The Siren

I feel an overwhelming urge to flirt. I want to taunt and tease, present myself, parade myself, make men think they can have me, and then lure them to their destruction.

I was playing on craigslist again this weekend. I truly wonder why I do it. I toss out these clever little posts, like bright and confusing homemade flies designed to lure the fish to the hook. I tell myself I'm looking for love. Or at least a boyfriend. Or at least someone to date. But I know that, in the end, they will never be good enough, none of the men I catch will be good enough. There is always something wrong and I stop trying to hold their interest or I just stop answering. One way or another they drift away.

I advertise for someone who won't bore me. And they always end up boring me. Because in the end, they are not what I want.

They are not the philosopher.
And they are not the sadist.

I don't say this with sadness. It is a very matter-of-fact statement. The philosopher... well there, enough said, I loved him, I still do I suppose. As for the sadist, my tormentor, my inspiration, my owner and my demon muse... you just have to take my word for it. The man reeks charisma. It drips all over the floor, he should have women with mops following him around, they would gladly follow him around, they'd gladly clean up the trail of charismatic cum he leaves behind. It's odd, I can't pin it down, but there it is. And as odd as our relationship is, I am truly not ready to do anything to jeopardize it.

Oh, if I were smart, I'd be on a safari for a boyfriend. A man no older than 50, healthy, financially secure, at least a little sexy. I probably have another year or so before I start showing true signs of aging. There are all sorts of ways to be a whore, and if I were smart I would be selling my body and my soul for security in my advancing years.

But since this is my last shot, these next couple of years, I don't want to look back and remember being cautious. I want to flirt and flaunt and lead men to lose themselves in lust. It makes me tingle. It makes me feel sexier and sexier. It makes me feel I am serving my Master by discovering that I am indeed what he says I am - an unbearably sexual creature made to feed men's desires.

Well, he says I'm made to satisfy men's desires. And when I am serving him, that's what I will do. But on my own, I will tease them and taunt them and frustrate them, which will delight me such that I will stand naked on the rocks and display my nakedness to the sea and the sun and sing my songs of randomly fucking and lure all the ships to their doom.

This was the weekend

This was the weekend we might have been together.

We weren't.

And yet, he kept me with him.

He gave me an assignment.
He gave me a gift.

He gave me the freedom and the offer to call him as often as I wished. I was to - had to - was allowed to - call him yesterday and today as I often as I wished. I was to call him and arouse him and incite him and fill him with my voice and my submission and my breath and my desire and with memories of how I have served him and thoughts of how I will obey him and reminders of my body beneath his and images of my body despoiled by others.

I was a good girl, an obedient pet, an inspired little whore. I left so many messages that I filled his mailbox as he has obviously kept my words to fill his car on the drive home.

And at 2:05 this morning, he phoned me. He phoned me and called me his good girl and said that next time there was a chance I could come with. I don't know whether next time means next year or next month, but anything from him that implies confidence in the future is yet another addition to the box I keep of his accumulating gifts.

I don't know the details. He'll tell me more later, he said. For now, I know that I pleased him, I gave him what he wanted, I did what was required.

He should be on his way home now. I wish he had time to stop by and show me how much I aroused him. I wish he would call me from the car, and tell me how much he wants me to serve his cock, how much he wants me to take his pain, how much he wants me to show my obedience and devotion.

Of course, what I want is irrelevant. And I have learned that when I give him what he wants, I am fulfilled.

This was the weekend we might have been together.

And this was the weekend we were.
In our own way, every moment of the day or night
I was with him and he was with me.

Working towards Pre-Raphaelite

Working towards pre-Raphaelite.
Looking rather tame here,
right after my sweet and smiling hairdresser
made my hair obey his command.
Doms use canes and floggers.
Hairdressers use blow dryers.
Either way, we capitulate.
He took the photo for me, too,
re-arranging the curls just so to properly display his work.

It's come a long way since
the philosopher ordered me to grow it out.
I still miss asking for permission
before making an appointment to have it cut.

Maybe when it gets a little longer
I'll arrange a photo shoot
recreating the pre-Raphaelite classics.

Followed by some odalisque nudes.

Any of you artsy photographers want to volunteer?

He still can make me cry

There is pain worse than spanking.

He finally wrote back last night.

I wrote to say we were all okay, that none of us had been hurt in the awful collision between two Metro trains (Metro = subway, tunnelbana, tube, le Métro, the T; 9 were killed). It happened on the Red Line, the line I would take, our end of the line I would take if I didn't work a mile and a half from home. So I wrote to say we were okay. Because we were all getting messags by e-mail and on Facebook from friends out of town, asking if the whole gang was okay.

So I wrote to say we were all ok. And that if he ever wanted me to stop sending all these little messages, just tell me.

And this morning, for the first time in 3 months, there was his name in my Inbox.

And I started to cry. Damn, you can count on me to start crying.

It's not that I really thought he was dead. Not really. But you don't have to seriously believe that someone is dead to worry about him. And in my heart and in my soul I've been very very worried about him.

There are many kinds of love.

Yes, I say I love the sadist, and I do. But not like I love the cats and not like I love chocolate and not like I love Stockholm and Paris, and not with the protective fierceness with which I love New York. I can't describe how I love him. But it's not romantic love. It's a love born of intimacy, of creative collaboration and because my nakedness before him comes not from a lack of clothes but from the way he can see straight through me and out again. Which is why he can and will get me to do anything he wants, willingly if trembling with fear and amazement.

But the philosopher... the way I loved the philosopher... past tense? Who knows. I'm writing now and I'm crying again and maybe it's just crying for lost dreams, for fantasies of something that never could have been... but when it worked... and when we were together... could I have been making it up? I don't think I was making it up... There was a comfort I'd never known before, and perhaps may never know again. but what I wouldn't give to have him here, to be curled up on the couch or the futon or the bed, doing crossword puzzles or watching a movie or planning an extravaganza of a meal and cooking together and cleaning together and bringing his tea which had better be made just as he likes it and kneeling by his side and the box of pinhole cameras is still sitting on the floor in the study and he said very little but he's glad we're okay, he's glad I'm okay.

It takes a long time for a broken heart to stop hurting.

My Master paid me a visit today and I've asked if I may publish here the poem I wrote for him and I asked if I could cum but I haven't heard back from him since he left and anyway I'm tired.

I'm exhausted.

And yes, of course, after "lunch" which was really serving him and then stuffing my mouth with a little chicken before running back to the office, my mouth stained red from his kisses... after lunch I thought of him all afternoon and floated and worked on the poem and deliberately shifted in my seat so I would feel the pain from a not all that terrible punishment spanking which I deserved because you don't try to negotiate with a dom and especially not with a sadist. But I came home and I was exhausted. Absolutely drained. And then I sat down at the computer and started crying and realized why.

So yes. He wrote back. This little message which indicated that he was aware of what had happened down here and wondered how we were. And of course I was impulsive and wrote back about how relieved I was to hear from him. I'm much too emotional, but I've decided that there's no point in trying to cover up who I am.

So that's it. He wrote back. He's glad everyone's okay. He's glad I'm okay.

But it's not what he said.
It's what he didn't say.
It doesn't mean much, I'm not taking it as meaning anything.
But it's a comfort.
What he didn't say.

He didn't tell me not to write.

Breakthrough

The Irishman was here last night, for the first time in a couple of months. I was glad. I needed the physical contact. He didn't stay very long, but even that little bit was welcome.

He contacted me earlier in the evening. I said I was open to a visit and would be home, but was tired. I pulled off all my clothes and went to bed very early. It felt good crawling naked into the bed, surrounded by cats. I dozed off feeling the sadist's arms gathering me to him.

At around 10:30 pm there was a noise from my cell phone. I assumed it was a text message from the Irishman. Instead it was 6 words from the sadist that made me feel warm all over. I replied, got up and e-mailed him in more detail, and saw a message from the Irishman with an ETA. Then I crawled back into bed, again feeling all warm and cuddly.

At that point, I would have been just as happy if the Irishman had not been on his way. I hugged those 6 words to myself and felt thoroughly owned. I marvel at the emotions that wash over me. It is a sense that is very distinct from feeling loved. I have no expectations of being loved by my Master, although I do think he is "fond" of me and he certainly treasures me. But I feel more secure as his pet than I have ever felt in any supposed love relationship. More safe, even, although I am quite aware that he wants some very scary things from me. It puzzles me, but I am happy, so while I strive to understand, I do not question. I just hug myself and say "Thank you, my Master" and tell him that I love him while expecting nothing of the sort in return.

Around 11, the Irishman turned up, with his crooked smile and cold, focused gaze that washes over his eyes as he is transformed before me into a dom.

He has had a goal. To get his generous-sized cock into my tight little asshole. And this time he finally made it in. There was a bit of pain at first, and then it was fine. Afterwards, though, I'm not sure what happened. Perhaps, now that he was finally in, he wilted a bit. I'm not sure. but he withdrew. I could hear him behind me, as I was bent over the bed, lubing up his cock and pulling on it, but he came on my lower back before he could make it back in.

But he did get an erection. I know he gets erections. I've sucked him off, I've brought him off in my hand. And he has fucked my cunt good and hard from behind, though not for super long before he came.

The thing is, I'm starting to get paranoid.

Is it me?

Ex-hubby #1 definitely had trouble with premature ejaculation. #2 did better, but not all that well - though with him I suspect he wasn't concerned about lasting long enough to give me pleasure. S-- used to be great, but the last time couldn't fuck me at all. That problem started a few years ago, leading to lack of contact for 2 years (long story) and improvement the next time we were together, but then it went back downhill. And the philosopher... [sigh]

Could it be my fault? My Master would probably say it's because I'm so hot and sexy. Logic would say what do I expect from older guys? but they were young when I was married, and the philosopher isn't even 40 yet.

Should I hang up a sign saying "If you can't keep it up, it's not your fault"?

In any case, the Irishman was sweet about it, and said he'll just have to practice with me more. My ass has decided it really likes being fucked, so I do hope he comes back soon and tries again.

He ordered me to stay in position bent over the bed and patted me affectionately on the butt before leaving the house. I rose feeling happy yet matter-of-fact, took a shower to wash his cum off my back, and returned to my bed, again falling asleep with memories of being scooped up in my Master's arms as I sat on his lap.

I feel oddly detached about my sessions with the Irishman. We don't exchange much in the way of e-mails, which is a pity, as he is a smart man with a good command of the language. He knows I care about words, and yesterday said perhaps he was stingy with them as one of his ways of dominating me, as he knows I like them. His miserliness also serves to keep a distance between us, because I think we would both enjoy a more extensive correspondence. And that, I think, is one of the techniques he uses to handle these extra-marital dalliances by which he satisfies his dominant and sadistic appetites.

In any case, it works. I don't feel him to be a threat to my relationship with my Master - meaning, it doesn't confuse me. I do keep wishing I could have a boyfriend, and again and again I realize I'm not ready to compromise my devotion to the sadist in order to give someone else primacy.

So my ass was fucked, if briefly, and this morning it looked as if it had been excavated a bit. There is a bruise on my left breast from where the Irishman spanked it. He's into that, it seems, but is careful to support it underneath with his other hand. It didn't hurt as much as when the sadist flogged it, but I could see clear, red marks from his fingers after he left. I don't suppose the sadist would be all that happy with the bruise, as he is quite devoted to my breasts, but it will clear.

And so, I went back to sleep, feeling fine, wishing I'd been fucked more, and feeling my Master's arms around me.

The oddest part of it all was the next morning. I awoke from a dream about the philosopher. I've been thinking about him, worrying about him, debating about contacting his brother on Facebook to say I'm concerned about him and love him and hope he's OK. And there I was this morning, after having been spanked and butt fucked by the Irishman (he has a very firm, hard spank, for which my bottom is very grateful), after having received a lovely 6-word text message from the sadist and falling asleep feeling his arms around me, I awoke from a dream about the philosopher and knew I still love him.

Sometimes my life seems very very complicated.

Unfair advantage

He was here today.
He kissed me today.
He kissed me and kissed me and...

... I won't even try to describe his kisses because if anyone who has ever been kissed by him is reading this, she (or he) would immediately guess his identity from my inadequate attempt to evoke them. Let me just say that he is a potentially very evil man, and he has the sweetest, most gentle kisses I have ever encountered in all these years.

He may have kissed me so much this time purely for his own pleasure. He does that, it's thoroughly possible. And I could be completely wrong about this....

but it felt as if he were trying
to seduce me
to disarm me
to hypnotize me
so i will capitulate
to anything
he wants.

Did he manage it?

I don't know.

but oh my goodness...
when he kissed me
and kissed me
and took me into his lap
and gathered me up in his arms
gathered me to him
and pressed me against him...

i served him.
i served him well.

and yes i suddenly lost my capital letters, because he melted me. his scent surrounded me all day, i felt his body, his touch, his warmth, the gentleness of this sadistic man, i felt them all day...

he does not make love to me.
but it almost felt,
if i hadn't known better i'd have thought,
it almost felt as if he were making love to me.

it was sabotage.
unfair advantage.
another way to weave the chain around my neck.

the chain feels good around my neck.
doesn't it suit me?

Debuting at the biker/thug bar

The barmaid was young,
blond, stacked, and slutty,
generous with more than just the
over-salted nuts. She had a thing for nuts.
She’d mouth them as a snack,
then settle down to sucking cock
as if it were her mother’s teat.
Her skirt was short and tight, her top
more of the same, or less, leaving her
endowment with the option of escape.

She thrust her boobs beneath the drinker’s
alcoholic nose. “Want another beer?”
He ignored her, tits and all, and
gestured with his head way down the bar.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” throwing his
rough voice towards a larger, older man.

The barmaid was puzzled. The other guy,
a regular, hadn’t yet been served.
She looked back at her customer, then
down the bar again, towards to a fleshy
redhead sticking to the big guy
like a kitten climbing up a pair of jeans.
She looked back at the thug.
He nearly drooled. His eyes said
he was harder than the bottle by his hand.
She didn’t get it. The lady must be forty
if a day. The barmaid looked around.
You’d think the redhead was a TV
and the Orioles were set to win the pennant,
the way that all the eyes were pulled her way.
You could have choked on testosterone.

The big guy caught her eye and grinned.
Grabbing at his lady’s russet mane, he pulled
her head towards his. Her mouth opened,
her tongue extended, as if to some command
that only she could hear. She was well-trained.
He kissed her long and deep.
The barmaid knew she’d find the traces
of a healthy wet spot when she – or someone –
took her panties off. She held her breath.
She’d seen the guy before. She’d always felt
a touch of danger back behind his eyes.
She didn’t care. She’d give up twenty years
to be that redhead by his side. And all around,
every man of every age was wishing he were
that big guy and thinking just what he would do
if only he could take that redhead home.
The big guy smirked and grabbed his lady’s tit.
He twisted and she screamed.
The whole room groaned.
He dragged her to a chair and pulled her down
across his knee. The floor show had begun.
The barmaid hid behind the bar,
her hand upon her clit,
and prayed for someone,
anyone,
to fuck her hard that night.

Written for my Master and
published with permission.
And no, it hasn't happened.
Yet.

Happy Bloomsday

On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy,
goddess of unreason,
lies naked,
fettered,
a chalice
resting
on her swollen
belly.

Masturbation Report

My orgasms are no longer mine. They are doled out by the sadist, sometimes upon request and sometimes in a transient fit of generosity, or as a reward for an especially pleasing performance.

I don't often ask for one. It doesn't occur to me. They are no longer a regular part of my life, a situation I accept as appropriate with only a minimum of sighs. Our relationship is inherently unequal. We are not lovers, there is no expectation that we each work to maximize the other's sexual pleasure. My position in my Master's life is defined and enabled by my ability to provide him with pleasure. The satisfaction that I experience from serving him and pleasing him in the manner he requires is a bonus, not a goal.

It feels really weird to write this, and I find it even weirder to hear these words from someone else - but truly, the mere fact that he wants me and owns me is enough. Serving him, being controlled by him, pleasing him, submitting to him, even being punished by him so that I will remember to follow his directions as demanded... all this is making me happier than I have ever been.

The urgency of my need for an orgasm is usually triggered either by hormones or by a period of intense creativity as I write for his pleasure and amusement. When I act as his Anaïs Nin, as I did on Friday night, he is not the only one who gets stimulated by my kinky scenarios. By Saturday, I was in a state of virtually painful arousal.

I requested an orgasm.
I pleaded.
I described my desperation.
My Master granted permission
with the usual proviso
that I submit a report,
which follows below -
again,
as always,
with his permission.

Sometimes I feel that it is only with his permission that I breathe. And sometimes, in fact, that is exactly the case.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Losing ownership of my orgasms has lost me the luxury of leisurely mid-day masturbation. I usually think to ask late, and receive permission even later. Knowing that cumming will put me to sleep, I delay my self-indulgence till bedtime, when I'm struggling to hold on to consciousness. I'm aware of the time, I'm aware of the need to be alert in the morning, and I polish things off pretty fast. Touch, arouse, cum, cry, sleep. When I wake up, the haze of satisfaction is gone.

Ah, but this time, my Lord... I had time for anticipation. Exercising, grocery shopping, snarfing down a 5 o'clock lunch of chicken fresh from the rotisserie... I knew what was ahead. My mind kept making brief visits to the stories I sent you last night, and to all the tempting memories that remain from earlier times... the Phantom, your kisses, lying beside you on the bed, on the futon, cumming for you, sobbing for you...

I made my preparations, freshly washing the little purple butt plug, taking out the K-Y jelly, the blue vibrator, the Astroglide, a condom. Ketzel sensed that I was coming back to bed, and was already in place at the foot. Waiting for me.

She wouldn't stay long.

I'm not sure that I've ever masturbated with the butt plug on my own. Once at the most. It was a present from the philosopher and therefore the smallest size of the series. An appropriate gift from a man who was so risk averse.

I inserted it first thing.
I wanted to feel inhabited.
Claimed.
Owned.

In tribute to you, my Master, I took the position you had taught me and poked away with the tip until I was able to get it past the tight guardian of my anal passage. Somehow, I hadn't gotten the lube on the very tip, so it was even harder to insert than it should have been. I was grateful that my colon had taken the initiative to clean itself out that morning.

It hurt going in.
I'll admit to that.
There were moments when it was definitely painful.
Does that please you, my Lord?

And then I opened a little further, and the lubed part transferred its grease to my ass hole, and it was in and...

So intense.
I started whimpering.
I started crying.

I'm going somewhere else now as I write about it. I can't really come up with appropriate words for how it felt except to say - intense. It didn't feel great. There was a sense of discomfort, both in the immediate passage and all the way up through my digestive system, with the sense of pressure traveling all the way to my belly. But it was intense, my Master, and the tears were a form of orgasm.

I kept it in, having deliberately avoided over-lubing so it wouldn't pop out. I slid my naked, plugged body between the sheets and found that I was still whimpering. I passed my fingers through my public hair, lightly touching my clit, and realized that I was saying "no... no..." out loud.

And now my memory gets a little confused. I realize now that I forgot my intention to play with my nipples. I wouldn't have hurt them as much as you do. But I did mean to hurt them. I wanted pain to remind me of your sadism.. I wanted pain to remind me of you.

Next time, my Master.
Next time...

I lay on my back, hoping the butt plug would be obedient and stay in place. I twiddled my twat, rubbing my fingers gently over my clit. I tried to hold back, I tried to delay it, but the effect of the pale purple plug was stronger than my will. I came.

I came and I cried.

But I wasn't done.

I reached for the vibrator, already sheathed in latex. I squeezed on Astroglide like mustard onto a hot dog. It's a fairly fat thing, so it took some work to get it inside - I really should use it at least once a week to keep the muscles elastic. I admit [sigh - bad girl] that I've mostly been forgetting to do my Kegel exercises, and I should use the vibrator sometimes when I do them, even if I'm not turning it on and using it for pleasure.

Finally, it made it in. I kept it turned off, and clenched my muscles around it again and again. Clench, hold for 10 seconds, and release. Exercising my pussy the way I earlier exercised other parts at the health club. If only they had machines there for our cunt muscles the way they do for our pecs and abs!

Finally, I felt I had earned the right to turn it on. I kept it wedged deep inside and let a low level of vibrations move through me. I must have started contracting, because the butt plug popped out. I accepted the anal statement and returned it to the bedside table.

Now I started fucking myself. I moved the artificial cock in and out, slowly, deliberately, enjoying the sensation despite the fact that the thing is a little too big. I changed the angle so it pressed against my clit.

My clit smiled.
My clit said thank you.
My clit demanded more.

All this time, I was feeding myself X-rated mental movies. But my mind was restless and unfocused, and I never stayed on any one thing very long. I flitted through the different scenarios I had offered you last night, especially lying naked on the equally bare barmaid while you flogged me, and being brought to the biker/thug bar, where you showed me off and invited them to touch me, to hurt me, to use me. I thought of your spankings, I thought of your canings, my buttocks remembering the awful, horrible, painful sensation of the strip of cherry wood landing on my ass - which for some reason I appreciate even though there is no way I could say I like it.

Why, my Master?
Why do I want you to hurt me like that when I really don't enjoy it?

Why do I want you to hurt me?

I turned up the speed on the vibrator, pulled it out of my canal, and held it against my clit. The vibrations almost numbed that greedy little finger of flesh, but I went higher and higher and the tension built and my mind...

We were at the bar with 5 of your friends. One had a house not far away. You all adjourned there, taking me with you. You wanted me to be truly debauched, humiliated, not at all as a human being, merely as a conduit of perverted pleasure.

The house was modern, and the living room had a lowered, heavy wooden beam running across it. You tossed a long rope over it, tied my hands with one end, and then used the other to pull me up till I was stretched and exposed. My feet were bound to cinder blocks that had been brought in beforehand, keeping my legs spread but with enough give to allow me to squirm a little for your amusement.

One by one, the men removed their belts. I screamed and writhed and dripped as the beat me on my ass and thighs. And then I felt the burning slice of the cherry strip landing right across both buttocks.

And that's when I came.

I cried long and hard and slept for about 45 minutes, lazing about for a while afterwards, feeling very drained and sated and grateful.

It's hard to write this without the freedom to masturbate again. But in fact I love no longer having control over my own orgasms. It's another of those odd things that makes me feel safe and secure and very very owned.

Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for letting me masturbate.
Thank you for allowing me to cum.
Thank you for controlling my life.

Disappointment

Sigh.

I won't be going away with my Master at the end of the month. The details, the practicalities, just didn't work out. And he's right that the schedule, as determined by the primary reason for his trip, wouldn't have been very satisfying for our purposes.

However, he did say there are other possibilities in the future.

Real possibilities.

So I will pout a little over my current disappointment, and then move on to imagining some new, lovely, evil, challenging, scary, glorious scenarios until he chooses to reveal his plans for me.

I am actually quite happy.

And I will do all I can to make him wish I were with him on that weekend he goes off without me.

He was there for me

I was upset.
The shooting.
It hit me hard.

I'm not sure why this one so much.
Anti-Semitism is nothing new.
Hatred is nothing new.
Guns, violence, crazies...
Maybe because it was 12 miles from home.
Maybe because I've been there.
Maybe because with Obama
this was supposed to be a new world.
And there are those out there
doing their best
doing their worst
to cover us with evil
and drown us in darkness.

When he accepted me into his service, he was very clear as to what he would not be for me. It was all very strict and specific, and there were many good reasons for that. "I am not your boyfriend, I am not your tennis partner..." etc. etc. Those are the ones I remember off-hand.

Still, as I became more and more distressed, I felt this irresistible urge to curl up next to him, curl up into him, feel his arms around me making me feel safe. Not possible. And not to be expected. Or anything like it.

But I wrote him an emotional e-mail.
And signed on to yahoo chat.
And waited.

He came.
He was there for me.
He came as a man.
No more and no less.
No dominance.
No posturing.
Whatever he may claim,
he was there as a friend.
And as a man.
He was what I needed.
And I would do anything for him.

True ownership isn't taken.
True ownership is earned.

And tonight, he owns me more than ever.

Serving and smiling

I've been quiet lately.
I wonder why I've been so quiet lately?

I've been busy, I suppose, out in the evening, writing things in bursts for the sadist, though now I'm having trouble remembering what it was that I wrote. We had a small taste of sun and he detected a burst of creativity on my part, so ordered me to write 2 pieces for him every day last week. Finally I gave him so many good pieces that he gave me the weekend off.

He visited me twice last week. The first time was on Monday, and was a lesson combined with serving his pleasure. And then his schedule was such that he had a free slot on Thursday and at the last minute I turned out to be available, too.

It was a beautiful visit.
Purely for his pleasure.
Which was my pleasure.
Serving him,
pleasing him,
that is my pleasure.

It was strikingly sensuous... I think of it now and feel my naked body pressing against his... I feel his mouth... I feel his touch... the way he availed himself of the thickness of my lengthening hair to pull my head around, baring my neck to the clamping of his jaws... he sank his teeth into me. Not breaking the skin, but making me feel his prey, the helpless prey of a predator who could rip out my throat if he wished to.

He pressed his fingers against my wind pipe and stopped the air. I didn't fight it. I know he treasures me. I do know that. I feel safe with him.

He came in my hand.
He had no complaints.

And me?

I just paused in my writing. How to capture what I felt... how to even fully recall what I felt? I was so focused on him, so focused on his pleasure, so focused on watching him, gauging his response, letting him see my devotion as it shone in my eyes, that afterwards, I felt as if I had cum myself.

Not that I did have an orgasm. Oh no, this wasn't about me at all. In the early days, he would order me to touch myself for him, he would watch me fondle myself, he would watch me writhe, he would watch the contortions of my face, and then watch me as I stiffened and came and then sobbed. Oh, he did love to watch me cum. Sometimes he would grant me an orgasm at night - but it was his orgasm. I would call his cell phone after bringing myself nearly there - it was such a masterpiece of masturbatory timing. I would be almost there and then call and wait through the outgoing message and then oh so quickly bring myself up and over while talking to him, leaving my words, my breathy voice... I'm trying to remember what I used to say.... and then I would cum and sob and sob... leaving my cries and tears in his voice mail.

He hasn't made me cum for him in a long time. Not in person. Sometimes he grants my request for an orgasm, and I am required to write a report afterwards.

It is inaccurate to speak of "my" orgasms. He does allow me to masturbate, when I beg, he does allow me to experience release. But the orgasms? They all belong to him.

I am happy with that.
They are richer that way.

But that isn't what we were discussing. We were discussing the orgasm he experienced from the ministrations of my hand and my encouraging words, and then how I felt in the hours that followed.

I felt cleansed,
I felt purified.
I felt open,
I felt relaxed,
I felt refreshed.

I was in a state of floating calm as if I had just spent hours in bed with a man I loved, rather than...

Than what? How can I describe, how can I explain, how can I classify what I do for him and what he is to me?

So I won't.

I'll just sigh happily and smile to myself and look at the time and think about bed and wonder when next he will call on me to prove my devotion in whatever way he requires.

And I will know fulfillment.

Housecleaning

And did anyone noticed that I finally revised my profile?

Now if I can just bring myself to take to change the picture on my desktop... I'm so used to seeing the philosopher there. I'm accustomed to him. It doesn't hurt me any more. Well, most of the time...

I think what's holding me up most of all is deciding what to put there instead.

And no, mamacrow. A picture of my Master is not an option.

Auto da fé

You build a bonfire in the back yard,
feeding it on illusions I've kept
stashed beneath the sink with
dried-out cans of silver polish.
Nothing will restore the shine
to old dreams and shattered love.
Now, pet. Go. Into the flames with you.
Yes, my Lord, I say,
and forming verses in my head
I walk
straight
into the heat and the light.
When I reach the fire I turn
and look you in the eyes
and start to rise,
leaping backwards,
dancing with the sparks,
embracing my destruction,
singing the consumption
of my tits and cunt and hair.
The fat in my tits crackles
and brings water to your mouth
and blood to your testicles.
You catch my voice in every spark
that floats among the fireflies
that soars into the trees.

And when, like a witch,
I'm safely burned away,
you poke at the ashes and
traces of my whispered breath
surround you
in the wind.
I am yours, my Lord,
you hear me sigh.
Even now,
I am yours.

[Originally written for my Master and published with his permission by Zander Vyne where it looks much prettier than it does here.]

Dominick comes out of the shadows

I've been keeping a secret.
I had promised I'd keep it a secret.
Dominick has a blog.

He revealed it to me a while ago, but virtually no one else knew about it unless they stumbled across it by accident. I felt honored. But then it was right he should have told me about it. Many of the pieces had been written for me.

I could tell, reading through, I could tell which ones I had inspired. The embarrassing part was that some of those he had written a while back and sent to me, in one of those rare, occasional messages he would send me as a surprise gift. I had forgotten he had sent them, but I could tell they had been written for me.

Today, he reminded me of another of his verbal explorations of what has simmered between us since he came across my craigslist ad. He sent me to a page on the website Filthy Gorgeous Things. Again, I recognized the style, rich but deliberate, almost surgical in its descriptions. He is, of course, a sadist. The editors had discovered his blog and asked if they could post some bits from it. He only just found out his piece had gone up.

Do go read it and explore his blog as well. Most of his pieces are short, brief vignettes, erotic observations. They still cause my insides to curdle. They still make me yearn to meet him. I want to see his face as he surveys the canvas that is my body. I want to strain against my bonds. I want to feel the impact of his hand on my reddening ass. He has sent me a picture of his spear-like cock and his well-worn belt. I hunger to submit to the assault of each one.

I want him to hurt me.
I want him to fuck me.
I want him to taste my submission and my pain.

We have never met. He doesn't live in my city and he doesn't want to risk losing what we have become for each other.

But still.
There is this hunger.

Go read him.
There are no provisions for comments that I can see.
Come back and leave them here.
I'll pass them on.
Meanwhile, I'll nurse my fantasies.

Today's lesson

Today
he caressed me
he told me I'm sexy
he caressed my tits
he spanked me for his pleasure
he kissed me long and sweetly
he deprived me of air
he bit my neck
he pressed himself against me
he bit my lip
he had me touch him
just the way he likes it
he slapped my face
twice
for omitting something vital
he let me touch him
there
yes there
with the tip of my tongue
he said I didn't do well
that new task
I didn't do well
I cried
and tonight
he let me cum.

He said I had earned it.