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.
He has a plan for me.
It's all worked out.
He ordered me down to the dungeon
and got to work.
There was pain and poetry,
teaching and training,
spanking and caning with that
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.
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.