That old writer's block thing

The sadist enjoys my struggles. But he does not at all appreciate the struggle that is writer's block. And this blog is not the only writing I've been neglecting.

I'm exhausted. Work has been insane. I come home drained with nothing to say. Oh, I can get into these intense e-mail exchanges with the sadist, distracting him with images of my pallor and my throat and my butt and my vulnerability. But poetic inspiration?

Non-existent.

Yesterday it felt as if he were mad at me. He was miserly with his words. But more than that, through the pixels on the page, I felt his disapproval.

He said he didn't realize he was pissed at me until I asked if he were.

And then he let me have it. He really hates it when I don't perform, when I waste my talent. His disappointment is scathing, and he doesn't accept any crap excuses.

He is so good for me.

So he set me an assignment, with deadlines, giving me structure for my creativity. The main thing is that I should be working.

And now I am.

He gave me a mere 7 words tonight.
Seven words in response to my first installment.

I am pleased that you are working.

Approval without warmth.
But his expectations drive me.
No coddling.
This is the man who beat me for a bad sonnet.
He thinks a lot of me
and demands a lot of me
and I will be worthy of him.

Some things you don't have to forgive

Yom Kippur begins on Sunday night.

Judaism is about our relationship with other people. The forgiveness we seek in the week between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is from other people, not from God. We are also supposed to offer forgiveness to others.

For years, I have been struggling with my inability to forgive ex-hubby #2. There is certainly a lot to forgive him for. Not that I was perfect. I can fully understand that I must have been a pain in the ass to live with. But through his self-centeredness and emotional abuse, he unraveled my always shaky ego. The sadist has been working long and hard to build me up in my own eyes. Anyone who thinks that cultivating the submission of one you wish to own involves destruction prior to re-creation has it all backwards. The power of my Master's ownership comes from enabling me to see who I am, teaching me to dance in my sense of self-worth, and then bringing me to the sure and joyous knowledge that the best, the only thing to do with my talent and beauty and delight is to place it all at his feet.

Do you wonder that I love him?

The marriage. There were many incidents, many attitudes, many words, that accumulated into a mountain of hurt. It was a marriage that shouldn't have been contracted, and that certainly should not have lasted that long. But there is one sin - and yes, I do believe it was a sin - that I come back to again and again. I mentioned it in a support group cum psalm-writing class I went to a number of months ago. A Jewish group. And that was when the therapist leading the group said "There are some things you don't have to forgive."

"Oh!" I said. "You mean, like Hitler?"

I've spoken of his sin before. I mentioned it in passing in this story - which I am really very proud of, so please do go read it if you haven't before. But his sin came to mind with a vengeance today as I read the following in a New York Times piece on Tanya Snyder, the wife of Redskins' owner Dan Snyder:

After she learned she had breast cancer early last year, she called Dan at his office and he sped home. They took a long walk.

After I learned I had melanoma, I called my husband at his office. He said he had a committee meeting and would see me at home that night.

Some things you don't have to forgive.

Painting the pain

I am a writer. A poet. My medium is words. Metaphors, rhythm, the occasional rhyme, these are my tools, these are what I use to show you the world through my eyes.

But today, words won't do.

I wish I could paint.

I wish I could paint the pain.

Or perhaps if I were a composer. I think that would do as well. Anything other than words. It needs to be something more visceral, more physical, instinctive, sensual, not intellectual.

Not descriptive.

I want you to look at the splashes of paint on the canvas, the fingers of color spreading out from the central impact, with stabs of red where the knots cut at my cunt. I want you to see - so that you will feel. Don't think. Just let it strike you.

He ordered me against the wall. He usually orders me against the wall, facing the wall, arms over my head and spread against the wall like thick rising tree branches. I am naked. I must always greet him naked at the door. He looks me over, turns me around, surveys his property, and then orders me down to the dungeon.

Down to the dungeon and against the wall.

He comes up behind me. I slither down the wall, thrusting my bottom out, pressing my plump ass into his waiting crotch. I feel the heat rise from him as I feel him harden and swell.

He wants me.

At some point he pulls away, walks away. I know what he's going for.

The pain is glorious. He has already given me a few hard spanks on each side of my bottom, stunningly hard smacks around the side of each butt cheek. His hand is large, with perfect power behind it - and I know I've yet to feel the worst of it. I suspect he could break the skin with his hand alone.

The flogger... I can hardly write. I'm writhing in my seat, seized by the physical memory, incapable of putting it into words. The impact. The huge impact of all those knotted cowhide tails. The force. The pain. And then again. And again.

And the last blow caught my pussy.

Picture sparks of red and yellow splaying out from my clit as the knots catch it in a violent kiss.

It hurt like hell.
And I wanted more.

I wanted to stand there for an hour and give myself to the flogging, give myself to his need, give myself to the pain, without flinching. Not bound, not chained, not restrained, giving him my body in a contained dance of submission.

Later, he twisted my nipples again and again, sometimes almost gently, sometimes so fiercely that I struggled to accept it. But it was after the tender torture, the mere hint of the pain, that he pulled me up from my knees to look in his eyes, and said:

"It is the pain that unites us."

"Yes," I said. "I know."

And I did.

He left me with marks on my neck - from the Beast's bite, from his own strangling hands. And as he was dressing to go, he said "When you get a chance, take a look." And he pressed his fingers on a spot on my left buttock. "Right here," he said. "From the flogger. It looks like a paw."

And so it does.
Heedlessly, I had called to the Beast.
And he left his mark.

Stimulus and response

Sometimes I think the sadist treats me like a little white lab rat. Apply this stimulus, remove this source of pleasure, and then sit back and watch what happens.

I am very malleable.
As he knows.
An endless source of amusement.

A couple of weeks ago, or maybe more, he said I could sleep with his chain (a long, heavy chain from the hardware store) until the date of my punishment. More recently, he allowed me to add the flogger to my bedtime companions.

The chain is cold when I first get into bed. I pull it close to my bare belly and welcome the burning pain of the cold. Some mornings, I would awake to find that I had slept on it, and would delight in the marks left in my flesh by the links.

Yesterday, he told me to remove both items from the bed.
Today, I had to report.

I took the chain out of the bed shortly after he gave the order. It was very hard to do. I had to force myself. It was like when the philosopher would order me to cane the pillow. I couldn't bring myself to do it but in the end, somehow, I would.

The flogger had the bed to itself for a few hours, but shortly before I would have joined it, I took it out from between the sheets.

I nearly cried myself to sleep. One of the cats (I'm not sure which one) knew I was upset and curled up behind my bent knees right after I turned out the light. That probably saved me from crying.

Today, I was driven to distraction. I couldn't stop thinking about my Master, I couldn't stop wanting to e-mail him, to reach out to him, the way Ketzel stands up on her hind legs with her claws in my jeans, the way Marko pats my arm with his paws, both of them begging for attention and reassurance that I love them.

I could not concentrate at all this afternoon. The office was nearly empty, and I bombarded the sadist with one message after another. Which he did not answer.

He is indeed a sadist.

I kept trying to find a way to convey how utterly submissive I felt. I feel. I still don't have the right image or the right action. I am struggling. How low, how small, how debased... what would make it clear that I have yielded everything I am and that all that remains is for him to continue the process of making me into what he desires.

But know this. I do NOT feel devalued. I am his treasure, and my submission is his valued possession. *I* am his valued possession. He makes me feel strong and smart and creative and proud - and the more I submit, the higher I hold my head. An amusing dichotomy, that, but a reassurance I feel you all need.

I'm tired, and feel that I'm not making complete sense. I'm tired and it's bedtime and he denied my request to sleep with the chain again.

I am his little white lab rat, and by the end of tomorrow I will have lost my little white lab rat mind.

Flirting with danger

I've been flirting with the Beast.

Yes, I know it's stupid, sending these little messages, panting poems bound to send the smell of fresh blood swirling around his nose and his cock.

But I hear him, that low soft growling in the night, mixed with a patient chuckle. He knows he can have me any time he wants. He'd rather play with me first. Like Ketzel, amusing herself with the mouse until he dies of exhaustion.

I feel his breath on my neck, but when I turn my head he is just out of sight. Again, there's the echo of his laugh.

His eyes are fixated on my nipples.
I can tell.
They are burning.
And my cunt.
Burning.
But not from his eyes.
From desire.
I want him.

I moan from the pain, the flames singeing the delicate flesh, and try not to think of the agony that will leave me screaming when he finally does haul me off to his lair.

And yet I flirt.
I whisper his name to the night.
I know I'll regret it.
And I don't care.

Trust

There are some bad people out there.

Well, yes, I know, that's nothing new. But I've been hearing about some particularly bad people taking advantage of submissive women. And we are very susceptible to being taken advantage of. BDSM by its nature requires an enormous amount of trust. It means baring our vulnerability the way we bare out breasts.

We want so much.
We need so much.
We give so much.
We are so easy to hurt.

I have friends in this world of blogs who have been badly hurt.
Deliberately deceived.
Taken advantage of.

My anger is a cold rage. I have visions of a band of vengeful submissives roaming the country, giving these men the punishment they deserve.

Use your imaginations.

Of course, I can't help stepping back and trying to take a detached look at my own vulnerability, my own decisions, my own potential for being physically and emotionally hurt.

There are, in fact, never any pure guarantees in relationships - whether strictly traditional or wildly radical or anything in between. Things can be turned upside down from one minute to the next - whether from illness or accident or a new person or an unexpected change of heart. No matter how committed people are, there are no guarantees.

All we can ask is honesty.
All we have to give is our trust
and in exchange we hope for honesty.

Some of you worry about me. I know that. Hell, if the woman I was a year and a half ago was reading this blog now, she would be worried about me. Because yes, my limits are falling. My limits aren't even being discussed. I am moving into areas I have never been, areas I didn't think I'd want to go in reality no matter what my fantasies, and all I say is -

Yes, my Lord.
Thank you, my Lord.
Whatever will please you, my Lord.

So yes. I don't argue with those of you who are worried. I don't argue with those of you who think I'm being reckless and stupid. In fact, it's a good idea to have a Greek chorus in the background reminding me that things aren't always what they seem and that submissive pets are quite often prone to lose their perspective.

We so want to believe their promises.

But to those who worry, let me tell you this.

He makes no grand promises.
He doesn't offer more than he has to give.
And he doesn't claim to love me.

Our relationship is clear.
I have no illusions.
He gives me no reason to have any.

I delight in what he gives me, I rejoice in what he's made me, I dance at how he's freed me to be who I really am. And if I see him for half an hour once a week, I count myself as very lucky.

I expect nothing.
And I go to bed happy.

Into the new year

Sometimes, this isn't the place where I need to be.

But the place I've been the last few days has been good. Synagogue, mostly, for the 2 days of Rosh Hashanah. A good place for thinking over the last year and pondering the possibilities for the next. A good place to embrace what I've become, to thank the person who gave me so much, and to think of how I can in some small way repay him for his faith and patience and inspiration and affection.

Damn. I shouldn't be writing this while watching the really boring Emmy awards...

As a little sneak peek at what may be to come... out of the blue I got a message from a man who contacted me 2-1/2 years ago in response to the same craigslist post that brought me the philosopher and dominick. We corresponded for a few months and then for no good reason except for perhaps miscommunication - oh, and the fact that I was in love with the philosopher - things fizzled. And now? I suspect we'll have a little adventure. Which would be pleasant to fill in the spaces.

Meanwhile... back to the ironing. The Emmys are very good for ironing and putting pills in boxes labeled for each day. The show is largely so boring that I'm not worried about missing anything. Still, just as with us as we begin a new year, there is always the chance for improvement.

You made me say I love you

I rested my head on your belly.
You made me say I loved you.
Your body had crushed mine into
the bed. I love it, I'd said.
I love your body.
Again, he demanded.
Say it again. I love
your body. And then again.
I love your body, I love
your cock, I love . . .

Say it.

And sobbing, I said it.

I love you, I said. And again
I love you. Crying, I love you,
your cock in my hand, my eyes
joined with yours, I love you,
I wept.

And you came in my hand.

Tumbling

In a comment on Sunday's post Presenting the merchandise, Florida Dom wrote:

Like Paul, I might be selfish and want you all to myself but I understand that it will deepen your submission to your Master when he decides to share you.

The curious thing is that it's the other way around. As my submission deepens, as the sadist draws me further and further into willing acceptance of his most manipulative and challenging plans, I yearn to cooperate in activities that, when first broached, excited me on a fantasy level but left me extremely nervous when I contemplated actually obeying his orders. There's a floating sensation to it. My submission is a stream, and I give myself to its gentle flow as it carries me ever closer to the waterfall that will catapult me into my delicious doom.

It also sounds like he enjoys keeping you waiting. I assume it only builds the anticipation. Just thinking about it must keep you wet all the time.

Yes, he likes to keep me waiting, but he also enjoys the long, detailed planning process for its own sake. He keeps me so aroused that it is painful. As for him... think of it as an embroidery project, and imagine the delight of seeing the picture take form as one stitch after another is added to the cloth. And then picture the moist stains that sink into the colored floss, from his desire and mine.

Presenting the merchandise

He brings her out, like a model at an upscale dress shop presenting the frocks under consideration. Except the model is naked, and the choices are limited. Up or down. Yes or no. Take her or not.

She is his. He eyes her with pleasure. She is his but he is a generous man in a perverted sort of way. His sense of ownership is intensified when he knows she is being used by others. When he sees her being used by others. And he knows that being treated like a thing, being reduced to a mouth and two tits and a pair of holes, deepens her own sense of belonging to him.

He loves the pain in her eyes as they hurt her.
He loves the glow in her eyes as she submits.

She walks towards them, clearly self-conscious while doing her best to move like a sexy model. She fails miserably. That's not who she is. But he wants his customers, guests, friends, to want her, his slut, his whore, his little sex slave whose services he is offering. So he is not displeased. He knows the value of his property.

The six men are sitting in a circle, with an opening for her entrance and exit. She walks slowly within the circle, once around to display her wares and then again, stopping in front of each man to allow him to inspect the goods more closely. None of them can resist squeezing her nipples. Her tits invite abuse. The men make her spread her legs for better access, probing her with their fingers before testing the accessibility of her anal passage.

Her pussy is wet.
Her ass is tight.
The men are growing hard.

One man gives her bottom a hard smack. She looks surprised, as does her owner. He hadn't thought any of them were interested in that sort of thing.

Her owner is number 6. She pauses in front of him. He holds her eyes with his. He nods. He doesn't have to say it aloud. "Good girl" passes between them. He is pleased.

She exits the circle.

"Any takers?" he asks.
From the bulges beneath their jeans, he knows there will be no one sitting out this dance.

Aftercare? Please, what is this word "aftercare"?

My Master doesn't do aftercare.

I already knew a number of things about the sadist from his slave before our in-person interactions commenced, but I rather assumed they applied only to that particular relationship because hey, I wasn't going to be a slave. Of course, I was wrong. He's pretty absolute about what he will and won't do, except for the fact that he spoils me. He does keep saying there will be no more of that, and probably it would be better for me if that were the case. We'll see...

So no limits, no negotiating, no aftercare, no exceptions... I suppose the difference is in exactly what he expects from me, what he expects me to do for him, what he demands of me - which as we all know is quite often out of the realm of the usual submissive tasks. Really, how many subs - or slaves for that matter - are expected to produce poetry and then get caned when it's bad. (Don't worry, it was just that once - for the really bad sonnet on a topic he had forbidden me - that I was caned.)

I don't have to set limits. He can read my limits in my responses. When he has felt he had gone too far he has revised his plans for me. And while there is no negotiating, he does know me very well, maybe better than I know myself. I am his treasure. He doesn't want to lose me - not as long as I'm not more trouble than I'm worth. (He does wonder sometimes...)

Now this aftercare thing is something else. I was mulling it over today, trying to think of a way to explain it, to explain why I'm OK with it. Because I really am OK with it. And I think it's because of two things:

1) the nature of our relationship. I am not going to reveal any highly personal details about the way we relate to each other, but I'll tell you this - snuggly aftercare would feel really odd. That does not mean that I am unaware of his affection for me, despite the fact that he almost never explicitly refers to it. I do enough gushing for the both of us. There is a bond between us that may not have a name but is very real. Yeah, I know there's a big difference between sending roses (even with the thorns) and wanting to arrange for me to service his friends, but the bond is real and we each gain a lot from the other. Remember, the physical end of things is very rough. I like it rough.

2) he gives me a way to process what just happened between us by requiring a written thank-you and a report on my reactions. Being as loquacious as I am, this can yield a few long e-mails or a whole string of them continuing throughout the day and night. I normally feel very close to him after even those brief half-hour, lunchtime visits (we had only 15 minutes when he was compelled to make yesterday's unplanned visit), and the after-messages keep me feeling close, keep me feeling in communication, even though he is not lying next to me, stroking my hair, murmuring what a good girl I was, and adjusting the frozen peas on my butt. It is excruciatingly hard to imagine that scenario, but there is never any question as to his approval when I have earned it.

The times there has been a problem afterwards are more due to something in the nature of the lesson itself, and given the oddities of my psychological make-up I doubt that, in most cases, aftercare would have made any difference. The difficulty is the way our time together is scheduled, squeezed into his over-packed week and limited by both his calendar and mine. If I had more time afterwards to assimilate what went on, to write him a debriefing message immediately rather than sneaking a quick note off when I'm back at work and then writing more later... hell, if the visits themselves could be longer there might be not exactly aftercare but more time to let me feel how intertwined we are.

I also think it's easier now because the longer we go on, the more I learn, the more confident I am in what we have created. That's not to deny that there is some scary shit going on, at least in discussions. But I feel secure, I feel close to him, he wants to hurt me but I feel cradled by him... I don't know if any of you can understand this but it's there. And that feeling stays with me... his arms around me in a way that he has almost never done physically... and I float as I hold whatever position he has ordered me into and hear him behind me, pulling on his clothes, walking up the stairs, and shutting the door behind him.

So no aftercare.

And that's really ok.

On the other hand, I bought two new giant bags of frozen peas today. Just like the ones in the photo. Because when he finally gets around to punishing me, and when the beast finally steps in and takes his turn, I think I'm going to need them.

(No, I don't know when it will be. He's taking his time with the details. He likes to plan. It's half the fun, he says. He is working on my sentence. And then there are the where and when. I'll let you know.)

"I want my whore!"

He came at lunch.
He was not expected.
He was very hungry.

He ordered me to the dungeon.
He shoved me into the wall.
He pushed me down on the ground.
He threw his body on mine.

He was very insistent.
He was very hungry.
He was very fierce.
He was very wild.

He came
at lunch.

I am happy.
I am his whore.
And I smelled him on me for the rest of the afternoon.

I shouldn't have thrown out the frozen peas

I did it a week or so ago.
Threw out the frozen peas.
Two big bags of frozen peas.
I needed the freezer space.
And I didn't need the peas.

Bags of frozen vegetables make great ice packs. The tiny little chunks move around and conform themselves to the injured area, preventing swelling, preventing bruising.

Great for a sprained ankle.
Great for a beaten butt.
But I wasn't being beaten.
Not all that much.
A spanking here or there.
And I loved my bruises.

The first bag was over 2 years old. I bought it for the philosopher's first visit. Oh, we were so careful, preparing so thoroughly. We neither of us had experience with BDSM in the flesh, against the flesh. And he had sent me that cane ahead of his arrival.

We have pictures of me, lying there post-caning with the bag of peas on my welted ass, a kitchen towel cautiously placed between flesh and ice to protect me from frostbite.

I wonder if he ever reads here any more. Because now is when I need the protection. When I first became involved with the sadist, the philosopher would read what I said here and worry about me. He said I was "just a friend" but he worried about my safety and vowed that if I said the word he would come down and protect me.

The sadist just laughed when I told him.
A very egotistical laugh.

He said it was because the philosopher couldn't stop him, but I think the truth was that he knew, he already knew, that I would never ask for the help. It was too late. I was doomed, we both were doomed, and where we are headed was ordained from the start.

We chatted this weekend for hours, long, intense, frightening, arousing conversations. We both knew the truth. I deserve to be punished, fairly seriously punished, but it's more than that. He is lifting the veil of protection.

My Master is designing my punishment, very methodically, how many smacks of his hand, how many strokes of the cane, how many times he will bring the flogger down on me... and then it moves into something else. He wants to hurt me, he wants the sadistic pleasure of hurting me, he wants me to offer him my pain, he wants to drink my agony, he wants to gorge himself on my vulnerability, he has wanted that and more for a long time and has been trying to protect me, trying to protect himself, but the time is now.

There's this word.

Torture.

It has excited me since I was a teenager.
And long before that, there was the idea of being tied and whipped.
Tied up.
Tied down.
Tied to a tree.
Tied to a bed,
to a whipping post,
bent over I wasn't sure what
that made my ass available to the lashes.

And he wants to flog my cunt.
Which he always calls my pussy.

He did it a little, one or two strokes in my brief introduction to the flogger. He has barely used it since then, whether because he'd rather devote the short time available to the pleasure he gets as I kneel naked before him attending to his cock, or whether he's been afraid he couldn't control himself once he started lashing my pale flesh, I'm not sure. But he hasn't stopped thinking about it.

He isn't showing me the list he is compiling of the elements of my punishment. But I'm sure this will be on it.

I will be lying there naked on the futon, my pale belly flesh set off by the dark red sheets. He will order me to spread my legs, to offer him my pussy for torture. He likes that word, too. Torture. He will order me to touch myself, to arouse myself, so my cunt swells, becomes more sensitive to touch and easier to see. I expect I will already have suffered a fair amount by then, certainly the spanking (amazing how much pain his hand can impart), probably the caning as well. But I will look up into his eyes with my own tear-flooded ones, and show him with my eyes that I am offering him my most sensitive parts, in penance and for his hunger, his pleasure.

He will acknowledge my offer.
And will know it to be impossible.
So he will tie my legs open.
Perhaps he will tie my arms open, too.
I will hear the growl of the Beast.
And my Master
or the Beast
or both together
will bring the lashes down on my cunt
and flog my pussy as I scream and cry
and tell him I'm sorry.

So maybe I should go out and buy another couple bags of frozen peas.
You think?

Pending punishment

My Master has given the order.
I must beg him to spank me.

There will be nothing sexy about the spanking I will get, although I grow wet as I speak of it. I can't help it. My cunt sabotages me. Something inside me is aroused by the idea of pain. And not just the idea. When he is through with me, when I am sobbing from the pain in my bottom and in my heart, my perfidious pussy will have left a puddle on his thigh.

But all that will matter is that he will consider my debt paid and my lesson learned.

I do hope he will consider my debt paid.

The exact details aren't relevant here.
The outline is enough.
He gave me an assignment.
A difficult assignment.
He wanted me to create a new form.

It means a lot to him.
I know this.

And I haven't been working on it.

I have explanations, of course. I know what is happening. It's a combination of all the things I struggle with, and my behaviour is classic. The ADD, the mental fog from lack of estrogen, the exhaustion from low thyroid levels. There is new medication on its way for the first and the third. The only cure for the second is a radical hysterectomy so I can safely take more estrogen, and I have rejected that option. It doesn't seem conducive to spending my 60s as a slut.

Most days, I've managed to do a tiny bit of work on it, but really, my efforts have been inadequate and unenthusiastic. Lately, all I've done was run through in my head what I already had as I lay in bed before falling asleep. Definitely inadequate.

Catastrophe struck today as we chatted on line and he asked me how his piece was coming along. And I had to admit that last night I forgot to do anything on it at all.

He was furious.

He has every right to be.

He ordered me to set up a calendar and reminder system, which I haven't done till now since I have a Mac and don't have and Outlook calendar - which I do use religiously at work since otherwise I don't remember to do anything! I set up a calendar through Google, and when I came back to report he said the first reminder I should enter is to send him a message Tuesday morning begging him to punish me severely for my carelessness. I am to beg him to make it truly hurt. This will not be a playtime spanking.

The message is already written and ready to be sent.
It is detailed, as he wished,
about spanking
and flogging
and caning,
twisting my nipples
and stopping my breath.
About hurting me.
About really hurting me.

He has done that before, as I've told you before, though not for a long time. The pain was real. The physical pain was very real. But worse than that, as any true submissive can testify, is the pain in my heart from knowing I have disappointed him.

The pain in my heart from making him doubt that I can serve him in the way that he desires. The longer he has owned me, the more possibilities he has seen for desires that I can fulfill. His expectations were always high and now they are higher. And the connection...

There is one more thing, of course.

He is, after all, a sadist.
He does want to hurt me.
He wants to hurt me and he has been holding back.
He wants to flog my cunt
and he has been holding back.
He will enjoy my punishment.

I won't.
But he will.

No date is set. But I doubt it will be before the end of next week. I am dreading the actual punishment but looking forward to being cleansed of my sins.

Meanwhile, I am working hard on the piece for him. I threw out everything I had done, started fresh, and made a huge amount of progress.

It is due on Thursday.

I do hope I please him.

Touch me. Hurt me.

touch me.
hurt me.
burn me with your eyes.
scar me with your mind.
let imagination's knife
meander down my abdomen
leaving a thin trail of blood,
a path of careless crumbs.
it spirals idly round
my navel, then heads
straight for my cunt.
it knows just what it wants.
it flicks at my clit,
because it knows i may not cum,
then slides inside what clearly was
its goal right from the start.

you fuck me with your mind.
my mouth, my cunt, my ass,
you fuck them all.
they all belong to you.
and when you send your friends
to fuck my mouth and cunt and ass
and i obey and serve them well
it will be just one more proof
that i
belong
to you.

At a loss

Me.
Speechless.
Can you imagine?

It has been a year.
A year ago, I asked him
A year ago, I begged him
I asked if I might serve him.
And he said - of course.

It's easy enough to go back and read the history, all the ups and downs, all the hints at this and that. Of course, there are things I haven't told and never will, and now the plans he waggles before me, like feathers at the end of a stick dangled above the head of a cat, always just out of reach no matter how high she jumps.

He has a new plan for me, which sounds as if it will be hatched sooner than the gang rape in the storeroom above the biker/thug bar. I am happy with the new plan. I am happy at the thought of proving my obedience.

There isn't much more to say. He was here last Friday lunchtime, after a 3-week absence, and I have given him my schedule in hopes of his setting a time for a project involving a few hours together.

I am happy.

Not a very titillating statement, but there it is.

Perhaps I need to write some smut for you all. Just for a change from all this sentimental contentedness.

Eventually...