Thursday, May 28, 2009

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.

7 comments:

cutesy pah said...

I am SO happy for you!!! I hate to say this, but I TOLD you good things would come to you!!! And, I'm so very glad I was right.

As for being a distraction, I agree completely that is our job. If we weren't a distraction, we would have likely been less of an attraction in the first place.

As for IMs, I do love them so much more than simple email. It does feel so intimate. But, it can definitely be a HUGE distraction. I've often called my computer a time machine, as hours just fly by when I sit in front of it.

love and hugs,
cutesy pah

Paul said...

OG, of course you are a distraction, which is exactly what you should be.
I am happy that you are happy,
it seems that your demon muse is very good for you.
Love and warm hugs,
Paul.

mamacrow said...

'He used the words "our relationship."'

!!!! :::happy dancing:::

Dreamwalker said...

Oatmeal Girl, I enjoy your writing; your style resounds with me like few others. The images you conjured up speaking of your voice’s breathy quality while being smashed into the wall brought forth the following:

She wrote me a poem.

A poem that speaks of lovers
gathering again after a spell apart,
of hands reacquainting with bodies,
and of lips devouring muted gasps
and moans.

A poem that speaks of me,
of how I appear in her dreams
and how I make her feel.

In her poem I am beautiful.
In her poem I am strong.
In her poem I am worthy of her.

And yet, as I have her in my arms,
as she is reciting her poem to me,
the beauty of which she speaks
is not in her presence.

No, only I am.

I am not the man in her poem.
I never was.

I am beyond redemption.
A beast merely pretending to be a man,
a man worthy of her.

A beast that must possess her,
take her, claw at her flesh
and mount her.

Ripping her skin and biting her flesh
I take her while her words
keep raining on me, burning my skin
like Holy water.

oatmeal girl said...

That's ok, cutesy pah, you can say "I told you so" if you wish. I'm always a little leery that suddenly everything could blow up overnight, but for now I think we both are clear that this is something that gives each of us a lot.

Paul, he most definitely is good for me. In many ways I have never felt stronger, sexier, and healthier. I am incorporating what he says about me, and not just because of fear of punishment if I don't. It stuns me that he thinks so highly of me. me and Shakespeare and James Joyce :-)

mamacrow - yeah, well that word can cover all sorts of connections between people. But still, it gives it an existence. However, don't think there will ever be any more of an arrangement than we have now.

I wonder, though, if there's any sort of Submissives' Union that has a home for retirees.

Dreamwalker. What can I say. I haven't sorted out this poem yet, but am stunned that you wrote it and delighted that you posted it here. I did, as you've probably seen, post a comment on one of the earlier posts on your blog and I urge the rest of you to check out his blog - as well as those of other people who comment here.

There, I just read it again, now I see it. I think the reason it confused me the first time is because the man is so different from my Master, from whom the beast does rise. But leaving aside his feelings about the beast, except for the way he undeservedly puts down his own writing talent, he NEVER says he doesn't deserve me. he towers above me in many ways, and has no doubt that he deserves to be there.

I look forward to more of your writing. Thank you ever so much.

Dreamwalker said...

Thank you for your kind words, Oatmeal Girl. I was taken aback when I stumbled across your blog yesterday; you write in much the same way that I think. The border between prose and poesy, between the narrative and the lyrical, is fluid and flexible and inviting for interbreeding. I look forward to reading more of your writing, as well.

The thing I wrote did not take the direction I imagined when I started it. I suppose parts of my past managed to wrestle into it when I was not paying attention. I have had poems written about me and it has always been a struggle for me to reconcile the darkness in my soul reflected so brightly and lovingly in the authoress’ eyes.

The turmoil in the man’s mind resembles the duality and uncertainty I had to struggle with myself. His value system has simply not evolved yet to the point where it will encompass being a good man and an honorable man with someone who needs to feed on his lover. Reading the last stanza again, I realize that he is enduring the blistering rain of her loving words as a rite of passage. Maybe not this time, maybe not next time, but soon her words will sear themselves into his heart and the cognitive dissonance that is tearing him apart will begin to resolve. He does not see it yet, but that is what will happen.

That is what happened to me, at any rate.

oatmeal girl said...

Dreamwalker, I did notice the similarity in our writing styles. I find myself in a somewhat dream-like state when I write, my mind slightly unmoored, with a touch of automatic writing involved. I think that's one reason it gets so poetic. Dreams are a world of metaphor.

Such an open and creative writing style makes up prime candidates for losing control of our pieces - but that has the advantage of making them windows on our souls. Even a dom cannot firmly hold the reins. I think only recently I mentioned Pirandello.

My sadistic friend and unsatisfied temptation dominick wrote me early on about his internal struggle with his desire to inflict pain. I have to find the quote. He rationalized part of it - it seemed acceptable to spank, for example, in the heat of passion, such as when fucking a girl from behind, it somehow seemed part of the entire experience. But to bind her to the bed, perhaps blindfold her and gag her, and then beat her with his belt or with a crop (see our twin stories "It wasn't my intent" and "We met in a bar") - that deliberateness of action disturbs him. He counts on the fact that there is consent involved, although he will try to push someone a little further than they have been before. But still, it conflicts with his core idea of himself as a good man.

I am ever so glad that you are reading and writing here. I welcome the male perspective, whether from doms or submissives (hi, Orlando!). We all have a lot to learn from each other.

I always hoped this blog could turn into a little salon of sorts. The fact that I might welcome my guests sprawled naked on the couch with my butt on offer along with tea and cookies is completely irrelevant to the intellectual amusements I hope will transpire here.