hands
flogger
smashing cane
palm smacked across my face
head banged against the wall
fingers twisting screaming nipples
knotted lashes fiercely flying
buttocks, tits, up into cunt
chain wrapped around my neck
stealing breath
claiming life
crawl.
and in your crawling
say everything.
sobbing.
shaking, choking sobs.
pleading.
here, he said.
drink some water.
take a deep breath.
from here.
now
breathe out.
and again.
feel that?
i felt it.
i knew.
he frightened me.
he hurt me.
he left colors on my ass,
groaning red and purple-black
my skin has never known.
these welts don't bring pride.
these are welts of shame
for not giving,
for not trusting,
for not knowing...
there was no pleasure there.
he left me standing
back against the wall
hands behind my neck
chain around my throat
sobs sending tears down my cheeks.
tell me that you love me, he said.
again! he said.
i love you! i cried
in deep despairing grief.
i stood there
as ordered
until i heard him leave.
i threw myself on the futon
and soaked the sheet with tears.
and yet.
i submitted.
i did not flee the pain.
and he was here.
there's something that he wants.
still.
something that he wants from me
something that he values
something
that makes him
try
to train me,
try
to mold me,
try
to free me
from holding it back.
he knows it's in there.
he knows he wants it.
he knows he'll get it.
and i'll tear myself open
and offer my soul.
no one has ever wanted me the way he does.
i will learn.
and i will give him what he wants.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Castigation
My Master is angry.
He flogged me with his words, then forged them into a dagger for me to drive into my belly, every hour on the hour. He demanded proof of my obedience, and every hour on the hour I stained a handkerchief with my falling tears and droplets of blood, then sent it off with words of regret and submission and panic and love.
His chain is tight around my neck, and even in the silence, especially in the silence, I feel his anger. My eyes seek his, promising perfect obedience while seeking signs of his desire. There is nothing but silence. I go through my day, you see me go through my day. But what passes before you is only the thinnest of shells.
I am with him.
All that I am
is focused on him.
In this my world,
nothing
exists
but him.
I love you, my Lord.
Please forgive me.
He flogged me with his words, then forged them into a dagger for me to drive into my belly, every hour on the hour. He demanded proof of my obedience, and every hour on the hour I stained a handkerchief with my falling tears and droplets of blood, then sent it off with words of regret and submission and panic and love.
His chain is tight around my neck, and even in the silence, especially in the silence, I feel his anger. My eyes seek his, promising perfect obedience while seeking signs of his desire. There is nothing but silence. I go through my day, you see me go through my day. But what passes before you is only the thinnest of shells.
I am with him.
All that I am
is focused on him.
In this my world,
nothing
exists
but him.
I love you, my Lord.
Please forgive me.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Masterpiece
The girl is on display, a treasured piece,
her value greater after months of training
and control. She wears his mark, a curving
burning scar that only hints at searing
pain she welcomed when he made the brand.
She'd smiled her tears, knowing that the act of
marking showed his faith in what she was
and what he'd make her be.
So here she is -
naked, marked, and on display, soon to
give her hands and mouth and cunt and ass
to all who wish to sample the great Master's
latest work. The line is long. A line of
hungry, horny men, and women, too,
appetites aroused by what they see
and by the tales they've heard. They nearly drool,
bringing a wry smirk to eyes and mouth
of he who owns and offers her to all
who'd like a taste.
And now the fun begins.
One by one they take their turns - flogger,
cane, and spanking hand to start them off,
before invading every hole presented
to be raped. She's dripping cum, eyes
grown numb from such abuse, but deep inside
a glow because she knows her Master's pleased.
And when her torment's done, it's time at last
to serve the man to whom her soul was lost.
She does what he demands, submitting to his
evil whims while peering round the corner
just in case the Beast appears. She swallows
fear. He has her heart. And though he keeps it
in a jar with all his other trophies,
she still murmurs of her love while kneeling
there before his cock.
Her life is his.
her value greater after months of training
and control. She wears his mark, a curving
burning scar that only hints at searing
pain she welcomed when he made the brand.
She'd smiled her tears, knowing that the act of
marking showed his faith in what she was
and what he'd make her be.
So here she is -
naked, marked, and on display, soon to
give her hands and mouth and cunt and ass
to all who wish to sample the great Master's
latest work. The line is long. A line of
hungry, horny men, and women, too,
appetites aroused by what they see
and by the tales they've heard. They nearly drool,
bringing a wry smirk to eyes and mouth
of he who owns and offers her to all
who'd like a taste.
And now the fun begins.
One by one they take their turns - flogger,
cane, and spanking hand to start them off,
before invading every hole presented
to be raped. She's dripping cum, eyes
grown numb from such abuse, but deep inside
a glow because she knows her Master's pleased.
And when her torment's done, it's time at last
to serve the man to whom her soul was lost.
She does what he demands, submitting to his
evil whims while peering round the corner
just in case the Beast appears. She swallows
fear. He has her heart. And though he keeps it
in a jar with all his other trophies,
she still murmurs of her love while kneeling
there before his cock.
Her life is his.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
A sudden swarm of suitors
The Irishman has been probing the possibility of spanking me again. Which usually involves the pleasure of his cock in one orifice or another. Two requests this week, after a long silence, although unfortunately both encounters failed to materialize.
Meanwhile, I've been e-mail flirting with a young redhead with some Irish in his genetic mix. Are we surprised? Five years younger than the philosopher, though at least not in academia. While out of state, he is no further than the northern part of that rival state on the other side of Washington, DC. He answered the craigslist ad I placed late in December, during that regrettable period of estrangement from my demon muse. He is into BDSM, a bit of a sadist though nowhere as extreme as my Master. Like many doms, he is mainly focused on the sexual play aspect of it rather than developing someone's submission on a deeper scale. Still, I think I would enjoy exploring his perspective.
Let's call him Ian.
I had sent him away when he first answered my ad, because I had specified over 40. But he came back recently, very insistent that I not be closed-minded about age, and I've been enjoy our very titillating correspondence. Of course, just as it turned out he is part Irish, it also turned out that he has a girlfriend, and the relationship is not an open one. Even if it's just for play, it would be lovely to give my ass to someone who doesn't have to sneak around and could even have me at his place so we could be assured of full privacy.
Which brings me to the architect. Let's call him Evan. I can't remember if I've mentioned him before. He answered the same craigslist ad that brought me and the philosopher together, and he presented me with a painfully arousing extended scenario of what he would do with me if I came to his door. It never came to pass for assorted reasons, including the little fact that I fell in love with the philosopher. We haven't been in touch for a good 2-1/2 years. And then suddenly Evan, too, reappeared in my Inbox. We started writing again and now, finally, we will be getting together.
Tomorrow.
Unfortunately, once again it will be here. But at least he doesn't have a girlfriend. (And he's over 40 as well.) However, he shares an apartment with a woman who was formerly not exactly a girlfriend but more a friend with benefits. Now they are just friends, but have agreed not to rub each other's noses in their sexual adventures. I'm impressed, actually.
He doesn't see himself as a dom, but the scenario he presents is definitely one of control and some measure of discomfort. I did tell him that I belong to a sadist, which I suspect intrigues him.
What is delicious about both Evan and Ian is that their kinks include a desire to stimulate me and bring me to orgasm. Ian writes of punishing me for my teasing e-mails by binding me down and forcing me to orgasm again and again and again, after which I will be spanked and fucked in the ass. They do all want to fuck my ass.. Since my Master is concerned with his pleasure alone, and the Irishman's modus operandi is to spank, fuck, and run, either of the other two would be a nice change.
I am allowed to do this. I am allowed to play, to fuck, to serve, even to have a more steady paramour of whatever sex. But I belong to my demon muse and my primary devotion is always to him. He used to speak of the inevitability of my leaving him for someone else, but hasn't done that much lately. Maybe he sees how my sense of being his has grown deeper and deeper. I don't know. It's silly to speculate about him.
So yes. I am allowed to play and have even on occasion been encouraged to do so. He thinks I was created to serve men's sexual pleasure and should be generous with my gifts. I do not have to ask permission, but I may if I wish. And, if I wish, or when he thinks I need him to do so, he will require my suitor to ask permission to use me.
Evan long predates my Master, and I look at our approaching meeting as unfinished business. I will tell my master about it but see no need for permission. The Irishman came into the picture during my rift with the sadist, but I did ask permission to continue once my beloved demon muse took me back.
Ian is another story, however. Ian popped up during the break, but came back and seduced me with his tantalizing e-mails now, while I am my Master's. And Ian is a dom. Maybe that's one of the big differences. He needs to show his respect for the one who owns me... for the fact that someone DOES own me. So should it ever come down to meeting, he will have to ask my Master's permission. You can't just play with someone else's toy. I am my Master's property, and another dom must ask permission before trespassing.
Especially if he plans on leaving welts on my butt.
Meanwhile, I've been e-mail flirting with a young redhead with some Irish in his genetic mix. Are we surprised? Five years younger than the philosopher, though at least not in academia. While out of state, he is no further than the northern part of that rival state on the other side of Washington, DC. He answered the craigslist ad I placed late in December, during that regrettable period of estrangement from my demon muse. He is into BDSM, a bit of a sadist though nowhere as extreme as my Master. Like many doms, he is mainly focused on the sexual play aspect of it rather than developing someone's submission on a deeper scale. Still, I think I would enjoy exploring his perspective.
Let's call him Ian.
I had sent him away when he first answered my ad, because I had specified over 40. But he came back recently, very insistent that I not be closed-minded about age, and I've been enjoy our very titillating correspondence. Of course, just as it turned out he is part Irish, it also turned out that he has a girlfriend, and the relationship is not an open one. Even if it's just for play, it would be lovely to give my ass to someone who doesn't have to sneak around and could even have me at his place so we could be assured of full privacy.
Which brings me to the architect. Let's call him Evan. I can't remember if I've mentioned him before. He answered the same craigslist ad that brought me and the philosopher together, and he presented me with a painfully arousing extended scenario of what he would do with me if I came to his door. It never came to pass for assorted reasons, including the little fact that I fell in love with the philosopher. We haven't been in touch for a good 2-1/2 years. And then suddenly Evan, too, reappeared in my Inbox. We started writing again and now, finally, we will be getting together.
Tomorrow.
Unfortunately, once again it will be here. But at least he doesn't have a girlfriend. (And he's over 40 as well.) However, he shares an apartment with a woman who was formerly not exactly a girlfriend but more a friend with benefits. Now they are just friends, but have agreed not to rub each other's noses in their sexual adventures. I'm impressed, actually.
He doesn't see himself as a dom, but the scenario he presents is definitely one of control and some measure of discomfort. I did tell him that I belong to a sadist, which I suspect intrigues him.
What is delicious about both Evan and Ian is that their kinks include a desire to stimulate me and bring me to orgasm. Ian writes of punishing me for my teasing e-mails by binding me down and forcing me to orgasm again and again and again, after which I will be spanked and fucked in the ass. They do all want to fuck my ass.. Since my Master is concerned with his pleasure alone, and the Irishman's modus operandi is to spank, fuck, and run, either of the other two would be a nice change.
I am allowed to do this. I am allowed to play, to fuck, to serve, even to have a more steady paramour of whatever sex. But I belong to my demon muse and my primary devotion is always to him. He used to speak of the inevitability of my leaving him for someone else, but hasn't done that much lately. Maybe he sees how my sense of being his has grown deeper and deeper. I don't know. It's silly to speculate about him.
So yes. I am allowed to play and have even on occasion been encouraged to do so. He thinks I was created to serve men's sexual pleasure and should be generous with my gifts. I do not have to ask permission, but I may if I wish. And, if I wish, or when he thinks I need him to do so, he will require my suitor to ask permission to use me.
Evan long predates my Master, and I look at our approaching meeting as unfinished business. I will tell my master about it but see no need for permission. The Irishman came into the picture during my rift with the sadist, but I did ask permission to continue once my beloved demon muse took me back.
Ian is another story, however. Ian popped up during the break, but came back and seduced me with his tantalizing e-mails now, while I am my Master's. And Ian is a dom. Maybe that's one of the big differences. He needs to show his respect for the one who owns me... for the fact that someone DOES own me. So should it ever come down to meeting, he will have to ask my Master's permission. You can't just play with someone else's toy. I am my Master's property, and another dom must ask permission before trespassing.
Especially if he plans on leaving welts on my butt.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Knots and lashes
A flogger lives in my bed.
The flogger my Master had ordered be made for him to use on me.
He has rarely used it on me.
This was the first time. When I struggled to keep from protecting my breasts from the knotted ends of the strips of leather. When I struggled to keep my legs open so that he could flog my tender cunt.
And this was the last time, when he gave me a taste of what he could do, as I stood facing the wall, my bottom thrust towards him, my buttocks presented for flogging, feeling the pain of the flogging which was as nothing to what I felt when he slashed at my pussy.
I am not a masochist.
I don't need pain, not the way some speak of needing pain.
But there is something about the pain of being flogged...
I told him that I am drawn to the flogger... that I don't quite know why, but there is something about it... something about this particular type of pain...
I will admit here that I want it, although I know that he has given me only a taste of what it can do. Something in me wants it. Something in me wants it for more than 2 minutes. I think it will do something to me... for me... if we had time... and he flogged me enough for the pain to possess me...
No. Not the pain. Not so much the pain as the experience of being flogged. Do you understand the difference? Can you explain to me the difference?
Something about an extended flogging... I think it would be another way for him to impress on me the absoluteness of his ownership of me. And to teach me - by demonstrating how willingly I suffer for him - how deep and pure is my submission.
What I said to him (minus typos) was:
Hurt me, my Lord.
Let me suffer for you.
Read my pain in my eyes.
Read my love in my eyes.
Then send me back to work
with my butt covered in welts
and my face wincing with pain
from the flogger's sadistic kisses.
I will squirm in my seat
blessing the burning
and blossoming bruises
that remind me I'm yours.
The flogger my Master had ordered be made for him to use on me.
He has rarely used it on me.
This was the first time. When I struggled to keep from protecting my breasts from the knotted ends of the strips of leather. When I struggled to keep my legs open so that he could flog my tender cunt.
And this was the last time, when he gave me a taste of what he could do, as I stood facing the wall, my bottom thrust towards him, my buttocks presented for flogging, feeling the pain of the flogging which was as nothing to what I felt when he slashed at my pussy.
I am not a masochist.
I don't need pain, not the way some speak of needing pain.
But there is something about the pain of being flogged...
I told him that I am drawn to the flogger... that I don't quite know why, but there is something about it... something about this particular type of pain...
I will admit here that I want it, although I know that he has given me only a taste of what it can do. Something in me wants it. Something in me wants it for more than 2 minutes. I think it will do something to me... for me... if we had time... and he flogged me enough for the pain to possess me...
No. Not the pain. Not so much the pain as the experience of being flogged. Do you understand the difference? Can you explain to me the difference?
Something about an extended flogging... I think it would be another way for him to impress on me the absoluteness of his ownership of me. And to teach me - by demonstrating how willingly I suffer for him - how deep and pure is my submission.
What I said to him (minus typos) was:
i'm drawn to it
i don't quite know why
again, i don't LIKE pain
but there are certain kinds of pain
certain implements...
they reach something.
i will give myself to it, my Lord.
for you.
and...
i'm not sure how to say this...
i think it will draw things out of me, my Lord.
that you will draw things out of me with it.
i remember that first time...
how i automatically protected my breasts...
you had to physically open me up...
and keep reminding me to spread my legs...
there's that balance of fear and trust.
not trusting that you won't hurt me.
because you WILL hurt me.
but trusting that you are my Master and i must submit.
period.
Hurt me, my Lord.
Let me suffer for you.
Read my pain in my eyes.
Read my love in my eyes.
Then send me back to work
with my butt covered in welts
and my face wincing with pain
from the flogger's sadistic kisses.
I will squirm in my seat
blessing the burning
and blossoming bruises
that remind me I'm yours.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Raped
You pushed me down with your words.
You held me down with your voice.
You chained me down with a power
that banishes all resistance
and cannot conceive of defeat.
Then you raped me.
Later,
bruised and bleeding,
your cum dripping from my mind,
I begged for more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written for my Master and posted with permission. As is the following. The sadist's comment when he read this poem was: "Now this I liked." He didn't think much of yesterday's piece. That one was a riff on something he said. While it was written for you guys, not for him, it does relate to his plans for sharing me, so I felt a request for posting permission was in order.
Note: Just so there be no chance of misunderstanding... My reference to rape here is pure metaphor. As a poet, I use what images I can to paint my own truth. This has nothing to do with the reality of rape, and should not be misinterpreted as such.
You held me down with your voice.
You chained me down with a power
that banishes all resistance
and cannot conceive of defeat.
Then you raped me.
Later,
bruised and bleeding,
your cum dripping from my mind,
I begged for more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written for my Master and posted with permission. As is the following. The sadist's comment when he read this poem was: "Now this I liked." He didn't think much of yesterday's piece. That one was a riff on something he said. While it was written for you guys, not for him, it does relate to his plans for sharing me, so I felt a request for posting permission was in order.
Note: Just so there be no chance of misunderstanding... My reference to rape here is pure metaphor. As a poet, I use what images I can to paint my own truth. This has nothing to do with the reality of rape, and should not be misinterpreted as such.
Monday, October 19, 2009
My Master's Hospitality
Hey. Come on in.
Want a beer?
A sandwich?
A blow job?
Pet, come here.
Display yourself.
Show off your tits.
Here, watch what happens when I twist those nipples.
Yes, she's quite a screamer.
And you should hear her moans.
Her mouth has other talents, of course.
She's quite the good little cocksucker.
What do you think?
Wanna give her a try?
I've been training her hard.
She's a natural with that tongue.
You want to use her pussy?
Excellent choice. Perhaps
you'd like her butt hole as well.
It's even tighter than her cunt.
Hardly ever used.
Anyway, look her over
and use her as you will.
Beat her, too, if you want.
Whatever turns you on.
She's mine.
And while you're here,
what's mine is yours.
As long as I get to watch.
Want a beer?
A sandwich?
A blow job?
Pet, come here.
Display yourself.
Show off your tits.
Here, watch what happens when I twist those nipples.
Yes, she's quite a screamer.
And you should hear her moans.
Her mouth has other talents, of course.
She's quite the good little cocksucker.
What do you think?
Wanna give her a try?
I've been training her hard.
She's a natural with that tongue.
You want to use her pussy?
Excellent choice. Perhaps
you'd like her butt hole as well.
It's even tighter than her cunt.
Hardly ever used.
Anyway, look her over
and use her as you will.
Beat her, too, if you want.
Whatever turns you on.
She's mine.
And while you're here,
what's mine is yours.
As long as I get to watch.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
i am pussy
this was a training day.
together in our separate houses,
we took another step towards making me
into what he wants me to be.
into what i was meant to be.
into what he has always known i am.
he hypnotized me.
i'm not sure he would have called it that.
but he knows how responsive i am,
how easily i am transported by his words,
by his voice, even if that voice is heard
through pixillated marks on the screen.
i am pussy.
he had me say it.
he had me breathe it.
first the phrase.
then the word.
just that one word.
into the moist air.
into the grey world.
pussy...
i filled and swelled
and flowed transformed...
men around the world heard
the call... smelled me... sensed
me... a welcoming haven... a
sanctuary of sex... calling
their cocks... warm...
moist... open... made
to be used... i floated
in another state. and knew
that yes. i am this.
whatever he wants me to be,
i am. and whatever i was
born to be, i am.
i look back and know this is true.
always that emptiness,
eyes searching for signs
of need. i know what you need.
it's here between my legs.
it's there between my buttocks.
and up here, within my mouth.
settle yourself between my breasts.
rub yourself with long, red hair.
push me down, press me down
give me your weight,
grind your cock into the small of my back.
use me.
i am pussy.
not just that cave
below the thatch of hair
but all of me. i
am pussy.
i am my Master's.
he will let you take your turn.
i am like a new-found Rembrandt,
a masterpiece not to be hoarded
in some private museum. my Master
is a collector, and when he wishes,
he puts his treasures on display.
i am pussy.
sniff me out.
hear my breath.
feel my heat.
i am pussy.
fuck me.
together in our separate houses,
we took another step towards making me
into what he wants me to be.
into what i was meant to be.
into what he has always known i am.
he hypnotized me.
i'm not sure he would have called it that.
but he knows how responsive i am,
how easily i am transported by his words,
by his voice, even if that voice is heard
through pixillated marks on the screen.
i am pussy.
he had me say it.
he had me breathe it.
first the phrase.
then the word.
just that one word.
into the moist air.
into the grey world.
pussy...
i filled and swelled
and flowed transformed...
men around the world heard
the call... smelled me... sensed
me... a welcoming haven... a
sanctuary of sex... calling
their cocks... warm...
moist... open... made
to be used... i floated
in another state. and knew
that yes. i am this.
whatever he wants me to be,
i am. and whatever i was
born to be, i am.
i look back and know this is true.
always that emptiness,
eyes searching for signs
of need. i know what you need.
it's here between my legs.
it's there between my buttocks.
and up here, within my mouth.
settle yourself between my breasts.
rub yourself with long, red hair.
push me down, press me down
give me your weight,
grind your cock into the small of my back.
use me.
i am pussy.
not just that cave
below the thatch of hair
but all of me. i
am pussy.
i am my Master's.
he will let you take your turn.
i am like a new-found Rembrandt,
a masterpiece not to be hoarded
in some private museum. my Master
is a collector, and when he wishes,
he puts his treasures on display.
i am pussy.
sniff me out.
hear my breath.
feel my heat.
i am pussy.
fuck me.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
It's just a word
What does it mean, anyway?
Love.
It's not like you have to fill out a questionnaire and answer yes to 180 of the 200 questions before you're allowed to use the word. So I can't pin down why I feel compelled to say it. To pin that tag on the vast bulletin board of my feelings for my demon muse.
I just do.
I didn't want to. He declared quite clearly from the start what he would NOT be to me, and for many reasons I had no complaints about the limits he set. He was challenging, exciting, stimulating, arousing, but I expected nothing more. I put up a wall against anything more.
Then one day,
way back last Fall,
he mentioned
Shakespeare
and James Joyce
in the same e-mail message.
And I put my foot down.
In a panic, I put my foot down.
Can you imagine?
"Don't you ever again!"
I proclaimed.
But it was too late.
At the moment I read his words,
it was long past too late.
And soon after, he told me I was in love with him. Such a matter-of-fact statement, he takes it for granted, the subs always fall in love with him. So I stopped fighting what I couldn't control.
What he didn't expect me to control.
He doesn't seem to mind. And I don't either. It's part of the warmth, the contentment, the security that I feel when I think of him, when I write him, when I serve him, when we talk in the evenings, whatever small gift of time he can find for me. And sometimes he rubs it all over himself, this love of mine. Like the time he ordered me to repeat those words over and over again until he came.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you!
No, he doesn't say those words back. I don't ask for them, I don't expect them, I don't want them. "Yeah, right..." you think, but really, it's better this way. And every so often, when I say I love him, he will respond almost kindly. "Yes, I know," he says, accepting it without bombast, and then I know it's ok.
So no, he doesn't love me. I am his pet, I am his treasure, that's better than words of love tossed lightly without meaning.
He owns me, he encourages me, he drives me, he looks after me. And although it would be nice seeing him more often, touching him more often, giving my eyes to his and my mouth to his, it's been long enough now and deep enough now that I feel secure and content. He is always with me. His ownership surrounds me.
So love? It's just a word. We all of us use it when it feels right. And the sadist? "You will be fine," he says. "Report to me," he says, when I tell him I'm nervous about seeing the dermatologist to be examined for signs of suspicious spots. He doesn't have to flood me with comforting words. I know the support is there. And afterwords, when it's official that I am still cancer-free after 20 years, he writes: "Just as I predicted." And it doesn't feel cold or cocky. He is saying:
"Of course.
You are mine.
I know these things.
And all is right with our world."
Love.
It's not like you have to fill out a questionnaire and answer yes to 180 of the 200 questions before you're allowed to use the word. So I can't pin down why I feel compelled to say it. To pin that tag on the vast bulletin board of my feelings for my demon muse.
I just do.
I didn't want to. He declared quite clearly from the start what he would NOT be to me, and for many reasons I had no complaints about the limits he set. He was challenging, exciting, stimulating, arousing, but I expected nothing more. I put up a wall against anything more.
Then one day,
way back last Fall,
he mentioned
Shakespeare
and James Joyce
in the same e-mail message.
And I put my foot down.
In a panic, I put my foot down.
Can you imagine?
"Don't you ever again!"
I proclaimed.
But it was too late.
At the moment I read his words,
it was long past too late.
And soon after, he told me I was in love with him. Such a matter-of-fact statement, he takes it for granted, the subs always fall in love with him. So I stopped fighting what I couldn't control.
What he didn't expect me to control.
He doesn't seem to mind. And I don't either. It's part of the warmth, the contentment, the security that I feel when I think of him, when I write him, when I serve him, when we talk in the evenings, whatever small gift of time he can find for me. And sometimes he rubs it all over himself, this love of mine. Like the time he ordered me to repeat those words over and over again until he came.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you!
No, he doesn't say those words back. I don't ask for them, I don't expect them, I don't want them. "Yeah, right..." you think, but really, it's better this way. And every so often, when I say I love him, he will respond almost kindly. "Yes, I know," he says, accepting it without bombast, and then I know it's ok.
So no, he doesn't love me. I am his pet, I am his treasure, that's better than words of love tossed lightly without meaning.
He owns me, he encourages me, he drives me, he looks after me. And although it would be nice seeing him more often, touching him more often, giving my eyes to his and my mouth to his, it's been long enough now and deep enough now that I feel secure and content. He is always with me. His ownership surrounds me.
So love? It's just a word. We all of us use it when it feels right. And the sadist? "You will be fine," he says. "Report to me," he says, when I tell him I'm nervous about seeing the dermatologist to be examined for signs of suspicious spots. He doesn't have to flood me with comforting words. I know the support is there. And afterwords, when it's official that I am still cancer-free after 20 years, he writes: "Just as I predicted." And it doesn't feel cold or cocky. He is saying:
"Of course.
You are mine.
I know these things.
And all is right with our world."
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Lurkers are our friends, too
You over there.
Yes, you!
I know you're there... I don't know your name, but I know you're coming by. I see your city pop up in my stats... Cardiff... Stockholm... Santa Monica... Ronkonkoma... Bucharest... College Park... Tel Aviv... not to mention assorted sites in Germany, Saudi Arabia, Japan...
It's ok if you don't want to say anything. Really! But sometimes...
Do I inspire you?
Amuse you?
Arouse you?
Infuriate you?
You don't have to give me the details, though I admit I love the idea of someone being driven to masturbate by my scattered stories and fantasies and descriptions of what the sadist does to me. But don't worry - you're entitled to your secrets. We all have those.
But once a year, thanks to Bonnie at My Bottom Smarts, a time is set aside for all you shy ones and all of you who just have nothing to add but keep coming back if only to sneer at this aging hippie who claims to be a poet. Meaning you.
Come out, come out, wherever you are!
I won't look if you don't want me to.
Or I will deliberately look if you want to stand there naked before me, wanking away at your persistent erection or rubbing that pretty little spot between your legs. If only I could reward you by demonstrating the things my Master has taught me to do with my tongue! If only I could reward you sadists by presenting myself to be bound to the bed or the tree or the dining room table, and then giving you the feast of my screams as you go at my ass with the palm of your hand or your trusty leather belt or your favorite flogger or whatever it is you use as a cane...
I'm squirming now....
I'm wet now...
Does that please you?
And for all my dear submissive friends, we'll curl up in our pyjamas (you too, Orlando), or maybe naked would be better, and share stories and tears and suck each other's tits (you, too, Orlando) and enjoy the benefits of community.
Sound good?
We'll work on it.
Maybe next year.
For now
please just stick your head out
and say hi,
or give me a silent wave of the hand
and this little attention slut
will be very very happy.
And then we'll have an orgy.
Yes, you!
I know you're there... I don't know your name, but I know you're coming by. I see your city pop up in my stats... Cardiff... Stockholm... Santa Monica... Ronkonkoma... Bucharest... College Park... Tel Aviv... not to mention assorted sites in Germany, Saudi Arabia, Japan...
It's ok if you don't want to say anything. Really! But sometimes...
Do I inspire you?
Amuse you?
Arouse you?
Infuriate you?
You don't have to give me the details, though I admit I love the idea of someone being driven to masturbate by my scattered stories and fantasies and descriptions of what the sadist does to me. But don't worry - you're entitled to your secrets. We all have those.
But once a year, thanks to Bonnie at My Bottom Smarts, a time is set aside for all you shy ones and all of you who just have nothing to add but keep coming back if only to sneer at this aging hippie who claims to be a poet. Meaning you.
Come out, come out, wherever you are!
I won't look if you don't want me to.
Or I will deliberately look if you want to stand there naked before me, wanking away at your persistent erection or rubbing that pretty little spot between your legs. If only I could reward you by demonstrating the things my Master has taught me to do with my tongue! If only I could reward you sadists by presenting myself to be bound to the bed or the tree or the dining room table, and then giving you the feast of my screams as you go at my ass with the palm of your hand or your trusty leather belt or your favorite flogger or whatever it is you use as a cane...
I'm squirming now....
I'm wet now...
Does that please you?
And for all my dear submissive friends, we'll curl up in our pyjamas (you too, Orlando), or maybe naked would be better, and share stories and tears and suck each other's tits (you, too, Orlando) and enjoy the benefits of community.
Sound good?
We'll work on it.
Maybe next year.
For now
please just stick your head out
and say hi,
or give me a silent wave of the hand
and this little attention slut
will be very very happy.
And then we'll have an orgy.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The persistence of bruises
spank?That was the subject line.
The message said only
Hi. :)It came from the Irishman. This afternoon. I hadn't heard from him in months. My cunt turned a little somersault. There's a cold focus to him that I love. The way his face changes as he comes up the walk, or after he gives me a hug in greeting, or else I feel the change in mid-embrace... and sometimes he arrives as I am in bed, letting himself in through the unlocked door. He arrives at the foot of my bed, and with barely a word orders me out and into whatever position he requires to fulfill his suddenly very urgent needs.
He is hard and focused and I give him what he needs. A blow job, perhaps. Or I bend over the end of the bed and he takes me in one hole or another. It is very deliberate, and I feel rather like a whore. Yet generous.
I never realized that until the words traveled from my fingers to the keys, without, it seems, any contribution from my conscious brain. Generous. He needs something I can give him, and I am happy to do it. I know he is using me, and that very fact makes me happy. He is cold and deliberate, and yet I feel this kind, intelligent man that also dwells within him. I don't think that one or the other is the façade. They are both real, they are both who he is, and it's just unfortunate that there are very few people with whom we can be our full selves. So, for safety, he hides his other self from me, but I know it is there. He tries to hide his vulnerability, but I know it is there, I can feel it, and I embrace it, and I open my door and give myself to him and he does what he must and takes what he needs and I smile as he fucks me and then he's gone.
It's nearly 4 months now since I last saw him. The time he fucked my ass. He e-mailed me a few days later about something else, which I couldn't help him with. After that - silence. I haven't known if his own beast has been sleeping, or if he's had preferred outlets for his needs, other asses to spank or impale. I rather didn't expect to hear from him again.
So I was surprised, and happy, and loved the sparseness of his request. He's a man of words, so almost perversely grants me very few of them.
I was suprised and happy and charmed... and had to say no.
Wednesday morning I see the dermatologist for a full body exam. As a melanoma survivor, I need one every year. Just in case. It's been over 20 years now, and the doctor thinks I'm safe, but you never can tell, you should never ease your vigilance, so Wednesday morning I'll go to the doctor and he'll study my body and look at my spots and hopefully not ask about one particular black and blue and yellowing bruise which can convincingly be explained away as one of the many I get from walking into things because I don't have depth perception.
So I had to say no to the Irishman. Because I didn't want to risk having any more marks to dismiss.
And now, of course, I'm squirmy and disappointed... sorry that I won't see him, won't hear his voice, won't see the change in his face, won't have him take another stab at fucking my ass... I like having his cock up my ass, and was sorry that he came so soon. I wanted to feel him buried deep inside me, I wanted to push my butt back against him, to take him deeper inside, to help him hurt me, to make him want to spank me as he sodomized me...
I have a new friend. We haven't met yet. A young dom, younger even than the philosopher. He answered one of my ads from last January. He wrote again the other day, and I dropped one of my veils and told him about this blog. I'd rather like to meet and chat. Not sure why, but he feels as if he could be a friend within this strange, secret world of ours. Anyway, as I was writing to him, and telling him about not letting the Irishman come because of my doctor's appointment, this fantasy came to me...
Nothing all that creative, really... we all have these doctor fantasies of one sort or another... of lying on the examining table... naked on the table... without the nurse he usually has with him which male doctors often have to protect them or us... especially when we reveal our nakedness and they go poring over our bodies looking for unusual marks...
Unusual marks. There is this bruise... I won't tell you where it is or what its shape... you do know who is responsible for it. He hurt me in a way he likes to, in a place that has special meaning for him... a personal symbolism that I suspect he uses over and over, which is why I may not speak of it....
So there I am in my mental masturbatory fantasy, as I may not masturbate without permission but am cursed with a rather twitchy twat after turning down the Irishman and teasing my new friend and an IM session with my Master...
I am lying on the examining table, and the doctor notices this bruise... black and blue with a yellowing center... and I evade telling him how I got it by saying that I bruise easily... and he says "How easily? It's important to know these things."
And he orders me to turn over, pulling off the modesty sheet so I am lying completely naked. And he says "Let's see how easily you bruise." He pumps the table down so he is standing over me. I hear him unbuckle his belt, I hear the unmistakable sound of leather passing through loops of cloth, and then...
I scream as the leather strip lands on my right cheek. And gasp as he brings it down again. I feel my lips swelling, I am leaking onto the sheet below me, I'm in pain and aroused and never think of standing up or calling for help... he stops for a moment and tucks the pillow under my hips and then brings down the belt again, but this time it strikes those already sensitive lips of my cunt and now I scream loudly... the room is soundproofed. Just this room. He was planning this all along... my screams make him hard, and now he pulls me towards him so my legs are hanging over the end of the table, and he pushes himself into me and gathers up my moisture as he drives himself in again and again and I'm moaning from the pain and moaning from the pleasure, until he pulls himself out and positions himself against my tight little butt hole which resists almost all attackers and unmans those who do eventually make it in.
But he's a doctor. He's done this before. And he always gets what he wants. Steadily, he pushes. Stubbornly, he batters at the door. No preparing the way with his fingers. Not for this man. Using only my own cuntal lubricant, he eases his way up to the sphincter and then shoves as if breaking down the door of a burning house.
It must be awfully effective soundproofing to keep the people in the waiting room from being alarmed. My scream rattles the walls, but only within the room. And then he fucks me, forcefully, frightfully, in and in, again and again, until I think he will break through the back wall.
He has learned over the years to silence his cumming.
He cums, and stands there for a minute, no more, as his cock continues to pump out the last drops of specialist's sperm. He gives my butt a good, hard smack and then... I don't know what it is, or where it was in the office, but something that feels awfully like a cane lands twice, hard, once on each cheek.
"Good girl," he says. "Please take pictures of the welts every day and send them to me. The receptionist will give you my e-mail address. And make an appointment to return in a week."
With that he walks out.
And I'm back a week later. The bruises are fading. It's time to get some more.
Friday, October 9, 2009
My submission is not a spectator sport
Oh my. Just see how
you're all drooling,
wanting to watch me
get fucked.
Devoted readers.
Jealous submissives.
Fantasizing voyeurs.
Note-taking doms.
And then there are the sadists, desperately hoping I will scream from welts left on my bottom as well as from the cock driving into my tight little pussy and my even tighter little butt hole.
All of you, ready to call up Ticketmaster to grab those front row seats.
Not a chance.
Time out. Because really, I'm cracking up. I loved all your comments about wanting to be in the front row. You guys are hysterical, and you've been phenomenally supportive and encouraging. And as so many of you can understand, it is such a relief to have an outlet for our experiences when we have to hide our inner selves from even our closest friends, not to mention our family.
But the sadist knows when it's time to rein me in. And in this case, he feels the need to remind me that this new experience, like everything, is designed for his enjoyment. Not for mine. Not even for that of the man who will have the use of me. And especially not - he was most clear about this - for yours. Sorry, guys.
He hasn't forbidden me to write about it. But he is requiring me to submit for approval any blog post with reference to it, prior to publication.
My Master doesn't read here anymore. Aside from certain standing rules, he does not limit what I write. He does own my mind and its products, and I have always been grateful for the freedom he allows me here.
I am also grateful for all his efforts to control me.
They center me.
They nourish my submission.
They remind me of who I am.
They remind me that I am owned.
I don't know how much he will allow me to post about what is to come, either before or after. But if I have to leave you panting for details... well, he is a sadist after all.
Posted, unedited, with permission.
you're all drooling,
wanting to watch me
get fucked.
Devoted readers.
Jealous submissives.
Fantasizing voyeurs.
Note-taking doms.
And then there are the sadists, desperately hoping I will scream from welts left on my bottom as well as from the cock driving into my tight little pussy and my even tighter little butt hole.
All of you, ready to call up Ticketmaster to grab those front row seats.
Not a chance.
Time out. Because really, I'm cracking up. I loved all your comments about wanting to be in the front row. You guys are hysterical, and you've been phenomenally supportive and encouraging. And as so many of you can understand, it is such a relief to have an outlet for our experiences when we have to hide our inner selves from even our closest friends, not to mention our family.
But the sadist knows when it's time to rein me in. And in this case, he feels the need to remind me that this new experience, like everything, is designed for his enjoyment. Not for mine. Not even for that of the man who will have the use of me. And especially not - he was most clear about this - for yours. Sorry, guys.
He hasn't forbidden me to write about it. But he is requiring me to submit for approval any blog post with reference to it, prior to publication.
My Master doesn't read here anymore. Aside from certain standing rules, he does not limit what I write. He does own my mind and its products, and I have always been grateful for the freedom he allows me here.
I am also grateful for all his efforts to control me.
They center me.
They nourish my submission.
They remind me of who I am.
They remind me that I am owned.
I don't know how much he will allow me to post about what is to come, either before or after. But if I have to leave you panting for details... well, he is a sadist after all.
Posted, unedited, with permission.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Welt schmerz*
There is nothing enjoyable about being caned.
Especially not for me.
Especially not when the Beast is wielding
the wicked strip of wood that landed
three times - or was it four? -
upon my proffered butt.
An odd reward for a cock well-sucked.
But afterwards . . .
the flood of tears,
the cleansing sobs,
the joyous high,
and that bouquet of welts,
blazing red and hard
across my round, pale bottom.
A fitting reward indeed.
Thank you, my Lord.
From my mouth
and my butt
and my heart.
* look it up if you must, with this suggestion: try translating only the second word into German.
Especially not for me.
Especially not when the Beast is wielding
the wicked strip of wood that landed
three times - or was it four? -
upon my proffered butt.
An odd reward for a cock well-sucked.
But afterwards . . .
the flood of tears,
the cleansing sobs,
the joyous high,
and that bouquet of welts,
blazing red and hard
across my round, pale bottom.
A fitting reward indeed.
Thank you, my Lord.
From my mouth
and my butt
and my heart.
* look it up if you must, with this suggestion: try translating only the second word into German.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The perfect gift - an obedient pet whore
I will be a gift. A sort of thank you gift. My Master will be there, watching, directing, joining... suggesting things for this other man to do to me, ways for him to use me, ways for me to please him... and... perhaps... simultaneously... enjoying me as well.
Possibly by the end of the month.
I'm floating in a gentle sea of submission, and I've never felt happier, more yielding, or more owned.
Today I kept having this vision... like one of those old Orientalist paintings of a slave market... unfortunately racist but ever so evocative to a submissive. I am standing before my Master and his friend, naked... or perhaps barely draped in teasing cloth that serves to accent my perky nipples even more than would pure exposure.
My Master points out my fine points, running his hand under my breast where it is soft and tempting, raising my chin with his hand tight around my throat, caressing the belly he finds so enticing, parting my legs and dipping into my arousal to show how ready I am for the taking... and then pushing me over some conveniently placed low marble column to demonstrate how tight and prime for raping is my little puckered rosebud...
I floated... I'd fondle the scene in my mind and feel happier and happier and ever more submissive... grateful to my demon muse for giving me this opportunity to demonstrate my devotion.
I will make him proud of me.
I will confirm his opinion of me as a worthy gift.
I will incite his desire as he watches another man use me.
His eyes will link with mine.
His ownership will merge with my submission.
He will share every sensation I experience, whether pleasure or pain.
He will see how hard I am working
to please this other man
and to please him.
He will cover himself with my moans
and he will be glad that I am his.
There is much to be done. He needs to accelerate my training. I am his little whore, and he wants me properly trained. Plus we need to secure adequate private time in the dungeon. But it will happen. I will make him proud as he directs the scene of another man's cock moving in and out of his pet's sweet, tight cunt.
Projected opening of our little play: late October.
Watch this space for reviews.
Possibly by the end of the month.
I'm floating in a gentle sea of submission, and I've never felt happier, more yielding, or more owned.
Today I kept having this vision... like one of those old Orientalist paintings of a slave market... unfortunately racist but ever so evocative to a submissive. I am standing before my Master and his friend, naked... or perhaps barely draped in teasing cloth that serves to accent my perky nipples even more than would pure exposure.
My Master points out my fine points, running his hand under my breast where it is soft and tempting, raising my chin with his hand tight around my throat, caressing the belly he finds so enticing, parting my legs and dipping into my arousal to show how ready I am for the taking... and then pushing me over some conveniently placed low marble column to demonstrate how tight and prime for raping is my little puckered rosebud...
I floated... I'd fondle the scene in my mind and feel happier and happier and ever more submissive... grateful to my demon muse for giving me this opportunity to demonstrate my devotion.
I will make him proud of me.
I will confirm his opinion of me as a worthy gift.
I will incite his desire as he watches another man use me.
His eyes will link with mine.
His ownership will merge with my submission.
He will share every sensation I experience, whether pleasure or pain.
He will see how hard I am working
to please this other man
and to please him.
He will cover himself with my moans
and he will be glad that I am his.
There is much to be done. He needs to accelerate my training. I am his little whore, and he wants me properly trained. Plus we need to secure adequate private time in the dungeon. But it will happen. I will make him proud as he directs the scene of another man's cock moving in and out of his pet's sweet, tight cunt.
Projected opening of our little play: late October.
Watch this space for reviews.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Pervert's Progress
Another step has been taken.
My playmate has been chosen.
The product has been pitched.
Marketing documents are being prepared.
Last Saturday. Last Saturday my Master spoke to the man (I do believe it is a man) who will fuck me for my Master's pleasure and for his own. He is one of us, a dom at least if not a sadist. He knows what I am to my Master. He is on FetLife. He has been told a lot about me and may even be reading this post.
Rather than frightening me, the news dissolved me into a submissive puddle. My body convulsed in expected ways, sweet juices flooding from the delta that sometime soon will be invaded by this stranger's cock per my Master's order. There were other physical reactions, too, relating to the private metaphors that unite me and my beloved demon muse.
I feel soft and yielding.
I am overjoyed at this chance to prove my submission, my obedience, my acceptance, and my love. I will do everything I can to please this man, and will bask in my Master's pride as he sees how willingly I obey.
He might hurt me, this man selected to enjoy me. He might hurt me - if the sadist tells him to. I am not one who needs pain, but I will welcome it if the sadist wishes to watch another torment me.
The Beast will be watching. Of that I am sure.
The Beast will be watching and devouring my screams.
I have told you all I know. The sadist doesn't have to tell me anything before it happens, but told me that much, I think, in order to enjoy the reaction he knew would follow.
He knows me well.
He knows how I respond.
I can feel it now. I can feel this strange man's cock forcing its way into whichever orifice he or my Master chooses. Perhaps I'll moan with pleasure. Perhaps I'll moan with pain. But whatever I do, I will do my best to please my Lord because I am his and I love him and to please him is my joy.
My playmate has been chosen.
The product has been pitched.
Marketing documents are being prepared.
Last Saturday. Last Saturday my Master spoke to the man (I do believe it is a man) who will fuck me for my Master's pleasure and for his own. He is one of us, a dom at least if not a sadist. He knows what I am to my Master. He is on FetLife. He has been told a lot about me and may even be reading this post.
Rather than frightening me, the news dissolved me into a submissive puddle. My body convulsed in expected ways, sweet juices flooding from the delta that sometime soon will be invaded by this stranger's cock per my Master's order. There were other physical reactions, too, relating to the private metaphors that unite me and my beloved demon muse.
I feel soft and yielding.
I am overjoyed at this chance to prove my submission, my obedience, my acceptance, and my love. I will do everything I can to please this man, and will bask in my Master's pride as he sees how willingly I obey.
He might hurt me, this man selected to enjoy me. He might hurt me - if the sadist tells him to. I am not one who needs pain, but I will welcome it if the sadist wishes to watch another torment me.
The Beast will be watching. Of that I am sure.
The Beast will be watching and devouring my screams.
I have told you all I know. The sadist doesn't have to tell me anything before it happens, but told me that much, I think, in order to enjoy the reaction he knew would follow.
He knows me well.
He knows how I respond.
I can feel it now. I can feel this strange man's cock forcing its way into whichever orifice he or my Master chooses. Perhaps I'll moan with pleasure. Perhaps I'll moan with pain. But whatever I do, I will do my best to please my Lord because I am his and I love him and to please him is my joy.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The net of golden chain
Discerning Dom writes today of what he calls the micromanaging dom. This is the one who, for example, specifies panty colors (or panty absence) and controls orgasms.
My goodness, how fiercely my cunt twitched as I began to write that sentence! Clearly, I am one of those submissives who not only respond to that sort of manipulation, but positively thrive under it.
I would not, however, use the term micromanaging, which has a negative connotation implying excessive control. DD does speak of the dom needing to do what works for any particular submissive. An effective dom will, I believe, do that which is required to achieve the results he wants.
For me...
Ah, yes. For me. Here we come back to something that comes to my mind again and again as I read Discerning Dom, bringing home how much I've grown and changed since my early days of exploring my submission, when I read the column he posted as the English Gentleman. Doms come in different flavors. And there is a continuum from those who are focused on the pleasure of the submissive to those focused on the needs of the dom.
Perhaps in the end it is a matter of semantics. Any relationship requires awareness of the other person's needs and reactions if it is going to last. Even dysfunctional relationships are fulfilling needs in a way, albeit not healthy ones. A radio piece the other day, in a discussion of our desire to keep checking our e-mail just in case a new message had arrived, caused me to think of how intermittent reinforcement works in relationships, D/s ones included. Just think how we treasure those little messages acknowledging our existence, those intoxicating morsels of approval that they toss at us. We keep looking for them, working for them. Even in a bad relationship, whatever the flavor, we can't stop believing that we will be granted a little affection, a little notice, a reason to believe that there is a true connection between us.
Please excuse that digression. It's a topic that probably deserved its own post, but it's on my mind, especially after having been stuck at an event last night with ex-hubby #2.
Back to "micromanaging." And me.
Whatever you want to call it, I love it. And not just for its erotic value. It is good for me.
As I've mentioned before, I have ADD. Having these little points of obedience keeps me focused. They are little signposts along the path of my day which remind me of who I am and what I am supposed to be doing. The philosopher used to order me to leave him voice mail messages at very precise times. I'd set the timer to be sure I didn't miss the appointment, and then carefully watch the clock for the exact right minute. He also did exercise panty control as well as orgasm control.
He instituted these things for his pleasure, because they excited him to do it. I responded well, of course, which increased his enjoyment, but the impetus was that it was something he enjoyed.
With the sadist, things are a little more complicated. He most definitely manipulates me for his pleasure, although clearly part of his pleasure, as with the philosopher, derives from my reactions. And both have adjusted their plans when I couldn't yet handle what they proposed.
But my demon muse wants more than a little fun here and there. He has a plan. I am his project. And everything he does along the way is aimed towards making me into a creature who fully uses my talents for his pleasure, provides for his needs, and makes him proud to own me. Do note that the pleasure I referred to is not only sexual and not only perverted. Fulfilling my destiny as a writer is very important to him, and he becomes furious when I waste my potential. Boy, I wish he had owned me in college!
As for his individual efforts at controlling me, they amuse me to some extent, as in the beginning he said he wouldn't be doing things such as telling me what panties to wear. And then one day, because of an erotic exchange that rather surprised both of us, he suddenly ordered me to wear plain white cotton panties the next day. And now I e-mail him every morning to tell him what panties I'm wearing. It's just a report, although occasionally he will repeat his request for the white ones, and might even require me to wear them, with perhaps a bra, when I meet him at the door. Normally I am naked when I greet him, feeling particularly vulnerable, which is just how he likes me.
The result of the daily panty reports is a centering, a reminder that I am his. I feel a net of fine golden chain, woven into mesh, pulling tight around my body and around my neck and up between the lips of my cunt. I feel happy and owned and care for.
The orgasm control is something else. My Master owns my orgasms. This is not merely a manner of speaking. He really does. When I am granted one from the huge locked trunk in which he keeps them, I am not given it for my pleasure. Everything is for his pleasure. Sometimes, I am required to call his voice mail, timing the process so that he receives the offering of the pain of my being close to the edge, the gasps and cries of the orgasm itself, and the inevitable sobs that follow. Sometimes I am granted the orgasm as a reward for my performance in person. Due to the very short length of his visits, and the services he now requires, I no longer come for him in person. And it cannot be denied that I do enjoy the masturbating and orgasms. But my focus is always on the pleasure he derives from my experience - just as when he will watch me being fucked by another (towards which, he wrote today, he has made significant progress), and truly I never forget that all that matters is his delight.
In his pleasure lies mine.
I'm afraid this essay is not as coherent as I would have like, as I might be getting that nasty cold that is going around, along with other mind-sabotaging issues. But my writing has been spotty lately, so I am hoping you will be tolerant - and will make up for my own vagueness by contributing your own comments to the discussion.
My goodness, how fiercely my cunt twitched as I began to write that sentence! Clearly, I am one of those submissives who not only respond to that sort of manipulation, but positively thrive under it.
I would not, however, use the term micromanaging, which has a negative connotation implying excessive control. DD does speak of the dom needing to do what works for any particular submissive. An effective dom will, I believe, do that which is required to achieve the results he wants.
For me...
Ah, yes. For me. Here we come back to something that comes to my mind again and again as I read Discerning Dom, bringing home how much I've grown and changed since my early days of exploring my submission, when I read the column he posted as the English Gentleman. Doms come in different flavors. And there is a continuum from those who are focused on the pleasure of the submissive to those focused on the needs of the dom.
Perhaps in the end it is a matter of semantics. Any relationship requires awareness of the other person's needs and reactions if it is going to last. Even dysfunctional relationships are fulfilling needs in a way, albeit not healthy ones. A radio piece the other day, in a discussion of our desire to keep checking our e-mail just in case a new message had arrived, caused me to think of how intermittent reinforcement works in relationships, D/s ones included. Just think how we treasure those little messages acknowledging our existence, those intoxicating morsels of approval that they toss at us. We keep looking for them, working for them. Even in a bad relationship, whatever the flavor, we can't stop believing that we will be granted a little affection, a little notice, a reason to believe that there is a true connection between us.
Please excuse that digression. It's a topic that probably deserved its own post, but it's on my mind, especially after having been stuck at an event last night with ex-hubby #2.
Back to "micromanaging." And me.
Whatever you want to call it, I love it. And not just for its erotic value. It is good for me.
As I've mentioned before, I have ADD. Having these little points of obedience keeps me focused. They are little signposts along the path of my day which remind me of who I am and what I am supposed to be doing. The philosopher used to order me to leave him voice mail messages at very precise times. I'd set the timer to be sure I didn't miss the appointment, and then carefully watch the clock for the exact right minute. He also did exercise panty control as well as orgasm control.
He instituted these things for his pleasure, because they excited him to do it. I responded well, of course, which increased his enjoyment, but the impetus was that it was something he enjoyed.
With the sadist, things are a little more complicated. He most definitely manipulates me for his pleasure, although clearly part of his pleasure, as with the philosopher, derives from my reactions. And both have adjusted their plans when I couldn't yet handle what they proposed.
But my demon muse wants more than a little fun here and there. He has a plan. I am his project. And everything he does along the way is aimed towards making me into a creature who fully uses my talents for his pleasure, provides for his needs, and makes him proud to own me. Do note that the pleasure I referred to is not only sexual and not only perverted. Fulfilling my destiny as a writer is very important to him, and he becomes furious when I waste my potential. Boy, I wish he had owned me in college!
As for his individual efforts at controlling me, they amuse me to some extent, as in the beginning he said he wouldn't be doing things such as telling me what panties to wear. And then one day, because of an erotic exchange that rather surprised both of us, he suddenly ordered me to wear plain white cotton panties the next day. And now I e-mail him every morning to tell him what panties I'm wearing. It's just a report, although occasionally he will repeat his request for the white ones, and might even require me to wear them, with perhaps a bra, when I meet him at the door. Normally I am naked when I greet him, feeling particularly vulnerable, which is just how he likes me.
The result of the daily panty reports is a centering, a reminder that I am his. I feel a net of fine golden chain, woven into mesh, pulling tight around my body and around my neck and up between the lips of my cunt. I feel happy and owned and care for.
The orgasm control is something else. My Master owns my orgasms. This is not merely a manner of speaking. He really does. When I am granted one from the huge locked trunk in which he keeps them, I am not given it for my pleasure. Everything is for his pleasure. Sometimes, I am required to call his voice mail, timing the process so that he receives the offering of the pain of my being close to the edge, the gasps and cries of the orgasm itself, and the inevitable sobs that follow. Sometimes I am granted the orgasm as a reward for my performance in person. Due to the very short length of his visits, and the services he now requires, I no longer come for him in person. And it cannot be denied that I do enjoy the masturbating and orgasms. But my focus is always on the pleasure he derives from my experience - just as when he will watch me being fucked by another (towards which, he wrote today, he has made significant progress), and truly I never forget that all that matters is his delight.
In his pleasure lies mine.
I'm afraid this essay is not as coherent as I would have like, as I might be getting that nasty cold that is going around, along with other mind-sabotaging issues. But my writing has been spotty lately, so I am hoping you will be tolerant - and will make up for my own vagueness by contributing your own comments to the discussion.
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