The mouth of my ass devours his cock,
my bottom the sword swallower, his
penis the sword. Watch him slide it inside.
Watch him force it in. Watch him
press against the puckered doorbell,
begging admission, then forcing entry
with one strong, battering push.
Feed on my moans, gorge yourself on
my screams, watch my anus expand,
making room for an unwelcome guest.
Watch. Watch him disappear inside me,
watch him slowly re-emerge, watch
his face fill with pleasure and aggression,
watch my eyes fill with tears and submission,
watch him use me, watch him hurt me,
watch him enjoy me, watch me obey you,
watch him fuck me, and know that I'm yours.
I offer my suffering, and prove that I'm yours.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
"You may not cum tonight, my angel."
I do not cum unless he lets me. And normally I do not ask.
Last night, I asked. I had suffered, being away from easy contact for a few days. I was inflamed from thoughts he had planted in my brain, and from a long conversation that wrapped his chain ever tighter around my neck while it sank a hook into my heart.
My pussy hurt.
So I asked.
And he said no.
In a way, as I have said before, I am glad that he controls my orgasms, and I suffer with gratitude the pains of unrelieved arousal. And it does hurt. It truly hurts. This is not a metaphor. My cunt hurts and my womb contracts and I am rocking down into my chair as I write and it feels is if a butt plug were being rammed up my tight little brown puckered ass hole and as if my labia were being whipped by a flogger strung with thin, biting lashes, filaments almost, that sting and cut and I welcome the pain, and I writhe under the pain and I beg for more in hopes that I will eventually cum but all I am given is more pain that flicks at my clitoris until I am ready to scream from frustration but no, my angel, you could not cum last night and you may not cum tonight and my mind fills with vague images of torture and punishment which are vague because anything more concrete would send me hiding under the bed and are vague because I just don't know enough and really, it's just as well, it's just as well I don't know all the horrible things he has done to past submissives who have fallen under his evil and beautiful spell.
So I writhe and moan and my brain goes off on its own, perverted path, and I restrain myself from searching the web for descriptions of truly awful and sadistic sexual tortures because I don't want to know what one day I will be begging him to do to me.
For now, anything seems mild compared to the pain that assails me from not being able to cum.
Thank you, my Lord.
Thank you for this pain.
Thank you for your control.
Thank you for reminding me,
with this pain,
with your control,
that I am yours.
And nothing else matters.
Last night, I asked. I had suffered, being away from easy contact for a few days. I was inflamed from thoughts he had planted in my brain, and from a long conversation that wrapped his chain ever tighter around my neck while it sank a hook into my heart.
My pussy hurt.
So I asked.
And he said no.
In a way, as I have said before, I am glad that he controls my orgasms, and I suffer with gratitude the pains of unrelieved arousal. And it does hurt. It truly hurts. This is not a metaphor. My cunt hurts and my womb contracts and I am rocking down into my chair as I write and it feels is if a butt plug were being rammed up my tight little brown puckered ass hole and as if my labia were being whipped by a flogger strung with thin, biting lashes, filaments almost, that sting and cut and I welcome the pain, and I writhe under the pain and I beg for more in hopes that I will eventually cum but all I am given is more pain that flicks at my clitoris until I am ready to scream from frustration but no, my angel, you could not cum last night and you may not cum tonight and my mind fills with vague images of torture and punishment which are vague because anything more concrete would send me hiding under the bed and are vague because I just don't know enough and really, it's just as well, it's just as well I don't know all the horrible things he has done to past submissives who have fallen under his evil and beautiful spell.
So I writhe and moan and my brain goes off on its own, perverted path, and I restrain myself from searching the web for descriptions of truly awful and sadistic sexual tortures because I don't want to know what one day I will be begging him to do to me.
For now, anything seems mild compared to the pain that assails me from not being able to cum.
Thank you, my Lord.
Thank you for this pain.
Thank you for your control.
Thank you for reminding me,
with this pain,
with your control,
that I am yours.
And nothing else matters.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Breathing the same air
I'm home.
It is always hard, visiting my parents. They suck the air out of the room. They always have.
My 88-year old mother is recovering from a bad fall, and my dad has been taking care of her. She's not all better, but certainly much better, more mobile, more able to do things herself. We are all worried about my father wearing himself out with the caregiving, which he has already done, just as she did to herself when he had back surgery. She commented that she could really do more for herself now, but he is always jumping up to do everything and he really doesn't have to.
I wanted to say: "May your ears hear what your mouth is saying."
I wanted to say: "This is what you do to me all the time."
I wanted to say: "See why I hate it when you hover over me as I just try to get myself a little breakfast and really, there's hardly anything in the fridge, I can certainly see where the eggs are."
There's no point. After all these decades, it's too late to think we can really persuade them to accept how we live our lives.
They have no idea how I live my life.
Using the computer at their place is a challenge. They do have a computer, but it is very slow and their Internet access is dial-up and very slow and when I'm on they can't receive phone calls and I'm certainly not going to post to this blog from there.
I felt very far away from my Master.
Even though I don't see him all the time, even though we aren't writing back and forth all day long, still I feel him nearby. And now I was 6-7 hours north (depending on traffic), and not easily in touch and he planted a vivid suggestion in my head which made me crazy with desire and fear and everything in between.
They suck the air out of the room, and I hate it.
But the sadist... I have yielded. Utterly and completely. From the first time he came, I yielded. I opened the door to him, I told no one he was here, I removed my clothes, I stood before him, I knelt before him, I went down on my hands and knees and groveled between the pyramid of his legs, and I yielded.
I have entrusted him with my air. My neck is his, my throat is his, he sinks his teeth into it, he encircles it with his hand, reminding me that I live at his pleasure, he... this last time, he pressed his finger into that spot... that spot through which my breath flows, that spot through which my life flows, he pressed and he watched me yield, he watched me accept, he watched me submit, he heard me start to choke and I didn't pull away...
He is testing me now. He was pushing me today. This evening, back home, in the same state, breathing the same air and together in an hour-long chat, I sank under his spell. He knew what to say to push me, to draw me down further and further into submission, declaring my devotion, my desire to serve, my desire to give him pleasure, and... my desire to embrace his pain.
Oh? he said. And what if I subjected you to... I don't know exactly what it is. But I have evidence that it is something awful, although he has often told me that he knows that he doesn't have to hurt me as much as he does the one who takes the full brunt of his sadistic needs because he can get the desired result from me with so much less.
Still, he scared me.
And still, I said that somehow I would endure it.
Because oh... the reward...
He is going very slowly. Since our reunion he has been very cautious not to go too fast. There is much more to teach me, much more to do to me, until, he said, the greatest pleasure I can imagine will be to eat from the palm of his hand.
And something melted inside me... even more than it already has... because oh, it was, it is, it always has been but especially now as I grow closer and closer to him and become absorbed into him...
Because yes.
The greatest pleasure
I can possibly imagine
is to eat
from the palm
of his hand.
And one day,
in pure
devoted
loving submission,
I will.
It is always hard, visiting my parents. They suck the air out of the room. They always have.
My 88-year old mother is recovering from a bad fall, and my dad has been taking care of her. She's not all better, but certainly much better, more mobile, more able to do things herself. We are all worried about my father wearing himself out with the caregiving, which he has already done, just as she did to herself when he had back surgery. She commented that she could really do more for herself now, but he is always jumping up to do everything and he really doesn't have to.
I wanted to say: "May your ears hear what your mouth is saying."
I wanted to say: "This is what you do to me all the time."
I wanted to say: "See why I hate it when you hover over me as I just try to get myself a little breakfast and really, there's hardly anything in the fridge, I can certainly see where the eggs are."
There's no point. After all these decades, it's too late to think we can really persuade them to accept how we live our lives.
They have no idea how I live my life.
Using the computer at their place is a challenge. They do have a computer, but it is very slow and their Internet access is dial-up and very slow and when I'm on they can't receive phone calls and I'm certainly not going to post to this blog from there.
I felt very far away from my Master.
Even though I don't see him all the time, even though we aren't writing back and forth all day long, still I feel him nearby. And now I was 6-7 hours north (depending on traffic), and not easily in touch and he planted a vivid suggestion in my head which made me crazy with desire and fear and everything in between.
They suck the air out of the room, and I hate it.
But the sadist... I have yielded. Utterly and completely. From the first time he came, I yielded. I opened the door to him, I told no one he was here, I removed my clothes, I stood before him, I knelt before him, I went down on my hands and knees and groveled between the pyramid of his legs, and I yielded.
I have entrusted him with my air. My neck is his, my throat is his, he sinks his teeth into it, he encircles it with his hand, reminding me that I live at his pleasure, he... this last time, he pressed his finger into that spot... that spot through which my breath flows, that spot through which my life flows, he pressed and he watched me yield, he watched me accept, he watched me submit, he heard me start to choke and I didn't pull away...
He is testing me now. He was pushing me today. This evening, back home, in the same state, breathing the same air and together in an hour-long chat, I sank under his spell. He knew what to say to push me, to draw me down further and further into submission, declaring my devotion, my desire to serve, my desire to give him pleasure, and... my desire to embrace his pain.
Oh? he said. And what if I subjected you to... I don't know exactly what it is. But I have evidence that it is something awful, although he has often told me that he knows that he doesn't have to hurt me as much as he does the one who takes the full brunt of his sadistic needs because he can get the desired result from me with so much less.
Still, he scared me.
And still, I said that somehow I would endure it.
Because oh... the reward...
He is going very slowly. Since our reunion he has been very cautious not to go too fast. There is much more to teach me, much more to do to me, until, he said, the greatest pleasure I can imagine will be to eat from the palm of his hand.
And something melted inside me... even more than it already has... because oh, it was, it is, it always has been but especially now as I grow closer and closer to him and become absorbed into him...
Because yes.
The greatest pleasure
I can possibly imagine
is to eat
from the palm
of his hand.
And one day,
in pure
devoted
loving submission,
I will.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Heading north
I've been bad. I've been roaming around and leaving comments here and there rather than being responsible and creative on my own blog to make up for my coming few days away.
I'm heading north to visit my aged parents on their sixty-somethingth anniversary. They are quite old, more or less 90 each, and have their full wits about them, so I am very lucky, although I don't see them very often because it works better than way. By the third day... well I'll leave it at that. I'll just say that it gets tricky if I stay more than 2 nights.
So I'll drive up in the morning and arrive tired and crabby and wishing I had been on chat with the sadist all day rather than driving. And I'll lie in bed at night wishing I could masturbate as compensation for not having the cats sharing my bed, while I think of what it feels like when my Master spanks me. How it hurts - even though I know for most people it's not that hard a spanking - but it hurts my butt and it hurts my pride and it hurts my sense of devotion that I let him down and he feels he has to correct me, to punish me, to hurt me.
And I like it. Oh yeah, of course, it turns me on, I get all wet and gooey, you should have seen me after this last visit. I stuck my finger in and scooped out copious evidence of how that punishment turned me on. But the real reason I like being spanked is because it works. It works on 2 levels. The first is that it sets even deeper my sense of submission - and specifically of submission to him. And the second is that it does make a vivid impression on my brain as well as on my bottom of the lesson he is trying to teach me. (He did love how beautifully rosy pink my ass was after he was done. He does enjoy hurting me, my sadistic Master.)
It's embarrassing, in a way, that I can't keep his lessons in my brain without periodic sadistic refresher courses. But I am very grateful when he punishes me, grateful that he repeatedly thinks I'm worth the effort. (The other day he told me that when he first got me I was not at all "service-ready." Now that hurt. I'm better now. But obviously not better enough. He'll get me there, though. If anyone can, he will.)
I don't think I will post while I'm away, as I will be using my parents' computer, but your comments show up in my e-mail so I will enjoy hearing from you all.
Which reminds me. Every so often, I notice in the stats that someone is reading from a place that has meaning for me - or else proximity. I am very curious about someone who is reading here with a University of Maryland account. Now don't get freaked - I don't know who you are. But I'm curious - and a little unnerved - at having a fan that close to home. I'd love it if you'd e-mail me. You can do it from the profile page. I'm not asking for a real identity, but would just love to hear from you. Thanks.
Until Monday night at the earliest,
o.g.
I'm heading north to visit my aged parents on their sixty-somethingth anniversary. They are quite old, more or less 90 each, and have their full wits about them, so I am very lucky, although I don't see them very often because it works better than way. By the third day... well I'll leave it at that. I'll just say that it gets tricky if I stay more than 2 nights.
So I'll drive up in the morning and arrive tired and crabby and wishing I had been on chat with the sadist all day rather than driving. And I'll lie in bed at night wishing I could masturbate as compensation for not having the cats sharing my bed, while I think of what it feels like when my Master spanks me. How it hurts - even though I know for most people it's not that hard a spanking - but it hurts my butt and it hurts my pride and it hurts my sense of devotion that I let him down and he feels he has to correct me, to punish me, to hurt me.
And I like it. Oh yeah, of course, it turns me on, I get all wet and gooey, you should have seen me after this last visit. I stuck my finger in and scooped out copious evidence of how that punishment turned me on. But the real reason I like being spanked is because it works. It works on 2 levels. The first is that it sets even deeper my sense of submission - and specifically of submission to him. And the second is that it does make a vivid impression on my brain as well as on my bottom of the lesson he is trying to teach me. (He did love how beautifully rosy pink my ass was after he was done. He does enjoy hurting me, my sadistic Master.)
It's embarrassing, in a way, that I can't keep his lessons in my brain without periodic sadistic refresher courses. But I am very grateful when he punishes me, grateful that he repeatedly thinks I'm worth the effort. (The other day he told me that when he first got me I was not at all "service-ready." Now that hurt. I'm better now. But obviously not better enough. He'll get me there, though. If anyone can, he will.)
I don't think I will post while I'm away, as I will be using my parents' computer, but your comments show up in my e-mail so I will enjoy hearing from you all.
Which reminds me. Every so often, I notice in the stats that someone is reading from a place that has meaning for me - or else proximity. I am very curious about someone who is reading here with a University of Maryland account. Now don't get freaked - I don't know who you are. But I'm curious - and a little unnerved - at having a fan that close to home. I'd love it if you'd e-mail me. You can do it from the profile page. I'm not asking for a real identity, but would just love to hear from you. Thanks.
Until Monday night at the earliest,
o.g.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
All better
He has such power, my Master.
He has such skill.
He knows what he wants and - almost always - he knows how to get it.
I call him my Master because he allows me to. He said I earned the right and gave me the gift of allowing me to call him my Master. On the one hand, it indicates my position relative to him. But of course, it also refers to his position. To his achievements.
The man... yes, sure, he has bewitched me, entranced me, hypnotized me, stolen my will and replaced it with his own. And gotten the best from me. Made me into more than I have ever been. Not just for him. But in terms of my own personal growth.
Of course, it's not supposed to be about me. It's about him. His needs. His desires. His orders. His ownership.
His ownership...
So dangerous.
And so...
I'm stuck.
I don't have the words.
I've lived so safely and suffered so much. The danger makes my heart beat faster. Makes my brain light up. Makes my eyes see magic. It's worth the risk to feel this alive.
He says it's all about him. And so it is and so it should be. That should and must be the focus of everything I do, of every breath I take. But what about something I think can be called collateral benefits? Is there a harm to my being aware of the benefits to me of being his? As long as I don't do things with the goal of benefiting myself, is it so bad if that is a side effect?
And if I am made a stronger person, a happier pet, won't that ultimately benefit my Master?
Whatever, never mind, it doesn't matter, although yes. I am happy, happy and owned and secure if living on the edge of destruction and loving it.
And oh yes, I'm feeling better. Did you notice? It didn't take much. A couple of messages this morning, that's all I needed. The right words, the right tone, a pretty gentle reminder of who is in charge. I read his words, cried a little, the knot of bad feelings opened up, and during the rest of the day I grew to feeling more and more embraced by his ownership and control.
I carry with me a burden of insecurity, of fear of rejection and abandonment. Every time there is a problem I worry that he - that anybody - won't want me any more. As I've become more and more aware of the quirks of my personality, of the poison for others of my mood swings, I've come to have less and less faith that anyone could truly want me after they see me for who I am. I'm always sure that the next problem, as minor as it may be, will be the last.
And yet, he accepts it all. He works at teaching me, at training me, at correcting me, while sighing and accepting that an artist is going to be a handful.
No one has ever given me more.
No one.
No one.
He has such skill.
He knows what he wants and - almost always - he knows how to get it.
I call him my Master because he allows me to. He said I earned the right and gave me the gift of allowing me to call him my Master. On the one hand, it indicates my position relative to him. But of course, it also refers to his position. To his achievements.
The man... yes, sure, he has bewitched me, entranced me, hypnotized me, stolen my will and replaced it with his own. And gotten the best from me. Made me into more than I have ever been. Not just for him. But in terms of my own personal growth.
Of course, it's not supposed to be about me. It's about him. His needs. His desires. His orders. His ownership.
His ownership...
So dangerous.
And so...
I'm stuck.
I don't have the words.
I've lived so safely and suffered so much. The danger makes my heart beat faster. Makes my brain light up. Makes my eyes see magic. It's worth the risk to feel this alive.
He says it's all about him. And so it is and so it should be. That should and must be the focus of everything I do, of every breath I take. But what about something I think can be called collateral benefits? Is there a harm to my being aware of the benefits to me of being his? As long as I don't do things with the goal of benefiting myself, is it so bad if that is a side effect?
And if I am made a stronger person, a happier pet, won't that ultimately benefit my Master?
Whatever, never mind, it doesn't matter, although yes. I am happy, happy and owned and secure if living on the edge of destruction and loving it.
And oh yes, I'm feeling better. Did you notice? It didn't take much. A couple of messages this morning, that's all I needed. The right words, the right tone, a pretty gentle reminder of who is in charge. I read his words, cried a little, the knot of bad feelings opened up, and during the rest of the day I grew to feeling more and more embraced by his ownership and control.
I carry with me a burden of insecurity, of fear of rejection and abandonment. Every time there is a problem I worry that he - that anybody - won't want me any more. As I've become more and more aware of the quirks of my personality, of the poison for others of my mood swings, I've come to have less and less faith that anyone could truly want me after they see me for who I am. I'm always sure that the next problem, as minor as it may be, will be the last.
And yet, he accepts it all. He works at teaching me, at training me, at correcting me, while sighing and accepting that an artist is going to be a handful.
No one has ever given me more.
No one.
No one.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Bad trip
Sometimes things just don't work quite right.
It's not that he did anything awful. He spanked me but not all that badly, nipple torture no worse than usual, a little bit of breath play but he's done worse. The beast was there but he really wasn't all that fearsome. Really, in many ways it was still a lot more sex than sadism, as it has been for weeks now.
But I didn't come into it from a good place. I wasn't mentally ready. And when it was over, I crashed. Aftercare would have been a very nice thing, but even just not having to run back to work would have helped.
I'm tired of the half hour lunchtime sessions where I dash home from the office, get ready, go into this very intense space, then remove the evidence, pull my clothes back on, stuff some food in my mouth (if I didn't eat in the car coming home or driving back), and then be back at my desk hopefully no more than 10 minutes late. Usually I'm happy, floating, feeling owned and treasured, proud at having pleased my Master, perhaps (as last time) exhausted after having channeled his orgasm. But basically at peace, even if sometimes sitting a little gingerly.
But this time, the rhythm was off.
Between his work schedule and my lunch hour limits, we have to time his visits precisely. Either he tells me when he will be there, and I arrive a good 5 minutes ahead to prepare, or he updates me with text messages as to whether that time will hold or he will be late. One way or another, I spend the morning in squirming anticipation, that lovely touch of fear as to whether I can time it right. I switch the phones to the answering service early, to be sure I'm not tied up on a call and unable to leave on time. I worry about unexpected slow pokes or badly timed lights on the mile and a half drive home (Yes, you're allowed to drool over my commute).
I dash into the house, pulling closed the vertical blinds over half the front picture window (the blinds on the other side are broken). I take certain items to the basement dungeon, make sure the window is closed, then run back upstairs to strip down and pee. And then pee maybe 3 more times out of nervousness. I wait in the living room, a robe covering my nakedness, watching for his car, eying my phone for last minute orders. When he pulls up in front of the house, I slip off the robe, put down the phone, open the door, and stand naked behind it so as not to embarrass my good Catholic neighbors across the street. And during all this time, I am sinking into a state of pure submission, so that I am ready when he arrives, ready in my mind, ready in my body, returned to that world, my real world, where nothing exists but my Master and his power over me.
This time, he gave me his target time and ordered me to monitor my phone. And then he never texted or sent an e-mail. The time to leave approached and passed. I was sending e-mails and hearing nothing back. Finally, I sent a message that I was going home one way or another and would be ready by 1:15 should he be there.
Partway home came a text asking if I was in the house. I replied that I was on my way.
His car was outside when I arrived. I dashed into the house and got ready in record time, thoroughly stressed out, worrying that he'd be angry. There wasn't much to be done as far as preparing and I took everything down as we went. It's a good thing, though, that the next door neighbors were out, because the dungeon window got left open and I did scream and cry as he spanked me.
So yes, he spanked me until my bottom was beautifully pink and hot - not for being late, but for other things. Things I'd been forgetting. One had to do with a regular task that I have been neglecting. The other had mainly to do with how I performed this afternoon. My mind wasn't behaving right, I didn't give him the gifts of my mind for which he owns me.
He has scolded me before. He has spanked me before. Spanking is good for me, and scolding, too, in a way. I need the direction, I appreciate the discipline, it makes me feel secure. But I think the stress of the preceding hour threw me, and after he left I found myself feeling empty. It was one of the few times that aftercare would have made a big difference.
His scoldings were done in a very supportive way. Really. He talked about what a beautiful creature I am, and he really means it. I know he means it and admit to still struggling to accept that. But he does make me feel beautiful. And I know he values me. He also knows what I can deliver, and he wants my best from me. Which is only fair.
And while he refuses to use the word "fault" with respect to his actions, he did - with what exact wording I can't quite remember - take responsibility for the communications problem. At the very end, as he was dressing to go, he did take responsibility for it. And that, at least, was a relief.
I could have done without aftercare if there had been no need to run off. If I could have cried and fallen asleep and soothed myself and re-assembled myself... it's been a very long time since we spent more than a half hour together. It's convenient that we can meet this way, and probably means we get together more often. But between the short sessions and no recovery time, there is always, ultimately, something lacking.
(I just had a brief, snide message from him, which made me both laugh and snap. I admit there are times that I wish he were other than he is. But then, I think he wouldn't be so compelling. He is who he is, and I've never known anyone like him. he is extraordinary and he is my Master and I am grateful to be his. Still and all, sometimes it can be very hard...)
I'm exhausted. This day took a lot out of me. I need to curl up and cry and sleep. Anyone who wants to come over and hold me and stroke my hair is most welcome. I'll leave the door open. Please ignore all the cat hair on the Afghan rug, which is supposed to be deep reds and blues, not tabby cat grey. I probably should be spanked for that, too.
It's not that he did anything awful. He spanked me but not all that badly, nipple torture no worse than usual, a little bit of breath play but he's done worse. The beast was there but he really wasn't all that fearsome. Really, in many ways it was still a lot more sex than sadism, as it has been for weeks now.
But I didn't come into it from a good place. I wasn't mentally ready. And when it was over, I crashed. Aftercare would have been a very nice thing, but even just not having to run back to work would have helped.
I'm tired of the half hour lunchtime sessions where I dash home from the office, get ready, go into this very intense space, then remove the evidence, pull my clothes back on, stuff some food in my mouth (if I didn't eat in the car coming home or driving back), and then be back at my desk hopefully no more than 10 minutes late. Usually I'm happy, floating, feeling owned and treasured, proud at having pleased my Master, perhaps (as last time) exhausted after having channeled his orgasm. But basically at peace, even if sometimes sitting a little gingerly.
But this time, the rhythm was off.
Between his work schedule and my lunch hour limits, we have to time his visits precisely. Either he tells me when he will be there, and I arrive a good 5 minutes ahead to prepare, or he updates me with text messages as to whether that time will hold or he will be late. One way or another, I spend the morning in squirming anticipation, that lovely touch of fear as to whether I can time it right. I switch the phones to the answering service early, to be sure I'm not tied up on a call and unable to leave on time. I worry about unexpected slow pokes or badly timed lights on the mile and a half drive home (Yes, you're allowed to drool over my commute).
I dash into the house, pulling closed the vertical blinds over half the front picture window (the blinds on the other side are broken). I take certain items to the basement dungeon, make sure the window is closed, then run back upstairs to strip down and pee. And then pee maybe 3 more times out of nervousness. I wait in the living room, a robe covering my nakedness, watching for his car, eying my phone for last minute orders. When he pulls up in front of the house, I slip off the robe, put down the phone, open the door, and stand naked behind it so as not to embarrass my good Catholic neighbors across the street. And during all this time, I am sinking into a state of pure submission, so that I am ready when he arrives, ready in my mind, ready in my body, returned to that world, my real world, where nothing exists but my Master and his power over me.
This time, he gave me his target time and ordered me to monitor my phone. And then he never texted or sent an e-mail. The time to leave approached and passed. I was sending e-mails and hearing nothing back. Finally, I sent a message that I was going home one way or another and would be ready by 1:15 should he be there.
Partway home came a text asking if I was in the house. I replied that I was on my way.
His car was outside when I arrived. I dashed into the house and got ready in record time, thoroughly stressed out, worrying that he'd be angry. There wasn't much to be done as far as preparing and I took everything down as we went. It's a good thing, though, that the next door neighbors were out, because the dungeon window got left open and I did scream and cry as he spanked me.
So yes, he spanked me until my bottom was beautifully pink and hot - not for being late, but for other things. Things I'd been forgetting. One had to do with a regular task that I have been neglecting. The other had mainly to do with how I performed this afternoon. My mind wasn't behaving right, I didn't give him the gifts of my mind for which he owns me.
He has scolded me before. He has spanked me before. Spanking is good for me, and scolding, too, in a way. I need the direction, I appreciate the discipline, it makes me feel secure. But I think the stress of the preceding hour threw me, and after he left I found myself feeling empty. It was one of the few times that aftercare would have made a big difference.
His scoldings were done in a very supportive way. Really. He talked about what a beautiful creature I am, and he really means it. I know he means it and admit to still struggling to accept that. But he does make me feel beautiful. And I know he values me. He also knows what I can deliver, and he wants my best from me. Which is only fair.
And while he refuses to use the word "fault" with respect to his actions, he did - with what exact wording I can't quite remember - take responsibility for the communications problem. At the very end, as he was dressing to go, he did take responsibility for it. And that, at least, was a relief.
I could have done without aftercare if there had been no need to run off. If I could have cried and fallen asleep and soothed myself and re-assembled myself... it's been a very long time since we spent more than a half hour together. It's convenient that we can meet this way, and probably means we get together more often. But between the short sessions and no recovery time, there is always, ultimately, something lacking.
(I just had a brief, snide message from him, which made me both laugh and snap. I admit there are times that I wish he were other than he is. But then, I think he wouldn't be so compelling. He is who he is, and I've never known anyone like him. he is extraordinary and he is my Master and I am grateful to be his. Still and all, sometimes it can be very hard...)
I'm exhausted. This day took a lot out of me. I need to curl up and cry and sleep. Anyone who wants to come over and hold me and stroke my hair is most welcome. I'll leave the door open. Please ignore all the cat hair on the Afghan rug, which is supposed to be deep reds and blues, not tabby cat grey. I probably should be spanked for that, too.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Tomorrow he will hurt me
The beast is back. I knew he'd be back. The fiend ran into a very frustrating problem the middle of last week and I knew that would do it. So I wasn't at all surprised when I read something on FetLife indicating that he had gone where he goes when he needs to feed on extreme pain.
He had a good meal, but he wasn't sated. I could tell. He saw me the next day, he didn't really hurt me, but I could tell. I could hear the beast crashing through the woods, feel his breath on my neck. Sometimes I think of him as a huge bear who has developed a taste for blood.
I'm afraid and very, very aroused.
More aroused than afraid.
He holds back. He could be very evil, he could hurt me far beyond what I could emotionally handle. He pushes me, and sometimes I worry that he will push me too far. Sometimes I think he really doesn't care if he destroys my stability, if I crash, if he loses me. But I also think he's not ready to lose me, despite the momentary amusement my destruction would afford him. And he's experienced enough, despite his professed lack of concern for my condition, to read my signs quite clearly. Every time except one, he has changed his approach when he's realized he miscalculated. And that one time, when we clearly didn't understand each other and which he refuses to discuss so as to avoid an "I said - you said" situation - that one time, which led to a break of over a month... in the end, he approached me. And took me back.
So he will be here tomorrow. And things over the last few weeks have become closer and more and more intense. And tonight, when I asked him how a particular something from me makes him feel, what it made him want to do, he said it makes him want to stand over me and watch me writhing in pain.
He frightens me.
And he makes my cunt pulse and my womb contract with such force that I am bent over with the pain of my desire. I want him to hurt me. I want to give him my pain. I want to soothe his pain with my own.
I am his pet.
I am his angel.
And if I breathe, it is because he says I may.
He had a good meal, but he wasn't sated. I could tell. He saw me the next day, he didn't really hurt me, but I could tell. I could hear the beast crashing through the woods, feel his breath on my neck. Sometimes I think of him as a huge bear who has developed a taste for blood.
I'm afraid and very, very aroused.
More aroused than afraid.
He holds back. He could be very evil, he could hurt me far beyond what I could emotionally handle. He pushes me, and sometimes I worry that he will push me too far. Sometimes I think he really doesn't care if he destroys my stability, if I crash, if he loses me. But I also think he's not ready to lose me, despite the momentary amusement my destruction would afford him. And he's experienced enough, despite his professed lack of concern for my condition, to read my signs quite clearly. Every time except one, he has changed his approach when he's realized he miscalculated. And that one time, when we clearly didn't understand each other and which he refuses to discuss so as to avoid an "I said - you said" situation - that one time, which led to a break of over a month... in the end, he approached me. And took me back.
So he will be here tomorrow. And things over the last few weeks have become closer and more and more intense. And tonight, when I asked him how a particular something from me makes him feel, what it made him want to do, he said it makes him want to stand over me and watch me writhing in pain.
He frightens me.
And he makes my cunt pulse and my womb contract with such force that I am bent over with the pain of my desire. I want him to hurt me. I want to give him my pain. I want to soothe his pain with my own.
I am his pet.
I am his angel.
And if I breathe, it is because he says I may.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
When is a sadist not a sadist?
He protects me.
That's not his goal, but he protects me.
When he needs to feast on pain, he goes elsewhere.
I struggle with that, even as I am grateful. I wish I could be everything to him. But I know I can't give him everything he needs, and that if he took it from me he would destroy me.
There has been a gentleness to him these last number of weeks. The beast has been sleeping. Then there were stresses in his life, and I wondered if his sadistic needs would take control again, and I have ways of finding out, and today I did find out that Thursday he went for what he needed. And the next day he came to me.
He was tender. He touched me in a way he never had before. He allowed me to give him pleasure in a way he had granted me only once before, at which time I didn't get it right but this time, this time I think it was better. He hasn't yet had time to fully comment, but he didn't seem totally displeased.
He gave me a very special gift.
It is a gift that comes in small portions,
one little box at a time,
wrapped in layers of pain and trust.
He gave me a piece of his vulnerability.
I'm never quite sure what is behind these offerings. I suspect his motives are mixed and not totally (if at all) pure. I do think they come partly as a demonstration of his trust, and perhaps because of a need to share his pain. But I also suspect, knowing what a manipulative bastard he is, that they are gifts meant to disarm me, meant to make me love him more, and thus meant to strengthen his power over me. That's okay, I don't mind. His power is so great by now that adding another winding or two of chain won't make that much difference.
He didn't hurt me very much. Lately he has been hurting me even less than usual. There were signs that the beast had risen, which didn't surprise me, but really, he didn't hurt me very much, and his goal was not to make me suffer.
I gave him an orgasm. With my hand and my words and my unguarded eyes and my moans and my cries I gave him an orgasm. He loves my sounds. He feasts on them. And I fed him.
He does not attend to my needs. Not in any ordinary way. In the early days, he used to order me to touch myself and cum for him, while he watched. He made me look at him, he made me look him in the eyes. At first he would be close by, sometimes on the bed next to me as I lay on my back rubbing my clitoris, writhing, rising, sending breathy sounds of pleasure into his collector's ears. Eventually he started standing over me, playing on a sense of objectification, watching me, observing me, with the only connection being the road between our eyes.
The only time he fucked me was with his hand encased in a surgical glove.
Even so, he said I was hot and tight.
Very hot and very tight.
And wet.
He takes his time.
He proceeds in measured steps.
This time, at one point, as I knelt naked before my Master as he sat naked in the Eames char that was the philosopher's chair but is now the sadist's chair, he reached down beneath me and ran his finger tips over the lips of my cunt, over my pleading clit, not for my pleasure per se but for the sounds he knew would be elicited by his actions. I rose up higher on my knees, hoping he would sink his fingers deep inside me, but that was not his goal.
I was grateful for whatever I got.
I am always grateful for whatever I get.
I have learned that he rarely makes mistakes, that he thinks through his plans - for each visit, for each lesson, for goals that hang far in the distance - and that I should not question. I also know that he treasures me enough to rework his plan if need be, adjust it to allow for an unexpected outcome.
There was one more odd moment to recount, before I tell you about the amazing end. He asked me for a glass of water, that sat in readiness on a nearby table - a table laden with mostly unused items. Still on my knees, I turned to reach for it, and felt his hand come down hard on my ass. My scream contained a note of outrage, as if he had taken unfair advantage of my position. I couldn't help being amused, and pointed out my curious reaction.
So.
Yes.
I gave him an orgasm.
I gave him an orgasm with my hand
kneeling naked before him,
filling his ears with the sounds that arouse him.
A very long time ago, when I was studying child development, I learned that a good way to interact with babies is to look them in the eyes and echo back the sounds they make. It is a technique that works beautifully. It holds their attention and stimulates them to keep "talking" until it truly feels like a conversation. It builds...
As my hand gave my Master's cock what it craves in the way he has instructed me, I could see from the look in his eyes and the flush on his face that I was pleasing him. His arousal was rising. And now he was the one letting out sounds...
I know my sounds excite him. They are the most precious offering I give him. So as his excitement grew, I responded to his sounds with my own, mirroring, echoing... but after maybe two little grunts, pitched higher than his and with a female lilt to them, I was no longer merely echoing. His arousal filled me, it flowed nakedly between our eyes, and I started to channel it. There is no other way to describe it. His arousal possessed me and took me along with it. My sounds were now an uncalculated expression of the pleasure that filled me. I didn't feel it in my cunt, it wasn't a localized stimulation, I wasn't being touched, I was completely focused on him, but I rode his wave almost as if we were holding hands and taking it together, or as if I were right behind him, following in his wake.
He came.
And so did I.
Not with shuddering, womb-filling convulsions. It was a different sort of possession, richer, more united. He came, and a moment later I collapsed against him, my head against his chest. There was nothing left.
And then I found myself crying, as if the orgasm had been my own.
He ordered me to kneel by the futon with my forearms and elbows on the mattress, while he went to clean up and change. I was happy, I was exhausted, and then I started crying and sobbing again, in a continuation of my post-orgasmic release. It went on for a very long time.
And for the rest of the day, I was deliciously tired. Not the kind of exhaustion that has been plaguing me for the last month. Rather, it was a cloud of lassitude that said yes, you came, and it would have been very nice to have taken a good long nap afterward.
He is out of town this weekend, and I expect to hear nothing until tomorrow night, if that. But I have no complaints. Unlike most weekends, I don't feel lonely. I have served him well and our intimacy grows. I have no illusions, he's not in love with me, but he fills me and teaches me and guides me to be what I was always meant to be.
And some day, he will get me to the point where I will be pleading with him to be taken to the upstairs storeroom of the biker/thug bar, I will be pleading with him to take me there and toss me to the people he is assembling as the participants in my degradation. He is working towards that, I know that this is my fate, he always gets what he wants.
He doesn't want to take.
He wants me to offer.
As for now, as our intimacy grows and he hardly hurts me and he hypnotizes me with his kisses, what is the answer to the title subject?
When is a sadist not a sadist?
Never.
He is always a sadist.
And perhaps, even his gentleness is sadistic in a way.
He disarms me.
He lulls me into a sense of security.
And eventually,
as with the surprise smack while I fetched his water,
he will strike.
And still
I will feel
secure.
It is not what he is.
It is what I am.
I am his.
The rest
is commentary.
[For those who don't recognize the reference in the last line, go to the comments for a discussion.]
That's not his goal, but he protects me.
When he needs to feast on pain, he goes elsewhere.
I struggle with that, even as I am grateful. I wish I could be everything to him. But I know I can't give him everything he needs, and that if he took it from me he would destroy me.
There has been a gentleness to him these last number of weeks. The beast has been sleeping. Then there were stresses in his life, and I wondered if his sadistic needs would take control again, and I have ways of finding out, and today I did find out that Thursday he went for what he needed. And the next day he came to me.
He was tender. He touched me in a way he never had before. He allowed me to give him pleasure in a way he had granted me only once before, at which time I didn't get it right but this time, this time I think it was better. He hasn't yet had time to fully comment, but he didn't seem totally displeased.
He gave me a very special gift.
It is a gift that comes in small portions,
one little box at a time,
wrapped in layers of pain and trust.
He gave me a piece of his vulnerability.
I'm never quite sure what is behind these offerings. I suspect his motives are mixed and not totally (if at all) pure. I do think they come partly as a demonstration of his trust, and perhaps because of a need to share his pain. But I also suspect, knowing what a manipulative bastard he is, that they are gifts meant to disarm me, meant to make me love him more, and thus meant to strengthen his power over me. That's okay, I don't mind. His power is so great by now that adding another winding or two of chain won't make that much difference.
He didn't hurt me very much. Lately he has been hurting me even less than usual. There were signs that the beast had risen, which didn't surprise me, but really, he didn't hurt me very much, and his goal was not to make me suffer.
I gave him an orgasm. With my hand and my words and my unguarded eyes and my moans and my cries I gave him an orgasm. He loves my sounds. He feasts on them. And I fed him.
He does not attend to my needs. Not in any ordinary way. In the early days, he used to order me to touch myself and cum for him, while he watched. He made me look at him, he made me look him in the eyes. At first he would be close by, sometimes on the bed next to me as I lay on my back rubbing my clitoris, writhing, rising, sending breathy sounds of pleasure into his collector's ears. Eventually he started standing over me, playing on a sense of objectification, watching me, observing me, with the only connection being the road between our eyes.
The only time he fucked me was with his hand encased in a surgical glove.
Even so, he said I was hot and tight.
Very hot and very tight.
And wet.
He takes his time.
He proceeds in measured steps.
This time, at one point, as I knelt naked before my Master as he sat naked in the Eames char that was the philosopher's chair but is now the sadist's chair, he reached down beneath me and ran his finger tips over the lips of my cunt, over my pleading clit, not for my pleasure per se but for the sounds he knew would be elicited by his actions. I rose up higher on my knees, hoping he would sink his fingers deep inside me, but that was not his goal.
I was grateful for whatever I got.
I am always grateful for whatever I get.
I have learned that he rarely makes mistakes, that he thinks through his plans - for each visit, for each lesson, for goals that hang far in the distance - and that I should not question. I also know that he treasures me enough to rework his plan if need be, adjust it to allow for an unexpected outcome.
There was one more odd moment to recount, before I tell you about the amazing end. He asked me for a glass of water, that sat in readiness on a nearby table - a table laden with mostly unused items. Still on my knees, I turned to reach for it, and felt his hand come down hard on my ass. My scream contained a note of outrage, as if he had taken unfair advantage of my position. I couldn't help being amused, and pointed out my curious reaction.
So.
Yes.
I gave him an orgasm.
I gave him an orgasm with my hand
kneeling naked before him,
filling his ears with the sounds that arouse him.
A very long time ago, when I was studying child development, I learned that a good way to interact with babies is to look them in the eyes and echo back the sounds they make. It is a technique that works beautifully. It holds their attention and stimulates them to keep "talking" until it truly feels like a conversation. It builds...
As my hand gave my Master's cock what it craves in the way he has instructed me, I could see from the look in his eyes and the flush on his face that I was pleasing him. His arousal was rising. And now he was the one letting out sounds...
I know my sounds excite him. They are the most precious offering I give him. So as his excitement grew, I responded to his sounds with my own, mirroring, echoing... but after maybe two little grunts, pitched higher than his and with a female lilt to them, I was no longer merely echoing. His arousal filled me, it flowed nakedly between our eyes, and I started to channel it. There is no other way to describe it. His arousal possessed me and took me along with it. My sounds were now an uncalculated expression of the pleasure that filled me. I didn't feel it in my cunt, it wasn't a localized stimulation, I wasn't being touched, I was completely focused on him, but I rode his wave almost as if we were holding hands and taking it together, or as if I were right behind him, following in his wake.
He came.
And so did I.
Not with shuddering, womb-filling convulsions. It was a different sort of possession, richer, more united. He came, and a moment later I collapsed against him, my head against his chest. There was nothing left.
And then I found myself crying, as if the orgasm had been my own.
He ordered me to kneel by the futon with my forearms and elbows on the mattress, while he went to clean up and change. I was happy, I was exhausted, and then I started crying and sobbing again, in a continuation of my post-orgasmic release. It went on for a very long time.
And for the rest of the day, I was deliciously tired. Not the kind of exhaustion that has been plaguing me for the last month. Rather, it was a cloud of lassitude that said yes, you came, and it would have been very nice to have taken a good long nap afterward.
He is out of town this weekend, and I expect to hear nothing until tomorrow night, if that. But I have no complaints. Unlike most weekends, I don't feel lonely. I have served him well and our intimacy grows. I have no illusions, he's not in love with me, but he fills me and teaches me and guides me to be what I was always meant to be.
And some day, he will get me to the point where I will be pleading with him to be taken to the upstairs storeroom of the biker/thug bar, I will be pleading with him to take me there and toss me to the people he is assembling as the participants in my degradation. He is working towards that, I know that this is my fate, he always gets what he wants.
He doesn't want to take.
He wants me to offer.
As for now, as our intimacy grows and he hardly hurts me and he hypnotizes me with his kisses, what is the answer to the title subject?
When is a sadist not a sadist?
Never.
He is always a sadist.
And perhaps, even his gentleness is sadistic in a way.
He disarms me.
He lulls me into a sense of security.
And eventually,
as with the surprise smack while I fetched his water,
he will strike.
And still
I will feel
secure.
It is not what he is.
It is what I am.
I am his.
The rest
is commentary.
[For those who don't recognize the reference in the last line, go to the comments for a discussion.]
Thursday, July 16, 2009
A Sign of Sparkle
Another episode in my personal saga of better living through modern chemistry.
As some of you know, if you've been hanging out here long enough, I am afflicted by a whole assortment of ailments, especially of the mood disorder type - SAD (winter and summer both), ADD, garden variety depression, a touch of bipolar disorder. I am personally keeping the pharmaceutical industry in business in order to maintain for myself some level of functionality.
Now the problem with my collection of pills and capsules is that while they fix one problem, they exacerbate another. A year ago, I finally, after years' of resistance, agreed to go on a very small amount of lithium for my relatively mild bipolarity. Magic! Kitten stabilizes. Well, more or less...
But eventually, this spring, I became hypothyroid - too little of the stuff.
Today, I finally started taking thyroid supplements. My first day. One little pill this morning. And poof! My brain and energy are back.
Now I do tend to respond very rapidly to mood drugs, much more rapidly than is supposed to be possible. But one little thyroid pill is not enough to correct the imbalance in the space of a few hours. However, what it does do is potentiate the mood drugs, so I feel as if I were taking a whole lot more.
By this evening, I was feeling pretty damn perky.
Happy kitten.
Relieved kitten.
Horny kitten...
Still a very busy kitten, but no longer a comatose kitten, so I do hope you get to hear more from me in the coming weeks.
Again, as always, thank you for your patience.
As some of you know, if you've been hanging out here long enough, I am afflicted by a whole assortment of ailments, especially of the mood disorder type - SAD (winter and summer both), ADD, garden variety depression, a touch of bipolar disorder. I am personally keeping the pharmaceutical industry in business in order to maintain for myself some level of functionality.
Now the problem with my collection of pills and capsules is that while they fix one problem, they exacerbate another. A year ago, I finally, after years' of resistance, agreed to go on a very small amount of lithium for my relatively mild bipolarity. Magic! Kitten stabilizes. Well, more or less...
But eventually, this spring, I became hypothyroid - too little of the stuff.
Today, I finally started taking thyroid supplements. My first day. One little pill this morning. And poof! My brain and energy are back.
Now I do tend to respond very rapidly to mood drugs, much more rapidly than is supposed to be possible. But one little thyroid pill is not enough to correct the imbalance in the space of a few hours. However, what it does do is potentiate the mood drugs, so I feel as if I were taking a whole lot more.
By this evening, I was feeling pretty damn perky.
Happy kitten.
Relieved kitten.
Horny kitten...
Still a very busy kitten, but no longer a comatose kitten, so I do hope you get to hear more from me in the coming weeks.
Again, as always, thank you for your patience.
Carl Jung and our Dark Desires
(Great name for a band, no?)
Seriously, meg has posted a wonderfully thoughtful and analytic post on her blog persephone in love called "collective kinky unconscious." Do go check it out - and not just because she very kindly referred people to this dark story of mine, dating back to my days with the philosopher.
Don't neglect the comments, and please add your own to the discussion. It is a very rich and fascinating topic.
Seriously, meg has posted a wonderfully thoughtful and analytic post on her blog persephone in love called "collective kinky unconscious." Do go check it out - and not just because she very kindly referred people to this dark story of mine, dating back to my days with the philosopher.
Don't neglect the comments, and please add your own to the discussion. It is a very rich and fascinating topic.
Monday, July 13, 2009
It's OK, I'm Not Dead
Please forgive me for the sporadic nature of my posting lately. There were nearly 2 weeks of hormonal misery, followed by a string of busy evenings and a beautiful Sunday afternoon on Yahoo messenger with my Master, hours and hours of conversation, which combined with the gift of sharing my orgasm with him as a voice mail has left me feeling floaty and sweet and grateful and adoring and centered and...
Well, you get the idea.
In with all that were dinner with a male submissive whom I respectfully declined to spank (he thinks I'm cute and smart and that I write like an angel), a sexual come-on from an old friend and one-time lover which I turned down for assorted reasons, and the possibility of service to a very good-looking young man which completely fell through today. So much to relate!
But I'm going out again tonight, so the stories will have to wait. Anyone who wishes to spank me for being so neglectful is welcome to get in line, but you'll have to ask my Master for permission first.
Well, you get the idea.
In with all that were dinner with a male submissive whom I respectfully declined to spank (he thinks I'm cute and smart and that I write like an angel), a sexual come-on from an old friend and one-time lover which I turned down for assorted reasons, and the possibility of service to a very good-looking young man which completely fell through today. So much to relate!
But I'm going out again tonight, so the stories will have to wait. Anyone who wishes to spank me for being so neglectful is welcome to get in line, but you'll have to ask my Master for permission first.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Blocked
My creativity
is constipated.
I strain
to release
a poem.
I sit
back
in my desk chair,
I try to
relax,
I recite
silent
incantations
as if
saying
the Amidah,
trying to
channel
Apollo,
trying
to yield
more than mere
pellets of
passable
prose.
I switch metaphors,
a poetic
psychopharmacologist
searching for the
right combination
of magic meds.
I stop pushing.
I lie back.
I open my legs.
I beckon Apollo
with pert red curls,
crying cunt,
pale round belly,
and teasing tits.
Like a forest deer
drawn to a salt lick,
he can't resist
the musky scent
between my thighs.
Even a god must
sometimes submit.
He submits to his lust.
He descends from Olympus
and lands close beside me.
He doesn't waste time.
He sees that I'm wet.
He throws himself on me.
I am bait and victim
rolled into one.
He thrusts.
I moan.
I yield.
And as he cums,
filling me with his immortal seed,
precious poems flow from my gasping lips,
surrounding us with ribbons of gold,
petals of roses and carpets of fern.
is constipated.
I strain
to release
a poem.
I sit
back
in my desk chair,
I try to
relax,
I recite
silent
incantations
as if
saying
the Amidah,
trying to
channel
Apollo,
trying
to yield
more than mere
pellets of
passable
prose.
I switch metaphors,
a poetic
psychopharmacologist
searching for the
right combination
of magic meds.
I stop pushing.
I lie back.
I open my legs.
I beckon Apollo
with pert red curls,
crying cunt,
pale round belly,
and teasing tits.
Like a forest deer
drawn to a salt lick,
he can't resist
the musky scent
between my thighs.
Even a god must
sometimes submit.
He submits to his lust.
He descends from Olympus
and lands close beside me.
He doesn't waste time.
He sees that I'm wet.
He throws himself on me.
I am bait and victim
rolled into one.
He thrusts.
I moan.
I yield.
And as he cums,
filling me with his immortal seed,
precious poems flow from my gasping lips,
surrounding us with ribbons of gold,
petals of roses and carpets of fern.
Monday, July 6, 2009
When a sadist is a sweetheart
Or maybe he's just oblivious.
Or thick skinned.
Or used to the idea that submissives are a pain in the ass.
Another day or three of progesterone, depending on how tolerant I can be of the shaky state of my intellectual and emotional health. I'm going to try to hold out until the end, I've upped my antidepressants which may help, but I'm not proud of how kvetchy I've been. Especially over the holiday weekend.
But the sadist, who can be quite stern and controlling, doesn't seem to be distressed at all. Maybe, dominant that he is, he's just used to ignoring any little mews, squawks, and whimpers emitted by anyone he owns unless it would amuse him to respond - or unless he thinks a line has been crossed and the offender firmly dealt with.
But that doesn't seem to be the case here. And it's true that he does spoil me... so while I led off this evening's chat session with a crawling mea culpa for being such a pain, he assumed I was apologizing for telling him about my session with the dentist. (A front top crown is being replaced.)
I haven't felt very creative since I've been on the progesterone, although I did manage to write one good poem for my Master over the weekend. But he says don't worry about being creative, I did a good job, concentrate on feeling him touching me...
Oh yes.
I can do that.
Thank you, my Master.
Or thick skinned.
Or used to the idea that submissives are a pain in the ass.
Another day or three of progesterone, depending on how tolerant I can be of the shaky state of my intellectual and emotional health. I'm going to try to hold out until the end, I've upped my antidepressants which may help, but I'm not proud of how kvetchy I've been. Especially over the holiday weekend.
But the sadist, who can be quite stern and controlling, doesn't seem to be distressed at all. Maybe, dominant that he is, he's just used to ignoring any little mews, squawks, and whimpers emitted by anyone he owns unless it would amuse him to respond - or unless he thinks a line has been crossed and the offender firmly dealt with.
But that doesn't seem to be the case here. And it's true that he does spoil me... so while I led off this evening's chat session with a crawling mea culpa for being such a pain, he assumed I was apologizing for telling him about my session with the dentist. (A front top crown is being replaced.)
I haven't felt very creative since I've been on the progesterone, although I did manage to write one good poem for my Master over the weekend. But he says don't worry about being creative, I did a good job, concentrate on feeling him touching me...
Oh yes.
I can do that.
Thank you, my Master.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Yes, I'm OK
Well, more or less. I didn't realize I'd been absent for so long! But every few months I have to take this nasty progesterone for a week and a half, which makes me tired and dull-witted and depressed.
Plus, I've been playing on craigslist. I've been feeling very lonely on weekends, when I don't have as much contact with my Master, and when I don't have a sweetheart with whom to spend time. Being on nasty drugs just makes it worse. So I write these odd ads. Sometimes they are deliberately obscure, just to be obnoxious, because I am angry.
I am angry at the stupid and lazy men who answer my ads.
I am angry that I'm alone.
I'm angry
and I cry.
Because I'm on these stupid drugs I cry
I'm angry and I cry because they aren't John.
In fact, even John isn't John by now... this fantasy of a man, memories of only the best parts... what I want is the impossible. What I want is a perfect combination of the philosopher and the sadist. Which of course is not likely to happen.
Smart and sweet and sadistic and sexy.
Confident and dominant and available.
But I keep trying.
And I am endlessly disappointed.
Still, I never give up trying...
Plus, I've been playing on craigslist. I've been feeling very lonely on weekends, when I don't have as much contact with my Master, and when I don't have a sweetheart with whom to spend time. Being on nasty drugs just makes it worse. So I write these odd ads. Sometimes they are deliberately obscure, just to be obnoxious, because I am angry.
I am angry at the stupid and lazy men who answer my ads.
I am angry that I'm alone.
I'm angry
and I cry.
Because I'm on these stupid drugs I cry
I'm angry and I cry because they aren't John.
In fact, even John isn't John by now... this fantasy of a man, memories of only the best parts... what I want is the impossible. What I want is a perfect combination of the philosopher and the sadist. Which of course is not likely to happen.
Smart and sweet and sadistic and sexy.
Confident and dominant and available.
But I keep trying.
And I am endlessly disappointed.
Still, I never give up trying...
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