Fondling fingers

Tomorrow, September 1st, it will have been one year since I begged the sadist to allow me to serve him.

Having no idea what that truly would mean.
Having no idea how much he would demand of me.
Having no idea how much he would give me.

These days, something has happened to the bond between us... I feel his presence... at odd moments I feel his presence... not just a sense of him... I feel him touching me. At odd moments, I will feel him touching me, and my body will react... some of the things I feel, I can't even tell you... they refer to private matters between just the two of us... but then I feel him touching me... I feel his fingers fondling my cunt... and inside... I start to pulse... and then my little puckered butt hole starts to convulse, squeezing and releasing as if performing some anal version of Kegel exercises... and then my womb contracts... again and again... and I start writhing... writhing as I am right now in my chair... and the little moans that he loves so much... the little moans that ride on my breath... there they are, slipping out of my throat...

I am yours, my Lord.
I am yours.

And right now,
right this moment,
I feel your fingertips
dancing over my cunt.

Asked and granted

May I, Master?
Yes my pet. Only if.
Requirements noted.
Announce
perform
nap
report.

I nearly cum at the thought of cumming.

Watch the time
Do my chores.
E-mail that it's time to start.

Naked between the freshly-washed sheets.
Naked but for hot pink cotton panties.
Prosaic panties, except they're hot pink.
Naked, pale, wet, needy.

My finger
that might be your finger.
My finger, your finger,
stroking my clitoris.
My nails
that should be your nails.
My nails, your nails,
piercing my nipples,
making me tipsy with nausea.
My vibrator
that might, well, you know,
my vibrator
filling my pussy,
gripped by my pussy
teasing my clitoris
to images
cruel images
such evil, cruel images
memories of canings
memories of pain
memories of screams
memories of submission
fantasies of worse
visions of ass rape
thoughts of your pleasure
everything focused
on giving you pleasure
cumming and crying
and flooded with pleasure

then sleep

and report.

I describe the whole thing
as my cunt swells and floods
and my womb's in convulsions -
I'm horny as hell
but I'll just
have to wait
till the next time.

There's a beauty to rationing,
when cumming is treasured
like war-time chocolate bars.

Please, Sir...
if I'm very, very good...
may I have another one?

Skin me

Skin me. Use your
paring knife, a carrot peeler,
the tool is immaterial, as long as
it gets the job done.

Skin me. Strip off
the layers of ego, of self,
of desire for what in delusion
I think that I need.

Skin me. Reduce me
to that which is real and is yours.
I'll sing as I bow to your will,
I'll stoop as I cede you my soul,
I'll sever my ties to what is not you

as you eat me alive.

Register as a bone marrow donor; YOU can save a life

We mourn the loss of Teddy Kennedy and celebrate his achievements in speaking up for those in need.

You don't have to be a Senator to make a difference.
You yourself can make a difference.
You can save a life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There's more news from Orlando, and it's not good.

I wrote previously about the at-that-point undiagnosed illness of Orlando's wife Murre, and urged you all to stop by his blog In Scarlet Ink and leave your support while appreciating his talent and intelligence. Unfortunately, when the diagnosis finally came through, it was a rare and aggressive cancer, as Orlando recounts in his latest post.

Treatment requires a blood marrow donor, or a donation of umbilical cord blood. Of course, the trick is that a match needs to be found. Here, I'll let Orlando speak for himself:

We appreciate your thoughts and prayers, and we are encouraging folks to register to be a bone marrow donor or--any pregnant readers?--an umbilical cord blood donor. Registering for bone marrow is as easy as signing up for Netflix, and actually feels oddly similar. Please understand that your odds of helping Murre by registering are millions to one....this is not like donating blood, the genetic match has to be very very close. But as we create a larger and larger library of options, these types of cancers become much easier to cure. These are very simple acts that routinely saves lives all over the place.

I have 2 friends whose lives were recently saved by bone marrow transplants. The next person I hear of may be... you. You never know. From one minute to the next, we discover that our life has changed, and someone from hundreds of miles away could be the one responsible for driving cancer out of our lives.

Yes, certainly, go to Orlando's blog and leave your prayers and good wishes. But also, go to the bone marrow donor site. Not living in the US? Here is a link for Canadian donors , here is the British registry, and here is the one for Australia.. The rest of you, if there is one in your country, you can find it with a simple web search.

I have one more request. It would be great if any bloggers who read me could post the request on their own blogs and then pass it on to their coterie of blogger friends.

For Murre.
For Orlando.
For your next door neighbor.
And maybe, one day, for you.

A sad day

Senator Edward M. Kennedy
1932-2009

Quiet and content

Everything's fine... I'm floating in contentment... savouring peace of heart and of mind... filled with gratitude for my kind and knowing Master who a year ago found me.

He found me on FetLife, he found me and saw what no one else had. He found me and saw me and decided to have me and it only took a week and I was begging to serve him.

As clever as he is, I think he knew as little as I did what lay ahead.

This week a year ago we were getting to know each other.
This week a year ago he was spinning his web.
This week a year ago he dangled his lures
and there was no way it could have ended any other way.
He got more than he bargained for.
He found more than he expected.
He isn't complaining, despite the times
he bangs his head upon the desk and wonders what to do.
He says I am his treasure, and generous and giving.
He says I am a poet, and made for men to fuck.

And I?

I'm floating in contentment
and I'm happy
and I'm his.

You came to my bed in the middle of the night

You came to my bed in the middle of the night.
You drove down my street in your silent green car and
You opened my door in the middle of the night.

You unlocked my door in the middle of the night.
You unlocked my door with the purple-capped key and
You strode down the hall in the middle of the night.

You came to my bed in the middle of the night.
You came to my bed and you pulled back the sheet and
You saw me warm and naked in the middle of the night.

You fell on my body in the middle of the night.
You reached for my nipples and you seized a hank of hair and
You ordered me to serve you in the middle of the night.

You lay back on the bed in the middle of the night.
You lay back on the bed and I knelt between your legs and
You came into my hand in the middle of the night.

You came and shook and roared in the middle of the night.
And because this is my poem
and a poet has her fantasies,
You let me lie beside you,
I lay there warm beside you,
You stroked me with your fingers
as I lay there warm beside you,
I moaned and cried and whimpered
as I lay there warm beside you and
You let me cum beside you
in the middle of the night.

Learning to accept

Some parts of submission are easy.
Some parts of submission are joyous.
And some parts are very hard and very painful.

I am not referring to being caned.
The exact opposite, in fact.
And the pain comes from jealousy.

A few minutes ago I accidentally found out that the sadist was setting loose the beast this afternoon, having gone where he goes to take care of that need. And if I hadn't found out accidentally, then before long I would have found out anyway, as I can't help watching for testimony from the recipient of his incredible cruelty. He seemed to have been particularly vicious today, as he has tended to be lately, which is something we have discussed.

There is no way I want to suffer what I might if he didn't have this outlet. And in fact, if he didn't have an appropriate outlet for his very extreme needs, he would probably go out and find one, for which I would again be very grateful.

Really, comparing what I know about his relationship with his slave and the one he has with me, I quite prefer what I have, and suspect the poor creature who suffers for him would be pleased to have some of what I have.

Except for one thing.

The one thing that leaves a heavy, dark, undigested lump right below my sternum.

My Master's visits to me are half-hour fly-by's, wedged into my lunch hour, leaving me little time to digest either lunch or what I have just experienced, and certainly no time to explore further and in one session the various corners of our relationship and the various ways in which he can receive and extract pleasure from me.

I know that if he went there today, I know that if he did what he did, which from the hints I saw sound very fierce and very cruel, that his need was very great. I know that I will be safer when he does see me next week precisely because he opened the valve and let out the steam of his evil urges to scald someone else's flesh.

Still, my heart feels as if striped by welts from the strip of wood he uses as a cane when I think that he might have come here instead... that he might have decided that I was well enough after all... that he might have come here and spent an hour letting me serve his pleasure and releasing his frustration at having been denied the use of me for so long, first by vacation and then by illness...

Just writing this is calming me.
And remembering that he wants to be sure I am well.
And knowing the effect his desire for me has on him.
And remembering the sweet and revealing things he wrote me the other day.

I just needed to let it out.

He protects me.
He could easily tell me.
He could shove my face in it.
He protects me
and he wants to protect me.
From knowing that the beast was on the loose.
From knowing that the beast had gone to feed.
And from knowing that the beast was at his fiercest.

In Cocteau's La belle et la bête, the Beast is embarrassed when Beauty catches him with the bloody evidence dripping from his jaw that he has been out hunting. My beast is like that, too. He tries, I think, to protect me from the horror.

I tell him that I love him.
I tell him that I love all that he is.
And I do. I can't cut him up
into bits of this and that,
trim away the nasty parts,
the rotten parts,
the sections that don't quite conform
to standards that society
has said are right and good.

I know that he's a sadist, and I'm learning to accept and understand his wish to protect me from the beast. It's just... even though I know how much practicalities and availability determine when he goes where, and even though I am grateful that in fact it is relatively easy for him to spend time with me, even if it's only in small chunks...

It's just that I do so wish he could find a full hour to spend with his pet!

OK.
End of kvetching.
I do feel somewhat better getting it out.

And perhaps this will keep me from moping around and whining to him and letting him know that I know where he was earlier today when I was wishing he were here with me.

Thanks for listening. And now it is way past my bedtime. I'm off to practice my daily assignment designed by him for his own pleasure and arousal. I will lie in bed and practice and be filled with his presence, slipping off to sleep wrapped in the chain of his ownership.

I am, all and all, a happy, lucky, pet.

She crawls

She's wet.
She's naked.
She crawls.
She's wet and naked and crawling in the rain.

He stands on the street corner, shielded from the rain by a large umbrella. The light changes. The light says WALK. It should say CRAWL. She crawls, naked and wet. Naked and wet, rain dripping off her nipples, she scrapes her knees on the pavement as she crawls across the street. Her eyes are locked on his, her pain and humiliation meld with his pleasure and sadism to dance their union in the air between them as she comes closer and closer. She reaches the other shore just as the light changes. He admits to himself that he is pleased. He would not have liked to have seen her flattened by the large taxi snorting impatiently as it waits to surge forward.

She's wet and naked and crawling in the rain.

He sits in the golf cart, protected by the rooflet as if in a surrey with a fringe on top. He looks over the rise and sees her crawling towards the green, naked and wet in the rain. He can almost see the blisters where her skin has been burned by the lust-filled stares of the golfers as she crawls by. He knows what they are thinking. Some of them would love to beat her ass with their golf clubs. Some of them would love to fuck her ass with their over-confident cocks. Some of them would be content fucking any hole of hers they could stuff their cocks into. He's sure she can feel their desire, but knows she has only one goal. She crawls, foot by foot, over the long, smooth, expanse of green, her hair falling in sodden strings across her eyes as she works her way towards him. Those eyes link to his as soon as she is close enough, and his eyes are all she sees as she finishes her journey and then kneels, shivering, before him.

She's wet and naked and crawling in the rain.

He sits on the porch, comfortably rocking, and watches her approach. He is dry. She is wet and naked and crawling in the mud and the rain. She makes her way across the narrowing space between them. The ground has turned to mud after days of rain, and her pale flesh is splashed with mud. Her knees are cut and bruised from crawling across a patch of large, coarse gravel. The winces flying across her face betray her pain but she never stops. He grows hard at the flashes of pain across her face. As she draws nearer, he hears small moans and cries of pain escape her tempting mouth, and he grows harder still. She raises her face and he takes command of her eyes. A symphony of submission and sadism, dominance and pain, fills the air and echoes among the rain-drenched trees. Pulling her with his eyes, he leads her up the steps. She is panting, breathing hard, trembling, whimpering without even realizing she is doing it. He rises from his chair and enters the building. She follows him, still crawling, as he strides down the hall and enters their room. She scurries to catch up. He closes the door behind her.

She is naked.
She is very very wet.
He throws her down on the bed.
He brings his hand down hard on her ass.
Down the hall, they hear her scream.

A good girl gets better

Suddenly, mid-morning, I took a turn for the better. By next week I'll be serving my Master again. My very sensible Master, who doesn't want to get sick despite how much he wanted me this week. My very sensible Master, who wants to get the most out of me when he does see me.

I wonder what mood he will be in at my next lesson...

I know he will be very hungry.
He will demand a lot of me.
I will have to serve his cock.
I love to serve his cock.
He will push me face forward into the wall.
He will press himself into my ass.
I will tilt it back, that plump and tasty ass,
I will tilt it back and rub back into him.
He will grab my hair at the nape of my neck.
He will pull my head back and to the side.
He will sink his teeth into my neck.
He will press his hand against my throat.
He will steal my breath.
He will twist my nipples.
He will bathe in my screams.
He will turn me around.
He will demand my mouth.
He will drug me with his kisses.
He will order me to kneel before his chair.
He will take off his clothes.
He will expect me to please him.

I will.

My Master waits

The sadist intrigues me. He is the kind of dom who accepts someone into his service with the understanding that he alone has complete control. Even for one like me, who is not a slave, and whose service is in many ways quite different from that of most submissives.

He stated it quite clearly,
from the very beginning.
This is not a game.
There are no negotiations.
There is no aftercare.
The rules are his.
Take it or leave.

His behaviour, however, is not as absolute as one might expect. There are times when he seems much kinder than he need be. There have been occasions when he has changed course to adjust to bad reactions on my part, rather than continuing to take what he wants without caring that I was upset for days after.

I don't see this as capitulation.
I don't see this as weakness.
I don't see this as a shift in the balance of power.

There are many ways to control behaviour, many ways to train one's pet, many ways to mold a girl into exactly what you want her to be. Sometimes a sharp word will do. Sometimes a firm spanking or a hard beating. Once - only once - he slapped my face, a single slap on each cheek. I still remember why he did it, and what he was trying to teach me. He has found that physical punishment sets the lesson, but never hurts me any more than he needs to.

And sometimes he is kind, without being mushy about it, such as when I suffer a crisis of confidence, or was freaking out over turning 60, or was upset about my mother's bad fall back the end of March. His tone was always firm, but he knew exactly what to say to center me and refocus me to serving him.

There are many ways to train a pet, and he is good at them all. More and more, I am learning, I am accepting, I am understanding the true meaning of submission, and the depth to which I must yield. He works slowly, he is patient, he knows the results will be more satisfying if he takes his time.

He is not a man to take the cake out of the oven before it is ready.

I'm not sure how this applies to the whole question of whether he will always keep the beast from ripping open my abdomen. I'm really not sure what he truly wants there, what he intends, and I suspect that this uncertainty on my part is part of his plan.

But I thought of it now, as he waits for my cold to get better before reclaiming me after my vacation. There is, of course, some concern on his part about catching whatever it is I have, especially as he takes so much pleasure from my mouth. (Sigh... I do so miss his kisses...) And if he were an ordinary man, you might just think he was waiting until I was up to it, until my energy had returned, until I felt like entertaining him... all things, of course, which are of no concern when dealing with property. (Though yes, I admit to suspecting he does actually care a bit about me, about how I feel, about my health... though he would be the first one to disabuse me of that. His attitude towards me is purely utilitarian, and I work hard to remember that. I do! I do! It is for my own good to get that straight.)

So yes, where was I? When I'm sick, it's hard to focus, and thought of the sadist distract me.

Yes.
He is waiting.
He is waiting for me to be better.
He urges me to rest,
he reminds me to drink tea,
he wants me better soon.
He wants me.
He wants me
and he waits
fondling the memory
of his cock
mashed
into the crevice
that bisects my ass.

Crawling towards the pain

Naked, I crawl across the floor. He walks backwards, before me, holding his hand out, dangling something just out of reach. I keep coming for it, begging for it, the more he teases me with it the more I want it.

He won't let me have,
he says it's not for me,
and yet he dangles it there.
I hunger for it,
as if it were
chocolate.

Chocolate would make my mouth water.
This makes my cunt water.

I can't have it,
so it draws me like chocolate.
It isn't chocolate.
I can't have it,
because it's hot peppers.
It will burn me.

He won't let me have.
He makes me want it.
I'm not sure,
I'm truly not sure
if he wants me to want it,
if he wants me to have it.

He is training me to beg for the pain.

Protected species

The sadist has informed the beast that I am off limits.

We both know the situation is only temporary.

One day, despite my Master's firm belief that to unleash his sadism on me would be dangerous for us both, the beast will break through the invisible fence that surrounds me.

We both, I believe, fear and long for that moment.

Certainly, my Master knows himself far better than I do, and knows far better the evil of which he is capable. He has, as I've said before, another outlet for his sadism, and I am truly grateful for that, even as I wrestle with jealousy that there is someone else whose services he so badly needs.

Compared to what I suspect has been inflicted on others, the few small tastes I've had of the beast's bite have been exceptionally mild, and I have felt very little of it for months now.

I confess to disappointment.
I confess to longing.
I confess to flirting with danger.

I confess to flirting with the beast, to leaving him little messages that I know will make his mouth water, to painting pictures of my weakness, of my vulnerability, of my pale exposed neck begging to be torn to shreds by his cruel jaws.

I'm walking on the edge of a precipice and hoping the ledge will give way beneath my feet. I'm prepared to jump up and down on it if necessary.

And when I begin to tumble into the ravine below, I will regret not having a parachute.

I am obviously a bit mad. But I am also hungry, though for a different meal than the one that lures the beast.

I am quite aware that my fantasies of being spanked and flogged and caned and raped and burned and branded are far more extreme than what I could tolerate and, I hope, more extreme than what the sadist would permit me to suffer. He is a wise and focused man, despite the deep vein of cruelty that runs through him. Still, when a wild animal breaks out of his cage, one can never be sure how well his training will hold, just as I am never quite sure how far my Master is planning on taking the gang rape he has been planning for me. (Though is it truly rape if I submit willingly? And is it truly willing if I have been deeply hypnotized into always wanting to obey?)

What it comes down to is this.
Curiosity.
I want to know.
I want to learn.
I want to experience.
How much can I tolerate?
How will my suffering change me?
How will my suffering change his attitude towards me?

How much have I changed so far? I do believe I have changed. I think I would respond to a caning quite differently than I did last time. I think I have learned about acceptance, about offering, about the intimacy of giving him my suffering. There is a beauty to it - not to the pain itself, but to the complete destruction of walls between us. I have tasted that. When he tortures my nipples, I taste that.

There is an intimacy even greater than sex.
And dangerous though it may be, I long for it.

While I was gone - 2 men (a dom and a sub)

It was only a week. Every year, it is only a week. But while I am there, it feels like that's all there is.

Just as during those 30-minute segments of his presence my Master allots me to serve him with my nakedness and my mind and my voice and my submission, nothing else seems real.

Except for this. While I am with my Master, there is nothing else. But while I was away, I was never really away from my Master. I felt a certain grounding that had never been with me before, even when I was in love with the philosopher and thought he was in love with me. I hugged to myself my secret, true identity. Feeling owned, feeling treasured, feeling - being - valued, these are all powerful weapons against insecurity and self-doubt.

I had one small assignment to do in bed every night, before I fell asleep. A 10-second exercise, the beginning of a creative project through which the sadist is guiding me. And that one, small assignment was enough to make me feel safe and wanted, even though during the week I received very few messages from my owner. Times such as this make it clear how wise he is, how experienced, how very very dominant and very very effective. And for this I am very very grateful.

Driving home, I realized that the camp itself was an excellent place for a disorganized submissive with ADD. There was a schedule. I knew where I needed to be and at what time. 2 classes, 3 meals, dance parties, medication coordinated with meals and bedtime, practice sessions inserted as time and space and naps allowed. Structure.

A girl like me needs structure. And among everything else the sadist gives me, there is structure. And within the cage he has built me, I dance and sparkle.

But back to the topic of this post. While I had internet access this last week, I stayed away from kinky blogs. Which means I've had a lot of catching up to do over the last day.

This has led me to news of 2 men.
One man is submissive and one is dominant.
One is a new, dear friend and the other a long absent one.
The news is both bad and good.

Those who bother to read the comments here have already met Orlando, and some of you have even made your way over to his blog, In Scarlet Ink. He's a smart man, educated, literary, and a good writer, so, inevitably, I have a crush on him. As he easily perceived. However, it is purely a friendly, intellectual sort of crush, as Orlando is submissive and by now I know quite clearly that what I need is a strong, controlling mind and a strong, controlling hand. Still, I am immensely fond of him and am always happy when he leaves a comment or a new post on his own blog.

Except for the post that greeted me when I came home.

Orlando's beloved and very dominant wife Murre is a cancer survivor. And now she is back in the hospital. There aren't a lot of details revealed, but they don't really matter. What's important is that they are struggling with illness and fear and mortality. So please go by and leave them both your best wishes, while incidentally reading a beautifully written and highly perceptive essay on love and hospitals and caregiving.

[a pause for you to follow the link over to Orlando's place and bookmark him before continuing to the good news.]

And good news it is.

The English Gentleman is back. He now calls himself Discerningdom and has a new blog called Sexual Dynamics: Memoirs of A Discerning Dom. But thanks to seeing him listed as Donald Roper in Remittance Girl's list of delicious reads, I know that they are one and the same. As you can read in this old post of mine, I stumbled upon the English Gentleman's old blog a few months into my relationship with the philosopher, and he helped my growth as a submissive in a number of ways. I was very sad when he went missing. One of my favorite parts of his old blog was that his posts inspired long exchanges of comments that grew into rich discussions about various aspects of D/s. I'd rather hoped that would happen here, but have achieved it only occasionally. So I hope you will all trot over to his new home, see what he has to say, and leave your own comments there. If you go now (after stopping by to give Orlando a hug), it won't take too long to get caught up. I've read through everything briefly myself but haven't yet weighed in on any of the issues.

There. You have your 2 assignments. It's arousing in a way to pretend to be a dom...

He says he has plans for me

Yes, I'm back.

Happy, hot, and tired, and facing a mountain of dirty laundry. Nothing all that sexy about dirty laundry unless one's Master is standing there with flogger in hand, supervising his pet as she runs one load after another wearing nothing but the tracks of her arousal as it drips down the insides of her thighs.

No such luck. The only supervision I'm receiving is from a pair of cautious cats, who took their revenge on me for my absence by pretending they didn't know me when I returned.

The sadist, meanwhile, sent a short message, in which he addressed me as angel and said he has plans for me.

I'll submit to anything when he calls me angel.

I'll submit to anything in any case.

Eventually - and we all know this - I will submit to whatever he wants.

The thing is, though... as I wrote the previous sentence, I suddenly realized that part 0f my Master's cleverness, and part of his grand plan, is to not require my submission until he knows that he will get it. This avoids the embarrassment of having his pet rise up in rebellion while reinforcing my submission by never giving me the experience of refusal. That doesn't guarantee that I won't have a bad reaction, which I have occasionally been known to do. But since the sundering of our relationship last December (thankfully, a situation that lasted only a bit more than a month), the sadist has been very serious about making adjustments to his plans in order to insure my continued compliance. This is not at all a sign of weakness, but rather a tribute to his manipulative skills. Every adjustment he makes pulls the chain tighter around my neck and wedges it more deeply into my cunt.

I have no idea what his plans are, but just knowing that he has them is enough to make me feel very small and very submissive and very, very owned.

And for that alone, it's good to be back.

Even pets need a vacation

Last words before I close up shop for the next week. Time for the writer to morph into a musician.

I'm happy about going off to camp, even with the prospect of much reduced contact with the sadist while I'm gone. I think that's because I feel so secure in our relationship. It may not be a standard relationship as far as the rest of the world goes - or even an approved-of relationship. But it's ours and it works and I no longer doubt it. I'm never quite sure where he's taking me on this journey, what the next step will be, but I do know he enjoys taking me there.

I won't be able to post to this blog (or any others of dubious morality) while I am gone, but I will receive your comments by e-mail. If you're relatively new, you may amuse yourselves by going back to the beginning to see how I came to this point. And yes, I do see and appreciate comments on old posts.

Have a great week, all of you - and treasure everything that is good in your lives.

Redheads and pain - akin to a cheap drunk

Actually, I am a cheap drunk. Always have been. It never took much to make me tipsy, and I never wanted to drink all that much anyway. The only time I ever got super drunk was on Irish whiskey. Because it tasted so good.

I've always been a sensualist.

Redheads are a sadist's cheap pain slut.

This is nothing new. It's been said before that redheads are more sensitive to pain. But now there's yet another scientific study, as cited in today's New York Times, in an article called The Pain of Being a Redhead.

My Master would probably want to change that to The Pain of Owning a Redhead. Still he thinks it worth it in the long run.

He does make me feel that I please him.
He does make me feel that he enjoys my service.
He does make me feel that he enjoys my nakedness.
He does
make me
feel.

Redheads.
Back to pain and redheads.

The studies show that redheads are more sensitive to pain, that we need more anesthesia, more Novocaine, and are more likely to be afraid of going to the dentist because of that. Not all of us, but the numbers are very significant. It has to do with a genetic mutation in the same gene that makes us redheads.

From the article:

[...] a mutation in the MC1R gene results in the production of a substance called pheomelanin that results in red hair and fair skin.

The MC1R gene belongs to a family of receptors that include pain receptors in the brain, and as a result, a mutation in the gene appears to influence the body’s sensitivity to pain. A 2004 study showed that redheads require, on average, about 20 percent more general anesthesia than people with dark hair or blond coloring. And in 2005, researchers found that redheads are more resistant to the effects of local anesthesia, such as the numbing drugs used by dentists

I can testify that there have been times when the dentist had to give me an extra shot of Novocaine because the regular dose just didn't do. But the big thing is that my Master can get a very satisfying response out of me from a level of pain that is quite small compared to what he might inflict on someone else. And since he is not using me as the outlet for his sadism, it's the response that matters, and that sets up the incredible level of intimacy that I'm just now truly experiencing. Yesterday...

I do know that there are redheaded pain sluts, and I also know that it would be nice to have a bit more pain than he is currently inflicting on me. Perhaps if we had more time together, he would explore that more. But on the other hand, tonight a friend was telling me how he took 150 cane strokes last night, after being quite thoroughly spanked with a nasty paddle, and I thought nuh-uh. No way. Not me.

Just give that twist to my nipple that makes me feel like you're stabbing me in the center of my breast... Just torture my nipple, my amazing Master, and I will give you my pain, and I will give you my eyes, and the pain in my eyes will swim through the small, blurry space between us. The pain from my eyes will meld with the hunger and power in yours and in full consciousness you will hurt me and I will yield and as the pain stabs through me, as this small, pointed stab of pain lights up my love for you, our vulnerabilities will swirl around and into each other and I will be truly yours.

My Master's Mark

He branded me.
Not with his initial in red-hot iron.
But with his teeth.
He left his mark on the back of my neck with his teeth.

I'm going on vacation.
We're both - we're each - going on vacation.

I'm leaving town early Saturday morning and will return a week later. I'll actually have my laptop with me, and even wireless Internet access, but only in one place and with limited privacy and limited time. And sexy blogs are blocked. Besides, my goal is to play music most of the time. And hang out with my friends. Not live in my head and through an electronic connection with my secret, sadistic Master.

My Master who may also be away part of the time.
My Master, who will be able to read my e-mails
but perhaps not be able to answer.
My Master, who wants to be sure
I know who owns me.

I know who owns me.

And now he has left his mark.

He arrived just before noon. As required, I met him at the door, this time still wearing my panties (white) and bra (also white). He passed his eyes over me quickly, and then ordered me down to the dungeon and against the wall.

He came up behind me, as he often does. He pressed himself into my white-cotton covered ass as I pushed back towards him. He ground himself into me as I fanned the flames of his lust with words I knew would excite him. This is my job, and I've learned to do it well.

And then he took hold of my long dark red hair, wrapping it around his fist. He pulled it up on top of my head, and then deliberately - I could tell without seeing how deliberate it was - he sank his teeth into the back of my neck. And he bit. And kept on biting.

If the photo reproduces the way it shows on my computer, dark and intense, you can see his tooth marks. A little more, and I would have bled.

I wish he had drawn blood.
I wish he had taken my blood the way he takes my breath.

I knew exactly what he was doing, even as it was happening.
And after he left, I confirmed my suspicions.
A dark, red mark of the beast on the back of my neck.
I had expected to wear my hair up while away.
In the heat, or when playing music, I thought I'd put my hair up.

Not a chance.

My Master branded me.

And I don't need to parade his mark to be reminded that it is there. I will never forget that it is there, nor will I forget that I am his. Not for one minute.

Besides, he gave me an assignment for while I am gone. A very challenging performance piece to create before I leave, and which I must practice in bed every night while I am gone.

He knows I have trouble remembering things. So he put me over his knee and spanked me to be sure I would remember. He put me over his knee and spanked me and left me with a pair of beautifully rosy ass cheeks and a pain deep in the muscles.

So many souvenirs...
a mark on the back of my neck
a sore, rosy butt
the taste of his mouth in mine
a burning in my tender nipples
and the memory of his fingers dancing lightly over my clitoris.

I love you, my Master.
I love you and I'll miss you.

And now I get to masturbate...

Absolutely monarchy

How therapeutic it must be for a dom. Just think! No matter what is going on in your everyday life, here is in an area where you are completely in charge.

You make all the decisions.
What you want, goes.
No ambiguity,
no negotiations,
no confrontations

L'état, c'est Moi.

But then, like a wee small mouse gnawing at the thick rope that moors the giant ship to the dock, along comes a smart, sexy, creative, and utterly maddening submissive poet, who makes you bang your head against the desk and contemplate walking into the water until it covers your aching head and then keep on walking.

I'm teasing, of course.
The way he teases me.

There is no question who runs this relationship.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Fucking sexy

I'm 60 years old and the man says I'm fucking sexy. I'm so fucking sexy that it's a problem.

Obsession can run both ways.

Look, I know, you can't argue obsession with someone - we all have our attractions, desires, inescapable fixations. You can't tell someone that you aren't unbearably sexy if he finds you unbearably sexy. I tell him that no one else has ever said that before and he says that's their loss. They're blind. They don't know what they are missing.

So now I feel sexy. I went out running errands on a hot and muggy day and put my hair in 2 pony tails for comfort, as if I were a teenager again back in the early '60s, or a semi-hippie back in the '70s, except I'm 60 years old even if you'd never know it what with barely a spot of grey among the red. I went out running errands in my pony tails and my jeans and a purple t-shirt passed on by a friend that I don't wear to work because it broadcasts my nipples and I truly doubt anyone gave me a second look but I felt so sexy I was sparkling.

So who's to say? Who am I to argue with him?

Something shifted a bit yet again over the last few days, although I doubt it will really change anything. Still, despite my frustrations at being deprived of extended lessons that don't have to be crammed into my lunch hour, I am feeling much more secure and sympathetic and understanding and other things that I can't really go into here.

And sexy.

Fucking sexy.

Lucky me...