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.