After a Year

A man at the allergist’s reminded me of you.
Not the man, exactly.
His shirt.

Small checks, in grayish blue with thin lines of black and white and red, thin lines so that the impression overall was of dark blue.

A button-down shirt, a pocket over each breast, dark buttons, worn with jeans and scuffed brown shoes.

At first glance, it seemed to be a long-sleeved shirt, with the sleeves rolled up just over his elbows. A long-sleeved shirt on a hot and muggy day. You never wore short sleeves – partly to protect your skin. Your pale, Irish redhead’s skin, paler and better protected than mine. But partly out of vanity. You didn’t like your arms, you said. You didn’t like your wrists. They were too thin, you said.

I thought they were just fine.

So. This man at the allergist's. And his shirt. This shirt like you might have worn, with long sleeves rolled up on a hot and muggy day.

That’s when the tears ran into my throat.

It is one year since you were last here.
One year since I last saw you.
It is time to truly let you go.

I’ve heard nothing since March. Not a word. If he is still reading here, I can’t decipher his address in my stats. And besides, there are ways to read a blog without leaving any footprints.

If he does read here, he is finding me generally happy, at least on some fronts. I’m still employed if still broke. The cats are well though house and car need repairs and I am, as I said, broke, living from one paycheck to the next and trying not to think of how the only way I can afford retirement is to illegally rent out every bedroom in my house and move with the cats to a tent in the back yard.

Things with my Master are going well.

Things with my writing are going well.

I do wish I had a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Or at least someone to date. But every time I start the process, all the prospects quickly fail the test. I hold them up against the philosopher and the sadist and they don’t come even close to giving me what I need.

Intelligence.
Wit.
Dominance.

It’s a question of the right kind of approach.
Not too pesky.
Not too enthusiastic.
Interested.
Smart, clever,
poetic if possible,
holding back and
making me
want
to come
to him.
To her.

Everyone fails.
Inevitably,
one by one,
they fail.

So I do with what I’ve got.
I’m alone, and yet not.

I have a lot more now than I ever could have expected.
Not everything.
But something very special.

He’s good for me, my Master.

But.
I miss you, John.
I do.
I miss your imagination.
I miss your voice.
I miss your rituals.
I miss your love.
If it was indeed love.

I miss you.

I miss you in my life.
I miss the dream of sharing a life.

And if you came back?
If you were done with the dissertation and wanted to try again?

Your underwear is still in my drawer along with your chain.
And I never threw out the pinhole cameras.

(Damn, it’s awfully hard to type through tears…)

As for the man in the shirt,
the man at the allergist’s...
In the end, the shirt had short sleeves.
And you never wore short sleeves.

In the end, everything disappoints.

Distraction

My Master says I'm a distraction.
I agree and smile and leave a puddle in my panties.

Of course I'm a distraction! That's my job! Isn't that one reason he acquired me? I am supposed to bombard him with arousing vignettes and poems, descriptions of his favorite sections of my body in all their vulnerability, images of what he could - would - will do to them, evocations of my moans and screams when he hurts me, of my gasps for breath as he tightens his hand around my throat, and - perhaps his favorite - of the breathy quality of my voice as I recite my poems while he smashes me into the wall.

That is my job.

And I'm good at it.

But recently... ah recently he has had cause to regret letting me know that he is available for web-based chatting at certain times of the day. Until a couple of days ago, this method of communication was not available to me on the system that he uses. But now, for good or ill, my laptop has been upgraded, which means I was able to upgrade all sorts of other things and now we can chat via Yahoo Messenger.

And so, today, we did.

For a very long time.

It felt so frightfully intimate. I'm old-fashioned in many ways - though of course it's all relative, as I do after all have a blog. But I used to pooh-pooh this chat business. What? E-mail messages weren't good enough?

But now I understand. It felt so close, so immediate, and more relaxed in a way. We talked, with a minimum of protocols. We talked and teased and I prodded his soft spots and we discussed a plan that probably will have to be aborted but that we so wish didn't have to be... and I felt close to those other parts of him that I don't usually get to spend much time with.

He used the words "our relationship."

We talked and we reminisced and I incited his desire and I floated in and out of subspace and I felt so owned and happy and grateful and at peace...

Even when he reminded me how much he will hurt me when he finally fucks my butt hole.

Because I don't care how much he will hurt me.
What matters is his pleasure.
What matters is that I am the source of his pleasure.
What matters is his ownership and my submission.

And what matters is that, even through those letters that pop up on the screen next to a really stupid square smiley face, I can hear the affection in his voice when he says that he spoils me.

Because he does spoil me. He is an evil narcissistic bastard, he is dangerously sadistic, he is very strict, he is hugely demanding, he is capable of inflicting great pain both physically and emotionally.

And he does spoil me.

I am his treasure
I am his poet
I am his pet.

And I am very very happy.

I am a Writer

My Master expects a lot of me. He takes me seriously as a writer and expects me to do the same for myself. He pursued me for my writing, he trapped me for my writing, he trains me and keeps me and puts up with a whole lot of shit because of -

well, ok, not just because of my writing,
there is all that other stuff,
the insistent nipples,
the pale round belly,
the bottom begging to be bruised,
the hot tight pussy,
the still virgin ass hole,
you know,
you've heard about them all before.

But truly, this writer thing...

I hold my head higher now.

He expects a lot.
He is peeved if he thinks I'm goofing off.
He wants focus.
He wants quality.
And he wants me to respect my talent.

There is a friend who pushes me as well, and between the two of them, I feel as if there has been a shift in my brain.

Even though I have a "regular" job that forces me to get up in the morning and barely manages to pay the bills, I am suddenly feeling as if this is my profession. For its own protection, I moved my laptop back onto the desk in my study. The room is horribly cluttered, but still, it is my study, it is my office, and now it is the place where I write.

I sit down at my laptop, knowing I'm going to write rather than read other people's blogs or fume over the California Supreme Court decision on Proposition 8 or flirt with my Master on Yahoo Messenger (a brand new delight now that my laptop has been upgraded). I sit down at my laptop, at my desk, and it's as if I've put on my writing suit, and a little name tag that says

oatmeal girl
writer

and I sit up even straighter and pull back my shoulders to show off my tits, and I write.

And then I feel SO GOOD!!

Not to mention pleasing my Master, which is the most important thing of all.

My Master expects a lot of me.
And when I know he's pleased,
my world is filled with sunshine.

My Master is my sun.
My Master fills my life.

she crawls

she crawls.
on hands and knees,
eyes towards the ground,
inching across the
carpeted dungeon floor.

she crawls.
on hands and knees,
head up,
eyes up,
back arched
shoulders back,
tits on offer,
proud to be debased.

she crawls.
naked as always
she crawls.
on knees and forearms,
head raised,
back arched,
bottom up,
knees spread,
walk behind and
take a look.
everything is on display.
her bottom’s canvas,
pale and white,
imagine it covered with
welts and with bruises.
go on. we know you
want to. kick her knees
further apart. there.
a perfect pussy view.
fondle it if you wish.
and of course there’s that
small
tight
hole
tempting
your lust.
you do want her.
it’s in your eyes.
touch her.
kiss her.
spank her.
find out what you’re missing.
take a taste.
I can share.
take a taste.
but know she’s Mine.

The gift of punishment

He caned me, yesterday.
My Master caned me.
He caned me and he spanked me.
He left me with screaming welts and a beautiful pink glow.
The wood strip with which he beat me
shed large splinters on the ground.

It was a punishment I had asked for.
Not so much as punishment,
but as an anchoring.
A centering.
A reminder of who I am

Something bad happened the week before. The details aren't important. What does matter is that my balance was shaken, and I lost the sense of who I am. I lost the swirl of submissiveness that normally surrounds my head and my heart, even when I am seemingly at my clearest. Even when focused on something else. There is always that clear internal pulsing light of submission.

My balance was shaken.
I was shaken.
I floated away.
And I didn't like it.

So I told him. I told him how I felt and what had done it and that I didn't like it and what I needed. He rarely hurts me anymore. Oh, he'll twist my nipples quite evilly, and there's no denying the pain of the werewolf's jaws as they sink into my neck. He'll give my bottom a hard smack now and then, and maybe a few lashes with the flogger to get his blood roiling. But he no longer lets the sadist loose on me since I had an odd reaction the last time he did.

I'm not a masochist, we do both know that. But part of me misses the pain. Not so much the pain itself in its application, but the submission. It takes effort and devotion to submit to the pain. And the discomfort that lingers is a reminder of that submission, and of the pleasure that he takes in hurting me.

Still, the decisions are always his, and he has decided to take another route. He is a wise man, my Master, evil but wise, and I trust his judgment. I also know that he will always do what he wants, what he thinks I need.

I spoke of needing a clear, painful punishment to center me and bring me back.

He thanked me for my honesty, and said he had other methods to correct the situation, if he deemed it necessary. Not long after, for about a day, he reduced his communications to me to the bare minimum.

Silence,
isolation,
these are the worst things you can do to a submissive.
The worst.
And the best.

Because as I realized that I wasn't hearing from him, I yearned towards him. I felt my body and soul physically stretching towards him, and I began to feel smaller and younger and more and more submissive. I knew exactly what he was doing, but it didn't matter. He was pulling me back towards him, I felt myself prostrate on the ground at his feet, small and submissive and weeping while blessing the chains that enveloped me.

That was Monday.
He came to see me Wednesday.
He came to see me Wednesday and ordered me to have the cane ready.

It was early in the morning that he gave his instructions for preparations. A couple of hours later, he asked how I felt, knowing the cane was waiting for me.

Well, how would you feel?

The visit lasted half an hour. There were various things he said and did. It was all very personal, to him and to me and to us, so I won't display them here. The important things are these:

• He said, for the first time, that he was my Master. I felt a pride behind his gift, pride in the progress I'd made. I felt an intimacy behind it, too, and my own pride, and my joy, and my gratitude, and my love. He chained me to himself tighter than ever at that moment.

• He hurt me. He gave me what I knew I needed. And that was a gift, too, not only because I was frightened and he reeled me in, but because he did not reject my plea for pain as a way to show that he and only he, is the one in control. He hurt me enough to imprint the required lesson on my brain, and to make me feel treasured. Rather than tossing me away for having another difficult reaction to something that happened between us, he showed that I was worth enough to him to give me a painful correction. And left me with no doubt of who always has the control.
  

• He rewarded me for my honesty. He said the caning would have been worse if not for my honesty. But I know the value of honesty in BDSM. It is a necessity. And it's what makes it so rich and so beautiful and so intimate.

In truth, D/s is not about kinky sex practices. It is about honesty and trust and the purest form of intimacy you can have.

So here I am, a day and a half later.
And my butt is still sore,
and my heart and soul are happy,
and the sadist is my Master.

There is a peaceful, faraway smile on my face as I head off to bed.

Oh.
Didn't I tell you?
I have permission to cum tonight.

The gift

Master.

Now.
He is
my Master.

Say it.
Let it flow
on the wave of your breath.
Bathe in its beauty.
Feel how it swims
in the sea of
your heart.

sshhh

Listen...
there on the wind...

Master

We have our weapons

I live beneath a halo of red,
a lure for unprotected eyes.
Every dom has a silver bullet –
a pair of nipples,
a pale, round belly,
a canvas of buttocks,
a wet, clinging cunt.
For some,
it’s the hair.
Russet.
Titian.
Auburn.
Red.
A flaming arrow
shot at a soft spot,
the tip dipped in poison
for which there is no cure.
Beware.
Look away.
There's danger ahead.
You think you're immune
but there is no vaccine.

They say that the head of
the Gorgon Medusa
was covered with snakes and
would turn men to stone.
But we know the truth of
the danger men faced.
Medusa's great weapon was
worse than mere vipers.
Her hair was a rich flowing
veil of red curls
and a glance turned the heart
of a dom to soft mush.

Self-control

Triumph!

I did it again. Or, rather, I didn't do it. I managed to get through yet another Sunday without fruitlessly, annoyingly e-mailing the philosopher.

The last time I broke down and reached out was... let me look... well, April 23 was the last kitten-gets-emotional message. And then on April 28th I sent a tiny note about Arlen Specter joining the Democrats. A very cautious, very short, largely matter-of-fact message.

No response.

Who knows? Maybe he's deleting them without reading. Or classified them as spam so he doesn't even have to see them. In any case, I've managed to avoid e-mailing while emotional since then.

Somehow, I will learn to let go.

The end of this month, it will have been a year since I last saw him. It's already 2 months since I last heard from him.

It's time I had someone of my own.
I hit craigslist again.
We'll see...

Pure fiction - really!

She considered his proposition with some bemusement.

"Evict the housemate.
Blow off the job.
Keep the cats if you must, but do something about the damn cat hair.
In fact, do something about the entire toxic waste dump you dare to call your home."

And in exchange?
In exchange for privacy and time to write and walk and garden and breathe?

She’d be his.

It was that simple.
His mistress.
His kept woman.
His courtesan.
His odalisque.

She liked the last two best. She thought of herself in Paris, dressed in 18th century finery, running a salon for others of intellectual and artistic bent. Or not dressed, lounging on a couch among rich linens and silks, displaying herself to his appraising, hungry eyes - or recovering from the ravages of his hands and teeth and tongue and cock, glowing red and striped with welts from the assaults of his uncontrollable lusts. She saw herself in a painting by Boucher, though hardly neatly coiffed and posed. She was sprawled on a bed, russet tresses in disarray, with a profusion of strands detached from her scalp when he hauled her by her hair in his fury at wanting her that much.

Except this wasn’t 18th century Paris. And despite her red hair, there was no way she could be mistaken for some 15-year old Irish girl, delicious in the seeming innocence of her naked beauty.

A middle-aged odalisque.
She did love the idea.

Perhaps he would take her to Paris…

It's Official! I'm a Sexy Blogger!

I did already know that. I didn't need an award to convince me. For one thing, the sadist says I'm sexy, and if I don't accept that I'm in big trouble.

But I do accept it.
I believe it.
I feel it.

Especially lately.
I suppose because it's Spring.
I've been flirting.
A lot.
I can't help it.
My blood is boiling, engorging.

My apologies to any recipients to whom it hasn't been welcome.

And it's not like I'm not allowed. I say I belong to the sadist. He says he owns my mind and my body. And he does. But he doesn't. When I asked if I might serve the Irishman on occasion, the sadist said the permission wasn't his to give. And then he gave it. He thought it would help keep things between us from progressing too fast.

Ha! It was too late. But still. He gives me a lot. It's immeasurable what he gives me. But there's something else I want, which he will never be to me. In fact, although he says I'm in love with him, which freed me to admit to us both - to accept - that I'm in love with him... well, there are different ways of being in love with someone. And despite all the things I enjoy about him, about his MIND, he doesn't feel like someone I'd want for a boyfriend.

And I'd like to have a boyfriend.
A dominant boyfriend.

Someone who would accept me and encourage me as who I am - creative and sexy and submissive and wicked and sweet and loving. The whole thing.

I answered an ad on craigslist the other day. I cruise through there at times, just in case there's anyone intelligent on there who admits to being at least 40. So I answered an ad the other day, because he made reference to being intellectual and included pictures of a pile of books and a loaded bookshelf and a cat. For the hell of it I answered, as he sounded pleasant, comfortable, not sparkling, and definitely not likely to be dominant or likely to be comfortable with my needs in that respect.

I want a boyfriend.
Or a girlfriend, though I clearly don't know
how to flirt with or date girls.
I want someone in my life.
And I want to be my full self.

And (to get back to the topic) part of who I am is
a sexy, submissive blogger.
I am very sexy and I'm very submissive.
So there.

Plus, I was tagged as such by milla, who also goes by Velvet, not to mention what she uses in the outside world. There must be many submissive sex bloggers wandering around with identity problems. Anyway, whoever she is, you can go here to read what she said about her own sexiness. She's a musician, by the way, which means you bet she's sexy.

The timing of the award was perfect, as it came when my demon muse was pushing me to accept that I am sexy, along with beautiful, talented, creative... So milla said I'm sexy and I thought damn right I'm sexy, and I know why. I immediately wrote to the sadist as follows:

So I've been tagged by one of my blogger friends for one of these silly things they pass around. It's the Sexy Blogger Award. You have to say 5 sexy things about yourself. But I think this is a good one for me to do. It will help me further internalize feeling good about myself as a sexy creature.

As your sexy creature.

In fact, I'd thought of asking you if you would mind making the list. But I quickly realized that I knew what you would say. At least I think I have it right. The first one is mine - I'm not sure that you obsess about it the way I do - it's what makes me feel sexy. But the rest?

• my hair
• my tits
• my pale, round belly
• my voice
• my words

Then there will be a paragraph about each one. Those should be easy, though if you have anything to contribute about any of them, especially about my belly and my voice, your words would be most welcome.

Your words, my Lord, are always welcome.

Oh, I was such a clever little submissive thing. I figured I knew exactly what he'd say. Because I know exactly what to say to him when I want to excite him, arouse him, whether it's to incite the beast (a dangerous undertaking) or call forth those other needs. I know what stirs him about me.

• My hair - My growing-ever-longer red hair. Perfect for me to toss. Perfect for him to wrap his fingers around, curling the strands close to my scalp, and then pulling my head wherever he wants it. Close to his fangs. There's a bit of the wherewolf in my Lord, a bit of the vampire, and he has a serious taste for the flesh of my throat. And the hair... well, the hair makes me feel sexy. And then I am.
  

• My tits - They all love my tits. The breasts as a whole, yes, they're rather sweet, but especially my amazing nipples. Remember, I've told you all about my nipples, but in case you missed class that day... they protrude. They always protrude. They show through my shirts, even when I'm wearing a bra, because I'd have to wear a padded bra to cover them up and really, give me a break, women have nipples, I refuse to have mine airbrushed out of existence. Of course, the sadist never sees me clothed. There is nothing to keep him from my nipples, nothing to protect my nipples from him. He twists them, hard, cruelly, demanding that I keep my eyes locked to his, so that he can see everything, we can exchange everything, he sees my pain, he devours my vulnerability, and our intimacy at that moment is like a flowing river, is like an electric current, and it fills the room.
  

• My pale, round belly - This may be a personal obsession of the sadist's. He likes me against dark colors to accentuate the pallor. And really, I'm not all that pale. I'm a redhead, yes of course, so I am pale to a point, but even if I had been better about staying out of the sun all those years back I still wouldn't be one of those redheads with alabaster skin. For one thing, there are all those freckles. But he has this thing about my pale round belly. My pale round ass, too, but especially the belly. It's the vulnerability of it. That I know. There was something he used to do to it... he stopped, when I said it scared me. As I've said before, for someone who says he doesn't have limits, who says I can have a safe word if I want but that doesn't mean he'll stop if I use it... He is very good to me. He protects me. He protects what we have. But yes... vulnerability... he is a predator, and my pale, round belly draws him.

• My voice - I have many voices. Not deliberately, except when I was on the radio, I knew that was my radio voice. I have the tapes from over 20 years ago, the tapes of the folk show I had for a year. I think I would pitch it lower now. My office mate says my voice goes up when I answer calls, which is one reason people act as if I'm 20. Sometimes, occasionally, I deliberately tell them I'm 60, whether to command respect or to create a connection. But with the sadist... I don't know what happened... I was always in awe of him... perhaps it makes me breathless... a bit frightened... from the first time we spoke on the phone, and that first phone message I left when he commanded me to sing for him... I sang a Yiddish lullaby. He said it slayed him. Speaking to him, to the sadist, to my Lord as he now lets me call him... my voice goes breathy. He feeds on it. I suspect again it reflects my vulnerability, which is one of his 3 major food groups. (The others? I'm not sure. I'm making this up. But maybe pain and obedience.)

• My words - the first shall be the last. Because it was by my words that he knew me, it was my words that snared him and then he snared me. It is for my words that he wants me more than anything else. Sex and screams he can get anywhere, and there are lots of great nipples in the world. But my words... and thus he makes me feel very special.

So there you are. I figured I had it down, and he'd say what a clever girl I am and maybe add a comment or two to use in what would become the above descriptions.

Shows how much I know. His response to the message I sent him?

Wrong. First, there is your intellect. Everything else is a distant second. Your vulnerability, your poetic talent, your breath, your sensitivity, your courage, then maybe the anatomy.

And that is why I'm in love with him.

[I'm supposed to tag 5 more people but haven't thought of whom yet and if I wait around for that I'll never get this posted. So I'll get back to you on that. Better than nothing...]

Giving myself to Zander Vyne

True to my sluttish streak, I have given myself to the superbly talented erotic writer Zander Vyne. Well, you know... A person has to be very clever of tongue in order to get anywhere with me.

OK.
I confess.
I admit to leading you on.
I didn't give him my body.
I didn't give him my submission.

I gave him a poem.
And the only place you can read it is on his blog.

Unless you are my sadistic demon muse. Because of course I wrote it for him. I wrote it for him on May Day, that pagan holiday of rampant sexuality as well as the workers' holiday that was surely celebrated by the previous couple of generations of my family.

To say that I wrote it mis-characterizes the creative process involved. It burned its way out of me, capping a period of frequent and intense communication that drew me closer and deeper into the fiend's web.

And I saw it was good.

On the one hand, it seemed so deeply personal an offering that I wanted it to be the sadist's own. On the other hand, I was very proud of it and had an urgent desire to show it off. Zander had asked me for something for his website, and when I contemplated publishing this piece, he was the first one I thought of giving it to.

Because the man is damn good.

I have no idea what he'd be like over a cup of coffee.
I have no idea what he'd be like over his knee.
But as a writer...

I do know something about marketing. If you want people to think your product is quality, you don't sell it at the dollar store. Take it to a fancy boutique and people will pay more because they will assume it is worth more.

I am honored (an understatement) to have my poem appear in the same electronic pages as Zander's own stories.

So, with the permission of my demon muse, go read the poem. It is called Auto da fé.

And then stick around and read some of Zander's own stories. I admit to having read very few of them so far. The ones I have stumbled on have been very rich and intense, and I hesitate to dilute them by reading too many at once. There was one which particularly stunned me. It is called La Belle Mort. Take it as a thank-you gift for your support over the last couple of years.

PS - For various reasons, I have never had a blog roll. I'm still not starting a blog roll. But, again for various reasons, I've decided to list a very few special websites that for my own ill-defined reasons mean a lot to me. Please don't feel insulted if you aren't included.
Thanks. -- o.g.

How can I not?

mamacrow left this comment in response to my post Mantra.

(I presume you already know, but you've been talking about love quite a lot lately... in regards to the demon muse... just saying...)

I had to laugh. And wrote a reply to her comment which kept on going until I decided I should make it into a separate post. As follows:

"just saying..."

You're so cute, mamacrow. Well, yeah. I think I mentioned perhaps a month or so ago that he stated to me straight out that he knew I was in love with him. That allowed me to own up to it to myself.

But there are all sorts of love. It's not a romantic love. It's... I'm not sure I really know, but there is such a shared intimacy between us, an intellectual sharing as well as the intensity of D/s and the force of his personality and the whole sexual component. He is unlike anyone I have ever known, in many ways. He does things for me that no one else ever has - and really they are for me even though they also, of course, fulfill his own needs. He has preyed on my vulnerabilities, sure, but he has promoted my abilities, has built up my ego, as demonstrated in this post, by claiming that not to think well of myself was insulting his infallible judgment, and he has gotten me to think about myself in ways I never truly have before.

He is teaching me to love myself.

I am his creation.
I am his.
But I am also me and my own, and he respects the hell out of me.

And this man who virtually stank of charisma the first time he walked through my door - this man wants me. This man values me. This man treasures me. This man takes pride in creating me and owning me.

How could I not be in love with him?

I had to write a psalm tonight. I had told him I was concerned that it would end up being not about God, but about him. He responded that it was the other way around - that whenever I wrote about him, it sounded as if I were writing about God.

He's such a narcissist that I don't think he minds.

Personally, I think that if I do worship him like a god, he's earned it.

Obviously, we suit each other.

(And yes, I'm laughing.)

Mantra

How can I put into words what I feel today.
What I have felt all afternoon since my lunchtime tryst with my demon muse.

And he is my muse. He inspires me. Not just individual creative efforts. He inspires ME. He fills me, he makes me light up, he makes me accept and treasure who and what I am. He makes me believe in who and what he says I am because a rejection of his judgment on that is a rejection of his judgment on everything. And I respect him too much to do that. His intelligence, his creative sensitivity, his own creativity to which he doesn't give enough credit... Yeah, yeah, I know, they all say that, we submissives are notorious for idolizing the men (and women) who take us in hand and mold us to their tastes and then manipulate us into falling in love with them when we really should know better.

But truly. And now I will speak like the sadist himself. If you respect my judgment at all, if you respect my intelligence, believe me on this. He may be seriously, even dangerously sadistic, though not, I truly believe, a danger to me. But he is also an extraordinary man, charismatic not just because of some indefinable aura that makes him irresistible, but also because of his depth, his discernment, and an unquestionable dominance that cannot be ignored.

As opposed to the last paragraph. Which you are welcome to ignore if you wish.

I'm trying to focus. I am trying to convey the essence of our meeting, and of how I feel. Our stolen lunchtime tryst, courtesy of my working so near to home. All very well coordinated to maximize our actual time together. I time it so I have about 5 minutes to remove my clothes and take a glass of ice water down to the dungeon, where the futon was opened last night and the instruments of torture and pleasure were laid out before I left for work this morning.

He was a little late. Probably due to the rain. But still, we had nearly a half an hour. It's never enough time. But it was enough time to give him what he came for. Enough time to show that I have taken his lessons to heart and ...

I can't.
I can't talk about it.
I gave him pleasure.
Isn't that enough?
There was an intimacy...
I've never known such intimacy.

It was all for him and yet, at the end, I felt as if I had cum, too. Not a body shaking orgasm, not choking sobs, not the cumming itself. But the afterwards. That sense of strong, glorious calm and fulfillment... I'm at a loss. Truly, it is beyond describing. Or maybe I'm beyond being able to write about it. I am swaddled in it, enveloped in its soft, fluffy blanket.

But oh, when we came down to the dungeon, he had something serious on his mind. There was this issue on which I had to be corrected. He does not, as I said at the beginning of this essay, appreciate my implying doubt as to his taste and judgment by questioning his appraisals of me.

We came down to the dungeon and he curtly ordered me up against the wall.
Facing the wall.
My arms raised and spread.
My legs parted.
As always, I was naked.
As always, he was not.
He pressed me into the wall with his body.

"I am beautiful," he said.
"SAY IT."

"I am beautiful." I repeated.
And already, I believed it.
Already, I meant it.

"I am sexy," he said.

"I am sexy as hell!" I crowed.
And meant it.

"I am creative," he ordered.
"I am creative," I readily agreed.

"I am talented," he said.
"I am talented!" I seconded.

And then, beating me by seconds
and oh, I do wish I could have said it on my own...

"And I am yours."
"Yes, my Lord, I am very much yours."

And I believed every word of it.

And now there it is in my mind, in my heart, in my very being, and I went back to the office coated in it, as if he had stood over me and anointed me with buckets of his cum, instead of depositing it in my loving hand. And I would never have thought it, but what we had, the intimacy we shared, was deeper and closer and truly more satisfying that any sexual experience I have ever had. Even though the only attention my cunt got was when I was on my forearms and knees, butt offered, and he caressed with the flogger that delicious valley between my plump, white cheeks before letting the lashes pass sensuously over my pussy lips, followed by a light flogging off the same lovely parts.

I make no claims for the cohesion of the above report. And I'm rushing off to bed to claim the orgasm I have been granted as a reward for performing so well this afternoon. Off to bed with my sore nipples and my aching butt muscles from a brief, over-the-knee punishment spanking as well as the spanking and flogging for his amusement. And then there are my aching thighs, from kneeling before him so long, serving his sweet cock. His cock that wanted me.

And I will lay there and caress all the pains,
and caress my breasts,
and run my fingers down my belly which obsesses him,
and let my fingers tell my cunt how much it is loved,
and I will fill myself with memories of his pleasure,
I will glory in his pleasure,
I will lose myself in his pleasure,
which I have learned is the source of my own.

And as I rise up into the sweetest of orgasms,
because it is his orgasm,
a gift from the one who owns and treasures me,
I will fill myself with my mantra.
And I will believe it.

I am beautiful.
I am sexy.
I am talented.
I am creative.
And I am yours, my Lord.

I am yours.

Mental paralysis

I have so much to say. I have so much to say and the urge goes dry between one corner of my brain and another. It's like masturbating on Prozac back around 1990, when I was told oh no, it's very rare for it to have any effect on orgasms. I'd be horny and I'd touch myself and I'd feel myself rising, and I'd be just below the top and then I'd hang there, as if approaching the last hump of a roller coaster, stuck before the final descent. And to add discomfort to frustration, I'd be dry because I already had the damn symptoms of perimenopause and back then had neither estrogen nor Astro-Glide.

At the moment, the problem is progesterone. A hefty dose of progesterone for 12 days every three months to protect me against already-detected nasty effects of the estrogen I take non-stop as part of the pharmaceutical arsenal that keeps me in a condition approaching sanity.

Progesterone may protect my uterus but it does my sanity no good whatsoever.

I've had 9 of the nasty buggers so far this cycle. Every 3 months I suffer through a week and a half of progressive softening of the brain - which is a whole lot better than and supposedly nearly as effective as living in a state of permanent mental mush. At least, thanks to the lithium, I'm spared the emotional storms that used to beset me during this period of hormonal torture. But it distresses me that I can't concentrate.

I do want to write. I've been reading Carol Ann Duffy since she was declared the British Poet laureate, and have found some wonderful poems, and a new little motto to post here, followed by a wonderful comment from the sadist about what we share. And yes, it includes the word "we"... It occurs to me that he has rarely used the word "we."

I did write a truly fine poem for him Friday night, inspired by an extended volley of correspondence while he was out carousing. I have offered it elsewhere for initial digital publication, and will let you know when/if it goes up. It is a very honest, very naked statement, and it pleased my demon muse greatly.

Speaking of naked, I will be receiving a visit from the sadist this week. Perhaps even tomorrow, or maybe Tuesday... there are so many parameters that can derail our plans. I will serve his pleasure again. [she sighs contentedly] He ordered me to conduct a dress rehearsal this weekend (ok, an undress rehearsal), and I have been keeping his assorted requirements in my head. It would be too much to hope that my performance will be perfect this time, but I do aim for improvement. I am his pet, I am his treasure, I am his poet and his whore, and I do so want him to be pleased with himself for having found and caught and trained and re-trained me.

As I'd hoped, sitting down to write here did manage to get some words flowing, even if not the ones I really wanted to give you. Those need concentration, which I still don't have. I'm not going to take my progesterone tonight, so I can focus properly tomorrow on serving my demon muse the way he demands. I do not want to disappoint him.

I feel like I should leave you with something stimulating. A bit of soft-focus erotica. Or perhaps something brutally kinky. All those scenarios that the sadist inspires with his little comments, which he claims are not mere fantasies and which I snatch up and embroider for his amusement and mine, praying all the while that his intentions don't run to the extent of my imagination.

He has yet to follow through on any of his ideas. One long-planned escapade involved a whole weekend out of town together, and my presentation as a gift to his friend, our prospective host. Its probable failure is due to events over which we have no control. It was a somewhat scary idea at first, but then I developed a fondness for it, and now am disappointed as well as irate at the cause of its abortion.

Alas. Thinking of those plans has caused some itching and twitching and even a small measure of flooding from my ever eager cunt, but only there. No flooding of the imagination. So I'll leave you to use your own imaginations, of my forced masturbation and serial orgasms on the car trip out to the other end of the state, of how he would have presented me to his friend after months of preparing him for his gift, of what probably would have been some very satisfying, if vanilla, hours of sex with someone I am assured is very good to the ladies, before being returned to the sadist for the torture and intensity I crave.

It would have been such a lovely weekend...