The self-voyeuristic submissive

Midway through leaving the following comment on toy's blog, in respond to videos of her being beaten with a tawse, I realized I wanted to talk about it here:

i find it so curious to watch someone being beaten... i always wonder what it looks like when i am being caned or spanked or, now, flogged... both what the sadist looks like doing it - his movements, the expression on his face - and what it looks like when the instrument or his hand lands...

It's true. Sometimes I feel the child inside me. The child who wants to know everything, understand everything. The child who is always asking "Why?" The child who is so curious about the fire that she sticks her hands in and gets burned.

I wasn't like that then. I don't think I ever stuck my fingers in the fire. I was such a good girl. I'm a good girl now, too. But the phrase means something much different to me today... Oh, the things I have to do to be a good girl today...

So I want to know. I used to always ask "What does it feel like? What does it feel like when you raise your arm to strike? What does it feel like at the moment of impact?" I even posted the question to craigslist as well as here, and eventually shared my favorite response.

[Pause for tears. Damn. I shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have looked back at that post. It wasn't working, I know it wasn't working, I knew it wasn't working, I can't handle the long silences and he can't handle anything at all. Certainly not right now. Why can't I stop grieving?]

We return to our regularly scheduled programming. If I can remember what it was...

Oh yes. Me being caned. Spanked. Flogged. Wondering what it looks like from the sadist's perspective and wondering what he looks like when he's doing it. And wondering now how I would feel watching... it would be different from watching a film of someone else. I would be remembering what it felt like... I would be remembering my screams. And I would be remembering the pain as, each time, he scratched his initial into my flesh.

In some ways, that is always my favorite part. There are still traces of the two times he cut his initial into my belly last fall. I would want it shot with 2 cameras, so you could cut between the look on his face and the tip of the implement, the jagged end of the wood strip, the sharp protruding nail top of the upholstery tack that holds the trim to the flogger, as it scratches my skin and leaves behind small traces of blood that seep up to the surface.

I have told him I wondered how I sounded. He's not sure he wants to record it for me. He's afraid it would make me self-conscious in the future. I respect his judgment. He is almost always right. And since the point of hurting me is to feed his hunger, and his hunger is fed by my reactions to the pain, I wouldn't want anything to spoil that reaction for him.

I'm tired now. Crying makes me tired. Plus I have a bedtime of 11:15, with a very special assignment to complete beforehand.

[Damn. it snuck up on me again. i was going to write "kitten gets to cum tonight." but i'm not kitten with my demon muse. i am still kitten, i will never stop being kitten, deep inside i will always be kitten. but not with him. i am his pet, i am his angel, i am his poet, i am his slave, i am all sorts of creative names. but not kitten. i am the philosopher's kitten. now and forever.]

Is this too weird?

I sleep with my flogger.
My beautiful flogger.
Soft leather, gentle brown,
it was a present.
A REAL present.
Not just a length of
hardware chain,
this was a gift.
He had it made for me.
Just for me.
What's not to like?
Oh.
Right.
That.
It hurts.
He brings it down
upon my butt,
he brings it down
upon my breasts
and makes me scream and moan.
Still.
I love it.
And trying, you might think,
to make me drop my guard,
the sadist treats me like a child,
indulging this one whim
and lets me hold
against my pale bare flesh
this handmade torture tool.
So now a leather teddy bear,
more like a squid or octopus
than Paddington or Pooh,
sleeps up against my belly
and my crotch, and fills
my heart with smiles as
with the cats I fall asleep
and dream of who I am.

Don't assume

Just because I haven't been mentioning the philosopher in every post doesn't mean that I don't miss him. I came home late this afternoon from the final deliberations of a committee I've been serving on, pleased with the outcome, pleased with the process, and desperately wishing I could call him up - or at least e-mail him - and say: It's done. We did good. And next Saturday morning I can sleep in.

I did e-mail the sadist when I came home. But it wasn't the same. It was more to tell him I was home and available to handle whatever assignments he wishes to give me than to share with him my thoughts and reactions. It's not that sort of relationship. He is not my boyfriend.

I miss talking theology with John.
I miss talking politics with John.
I miss telling him the latest cute things the cats did.
I miss hearing about the latest DVD he's watched.

Hmm... I just checked. He hasn't removed me from his Netflix friends list. Of course, I haven't removed him from mine, either...

I did take his picture off my desk at work. But, and this is a hard admission, I haven't changed the picture on my computer desktop. It is still a beautiful, pensive shot I took of him over a year ago, a profile, reading a magazine, with a slight smile in the corner of his mouth.

I can't do it.

I just can't do it.

He is too much a part of me.

He doesn't seem to be visiting here any more. Or if he is, he's covering his tracks very successfully. But he hadn't been here much in the final few weeks anyway.

It's Spring. Even 4 hours north of here, it must be Spring. I hope he is feeling better. I hope he isn't too angry with me. I hope he doesn't miss me. I hope he is getting work done.

I lied.

I do hope he misses me.
I wish there were a way we could have made it work.
I still wish there were a way to make it work.
But I mustn't think that way.
It achieves nothing.
Nothing but pain.
It's easier to deal with the sadist's torture than loss.

So I don't write about him.
I write about Spring and cats and floggers and welts.
But that doesn't mean I don't still grieve.
And it doesn't mean I don't still wish for a miracle.

The Gift

He came to see me today.
A brief lunchtime tryst.
And he brought me a present.

A flogger.
A beautiful flogger.
A beautiful flogger that he had made just for me.

Soft skin, of a soft light brown, with knots towards the ends of the tails for weight to increase the thud, and little serpent's tongues at the very ends of the tails to increase the sting. He took it out of the bag right after he came in the door and I melted.

Such a beautiful thing.
I'd never been flogged before.
I had told him that.
I had told him I wanted to be.
And he bought me this gift.
Made just for me.

It hurt.
But not as badly as when he canes me
with that awful cherry wood strip.
It hurt a lot when he flogged my breasts.
They still burn.
I love the burn.
He flogged my pussy, too, I think.
But first he flogged my ass.
Not so hard at first, and then harder.

None of it was all that bad.

He pulled back this time. I'd had an odd reaction to his previous visit, to all the brutal, continuing, repeated pain on his previous visit, and he rethought things and revised his plan and figured out a way to still hurt me without shutting me down. Perhaps that is when he ordered this beautiful flogger for me. I don't know. But this time he didn't use the nasty wooden strip at all. And even his torture of my nipples seemed subdued. And the one thing he used to do to me that not only hurt but scared me about the possibility of real damage - he pulled way back on that. He achieved what he wanted with words and just the right touch.

He says he knows things about me that I don't know about myself, things that no one else knows, and he is right. He hurt me less and now I speak of his building it back up so that he can hurt me more, I beg him to hurt me more, to satisfy the beast a bit more, though I am not a masochist and can never truly satisfy the beast and don't in fact want to encounter him in the woods at night. I am grateful he has his slave for that.

It was a joyous meeting, and if I have been in subspace for the rest of the day, it is a space filled with elation. He called me his pet, and said that I did well, he said that I pleased him, and I am rejoicing.

I felt that I disappeared into him. I knelt naked before him and looked into his eyes and he twisted my nipples and the pain rose through me and I spoke of my devotion, I spoke of my service, and I spoke of how I was melting into him.

I said I was his whore, I said I was his slave, and those words made me happy. But later I realized that I had it wrong. Because I'm not any of those things, or any other things.

All I am is his.
I am part of him.
And after that
I will serve him in any way he wishes.

And now I must get ready for bed, and then do my exercises for him. Lights out by 11:30. He spanked me for the nights I was late getting to bed. I must take his commands more seriously.

And there are 2 treats for me tonight.

1. I asked if I might sleep with the flogger tonight and he said yes - despite his concerns that he is being too indulgent.

2. I have been allowed 15 minutes of writing to him.

He may be evil - and do not doubt that he is evil. The handle of that beautiful flogger is ringed with upholstery tacks to hold on the trim, with which he cut 2 scratches into the side of my burning left breast. He always marks me when he is here. So yes, he is evil. But still, he is very good to me.

And so I have been snared.

Worse than Orgasm Restriction

Yes.

There really is something worse than not being allowed to masturbate.

He won't let me write.

Evil.
Really evil.

I know. It doesn't make sense. Here is this greedy, possessive man, who went after me so he could own not just me but my words, my mind, my metaphors. And now he won't let me write for him. No poetry. No stories. No stimulating little vignettes to incite erections and make his hands clench around an imagined strip of cherry wood as he remembers my screams of pain. Completely illogical.

Except, of course, that it is not.

My sadistic demon muse has come to terms with my ADD. He has decided that the best way to teach me to serve him is to slow down, concentrate my attention, teach me how to do one thing at a time and then another thing and then eventually put them together.

And he doesn't want me distracted by my rampant, creative mind.

He is training me.
Training me to please him.
By e-mail.

It reminds me of when I lived in Wales and learned European-style knitting over the radio. He describes what I am to do and I practice and I report. Very challenging. But I am working very hard because I want to please him. I want to be his good girl, his clever courtesan, his gifted geisha, kneeling before him and pleasing him.

I may get to demonstrate what I've learned tomorrow.
At lunchtime.
If we can coordinate it.
The advantage of working 10 minutes from home.
But still...
coming back to work
with marks on my neck
and marks on my ass
and tears in my eyes
and my mind
still
in subspace...
a challenge.

He usually makes me masturbate for him.
He usually makes me cum for him.
That will be nice.

But what I really hope,
oh, I do so hope,
maybe if I do a very good job,
please, Sir, if I do a very good job,
may I please write for you again?

Please?

and then he calls me angel...

if he saw me more often
if he kept me in a cage
and i ate but what he fed me
naked, down on hands and knees,
slurping from a bowl for dogs,
always with the chain around
my neck - well let's just say
if he did come here more...

i'd think he kept me drugged.

he'll tell me plans, he'll talk
of things i should protest,
i should write back and say
are you kidding?! do you
think i've lost my mind?

but i have
lost
my mind.
not to mention sure control
of all those juices that are swirling
in the maelstrom that was once
my cunt and now is his,
except he calls it pussy.
his pussy.

and he isn't drugging me.
except with words, perhaps,
and with the lure of the dark,
and the temptation to live
fantasies that have lived in me
so long they get their own junk mail.

he talks of sharing me.
he talks of sharing me and
i feel submissive and owned and
nervous and humiliated and
i'm not sure what and i'm
not sure i like how i feel.
i told him that. and he said
of course you don't like it.
you LOVE it.
you obsess over the idea,
you can't stop thinking about it.
which is true.
i spent the afternoon
afloat on the edge of a
submissive haze.
if he had walked in
and clicked his fingers,
i would have risen from my desk
and followed him out.

so yes.
he challenges me.
he frightens me.
he tortures me.
he beats me.
he taunts me.
he trains me.

and then he calls me angel.
not often, but just enough
just enough
that each time i know
that this angel
has fallen
and is wallowing
in the mud
at his feet
while he laughs.

Looking ahead

He has plans for me.

Well, he always has plans for me.

Hell, he's got a whole syllabus mapped out, which he revises in response to the performance of what must be his most exasperating pupil ever. I console myself that I'm obviously doing some things right or he would have given up for good a long time ago - and certainly would never have given me a second chance.

So he has plans... not just how he is training me to please him, to serve him, but...

He reminds me that when he uses me I will be just a series of holes, impersonal means to his pleasure and release. And these holes... they are his holes... he owns them... and as such...

They are at his disposal.

And he has friends...

I used to read about such things on other people's blogs, and when I tried to consider it as a real life thing I was horrified. Very aroused but also horrified. But now... Part of me says "What? Are you nuts?!" But most of me says "Yes, Sir. Yes, I know you are serious. I am yours, Sir. And all I want to do is please you."

It will make me feel very owned...

Lingering longing

I miss him.
I do.

I'm not consumed by pain, I don't sob daily like I did last summer after he broke up with me definitively and cruelly. In many ways I feel relief more than anything. I'm no longer pretending to myself that it is going to work. I'm no longer trying to squelch those nagging doubts that said things would never change, that he would finish - someday - and still not be ready for a full relationship. He may just be one of those guys - the "confirmed bachelors" who were that way not because they were gay but because something else, indefinable, stood in the way.

It's all speculation, of course. But no matter how close we were - and yes, I still believe there was something between us that was beautiful and extraordinary and that leaves me in awe when I think about it - he held something back. Or so it seemed. And it made me reach out for it in a way that drove him nuts and that made me increasingly irrational and needy.

And eventually I started doubting what I felt. Not that it had been. But that it was still there.

I thought I could do it. I really did. I thought my love was a bulb, with all that food stored up down inside that would help it survive a long winter deprived of attention and connection. I thought it would go dormant, and dormant plants don't need that much water. But I was wrong. Or maybe I was right in principle but this particular bulb, having been deprived for so long, needed a little more water than it was getting. And a little food.

The birthday present was food.
The birthday call was food.
The occasional e-mail volleys were water.

But they just weren't enough.

I miscalculated.

And then (and this is the real reason I'm beating up on myself, gang, and you do have to allow me this one, we need to be kind to each other, he really didn't deserve this) I wasn't strong enough to say "this isn't working." I couldn't say that without enough contact - even just a few more e-mails - it was slipping away from me. So I moaned and groaned until finally he said enough.

But I miss him . . .

I was driving to a friend's house early this evening to feed her kittens (if he's reading this, which I don't think he is, he'll know whose house I mean). And there was this most amazing sun. It hung just a little above the horizon, a brilliant red, so intense, the fire of passionate love, burning straight ahead of me . . . and I couldn't help thinking that I wanted to write him about it, I wished I could have taken a picture to send him, I forgot I have a phone with a camera.

When there is something beautiful
when there is something funny
when there is something glorious
he is the one I want to share it with.

I still picture us curled up on the couch together. I still cherish the memories of his visits here. But they don't hurt in the same way. Because I've stopped denying the reality that was staring me in the face - the very strong suspicion that he would never be back down here. That he would never allow me to come up and visit. I've accepted that it wasn't going to work, that for whatever reason it wasn't going to work, between personal realities and life realities it just wasn't going to work. He was smarter about that than I was. He knew.

So I've accepted the reality.

But I keep wishing that one day we will be able to be friends, without hoping for more.

And meanwhile, here and there, now and then, I do miss him.

It's over

I've known it was over for a while now.
Deep inside, I knew it could never work.
But I was too weak to pull the plug.
I just couldn't let go, couldn't give it up.
Couldn't let go of the dreams;
couldn't give up on the fantasies,
a life that I wanted which could never be real.
So I pushed and badgered,
hitting him with darts disguised as e-mails
until at last
he said
enough.

He's angry.

I deserve it.

I was a coward.

And I pushed him into trying again and again to make something work that he kept saying never could. He was right and I was stubborn when I should have accepted that he knew himself better than I ever could. Or wanted to. I refused to accept the truth.

It was a lost cause.

He couldn't handle the distance.
I couldn't handle the silence and the absence.
And I felt it all drifting away the longer we were apart.
Long distance relationships need care and feeding.
His dissertation needs care and feeding even more
and he was right to say that having a relationship now was crazy.

I am very sad.
And I take full responsibility for everything I did wrong.

I am very very sad.

And I need to get used to not thinking of him as part of my life.

My heart will feel empty for quite a while.

I'll be OK

I can't write much tonight.
I have a curfew.

It feels so good to have someone taking care of me - even though I know the sadist is doing it for selfish reasons. I am sure he just wants me well rested so that I can serve him with energy and focus. There is a chance that I will be having a lesson sometime this week. I've been in training.

The comments some of you have been leaving over the last few days have been warm and loving and helpful and a good kick in the pants. Thank you all.

I did in fact get a little exercise today. I still haven't made it back to the health club, but I walked up to the post office and back and it felt good. The skies started clearing and my mood starting clearing and I feel less distressed. Sad, but not so angry.

I would like to publicly apologize to the philosopher, whom I love. And because I love him, no matter what happens, I shouldn't be beating up on him.

I love you and I miss you and I need to accept the realities and not wish for the impossible. Nothing is possible until you finish, and even then - the reason why I keep getting so distressed - there will likely be nothing, and I have to accept that. It is sad, it is a waste, but that may be all there is. And carrying on like this is certainly not going to make things better.

Still, your underwear is in my drawer.

I have to get to bed by 11:15. And I have 10 minutes of special exercises to do before then.

Thank you again. To all of you.

A partial answer

I do know part of what's going on.

Not why I'm angry, unless I'm angry at fate.
And you can't revenge yourself against fate.

But I do know why everything is suddenly so hard to take.

I have always had a hard time with loss.

Having grown up in New York City, I took the attack on September 11th very seriously. I didn't stop crying for 2 weeks - not until I took a half of a magic pill which stopped the tears cold. Being in DC when it happened, being evacuated, that was scary. But New York? That was my city they attacked. I went into a clinical depression that lasted 2 years.

Well, now I'm truly starting to face my parents' mortality. Not that I'm all that close to them. More walls of protection there. And not that I thought they were immortal, although somehow they seemed to be and are living so long (88 and 91 now) that we are all starting to wonder.

But my mom had a bad fall backwards and is now doing better but still in pain and using a walker and feeling depressed and I'm fearing that it will send them both downhill and I just don't deal well with loss. And in some ways it's even harder when your feelings were ambivalent. Oh, the guilt!

Love and loss. Here we go again.

Which all cycles back to rejection. Of not being good enough.

And of not wanting to have to face the inevitable alone.

So yes.
I'm struggling.
I'm depressed.
I'm not handling anything well right now.
Except when the sadist calls me angel.
When he says I'm a good girl.
When he manipulates me with these little rich truffles of approval.
And then I would do anything for him.
Because at least he is giving me something.

And you can do a lot worse than chocolate.

Why? - still looking for answers

Thanks again to all of you who responded either publicly or privately to my previous pondering post, Why? Those of you who don't normally read comments might want to go back and see what was contributed, as of course I'm not the only one of us dealing with these issues.

In fact, I had to go back to the original post myself, before starting to write this one, because I wasn't quite sure what the question was. Why what? I was rather surprised to realize that my question wasn't why was I doing what I was doing, but rather why did I feel anger in my behaviour - almost a sense of vengeance - and why did it make me feel like crying.

I honestly don't know how this post will end.

The advantages of my arrangements are of course quite clear. I always choose wrong. I always get hurt. I always expect more than I'm going to get, I always fantasize that there will be more, that there is more, and then accept way less than I should because I'm so desperate.

Oh, this girl is really, really desperate to be loved.

So yeah, we all know my arrangements make sense. I have built a wall around my emotions that's 2 miles high. No more messing up.

The philosopher and I thought we had protected ourselves. I declared that all I wanted was writing - though my concern was really more for physical protection. I was afraid of diseases and afraid of getting killed. The philosopher thought he was being really smart and went looking for electronic erotic amusement 250 miles away. That should keep things under control. Right?

Ha.

I fell.
Hard.
I fell in love with someone I'd never met.
I ignored all the warning signs and fell in love.
As for him . . .

OK. Here's the big admission. An admission to him, too. You know how I used to refer to him as "the man who owns and loves me"? Well . . . I may have been hallucinating. I don't know. It was in May nearly 2 years ago, after another of the times that he tried to break up with me. We were talking, late at night, working our way back, and . . . he murmured something . . . you see? I'll manufacture hope out of nothing. Out of passing breaths over an unclear phone line into tired, aging ears . . .

I thought . . .

I thought he said "I love you, kitten."

Very softly.

He may not have said it.
Hell, he probably didn't say it.
But I thought he did.
And I froze.
I stopped breathing.
I . . .

Those four words that he did or did not say hung there in the air around me and I was afraid to reach out and touch them for fear they would burst like the first tentative bubble a child blows through a wand.

So I didn't ask him to repeat it.
Even when you're sure,
you don't ask someone to repeat
those four words.

I chose to believe them.
From what had been said before,
from what seemed to exist
between me and this man
I never had met,
it didn't seem all that unlikely.
So I chose to believe.
And I whispered back
even more softly
my own four words
that he probably didn't hear.
My own four words . . .

"I love you, too."

A whisper.
A prayer.
And then gone.

Well, now I don't have to worry about any misunderstandings. I can't delude myself. These two guys, these two men with other involvements, they won't tolerate any threats to their lives, they've got their armour and they've got their rules. The rules are so clear, and the systems so clear, that even if my own emotions start pulling at the chains, my doms will smack me back into line so fast I'll never think of rebelling again. They will protect me against myself. I can't deny that there might be fantasies, but I will be very clear that they are only fantasies.

Why the anger, then?

I'm still not totally sure.
Maybe because this is what I'm reduced to.
Maybe because I'm afraid this is all I'll ever have.

Maybe because I took a big chance, and made myself very vulnerable, and had my heart broken, not by deliberate cruelty, but because I insisted on seeing possibilities that I was told again and again weren't there.

I can't be angry at the philosopher.
I can only be angry at myself.

And why the tears?

Because I fear that this is all I will ever have. Either nothing or mind games or a quick fuck and then he's gone. And then I'll be old and there will be no one. It might take another 20 years but eventually I will look 60 and who will want to exchange wild e-mails with a woman who is tired and wrinkled and grey? Who will want to run over at lunchtime to fuck a woman who is tired and wrinkled and grey? And who - really, tell me, who? - who will want to love and cherish a woman who is tired and wrinkled and grey and who has fucked up every relationship she's ever had?

I'm doing what I do with anger, anger at myself, because it's my only option, because I've settled for so little all along, settled for little crumbs all along, because I thought so little of myself all along that I feared that crumbs were all I could hope for. And it turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. It's all I got and all I will get but at least now the rules are clear.

And I cry because, whether I ever heard them before, I never again or ever will hear those four whispered words.

I love you, kitten.

If I ever heard them at all...

Why?

As I started on my way home from Shabbos services tonight, an odd impression came to me... this feeling that along with the other reasons for my current activities - pleasure, exploration, a basic need to submit, and who knows what else - there is a sense of doing it out of vengeance. But against whom? And why?

I feel as if I've passed my brief relatively promiscuous phase, born out of grief and anger at the loss of first the philosopher and then my demon muse. And certainly, promiscuous is an exaggerated term. Because really, what did it amount to? A couple of non-sexual dates, an educational 24 hours with Motorcycle Man following an enjoyable dinner a few nights previously, and a regretted few hours - the only real mistake - with the photographer.

What I have now is actually pretty stable.

Two men.

Two very different arrangements.

Two unique understandings.

But still, I detect in myself a soupçon of fierceness about it all.
As if I'm saying. There! See? Ha!

See what?
That someone wants me?
That someone desires me?
That two someones desire me?
That one of them wants my mind even more than my body?
That two intelligent, creative, good-looking and/or charismatic
and very compellingly sexy younger men
will take certain risks in order to have me?
It's not as if they can't find other women to satisfy their perversions.
OK, the Irishman is probably more easily satisfied
whereas for my sadist I am a project.
But I can at least pretend to myself
that there is something in me that they want.

As opposed to ex-hubby #2, who preferred reading bulletins from non-profits when he came to bed to even noticing that I was there and would roll over and go to sleep if we ever found ourselves in a motel and then dare to complain in the few sessions of couples therapy he thought we were worth that I never took the initiative sexually. I would cuddle up to him and he would roll over. How much rejection can one girl take?

How much rejection can one girl take?

So my sadistic demon muse develops me to serve his particular needs.
And the Irishman and I have
an arrangement
as to availability and procedure.
And I like both of them
and they each excite me
and they each make me happy.
Up to a point.
The little bits of them I have
make me happy
as far as they go.

Not perfect.
But it's something.

It's something to look forward to.
It's physical contact
limited though it may be
with someone other than Marko
who is sleeping and snoring on my left foot as I write.

The philosopher says I shouldn't cut myself off. So I'm not. OK, I'm not actually dating... but I am exploring my submission, in different ways and more physically than we were able to do together. It's probably good to take the opportunity now, after a largely sexless and loveless marriage, before I become too old and decrepit for this sort of carrying on.

"Will you still need me,
will you still beat me,
when I'm 64?"

OK, yes, I know, I'm carrying on with a couple of unavailable men. There is that. Is that a form of vengeance, too? I don't know... I used to worry about sisterhood, and just got hurt in the process. I feel a measure of anger, as if now, this era that I have set aside, this time is for me. I'm tired of rolling over and worrying about everyone else. And if I do roll over, and offer my butt for beating or my asshole for fucking, it's because I want to.

Then why do I sound as if I'm over-justifying?

And why do I feel as if this is all I'm ever going to get?

And why do I want to cry...

Working towards an A

Every evening I get an assignment.
Something to write.
Or something to do.
These days I am being trained.
He gives me orders.
Precise instructions.
I have to practice
and then report.
He is training me to please him.
He is training me to serve him
He knows what he likes
and that is what I do.
Very practical.
Tonight my instructions included a gift.
Tonight I was ordered to masturbate.
Tonight I was to give him an orgasm.
Tonight I practiced what he wants
and then I got to cum
He likes to watch me cum.
He likes to hear me moan and sob.
He didn't watch tonight.
But my orgasm was his.
I ran my hands over my breasts
and down my belly, pinching
my nipples as I went by,
digging my nails in and
crying out the pain.
He likes to hear my cries of pain.
My clit was a slut for attention.
My cunt was awash with honey.
My hands were happy and busy.
My mind was throbbing with memories.
My mouth was saying please hurt me.
My mouth was saying please fuck me.
And then my mind was gone
and my body was shaking
and my womb was convulsing
and I made my offering
to my god of sadism
and I came.
And it was good.

Time to break the fast

Enough!

I am declaring the fast over. I'm removing my chastity belt and taking the QUARANTINE sign off the door.

It's spring in Washington, DC.
The sap is running.
It is running out my cunt and down the tender insides of my thighs.
It is filling the cocks of two out of three men
and the clamor for my services is growing.
Two out of three men.
The third is silent.

I informed my sadistic demon muse first.

He owns me, and invests a lot of planning into the scheduling and lesson plans for his visits. Between one thing and another, including our successive bouts with the vicious virus, it has been over 3 weeks since he was last here. We have much to do, and have been trading inspirational e-mails.

Even the Irishman, usually so stingy with his words, has been writing, testing my metaphorical mucous to see if I'm ready to hang out the welcome sign.

As soon as the sadist has been here, I will declare myself available to all comers.

OK, not really. I'm not that much of a slut. But the Irishman may use me whenever he wishes. And he has been wishing for a while now.

Pure, unadulterated fucking.

Yeah, I know, adulterous fucking.
Sorry about that.
I'm done being responsible for other people's decisions.
Late at night, he will sneak out of his house, use me, and be back without being missed.

And there's the question. What happens to mixed marriages when there is no outlet for the one who is the dom, the sadist, for the one who is submissive, or a masochist. What happens when the urges, the needs, are bottled up, when they ferment, when the pressure builds... if there has been no regular release of the need to use, the need to hurt, the need to humiliate and debase, the need to control, is the marriage in greater danger of disintegrating?

This is a real question, about otherwise loving and treasured marriages. I don't know the answer, and I'm not pretending it's my job to save other people's relationships. I've got my own odd relationship, had my first failed, young marriage followed by a really bad marriage, and now am trying to take care of at least some of my needs. Still, I'm curious.

Anyone have a report from the field?

Surfeit

I am so tired.
I am ever so tired.

I think of the men in my life and my pussy starts pulsing and my cunt starts convulsing, and my heart softens and my panties grow soggy and the idea of summoning up the physical energy to actually be with any of them is totally impossible to entertain.

Hell, I'm flooding just from writing the last paragraph. And of course I'm not allowed to masturbate without permission as the sadist owns my orgasms...

hmmm... in addition to having permission - nay, encouragement - from the philosopher to see other people, I have permission from the sadist as well, with the footnote that he doesn't really think the permission is his to give. Still, to my mind it is, so I asked. But. If he owns my orgasms, do I have to ask to be allowed to cum when I'm with the Irishman? not that this has been an issue so far...

I do love the idea that there are these two men who've been wanting me while I've been sick and they just have to wait. Of course, I would much rather have been well and submissive than be able to enjoy this short-lived sense of power.

On top of all this... ah, fantasies... there is this woman who very occasionally turns up at my synagogue... I've had a crush on her since I first saw her... cute, smart, dynamic, artistic, feminist, progressive... she came for Purim services last night, welcomed me to sit next to her, sat close up against me with a lot of unnecessary physical contact which neither of us shied away from... it was nice to be reminded that I really am bi... although the idea of explaining my social life to her... Oy! In any case, I was very bold and added her to my Facebook friends list. For me, that's pretty brave and aggressive.

OK, now I've made myself utterly and completely horny. I sure as hell hope I'm stronger soon. My demon muse wants to pay me a lunchtime visit this week...

Depleted

I want to write for you. I want to write something titillating and salacious, about spanking and canings and being led around by a leash and cocks stuffed down my throat. And especially about anal sex. I think there are more hits on the anal sex label than on all the rest combined.

But of course I still haven't had anal sex. When I do, I promise I'll let you all know, even if I have to stand up as I type.

The thing is, I'm exhausted. Having that wretched virus was far worse than being beaten by the sadist. Oh, the pain from his pinching my nipples is much worse at the moment it is happening - it's not just pinching, it's a horrible twisting, it's awful, I can barely stand it, why is my cunt pulsing, why do I feel my panties getting wet as I talk about it, why am I regretting that I am on permanent orgasm restriction and that I have certain things to do tonight, certain exercises that will have me screaming for release which will be forbidden...

I've written about this before. I actually love orgasm restriction. In a way it is like prolonged foreplay. I love the pain of heightened, extended arousal. I love the feeling of being controlled. I love willingly giving over the control. Still...

This is the only place I can write about what I want. Well, I can elsewhere, but shouldn't really. The sadist is always reminding me that it is in no way about me and my desires. It is all and only about him and his needs and his desires and his urges... especially when the beast emerges. I will not forget that soon. The last time he was here I was seriously punished for daring to suggest otherwise.

There is always more to learn.

What I want doesn't enter into the Irishman's mind, either. But he's nicer about it. And in fact it does enter into his mind, because when he calls he doesn't order me to service him. He is asking me. Such a sweet man. It's only when he arrives that his own beast emerges. It fascinates me, the way I see it come over his face as he comes up the walk. And then it's all about him. I am but a collection of holes.

I wrote him a short poem signaling that I'm getting better.

I can't help letting the philosopher know what I want. But then he knows anyway. And we both know I may never get it. Except that in a way I am getting what I want. There is still that thin chain running up the New Jersey Turnpike, binding me to him. He is no longer pretending it is not there. How long it will survive and what it actually means is a mystery. But as long as it is there I'm ok.

For now, I need sleep. I need another day off, with no trips back and forth to town and no committee meetings.

And then?

I need to be taken by the beast and dragged off to his den.

I need to be spanked.
I need to be caned.
I need to feel a chain
pulled
tight around my neck.
I need to be dragged by my hair
and thrown onto the bed.
I need to have my nipples
twisted
and pinched
until I think it would be
less painful if he
just
sliced
them
off.
I need him to bite my neck.
I need him to bite my lip.
I need him to kiss me
deep and sensuously,
richly and softly,
fiercely and hungrily.
I need to be fucked.
Fiercely and hungrily.
I need to be fucked.
I need to be fucked.
I need to be fucked.

But oh,
most of all,
and here
my eyes fill with tears
so I know it is true,
most of all

i need to be loved.

Dommed by my virus

Being sick sucks. Especially when what you have is a highly contagious virus that could last 2-3 fucking weeks!

I mean, 2-3 non-fucking weeks.

My lovely Irishman called tonight. Obviously, I had to regretfully decline his request to avail himself of that which is rightfully his. It's bad enough giving a guy a cold, but a 3-week virus? Even he couldn't have been that horny.

As an aside... doesn't it strike you as odd that so many doms own me... have rights to me... Seems I ought to be able to design some sort of hierarchy chart. Well, of course you all know what it would be.

The Irishman can call in the middle of the night or the middle of the afternoon and if at all possible I will drop everything and happily present myself for use. I think of him sometimes, and smile at memories of him walking up to my door at a quarter of 1 in the morning. I think of how stern he becomes, how abrupt, how focused, and, underneath, how gentle and considerate. I'm curious to see, as we go on, how far he lets himself go in exploring his urges with me. And I'm happy to have him in my life, even though his appearances are brief and unanticipated.

Serving him pleases me.

My sadistic demon muse owns pretty much every minute of my waking hours and, I suspect, much of my dream world as well. He is always lingering underneath my consciousness, and usually just the act of sitting in front of my computer is enough to bring him to the fore. He values me, he lets me know that he values me, and despite the fact that I drive him crazy, he devotes much time to devising, revising, and then instituting plans that he hopes will train and mold me into what he wants me to be.

I want to be what he wants me to be.

The philosopher sits in a frame on my desk. The philosopher envelopes my butt in pink panties. The philosopher nestles above my cleavage in the guise of his gift of a handmade intarsia Obama logo pin, which I wear almost every day. The philosopher is like a soft and gentle second skin, a whisper of a hug, a tease of sun through the forest leaves... with no promise that there is any more sun to follow but welcome nevertheless.

Love trumps everything else.

Except for a very sadistic virus.
Nothing beats a virus.

Hmmm... I wonder if the sadist could beat it out of me... do you think the endorphins...?

General frustration

i drive him crazy.
i have potential.
i’m sometimes brilliant.
he thinks i’m lazy.
he wants to beat me.
i lack direction,
have no discipline.
he wants to beat me.

he’s absolutely right.

i need his chains
the brutal cane
his lesson plans
his strangling hand
so I can be
exactly
what
he wants.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later...

He asks a lot of me. He thinks I have it in me so he pushes me and expects a lot. He is right to push me, and he's the only one who ever has. He touched a button. He pushed me and hit a button and then knew he had and I was glad he had, I need to be pushed but still he saw things and... he called. And he was kind. Unheard of. It won't happen again. But still...

I would do anything for him.

Thank you, Sir.

snuffle cough moan

mostly cough.

[hack hack]

there goes another one.

too sick to work today.
too sick to write today.

woke up in the middle of the night feeling as if a fat cock were stuffed down my throat. but no, the Irishman hadn't materialized in the middle of the night. it was my damn tonsils, which made themselves scarce when they were due to be removed and saved their lives. damn tonsils.

they settled down today under the influence of continuous doses of assorted hot liquids. but that didn't help with the razor blades in my throat.

at least when my demon muse tortures me, his ministrations are of limited duration. he beats me, he spanks me, he twists my nipples near to coming off, i scream, i cry, he gets turned on and impresses me with whatever lesson was on the syllabus for the day,

and
then
it
stops!

but oh, no, not today. my own body is torturing me, there's nothing arousing about it (except, i must admit, when i write about it in context of what my tormentor wishes he had been doing to me today...), and it doesn't stop.

it was too bad, really. here i was home all day, the house to myself, and the sadist was home because it was too snowy for what he normally would have been doing, and... frustration. i was sick and he was recuperating and while, as he admitted, we are not always all that wise, we were wise enough to know that getting together would have been a very bad idea.

still, there were many e-mails, and a very instructive and arousing and, most important of all, pleasing to him phone call, and then he restored to me the privilege of a form of address which had been denied me since our reunion and i'm feeling wonderfully close to him and highly submissive, and as obedient as someone can be who is always forgetting things...

we have fallen behind schedule due to his own illness, but he has plans to accelerate our progress.

and if i'm very very good, and very very obedient, he just might let me serve him with my (per his own testimonial) hot, tight, wet pussy and my even tighter, never-before-used little butt hole.

enough of this coughing! i've got work to do.

Not really a post on objectification

I meant to write a post today.

A nice long discussion of objectification.

I've been thinking about it lately. The Irishman came back on Friday night. He phoned at 12:45 in the morning, asking if I was (available? willing?) to service him. I had been asleep. I said yes, of course, and he was there in 15 minutes.

There was something so sexy about being woken up like that.

He had that look. His crooked smile was gone, his expression now set and stern. I was wearing the slave shirt I had been sleeping in. We went to the bedroom, he turned off the light, told me to kneel, took out his cock, and fucked my mouth. His cock is fat, I didn't notice last time, I kept gagging, and in the end I was drooling saliva and cum.

He came with a roar. I wonder if my housemate heard.

He stood there for a minute or two, my head leaning against his leg. And then he left.

I was content.

I was smiling.

And I've been thinking of how this nice man needs to reduce me to a trio of orifices, and of how the sadist is training me to be dragged down into degraded depths of objectification, and of how I want it and am happy.

Very odd...

But I'm sick and I'm tired so I will write more on this within the next few days. I've been discussing it with my demon muse and with the philosopher (who to my great relief is not disgusted by my attraction to being used in this way), and welcome any comments on the matter in advance of my full-scale post.

I'm especially interested in anyone's experiences with objectification in service to compartmentalization i.e. a way for the dom(me) to reduce the submissive/slave to a thing so as not to risk an emotional connection that could threaten a primary, possibly vanilla relationship.

Thanks for any comments and now I'm taking my feeble brain to bed. My mother says that I shouldn't go to work tomorrow because my throat is sore. Maybe she can fax over a note?