Use and service

Written 2 days ago, right after the fact.

I'd been thinking about the Irishman for days. I was stressed out and needing human contact.

Today, he e-mailed me.
He e-mailed me and I didn't see the message.

He uses my anonymous yahoo account that I keep for craigslist ads - ads for housemates and lovers and perverts. It is NOT my oatmeal girl account, because I prefer to keep my blog secret from the men I meet. It's awfully tricky to write about them otherwise....

So Wednesday he e-mailed my yahoo account, and I didn't see the message because I mostly don't use that account. I've been keeping it open just in case he wants me. But I didn't see this.

We have an arrangement. If and when he wants me, he can have me. For use. A very functional relationship. There might not be much notice, there might not be a snuggle afterwards, no sitting around and chatting beforehand... I love it.

OK, it's not my top choice. I really like this guy. Something about him appeals to me. He's very good looking. Smart, charming (the little he's allowed me to see), Irish of course, grey hair that doesn't make him look old, an enticingly wry crooked smile... I wish I could date him. But of course he's not available. Not even an open marriage. He just has these needs, simmering underneath all the time, and then they rise to the surface and need release. And I said yes, I'd be there for him, I'd be his slut, he could use me as he needed me. Better than having to score a new girl from craigslist each time.

And the idea excites the hell out of me.

Unfortunately, there had been no opportunity for him to use me until today. He had asked once or twice - with a minimum of e-mailed words in which you could hear the politeness - but the timing was off. I was sorry. And then this week... I did so need to be with someone this week, no matter what the circumstances. As long as it was someone with whom I felt a connection.And I do feel a connection with him.

But I didn't see his e-mail.

And then he phoned. A little before 9 pm. And I said yes, of course.

He was here in half an hour.

He gestured with his head and we went straight to the bedroom. He bent me over the foot of the bed and spanked me a few times, through my jeans. He doesn't hit me that hard... I wonder
why my butt hurts now? Because it definitely does hurt. I wish he'd done more. I wished he'd had the time and the inclination to spank me for 20 minutes... to spank me until I sank into the rhythm and the pain... not that painful in each slap but pain that built, and that got worse as my ass became more and more tender... I wanted to externalize the pain from these last days, make it tangible... but this was better than nothing. And it does still hurt.

He bent me over the foot of the bed and spanked me. Then he ordered me to take off my jeans and panties. I didn't get the impression he wanted anything more to come off. He was focused and goal oriented. He had asked ahead of time whether I had condoms, so I had already arrayed them and assorted lubricants on the bedside table. He positioned me back over the foot of the bed and said he wanted my ass. He was kind, checking to be sure that was ok. He said he wanted a minimum of talking. I did tell him that this would be the first time. He said in that case it would hurt - and was I all right with that? He is a very kind dom. I said yes, I was all right with it, I wanted it.

What do you want?

Whatever you do, sir.

Do you want to be my slut?

Yes, sir, I do want to be your slut! (a slight smile slips into my voice)

Good girl.

He spanked my bare ass. I could hear condom and lube action. He had been rubbing his be-jeaned erection into the crack, rubbing, pressing, banging... I wanted him. I wanted him using me like this, reducing me to a hole or two... my sadistic demon muse has been exploring objectification with me and has plans to do more. This little adventure would have made him happy, I think.

So yes, he spanked my bare ass. Not all that hard but hard enough that it still hurts as I write this later that evening. I wonder if he saw any remnants of my birthday beating.

And I wonder if my demon muse cast a spell on my virgin anus. A spell that locked it tight. Because the Irishman couldn't make it in.

He went to Plan B.

He fucked my cunt from behind. It didn't take too long, this was a utilitarian fucking with nothing to prove. But I felt him banging at me from behind, I felt him inside me, I felt the pressure, a nice erect cock inside me. Hallelujah.

He came. He remained inside me just a very brief time. Just as long as he needed. Then he smacked my ass one more time... it was a good hard smack but I experienced it as a good-bye kiss... he smacked me that one more time then bent over my back and murmured in my ear "I'm going to go now. Stay there." I sighed contentedly and said "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

And then he was gone.

From arrival to departure it couldn't have been more than 20 minutes.

Would I have liked more? Sure. I would have liked at least a half hour of spanking and fucking and a whole lot of other things in between. I'm not greedy... because what I would really have liked was an hour... including a pair of naked bodies and his weight on me... and kisses... we did kiss the first time he came here... he kisses well... but this was fine. This was very fine... there was a body here... there was pain... there was sex... and even though he needed to reduce me to a hole, he was still someone who needed me. Who needed to be with me.

And that felt just lovely.

Thank you, sir.
I am your slut, sir, on call, and happy to serve.

Cock, Dick, or Harry?

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That which is missing

not all that often
just now and then
ghosts walk
like now
when i pushed a sock
down past my ankle
pulling it off
to throw in the wash
and my hand was surprised
at the lack of a chain
a paper clip chain
that linked me to you.
sometimes
absence
is a presence.

I've been feeling absence lately. Voids. The sadist is sick. Really sick. It's hard to imagine him being felled by bacteria, but so it is. I picture him beached on his sofa, a giant whale held in bondage by tiny creatures too small to be defeated, powerful in their unity. Poor Gulliver. There is a temptation to chuckle at the image of him weak and silent and sleeping for days, he whose hand has hit me almost as painfully as he allowed that nasty wood strip to impact my butt. But I can't laugh. I admit to a fondness for him. I miss his stern words, his imposed control, his arousing words thrown at me like Mardi Gras beads into a crowd. Except he throws them only at me, to be woven into poems and stories for his pleasure alone.

I shouldn't.
But I like him.
And I miss him.

And then there's the philosopher. He says he's having a very hard time. He says he's down, but I shouldn't worry. That he'll be ok. But I do worry. It was a very hard week for me and I needed him and he wasn't there. I had, I think, a couple of short messages from him. Maybe three? I can't remember. It was a very hard week and all I could feel was that I was scared and torn and needed to be a shoulder for my sister to cry on while there was nowhere a shoulder for me.

He must be having a very hard time. I know what it's like. I do. You're depressed, you're empty, you have nothing to give. That was one reason for breaking up with me - to relieve him of that responsibility of being there for me, of looking after me, of putting up with me, while he went through the trials of his dissertation. And when he allowed himself to admit that yes, ok, we are still more than friends to each other, I promised that there would still be nothing expected of him till he was done. Till he could handle it. He would allow me to write as much as I wanted to - needed to - and I wouldn't expect a response. I offered this, in good faith, and mostly I can stick with it. Because it's this or nothing, and I've already had nothing, and I don't know of anyone I would want instead. Before or now.

But still.
I missed him.
I needed him.

And now I'm worn out.

Things are better. My mom is better. They cemented her vertebra back together (really!), the pain is reduced, and they sprang her from the hospital to the nursing section of the place where they live. My dad doesn't have to commute to the hospital any more - good thing, because I hate to think of him driving at all.

I feel like I'm getting a cold. Probably from the stress. Not from my demon muse, as I haven't seen him since my birthday over 2 weeks ago. It's the stress. It depresses the immune system. But if it doesn't blossom I'll drive up there Friday and come back Monday and then I'll really need someone to look after me.

I wish I could take Marko with. Unfortunately, he hates to travel and would yowl the whole way. But I wish I could have him there. Staying near me, snuggling against me for warmth and love and reassurance.

I know what that feels like.

The poem that began this post... I wrote it for the philosopher. It started as an e-mail. And then I brought it here. I'm not sure why. Maybe so it wouldn't feel like a throwaway.

I'm finding myself wanting to address him as master. I haven't done that since last summer. Since he broke up with me. I don't know why it keeps coming into my mind now.

"i miss you, master..."

It feels good. And yes, I know why... because even as there was perhaps always a slight bemused detachment behind our D/s interactions, I always felt taken care of. For-real taken care of. And I need that right now.

But I'll be ok, John.
I'll come through.
Taking care of me isn't your job right now.
Now
it's my job
to take care of
you.

Cunt or Pussy?

I don't know why I started referring to it as my cunt. It's not like it's a word I was all that comfortable with. Maybe other bloggers were using it. Maybe some guy used it. Maybe I was trying to be bold and shocking. I honestly can't remember.

Some guy approached me on FetLife, where men seem to find me fascinating. He found me fascinating, but he was one of those guys who are incredibly paranoid about discovering that they've been writing to a guy pretending to be a woman. Men are so afraid of making fools of themselves... He didn't want to continue writing unless I sent him a face shot to "prove" that I was really a woman.

Now first of all, that's just plain stupid. A man could send him a face shot of a woman. Or of a cunt. And I was damned if I'd go sending an identifiable picture to some guy who had given me no reason to trust him, especially as he didn't trust me. So I sent back some snarky message to that effect, and made some reference to my cunt.

Well. That did it.

Now he was convinced I was really a man, because no woman would call it her cunt.

??!!?

As you know, my demon muse calls it my pussy.
A quite impressive pussy.
Tight.
A 60-year old tight pussy.
Me, I don't think it's all that impressive.
The damn thing is just underutilized.

As the song goes
"I've got a lot of fucking to do."
Well, that's almost how the song goes...

And of course it's not really true.
Not that I'd object to a bit of fucking.
But, of course, it's not about me.
I have two jobs.
To serve my demon muse, in whatever way he wants.
And to love the philosopher, in whatever way he will let me.

As for the original question:
cunt or pussy?
What do you call it?

Real Life intrudes

But then, she says, quibbling over words, who's to say what is my "real" life? Parental health problems that demand my attention? Or the order from my demon muse, presented as a reward, that today I may (may? I have a choice?) ruminate on the term "slave"? Something else that demands my attention.

The sadist always demands my attention. And who, then, is to say that his perpetual presence in my mind, his persistent effect on my profuse pelvic secretions, is not as much a part of real life as the fact that my aged mother is in the hospital after a bad backwards fall?

So far, so good with her it seems. She fell on her back, she hit her head, there's something with a vertebra... hell, it's the weekend, they won't really do anything till Monday. And then maybe they will send her back to the nursing section of their continuing care community, where she will probably get more attention than in the hospital and my dad can be at home and her friends will come fuss over her... and I won't have to go up to visit until next weekend.

I know I sound cold. Please don't think me cold. There's a lot of self-protection going on here. I left to go to college and have done my best to keep a healthy distance ever since. Oh, nothing like sexual or other physical abuse, no alcoholism, none of that. But... Control. Manipulation. Disapproval of what my sister and I actually were, what we ourselves wanted - clothes, careers, dance classes. Clear ideas about what was appropriate - which didn't always make sense. White gloves to ride the subway? OK, yes, it was the 50s and all. But really.

So I've got my walls. I protect myself. I try not to fight with them and I don't tell them more than I absolutely have to.

And in my continuing efforts to find myself, to protect myself, to escape from the effects of the controlling people who raised me, who never spanked me but who were masters at emotional manipulation, I seek out men who will control me, who will manipulate me with the judicious application or denial of names such as "my pet" or "kitten", and who will, indeed, spank me. Who will cane me until I cry. And who will fill my mind, will fill my life, with their words, with their silence, until everything else is dwarfed by my adoration, my obedience, my awe, my love - you are free to assign these emotions to the proper recipient as seems fit.

This is my Real Life, as much as anything else. These two men, each playing his own part, filling almost every need except the one to has someone here with me right now so I can snuggle.

But then, I do have the cats. The main way I serve the philosopher right now is to make no demands. So I have the cats.

Oh, and that word... slave... considering that by its official definition it is illegal in the US, and that there seems to be no one with authority to grant a self-appointed governing body the right to define the terms for a consensually non-consensual relationship between two people, and with an eye towards the Humpty Dumpty quote you can find on my sidebar, any two people should be able to define and use the term within their own relationship in any way that is meaningful to them.

So says I, whom the philosopher once called his slave kitten.

From the classifieds

PETS - CATS - FREE

One pussy. Good as new. Barely used. Hot and wet and tight.
Hot enough to melt a latex glove.
Wet enough to soak right through your thickest pair of jeans.
And tight. Ah tight. She'll latch on your little finger
and suck it like an infant that can't let go.
Hot and wet and tight and free to a good home.
Or a not-so-good home.
How about a downright evil home?
Or not even a home. Will consider
a cage, hidden in an undisclosed location.
Just take her off our hands.
She's languishing. Take her.
She's yours.
This pussy needs to be used.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Posted with permission, given as follows:

You may post not only this but any comment I have made regarding your pussy. You may even post them serially (is that a word?) as a running commentary, sort of a Vagina Dialogues thing, including the phrase "fist-tight cauldron of honey" if you like and even refer to the cheerleader tits just to make sure their suffering is complete.

Clearly, my demon muse was quite impressed. It's nice to be appreciated.

He beat me till I cried

Monday.
President's Day.
There were all these men swirling around me on Monday.

One had found me on FetLife, where my profile clearly says that I'm looking for nothing more than friendship.

One had responded to my craigslist ad a while back, and we had discussed talking or meeting this weekend. He and his wife collect subs and slaves, it seems, and I thought it would be interesting to talk with him.

The Irishman wrote to see if I was available.
He likes to be spontaneous.

There was silence from the philosopher.

And my demon muse took me to the dungeon for an hour,
and beat me till I cried.

President's Day is a federal holiday, so a lot of people in the DC area are off work. But a lot of people aren't. My job goes by the federal calendar. My housemate's doesn't. I had the house to myself. The family room reverted to the dungeon.

The sadist said he'd arrive at 10 am. He told me what to have ready. He told me how to prepare myself. And then at 9 o'clock he e-mailed that at 9:30 I was to shut myself in my room until getting the text message that he was 5 minutes away.

My room was to be my cage for that half hour.
The cage in which I had spent Saturday, naked and in chains.

We've been talking about cages.
Not about his getting one for me.
But about the concept.
And all it takes is a few words to turn a room into a cage.

So I awaited his arrival in my cage.
His cage.

He has a plan for me.
It's all worked out.
Very methodical.
He ordered me down to the dungeon
and got to work.

There was pain and poetry,
teaching and training,
spanking and caning with that
wretched
strip of
cherry
wood.

He beat me till I cried.

I was down on the floor on my hands and knees, head down, ass in the air, my poor vulnerable ass willingly offered to that nasty piece of wood as it came down again and again and again. Not as hard as he would beat a masochist, but hard for me. And I took it. I willingly took it. I hated it but I gave him my pain. Sometimes I squirmed away a bit but I came back and I raised my ass and he beat me and in the end I broke down and sobbed. And then he ordered me up and I don't remember what came next.

I cried one more time.
Later.
When he made me cum.
Coldly and deliberately,
with a sadistic detachment,
he made me cum.

And I cried.

I always do, don't I...

He was cold but, it seems, I was not.
I'm happy to report that at 60 years of age
my pussy is hot and wet and tight.
Maybe I should ask him for an affidavit.

The philosopher had a goal of caning me till I cried. And finally he did it. The last time he was here. I had been very bad, and he gave me a long, drawn out punishment in many stages. It was a true punishment, and I was truly penitent. And at the end, after 4 hard strokes of the cane, 4 of an intended 20 or so, he knew that was all I needed. He stopped and I cried my heart out.

I haven't seen him since that weekend.

But we're talking about now. Yesterday. When the sadist beat me till I cried, and did all these other things, did things to my head, not just to my body. He left in the usual way, and I went up to my bedroom, my cage, and immediately e-mailed him my first reactions in the usual way, and then covered each butt cheek with its own giant bag of frozen peas.

And then all I wanted to do was to stay in my cage. I put away the peas and drank some water and shook with chills and curled up in a fetal position with Marko by my side and slept for over 2 hours. And even when I left what felt like the safe confines of my cage, I still felt like I was there. And stunned.

Oh, I did some reading I needed to do for a committee I'm on, and I talked for a while with the man of many slaves, and e-mailed the man from FetLife, and regretfully told the Irishman that I really wasn't up to serving him (he was awfully nice and I was awfully sorry). And I sent the additional required reports to the sadist. And didn't get much else done.

He e-mailed back last night.

I said I wasn't sure what I could handle.
I want to serve him but am not sure what I can handle.

We talked back and forth today, e-mailed back and forth. It needn't be an all-or-nothing thing. But if I'm going to be anything more than his private Anaïs Nin, producing erotic literature for his eyes only, he'll have to work out the details.

I do hope he can. It would be a pity to let a hot, wet, tight pussy go to waste. After all these years, it's still almost like new.

Except, of course, that what I really need is something else.

I need someone I can curl up against,
the way Marko curls up against me.
I need someone to stroke my head
the way I stroke Marko's.
I need someone to stroke my head as I curl against him, while he says
there, there... don't cry, kitten.
And then holds me while he lets me cry as much as I want.

Eventually.
Hopefully.
Eventually.

Happy Blog-iversary to me (to us?)

It's been a year.

A year since we started this blog.

A year since the philosopher and I started this blog with the craigslist ad that brought us together.

Oh, I've done all the just-for-the-blog writing, and had been considering it on my own for a while, but it was a joint project. He thought it would be good for me. And it has been. It was the major outlet for my writing until my demon muse came along and took possession of most of my words. It has given me someplace to mull over what this whole BDSM thing really means to me, what my submission means to me. And it has given me sympathetic ears during the various upheavals that have marked our relationship since shortly after we met and from the very beginning of this blog.

As I've said before, I'm not sure I can pin down where we are now with each other, and I have no idea where we are headed. But until I get bored, I'll be sharing selected snippets of my life with you here, and thank you all in advance for putting up with my histrionics.

I do hope that some of you lurkers and newcomers use this occasion to ome out from behind your trees and under your rocks and say hello. I'd especially love to hear from the Swedes, and from people in an around the DC area.

Addendum:

1) The philosopher sent me a lovely basket of teas and related items for my birthday. I cried so hard with happiness I could hardly get the ribbon off.

2) My demon muse was here this morning. He left me with some spectacular welts on my butt, and nipples like very dark raspberries. I cried hard from the pain... and then later. When he made me cum.

Naked and in chains

i did something really really stupid.

i sent my demon muse something that was really really stupid.

it was so stupid, this e-mail, that i won't share the specifics. though from one perspective it was good. i had been losing my way all week, i was becoming decidedly hypomanic, and was losing control. losing my focus. losing my center.

the demon always sees clear through to the central issues, and he knows how to deal with them. so he taught me a lesson. he ordered me to spend Saturday naked, with his long, heavy chain around my neck. i was to clip it around my neck, wrap it around 3 or 4 times, then loop the loose end through the coils so it hung down between my breasts like a necktie.

and then i was to send him a picture. and a statement that i was rededicating my efforts to his service, at the sacrifice of my own desires.

the main part of my little house is an open area, with big floor-to-ceiling windows that face the street and the back yard. because one of the front vertical blinds is broken, leaving half the window uncovered, being naked all day meant i was confined to the back, bedroom end of the house, with clothed breaks for feeding the cats and myself. and because the day was cold, that meant i spent most of it huddled in the bed, trying to keep warm, trying to write and engaging in certain other activities required by my evil, sadistic, perverted, and very wise mentor.

we have been exploring cages, he and i. not so much real cages (though i suppose you never know), but the idea of cages. what it would mean to be caged, to be confined. as the philosopher knows, this is not a new feature of my fantasies, and i have written of it before, though mostly not here. and i have been writing a series of cage pieces for my teacher, trying to get it just right, trying to hit the image, the concept, that he sees.

the point is that containment helps me. he pushes me to write within more structured forms, noting that the control benefits what i produce. i strain against the bonds of syllables and rhymes and the extra effort makes my naked soul glisten under beads of sweat.

being confined to my room, naked and in chains, made me feel as if i were in a cage. and it brought me down. i became subdued. i became sad. i was pulled back from my mania and into myself, where i found my center, my focus, my devotion, and my regret. i tried to write, without much success. nothing seemed quite what i wanted it to be. i came out with a few unfinished pieces, very frustrated, very subdued, very saddened at not being able to deliver what he required of me.

but i learned.
i wasn't being punished.
i was being taught.
and i learned.

in the end, i regretted having to remove the chain for sleep, but didn't want to risk strangling myself with it during the night. in the end, i removed the chain and put on the crisply white dress shirt that the philosopher gave to me and in which i sleep every night. i put on the shirt, and curled up under the covers with a pair of cats as bookends. feeling as if i were curling up in the back corner of the cage, a small penitent poet, waiting for her owner to gather her up and take his pleasure from her. and this morning, my demon muse knew exactly what to say to bring me back out of my subdued state of mind.

he does know how to control frightfully well. he can put me where he wants me and take me back out when he's done with whatever his goal was. he said the right thing and i walked outside to bring in the Sunday Times and there before me was a poem. a poem of the sort i can show my mother, which was what the assignment for today was. and then he wrote me again and now my cunt is near to exploding and i almost came right here, sitting at the dining room table. i almost came just from his words.

and he may pay me a visit tomorrow morning.

thank you, Sir.
thank you for all you do to make me into what you want me to be.

Running wild

It was 71 degrees in Washington DC today.
There was a full moon a couple of nights ago.
I saw my demon muse Monday for the first time in 2 months.
And I suspect my hormones are running rampant.

I had a really bad case of spring fever today.

I'm surprised no one has killed me.

I couldn't think straight. My mind kept wandering off. I showered my demon muse with messages, which to some extent is part of my job, but I also sent inciting messages to all the doms I could think of. Which is ok, I'm sure they enjoyed it. I know that dominick did, and responded with a small piece of the seductively sadistic prose with which he is so cruelly stingy.

But then I went overboard, and sent a flirty message to the philosopher this morning and a shot of my naked tits this evening, having accidentally discovered how to crop my photos. It was actually a picture he took on his first visit, but vastly improved focusing down on the aforementioned features, as my face looks weird in that shot. Much more effective when presented as an ad for my perky nipples and pale pink aureoles. Ah, my poor sore red nipples. They've been worse though, and they will be again.

Anyway, please forgive me John - I know I'm supposed to leave you in peace and not try to distract you from your work. Just because I have spring fever, why should you suffer?

Just wait till April...

Bad kitten.

Luckily, my demon muse allowed me to cum for him tonight. Such lovely moans and sobs and gasps are waiting for him on his voice mail.

Happy kitten.

And the next day...

how long does an afterglow last?

i'm still floating from my half hour with my demon muse.
my half hour with the beast.

for it was the beast who emerged there in the dungeon.
the beast who tore at my throat.
the beast who devoured me with his kisses.
the beast who threw himself on me.
the beast who stood over my nakedness.
the beast who watched me cum
who ordered me to cum
who gave me permission to cum
who fed on my cries.

it was the man who left me there on the bed, walked up the stairs and out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

it was the grateful girl who took 2 minutes to soothe her butt with frozen peas, then scurried around straightening up the room, pulling her clothes back on (complete with pink panties and pink shirt with Obama logo pin in honor of the philosopher), inspecting her neck for the extent of the marks from his teeth and his chain, leaving her hair loose to cast a shadow, and then drove back to the office without crashing the car.

it was the grateful girl who floated through the rest of the day with very sore nipples.

it was the grateful girl whose friends told her she looked great.

it was the particularly grateful girl who was relieved that the restaurant was less bright than she remembered it to be.

it was the happy girl who slipped between the sheets and wished the beast were standing over her, were lying next to her, so that she could touch herself for him. could cum again for him.

after which she would contentedly curl up with the philosopher and drift away to sleep, only to wake up and resume floating.

all this bodes well for the year that is to cum.

I've been Fleshbotted

What a surprise! All of a sudden, at 1:00 PM EST there was this huge spurt of readers, as if my stats had been energetically masturbating. And they all came from Fleshbot. Thanks to AlwaysArousedGirl for calling attention to my silly tendency towards self-imposed orgasm denial. Nice to know my suffering was good for something.

Welcome to all you new visitors. If you want a vague idea of what's going on, you can get an overview here. Then I hope you'll decide to stay a while, settle back on a pile of pillows, and watch me spread the legs of my hyper-poetic, oversexed, and very romantic mind.

The final gift

The philosopher called. That was all that was needed. The last piece that was needed to make it a perfect day.

Almost a perfect day.

If he had been here, then it would have been perfect.

But this was quite perfect enough.
And I am content.
Content and very very happy.

He said he's glad I'm back with my demon muse. He thinks he's good for me. And he's right. He is good for me. He is just what I need.

I remember a year ago, when the philosopher was deconstructing from assorted stress, he suggested that maybe I needed someone down here to spank me and take care of my assorted needs. And I answered in a panic, oh NO, no way, it's too dangerous, relationships get all messed up like that.

But I don't feel like that now. Not in this case. I seem to have everything parceled out, everyone in his own box. And the feelings I have for the demon, strong as they may be, don't at all interfere with my love for the philosopher. They are different, they don't contradict, they don't dilute, I have room for gallons and gallons of strong feelings and they don't get mixed up.

I am very lucky to have both of them.

Not to mention the Irishman, whom I expect to see every so often. We have a little arrangement. I'm happy about that. We both are.

I feel complete.
I feel strong.
I feel happy.

I am happy.

Good night, John.

i love you...

Return of the Demon Muse

spanking
caning
chain around my neck
tight

his face begins to fade

biting
twisting
OW!!
my nipples

screams

poems delivered
smashed against the wall

kisses

kisses

hard and soft and
fervent kisses

touching
cumming
sobbing
sighing

smiling

and then

he's gone.

thank you, Sir.

Happy Birthday to Me

60 years.

Doesn't feel like it. Only if I add up all the different lives I have had does it begin to feel persuasive.

I still feel confused every time I look in the mirror.

But I remember being on a Code Pink march against the war in Iraq. Very early on in the war in Iraq. Talk about things being a long time ago... So we're on this march, heading down through Dupont Circle, and this chant goes up:

Tell me what democracy looks like.
This is what democracy looks like.

And I look in the mirror at my thick titian hair and ridiculously perky nipples and think: Yup. This is what 60 looks like.

And how does a 60-year old with wild titian hair and embarrassingly perky nipples spend her birthday? Well, M-- and the rest of the gang are taking me to dinner at our favorite restaurant for family outings. But I may have to sit down very carefully.

Because I usually go home for lunch. And today, my demon muse will be meeting me there.

I don't think I'll be doing much eating.

Naked to my self

I stood before the mirror
naked warm and rosy
glowing from my shower.

I looked at hair that waved
pre-Raphaelite and wild,
above those hard-tipped breasts.

I gazed back at my self
and smiled in happy wonder.
I smiled and said

"I love you."

and knew I truly meant it.
Thanks to all who helped me
have strength to truly mean it.

You know who you are.

Self-imposed orgasm denial

At some point, I got it into my head that if someone has ever told me I'm not allowed to cum unless given permission, I'm from then on never allowed to cum without permission. It may have only been meant to last until the order was rescinded, an isolated exercise in torture and obedience. But I seem to get over-enthusiastic about my submission, and take it upon myself to decide that it was a permanent order.

The philosopher would say NO TOUCHING, NO CUMMING, and that was it until he specifically declared that he couldn't run my life and write his dissertation at the same time. My orgasms were mine again.

Even though I didn't want them.

So here I am, horny as hell, trying to decide whether I can in good conscience give myself a rousing good orgasm tonight. Meanwhile, Marko is on the sofa at my feet, lying on his side, belly presented for rubbing. I oblige and you can see him go into a kitty pleasure trance, his expression hinting at a state of extreme physical delight as his paws knead the air and he twists his body to signify "more, please..."

I'm jealous.

I want someone touching my body, fondling my belly - among other places. But I want to be bound. I want to moan from the torment of the pleasure as I pull against the ropes. I want to cry out in pain as my nipples are twisted. I want to look up and see a face framed by long red hair and lit by the candle he is holding and contemplating, waiting for the hot wax to pool so he can let it drip on my breasts. I want to watch the expression on his face - deliberate, detached, and yet aroused - as he overcomes his innate caution and brings the flame closer and closer to my body until the wax really hurts.

Until I scream.

They won't have been my first screams tonight. He would have already spanked me. Hard. Numerous times.

I like being spanked.
Which is a weird thing to say.
It hurts.
It can hurt a lot.
It's not that it is pleasant.
It hurts.
And I'm not a masochist.
But as pain goes it is a sensation I can appreciate.
And it turns me on.

Just thinking about it is making me wet and twitchy.

Sigh...

And then after the spanking he would have beat my ass with his belt.

I remember the time he accidentally belted my cunt. Very hard. My screams probably reached the White House 10 miles away. He was mortified at having hurt me like that accidentally. It was really pretty funny. As well as painful. Especially because I did find it very arousing.

I left a puddle on the black leather ottoman.

There isn't really any reason why I can't cum tonight... why I can't think of him grabbing my wild hair in his fist as I lie there bound to the futon... why I can't think of him raping my mouth... why I can't think of him cumming in my mouth... why I can't remember the sound of his voice ordering me "Cum for me kitten. Now!"

It's the moon. Monday will be a full moon. I'm a child of nature, beholden to the sun and wind and seasons. The nearly full moon teases my body, flicking at my nipples and my clitoris with a small whip, precise and insistent, while I squirm and whimper.

The moon controls my tides.

I am her slave.

Maybe if I dedicated my orgasm to her...

Homage to my demon muse

he is my teacher.
he is my guide.
my mind spouts flames
my cunt runs
liquid fire.
i live in subspace
writing
striving
on the end of his chain.
i have lost all resistance.
my armor is gone.
i present my throat
and proffer my belly
in perfect faith
that he will take me
he will lead me
he will drive me
to be a treasure
worth displaying
as a prize.

A happy birthday after all

I found the magic word.

Monday night I was out with M--, my best female friend and canvassing partner. The main reason I moved to DC. We drove over to the concert together and talked about how things were going. I spoke of my struggles with the upcoming birthday. (My demon muse loves it when I use the word "struggles.")

Now M-- is telepathic, although she seems to have blind spots in certain areas. Luckily... She never seems to have picked up my wild side... She is also a fierce believer in the ultimate success of my relationship with the philosopher. As is my doctor. Can they really know better than either of us?

Anyway, she kept tossing out ideas, reasons why I should feel happy about the upcoming Big Birthday. None of them clicked. In fact, they clicked so little that I can't remember any of them. So I thanked her and said it was just a matter of the right thing coming along, that would make it all click and give me peace about it.

And then poof! It happened. It all connected.

Barack Obama.

Everything comes back to Barack Obama.

As we approached the secular, calendar, goyishe new year, I got into saying that for me, the beginning of the new year would be on January 20th. Inauguration Day. And indeed, it did feel like things changed on that day. The world feels like a better place. A nicer place. Somehow gentler, softer, there are these smiles on people's face here around Washington, DC.

And then it connected. Because yes, this IS a year of wonderful new beginnings. And that - in a leap of amazing illogic - allowed me to feel that turning 60 was a positive milestone. Because I am turning 60 the same year that Barack Obama took office. The year that we took back our country.

Yes, I know, it makes no sense whatsoever. But it works. So I'm not arguing.

And then as a final bit of icing on the top, I went to renew my driver's license today. I was not happy about this. It had been 10 years since the last one, which had a particularly lovely picture. I dreaded seeing this one, with me older and fatter.

Except you know what? This one came out looking younger than the one from 10 years ago! I think it's this unruly mop of rebellious red curls. Or something. Perhaps the restoration of my relationship with my demon muse. I have been floating around subspace (have you seen me fly by?) feeling very young and very small and very very submissive.

So I'll be fine on Monday. As long as I don't freak out from catching sight of my profile on FetLife and realizing that it has clicked over from 59F to 60F.

On the other hand, a 35 year old nice Jewish doctor just approached me from my profile there. Maybe THAT's what the new 60 is...

Yee-ha!

A Time to Remember

Two years.

i am your kitten.
i was your slave.
i was your selkie.

but that's how it came out, didn't it?
a fateful form of he loves me, he loves me not,
sacrificing flowers to prognostication.
i hoped for kitten, and even selkie
but i didn't cheat.
slave scared me.
i didn't know then how darkness draws me.
i didn't know then that i would take anything.
butterflies, eggplant, and oatmeal box cameras
flowers and crosswords and patio haircuts
spankings and canings and sobbing and cumming
catnip and movies and sleeping in your arms.

i am your kitten.
i am your slave.
i am your selkie.

it's been two years.
and we creep our way forward
wary of avalanches
one day at a time.

One note melody. No. Wait. Make that two.

I went out tonight
with my very best friend.
We went to a concert
and sat there together
surrounded by music
and dozens of folkies
and all I could think of
was you.

And you.