually
the cats
will stop looking nervous.

Thank you, Sir.

Don't worry, kittens.
Everything will be all right.

Dubious genetics

I’m in a cage of mundane things
mind leashed
straining towards passion
but forced to focus
on mundane things.
Such is the life of a captive poet.

Marko brings his love to my lap,
cautious, worried,
sure I’ll jump up or
deny any minute
his right to exist.
He is so vulnerable
so insecure. He’d be
jealous if he were braver
but all he can do is
hunger for love
long for affection
beg for attention
sure that any minute
it will be snatched from his paws.

Ah, my furry son.
Can adoption convey painful DNA
along with a vow to love and protect
and take yearly to the vet?

He turns around and settles down
claiming his space alongside my leg
his left arm stretched out on the afghan
as if to declare with false confidence “Mine.”
He will lie there, happy and adoring
until evicted by a sudden sneeze
or the sight of his domme of a sister.
We understand each other.
Revel in what you have
but take nothing for granted.
When in doubt, wash.

Autumn temptation

Happy apples
fervent red
wrapped around
flesh that's moist
white and giving
if apt to bruise
when dealt a blow.
The moon is full.
Feast.


(posted with permission)

3 more weeks

Three more weeks
until the future rides into town
and Hope becomes Reality.
Three more weeks
and WE will have done it.

But we can't be complacent.
This election will be won
one vote at a time.

Don't know what to do?

Go to the website:

www.barackobama.com

Canvas.
Make phone calls.
Talk to your neighbors.
Wear a button.
Put up a yard sign.
Put blatantly political statements on your sex-and-poetry blog.

Join the Great Shlep to Florida

from which my parents saved me by moving back up to Connecticut.
(Speaking of which, congratulations Connecticut
for letting wedding bells ring for all!)

Do you remember that great line from Tom Lehrer's song The Folk Song Army?

Remember the war against Franco?
That's the kind where each of us belongs.
Though he may have won all the battles,
We had all the good songs.

Well, this time we've got it all. We WILL win the battle, in a respectful, non-violent sort of way, but we also have the most creative and resourceful bunch of supporters any cause or candidate could want. So when you get tired of making phone calls to Ohio, or need to let your cell phone re-charge, take a little break for this seasonal activity (website courtesy of the philosopher):

http://yeswecarve.com

And if you can't vote in this election, for whatever reason, including being citizens of a country on the other side of the globe (Hej då Sverige! Hello Turkey! Hello Malta!), hope and pray that we can get it right this time. The world we save will be yours.

The votes are cast (or not)

This was your last chance.
An open invitation
to save me from a
dom who must be Satan here
on earth. A bad man.
Evil and sadistic and
manipulative
of vulnerable kittens
who must be rescued.
But only one of you gave
reasons for concern.
And the philosopher called.
He left reassured
though still vowing to protect.
He will rescue me
if rescuing is needed,
riding his horse down
I-95 to save me.
For now, I’ll risk it.
I’ll kneel before Satan and
serve with my pen and my soul.

Why are you so worried about me?

OK, folks. Out with it. A number of you have made reference in various ways to being worried about my relationship with my sadistic Svengali.

What is it that worries you exactly?

Given that:
- he is a sadist
- he is manipulative
- he exploits my vulnerabilities

Given also that even as he draws out my submission, he makes me glow, he makes me strong, and he inspires and disciplines me as a writer.

Why are so many of you worried?

Be bold.
Be specific.
Be honest.

Let's get this out on the table. I am asking in good faith and request true and open answers.

please...?

You never forget your first

Originally published here on Smart Girls Who Do It.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The first person I ever killed was the man who would have been ex-hubby #2. If he had lived.

We were standing in the kitchen of the house I loved in the town I loved, after years in a house that was too dark and a so-called city I hated. It was a few days after he had said he wanted to separate. I had said I had no intention of waiting around 6 months, putting my life on hold while he figured out what he wanted to do. I wanted a divorce.

We were standing in the kitchen. I don’t remember what we were talking about. It didn’t really matter. I had a knife in my right hand. It was the knife I used for everything. A Sabatier from back when we were all buying Sabatiers. I’d had the knife for a very long time. I’d had the man all told for 20 years.

He had said the marriage wasn’t fulfilling. It wasn’t what he needed. Well of course not. It wasn’t really a marriage. It takes two people to be married, which of necessity means thinking of someone other than yourself occasionally. If he had put even half the effort into the marriage as had gone into his academic and musical careers, we would have had a chance.

We didn’t have a chance.

We were standing in the kitchen, the knife in my hand. I didn’t even think about it. I just walked over to him and plunged it into his belly. He looked surprised.

The blood made quite a mess on the kitchen floor. And I hate washing the kitchen floor.

It was my first run-in with the law. They didn’t even charge me. Justifiable homicide. I told them how I had taken care of him for 20 years. How I had taken him to the hospital again and again, saved his life by alerting staff to a blood clot headed towards his brain, cleansed and dressed the disgusting surgery site after yet another operation on his rectal abscesses. I spent weeks of my life waiting for him outside bathrooms, as the Crohn’s disease continued to eat away at him while he refused to “take responsibility for his own illness.”

Justifiable homicide. While he was thinking of leaving me, I was standing in the doctor’s office, holding his hand through yet another colonoscopy.

Justifiable homicide. When I was diagnosed with melanoma and called him with the unpromising prognosis, sure that he would join me at the surgeon’s office that afternoon, he said sorry, he had a committee meeting, he would see me at home that night.

Jews have a special respect for firsts. We make note of contrasts. Dark and light. Day and night. Weekday and Shabbos. Holy and holier and the holiest day of all. Not out of judgment as to which is best, but to heighten awareness.

We have a special prayer for firsts. I like to explain it in the context of the first strawberry of the season. Of course, we don’t have seasons for strawberries any more. This is the era of Get What You Want When You Want It. We have strawberries from California, from Mexico. Modern life means never having to say No Strawberries.

Except those aren’t real strawberries. They are big and red and exuding fruit pheromones. But any strawberry has only a defined amount of luscious strawberriness, and in these over-confident specimens that essence of delight is stretched thin, like frozen orange juice mixed with three times the required amount of water to make it go farther.

So think of a real strawberry. Small, ripe, fresh picked, warm from the sun. It’s your first one for the year. Stop. Look at it. Swim in its color. Float on its scent. Attention must be paid. Be grateful for this moment, for this pleasure, for this first taste of moist perfection like the first kiss from a man you’ve been waiting to meet for half a year.

And before you take that first bite, before that first kiss, there is this prayer, to remind you to pause and savor and be grateful.

Baruch ata, Adonai Elohèinu, Mèlech ha-olam, she-hecheyànu v’kiy’mànu v’higi-ànu la-z’man ha-zeh.

Praised are You, our Eternal God, Ruler of time and space, who has kept us in life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season.

I didn’t say the she-hecheyànu before plunging the knife into what later, appropriately, turned out to be my husband’s colon. I said it afterwards, as he lay on the kitchen floor bleeding to death. I had taken care of him long enough. It was time he learned how to take care of himself.

So that was my first. It gets easier as I go on, though I’m smart enough to disguise them as accidents that can’t be connected to me. The guy next door who insisted on parking in front of my house. The woman in the 10 Items or Less line who was obviously counting 12 little cans of cat food and 5 bottles of soda as 1 item each. The Comcast installation technician when he finally arrived 2 hours late.

Oh yes. And all those personnel directors who didn’t hire me.

I don’t take rejection easily.

Liberation Day

Ten years ago today, give or take maybe a week or so, I climbed into a U-haul truck with my cat and my best friend and drove east, away from Michigan and an emotionally abusive marriage.

I've been aware for a while that I've been here for 10 years, and every time that milestone crosses my mind, my reaction has been "Oh? really? has it been that long?"

Until this morning. For some reason, the realization that I had been here for ten years sent me into a fragile state.

Perhaps it has something to do with the collapse of the economy. Not that it is making all that much difference in my future. I'm nearly 60 and for quite a while have already been thinking that I'll never be able to afford to retire. I'm nearly 60 and I suspect I will never be able to afford to live alone. Do you know how demeaning it is at my age to have to worry about whether my housemate will be around to hear my screams when the fiend beats me? I'm still dealing with the psychological damage inflicted by ex-hubby #2, so can you blame me for wanting him to die so I can collect my widow's benefits from Social Security? (Yup, it seems I do still get the pay-off, even though he's got a new wife, because of how long we were married. I guess there are some specks of justice in the world.)

I've been thinking a lot about my submissiveness, and realizing that I was in fact very submissive with him. Except that he wasn't holding up his end of the contract - largely, I suppose, because he wasn't aware of the contract and didn't even understand the implication of the marriage contract. Both require some measure of attentiveness to the other person. A dom can't just ignore his sub. He can for a while, but eventually the relationship won't exist any more. The interaction is key. It takes some effort to control, and there does have to be at least some form of praise every so often. So ultimately there I was, trying to do everything, trying to be pleasing, drowning in depression and Seasonal Affective Disorder (this was Michigan, after all) and being told that if I wanted to spend the winter in the Southwest I could just go.

One of my darkly favorite memories was from one late fall night when he was carrying on at me for not having balanced the check book for months. We were standing in the dining room, and I was leaning against the wall in a serious state of clinical depression. Finally I said "You're upset about my not balancing the check book, and I'm wanting to be dead!" I was safe from suicide... you need energy and some measure of a focused mind to kill yourself. But I would consciously think that if I came down with cancer again it would be ok.

So the residue of 20 bad years - on top of the self-hatred for being so weak and needy and dependent and afraid of a future on my own that I didn't escape the marriage until he decided he didn't feel like being married any more - all this toxic sludge rose up into my overly susceptible psyche today and had me feeling weepy. Not good. Not good at all.

And then I did something either really stupid or really brilliant, depending on whether you look at the act itself or the outcome. I wrote a self-indulgent message to my sadistic Svengali.

I knew right away that it was stupid. He has assigned himself a certain role in my life, and maintains a certain persona. Personally, I know that this is not all there is to him, but it is all he chooses to activate in dealing with me. So he was by no means sympathetic, and gave me a good kick in the ass. Actually, a better characterization would be a kick in the face. Followed by a writing assignment. And it worked, like in the movies where the correct response to hysteria is a slap in the face or a bucket of cold water over the head. I snapped out of it, and started scrawling all sorts of goodies in my little notebook which now just lack editing before I send them off for his amusement. You will never see them. They are his, and they contain personal details that should not be shared with the public.

However, I won't leave you empty-handed. This seems an appropriate time to post here an amusing little piece I originally wrote for the delicious blog Smart Girls Who Do It. Do check them out. It's the least I can do for them, since that one piece is the only one I've delivered since being invited to join.

The assignment was to write about one or more of the firsts in our life. Which is why I called it You never forget your first.

The Nature of Evil

It's not what he does to my body.
It's how he takes possession of my mind.

He plants these seeds. Images. Phrases. And they take root. They take root and dig down into my soul, sending shoots back up through the pores in my skin, shoots that grow into vines, vines that wind round my limbs and encircle my neck, tight as his chain.

He plants seeds. And the flowers that spring forth are dark and beautiful, midnight purples and blood reds. He plucks the flowers and smears my flesh with their pollen. I suck the remnants off his fingers, and live off it for weeks.

The bruises he leaves on my flesh eventually lighten and fade. They may be replaced by new ones, but these too will heal. The images, however, will never go away. They crowd the fertile garden plot of my mind, they trip over each other to blossom and grow. There is something slightly decadent about the lushness of the blooms, the thickness of the scent. But the decadence doesn't frighten me.

He says he is evil.
He pushes me.
He dangles fear.
But he isn't evil.
He glories in his darkness.
It is a beautiful darkness
and it intoxicates me.

Feed me, Sir.

Feed me the seeds of your midnight mind. Like Persephone, I will follow you down into the catacombs of your hell, where I will dance and thrive under the shafts of sunlight that you can't stop from sneaking through the thick stone walls.

(Posted with permission.)

Love and loss and finding peace: a rambling meditation

please forgive the extremely disjointed nature of this post. i'm tired and have a cold and am still somewhat emotional - who, me? but i need to get it down here as much as to have a record of it as anything else. thanks to all of you for your forbearance.
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i had a meltdown yesterday.

it was nobody’s fault really. but there were a lot of contributors. hormones and hot flashes, exhaustion and overload, loss and potential loss, all played their parts.

and there was an unintended trigger.

my professorial pervert gave me a new assignment as he continues his training of me to better serve his desires. it is a very reasonable assignment, creative and evocative. unfortunately, part of it recalled a particular penchant of the philosopher’s, and as i read the careful instructions i started to cry.

and kept on crying.

the tears and distress continued for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.

i was in such an odd sort of pain. i was horribly aroused by my tutor’s words, as i always am. my cunt was wet and swollen and it hurt. extreme arousal can truly hurt. but my heart hurt, too. it wasn’t even a case of consciously thinking “oh i love him, oh i miss him, oh this was something he used to write about, this was something he would make me do and the memories are too difficult to bear, etc. etc…" it wasn’t that specific. it was just this pain of loss deep inside. the awareness of absence, even as i yearned for my cruel collaborator and his chain and his cane and his pain for which he wants me to beg. my needs have been separated from each other, the love and the sadism, the caring and the control. i need both and i pine for the one i lost.

hearing later that my favorite aunt has breast cancer didn’t help.

i felt like an utter failure. my evil educator had made a very welcome request on top of the assignments, and i could fulfill neither the request nor the assignments. the crying was making me feel out of control and sick. and i was embarrassed at how my grief and the sense of loss still possessed me.

finally, as always happens eventually, i broke down and sent the philosopher a rambling, disjointed, miserable message, and then took a tiny little half-pill to see if i could get the crying to stop.

he sent me a message back, which i didn’t see as i was trying in vain to be productive. and then he called.

he is so good to me, this man. i don’t know if it is because he no longer feels the weight of being responsible for me, or because my mood swings are less common and normally not landing in his lap, or because he himself is feeling better, or what. but he has gone back to being supportive and welcoming when i am in need.

there has been some discussion among the comments about how i do not receive after-care from my demon muse. i was admittedly concerned about this tenet of his going in, but for various reasons have found that it is not an issue. however, i DO need to be taken care of – not necessarily in connection with my lessons, but in connection with life. i need to feel that someone cares what happens to me, that someone is there when needed, that there will be arms around me when i need comfort. verbal arms will do the trick – they are not ideal but from the right person they can be quite effective. they just have to be there.

the philosopher’s arms are there for me. and slowly i am coming to accept that as reality, and slowly i am accepting that it is ok for me to turn to him. and slowly i am coming to believe that he won’t turn his back on me for being upset.

instead he says “it’s ok, kitten, i understand. we both have our moods.”

so we talked last night. or he talked and i mostly cried. and something came out of it that i hope will help me find peace with the change in our relationship.

he spoke of the fact that we are both struggling with our feelings.

it was funny in a way. he mentioned it and then went on and i almost shook my head and said wait. go back. and like a cassette tape in a machine without a tape counter it took a few false tries to get back to the right spot and finally i had to repeat what i had heard him say.

so yes, we are both struggling with the loss. and he thinks about me all the time. and he reads this blog almost every day, which i know from my stats and eventually knew even when he disguised his address. and after hugging that outright admission to myself, and after thinking how sad it was that here were two people who cared for each other so much (whatever names you want to put to the emotions) but couldn’t make things work as a relationship, i realized that maybe there was a way to ease the pain.

my idea was to separate the two issues.

being without the daily contact hurts.
being without the rituals hurts.
not being his alarm clock,
not getting tucked into bed at night,
all that hurts.
not choosing my panties for him hurts.
not going without panties for him hurts.
not cumming for him hurts
but at least i have my demon muse
so some of my needs are being met and more.

not being his girlfriend hurts.

but worst of all has been the feeling that i have been alone with all this emotion.

so now i’m not alone with them. but still, for various reasons, as “a relationship” it can’t work. but i’m hoping, perhaps naively but i have to try whatever might work, i’m hoping that by splitting the two issues i can hug the one to myself and slowly come to terms with the other.

as was always the case, distance and dissertation are overwhelming obstacles. and understanding the philosopher as i do, as i do now more than ever, i can work on trying to accept that. he could end up with a job in Nowhere, Kansas or Wasilla, Alaska and we wouldn’t have a chance. but at least i don’t have to face the loss alone. i know he is suffering from it, too, and somehow that makes me feel stronger. and happier.

so i cried (big surprise) and we talked, and he calmed me down, and showed his concern for me, and how he is looking after me, and then he said that i was exhausted and that i needed to go to bed. and i said “yes, sir”, quite automatically, and then apologized, and he said that’s ok, in this case it was appropriate, and i felt so safe and reassured, and it felt so good to be taken care of again.

and oh rats, i’m feeling weepy again now, but in a good way.

i didn’t get to bed as fast as he would have wanted, i still had too much to do, and i did still cry some more. but i felt much better. i do feel much better, except for having a cold.

in a way, it feels like the earth has settled back on its axis. we have each other, even though we can’t have each other, and that makes me feel stronger and safer. and i have my sadistic Sorcerer, or rather, he has me, and that makes me feel stronger, too, if not always quite safe. actually, and oddly, i do feel safe with him. we get too much from each other for him to want to push me past what i can take. i truly believe that, and i do know that he paces my lessons very carefully so as not to go too far too fast. even if his reasons are selfish ones, the outcome is the same, so i think you can all relax on that account.

the oddest thing about yesterday is this. i have these tiny square-shaped dangling earrings, that have a stylized outline of a cat etched into the surface. i took to calling them my slave kitten earrings, and wearing them would make me feel very owned, almost as if they were a collar. they hadn’t come from the philosopher, i had bought them for myself, but i assigned them the meaning and they were very powerful for me.

i have not been able to wear them since i stopped fighting the philosopher’s attempts to break up with me.

i had not worn them until yesterday. for some reason, yesterday morning i felt i could deal with putting them on again.

and today, i was able to put them on again.

no, he doesn’t own me any more. a doctoral student has enough to deal with. but when i need him, i know he will be there to take care of me. and if he will let me, i will always be here to take care of him.

and somehow, i hope we are starting on a road to finding peace.

PAIN 102

my training continues.

my satanic sadist is becoming more specific in his instructions, for which i am ever so grateful. it is much easier to please him now that i know more clearly what he wants.

his newly specified desires are no surprise really, considering that we are both acolytes of the power of the word. it’s not enough that he can see from my eyes and from my willingness to accept whatever torture he inflicts on me that i do want him to hurt me. it’s not enough that he knows from my screams and small movements to escape the blows that he is indeed hurting me. it’s not enough that he can deduce from my expressions of devotion that it is for his needs alone that i offer my body for his use because i want to please him and sate, if only for a moment, his horrific lusts.

he wants me to humiliate myself by begging him to hurt me and then hauling myself out of subspace enough to speak of my pain and plead for more.

he didn’t say anything about humiliation. as i was writing the last section that word can rushing out and i realized that, while i can easily write scenes and poems of asking him to hurt me for his pleasure, when i envision myself in the moment, i feel very shy and rather embarrassed.

there is nothing half-way about the tortures he unleashes on me. the spankings aren’t too bad, although when he smacks me very hard the sensation crosses the line from pain-that-is-pleasure into pain that is nothing more than pain. but the canings… the forthright beatings with a strip of baseboard trim that passes for a cane, the new cherry one heavier and less flexible than the original oak piece… the canings are just plain cruel and are meant to be so.

and now…

he has promised… he has threatened… that we will be moving on in my instruction. my training advances, as does his toying with my body and my fears, all for his amusement, all for his arousal, all for the satisfaction of directing the despoiling of my flesh and contradicting my insistence that he is not in fact evil.

he wants to prove otherwise.

and somehow, although now i am once again starting to be a bit afraid of what i have committed to, i want this. i am torn with longing for his next visit. longing and fear and curiosity and desire that is ripping my body into little panting shreds of begging flesh flecked with tears of moisture from my cunt.

and that’s what is so humiliating about asking him to hurt me.
i do want this.
i do want him to hurt me.
even though while it is going on i think it can’t stop soon enough.

i’m not sure i can take anything worse than what he did last time
but although my butt complained for days afterwards
i also floated for days afterwards on pure joy.

i am very confused.
but i am going forward.
i am not his slave.
i choose this
and i will continue to choose this
as long as i want it.
and i do want it.

below is a small... what shall i call it? it is a prayer almost, a ritual plea, that i wrote on waking up this morning. ever since he told me that he wants me to ask him to hurt me, as well as to speak to him of the pain as it happens, i have been obsessed with the notion of asking for the pain. i can’t shake it. my mind returns to it again and again, i keep thinking about it, and writing about it, and imagining doing it. i keep seeing myself standing there naked before him, looking up into his eyes, feeling so shy but still managing to look into his eyes, for his sake, for the sake of his own pleasure, for his pleasure, not mine, asking him…

and so i wrote the following, which pleased him and which he said i may share with you all, along with the above hints of his plans for me. i do not doubt that this brief relaxation in restrictions over what i may write was inspired by reasons both calculated and manipulative, and that he will thoroughly enjoy any concerns over my physical and emotional safety that are expressed to me either publicly or privately, but i can do no more than follow his instructions.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

please, Sir...

hurt me.

for your sake.
hurt me.
to feed your desire.
hurt me.
to feed your hunger.
hurt me.
to answer your need.
hurt me.

because i am yours.

hurt me.

because i am yours.

"To let go what must be let go"

I feel like I should be writing something here.

I've been writing reams and reams for the Sorcerer today, pieces that might have gone here except then I couldn't help adding on personal bits and then I gave them to him because really, they were for him all along.

I'm tired and floaty and my butt only hurts a little and Marko is beside me on the couch giving himself a very thorough tongue bath and I wish the man who owns and canes me were here.

OK, truth be told, I just wish that SOMEONE were here. We could push Marko over. There'd be room for a third.

In some ways, I'm quite happy being home alone with the cats. I'm exhausted, and tomorrow will be disgustingly busy until so late that it will be early, and I will be surrounded by more people than I will at times want to deal with. But I will have a position of responsibility and will not be able to hide myself away. So being alone tonight is exactly what I wanted.

And yet...

There are theoretically a number of options, all of which are in fact not options at all. They are all unavailable or inappropriate, busy or far away. There's my old lover, whom I now classify as a friend with whom I sometimes have sex (he agrees to this designation for the pair of us), who will be back out this way in November. We can celebrate the election outcome with our own fireworks after hours and hours of gentle, thorough, considerate, attentive love-making. The man is brilliant in a vanilla sort of way. But good natural vanilla is in fact quite delicious, and I'm looking forward to seeing him again.

There's my director, my collector, my tormentor, whom I would love to be with but who, I suspect, is not the sort of companion I need on a night like this. On the other hand, should he text me that he was sitting in his car in front of my house, I would immediately realize that he was EXACTLY what I needed on a night like this. On any night. On any day. He has that effect on me. I have suspicions that he hypnotized me the moment he turned up that first time and that's why, since then, my will has not been my own. But I don't care. I'm glad that he wanted to take possession and did.

Could be worse. He doesn't leave me barking like a chicken. (Yes, I know that makes no sense whatsoever, but that's what popped into my head so I let it out. Shows how really really tired I am. I shouldn't be allowed to write when I'm this tired. Because now I'm going to make a fool of myself.)

You know what I'm going to say now, don't you? You know whom I really need...

Is this going to happen every damn night I'm home alone with the cats?

I want to be quiet.
I want to be comfortable.
I want to snuggle up to you on the couch.
You'll be doing cryptic crosswords.
I'll be doing... it doesn't matter.
Maybe nothing.
I'll be swimming in the joy of being next to you,
in the joy of having you in my life.
I'll be admiring the haircut I gave you.
I'll be taking your picture
trying to capture in pixels what is you
as if knowing all along that this idea of
we, of us, was a mirage.

I miss you.
I need to let it go.
I keep thinking I have.
But I haven't.
I can't.

The evil egotist told me that I needed to have notebooks. So I bought them, and took one with me to High Holy Day services. Considering that every year I've been scrawling inspirational passages on any scrap of paper I could get my hands on, it was a remarkably sensible idea.

This year, a passage jumped out at me with accusatory relevance.

T'shuva/Repentance: to look within ourselves, to change what can be changed, to repair what can be repaired, to let go what must be let go.

"To let go what must be let go."

There are two things that I must let go.

1. my hatred for ex-hubby #2
2. my love for the philosopher

Well, maybe I don't have to stop loving him so much as let that love ease into something else. And mostly I need to let go of Hope. Let me focus my need for Hope on Barack Obama. And how convenient - Obama can take care of Change as well. I do need to get to work on this change business.

But I have to stop hoping that we will ever go back to being a we. I have to let it go.

I stun myself sometimes. I am thoroughly, properly obsessed with and devoted to the man who now guides me and teaches me and canes me and chokes me, who encourages both my writing and my submission. Yet I can switch in an instant from thoughts of the man who owns and hurts me to thoughts of the man who owned and loved me.

I touched myself last night. I was aroused from touching the canes and the chain, from hiding them away for company and then taking them back out again. I lay there on my bed, thinking of the fiend who has turned my life upside down, and I remembered the things he had done to me, I rolled the memories around in the mouth of my mind, tasting the sweetness and the burning heat, remembering the pain and delighting in the total lack of fear. My body was torn with desire and devotion and memories of serving him, and the twinges of lingering pain as I writhed on the bed brought back memories of his cruelty and aroused me even more. And his words and his deeds and his all-encompassing presence devoured me and I came and I came and I cried and I sobbed...

and as I sobbed, I cried out my love for the philosopher.

As I am crying now.

And if that isn't confusing, I don't know what is.

I'm tired.
I'm exhausted.
I have a long day tomorrow.
I feel like an idiot.
I long for two men and I want different things from each one.
And the fiend will read this and heap scorn on me
and he'll be right.
I need to let go.
It never could have worked
and I'm only hurting myself.
And the philosopher will read this and be sad
and he'll be right.
I need to let go.
It never could have worked
and he can't give me what
I can only hope
he wishes he could.

Time to go to bed.
Time to touch myself.
Time to burn with desire for the man I serve.
Time to cry for the man I can't have.
Time to cry
and eventually
time to let go.

And I will try NOT to think about this other passage I copied from our prayer book:

At this moment is the universe born.
At this moment, all things are possible.

Still floating

It's 27 hours later and I still haven't come down.

Maybe that comes from exhaustion. I didn't have enough recovery time yesterday. There had been a tremendous (for me) assault on my body and all I got to do after sending my tormentor my initial report on the experience and writing my post was (I think) doze a little. It may not even have been sleep. It may just have been a brief journey into the far reaches of subspace. Then it was up for a shower and cat-feeding and a quick supper and into the car to run downtown for evening services, hoping no one noticed the assorted red marks on my neck.

Exhaustion. I haven't been getting to bed early enough. No one has taken that responsibility over from the philosopher. My demon muse controls me in different ways. It's my responsibility to keep myself in fit shape to serve him. But I lose myself in writing for him - all those pieces this blog will never see because they belong to him.

I'm in a lot of post-caning pain. Well, a lot for me, anyway, I'm sure many of you have been beaten way worse than I was, and have suffered more and longer. But it's a lot for me, and worse than I've ever experienced, and pain drains me. It hurts to sit down, it hurts to stand up, it hurts to change position, to roll over in bed, to walk. It hurts just to sit, there is this dull ache deep in the muscles of my buttocks, the pain feels like it is camping just inside my anus and is poring over a map of the entire region as it plans to overrun my entire body.

The pain is ever-present. As are the smiles. My inner smiles planted their national flag throughout my body much faster than the pain did. And then there were the outer smiles, and sense of delight, and aura of peace, radiating all around me for anyone to see. Not that my friends could pin down what they were picking up from me. They just talked about how beautiful my hair looks.

I don't wear a collar. I am not a slave. I am a poet, I am a pet, I am a private court jester except that it is all very serious. The court poet. I serve at his Majesty's pleasure, I serve FOR his pleasure, and I ensure his pleasure.

I don't wear a collar. There is no chain around my ankle. But I know I am owned. I know it deep inside me. And these days, I have this pain in my ass to make sure I never forget it.

Thank you, Sir.