New Year's Manifesto

I don't do well on New Year's Eve. Friends have a wonderful party at their house each year, with great food and great music. Most of us are musicians of one sort or another. But one effect of SAD is a tendency to be anti-social, so even among good friends I tend to want to curl up in the corner of a couch and just listen to the tunes and conversation around me.

This year there will be thoughts swirling around me as well.
Thoughts, memories, sensations...
A rich, compelling voice.
A body crushing mine.
A stabbing pain in my nipples.
An astonishingly perfect, gentle, violent kiss.
An intimacy unlike I have ever known.
A growing acceptance of my own beauty and talent.
An afghan of peace that increasingly surrounds me.
And a man with red hair whom I will never see again.

You'd think by now I could think of the philosopher without my eyes growing moist and my gorge choking with tears. But two years ago he was here, he was with me at the New Year's party. And we threw a party together, here, at my own house, cooking together, creating together, entertaining as a couple.

There are many kinds of dangerous fantasies.

Which brings me to the central point of this post.

I do not claim to be an educator. I am a writer. The name of my blog is submission & metaphor. The subtitle is Life and Love as Performance Art. Think about those phrases. Take them to mean what you will. A poet is not required to provide textual analysis. That is for the readers and scholars. I find it fascinating to hear what someone thinks I am doing, saying, aiming for. Me, I tend to let myself float in what I read, feeling the words caress me and sometimes push me under.

And if I don't like what I am reading, or don't enjoy the challenge of reading something I may not necessarily like, then I don't read it any more. It's that simple. There are a lot of other things out there to read.

A writer, a poet, a composer, a painter, has no "responsibility" to please all of the public or to deliver a message that will be found morally acceptable. And even things that society may deem ugly, frightening, or reprehensible can have what might be judged socially redeeming value because of how they stimulate thought and discussion and re-evaluation.

In a recent post, Orlando, in his usual brilliantly creative and adorable analytic manner, speaks of how every community, no matter how ostracized by "polite" society as unacceptable, always has those within the group that are too disgusting even for them:

[...] I came away with certain conclusions about what kinky fantasies were normal. (Isn't this funny? No matter how deviant or marginal the space, there is the same concern around norms. In the mental asylum for criminally insane Danish stamp collectors, in the special wing for the violent offenders, on the top floor, there's a three-person space cult. And two of those three people are whispering to each other about the third, because dude, he's a freak.)

Add to this that a writer who is not a hack rolling out easily-digestible pablum for the masses will evolve in her writing. Grow, change, explore. And her audience may or may not like the direction she is taking.

In which case her audience can decide to stay and learn or go elsewhere. But the writer has no responsibility to confine her writing to what will maintain her audience. It's not like you've paid a subscription to read me and expect to keep getting what you paid for. And even if you did, you can always cancel.

Yes, I lost some readers over the recent flap, and one removed me from her list of blogs she reads. I'm more saddened by the rejection, especially coming from someone who had admired me and whom I liked, than by the loss of referred readers. I also found that I have gained new readers, and new people have been speaking up. Readers come and go all the time, just as blogs come and go.

I will stay. For now. But I will write what I need to say, and I will say it the way I need to say it. If you don't like my paintings, move on to the next room, to the next gallery, to the next museum.

I do not have a responsibility to write what you will find safe. I do not have to decorate my work with footnotes pointing out and explaining my metaphors, or telling you what percentage of what I said should be taken at face value. I am not trying to teach you about BDSM. All I am doing is giving you the chance to see the world through my eyes.

Back in high school, in a highly competitive summer theatre program, an acting teacher explained that this is what an artist does. A fairly ordinary concept, it was brand new to me at the time. An artist sees the world differently, and through her art, whatever the medium, allows other to get a glimpse of her vision.

Obviously, I see the world differently from most people. And in fact, I really do. Something is wrong with one of my eyes and I don't have stereoscopic vision. Recently, I was thinking about the way modern animation presents the world, presents people, and this amazing, two-dimensional light bulb went on over my head. Everything I see is two-dimensional. But I suddenly realized that the world in fact looks rather like those new animated figures that always look a little weird to me. They show me - or at least suggest - that third dimension I cannot see.

That is what an artist does. He shows you that other dimension or two or ten that you cannot see. Is that reality? Who knows? Does it matter? It is the artist's reality. What is important to the reader, the listener, the viewer is if it then makes you look at the world a little differently. Even if only for a moment. That shift in perspective may make you dizzy, may even make you nauseous. And if it's too disturbing you may not come back. But never imply that I have no right to write as I do. And never jump on the stage in the middle of the show and try to stop me.

In the last year, my Master has taught me a lot about writing. About my writing. He likes to say that as a writer I am courageous. He values that. And he expects that.

I will not stop being courageous.
I will not censor what I wrote.
If you don't like it, then go away.
I assure you, others will take your place.
And even if they don't, it doesn't matter.
This is my space.
My little writer's notebook with its faux leather cover.

You are, in fact, eavesdropping.
You sneak into my house in the middle of the night.
You take my diary from my bedside table.
You read my most private thoughts and fantasies.
And then, very quietly, you sneak back out.

Well yes, I know the metaphor isn't quite apt, as here you are invited to leave little Post-it notes with your comments. But, considering you are in fact trespassing, you are not allowed to imply what I may or may not write.

So that's my Manifesto. I hope to take risks in my writing, whether or not I take risks in my life. You can't rely on me. You can never be sure what you will find here. But if you are very quiet when you sneak into my bedroom, and then free your mind from its chains, you may be able to see inside my own mind and get caught in the dreams and fantasies and sometimes even nightmares that inhabit my sleeping and waking hours.

And if you are really, really good, you'll be allowed to stay.

Best wishes to you all for a happy and healthy and peaceful year ahead. May it be a time of growing and learning and loving for us all. (And to John, if you do happen to still be reading here, this is especially and most personally for you. Always. I miss you.)

Embracing the chain

cold
hard
burning links
wrapped around my neck
draped between my breasts
laced across my belly
pushed into butt crack
up between labia
forced into pussy
lodged atop clitoris
and then
with a hard tug
locked into place.
i am wrapped.
i am bound.
i am burning.
i am glowing.
my love and desire
flow from my cunt,
glazing the steel
that binds me to you.


PS - Thanks to all of you who have stayed with me
as I learn and grow and flourish in my submission.
I follow the road, sometimes wandering off the path,
but always eager to know what is beyond the next bend.

The Offering

How much better to be owned by another
when running one's life is a tiresome task.
Not to mention a job that's been botched.
It's been a time of acquisitions. Multi-national
conglomerations gobbling up each other.
Companies serve as food, or are sold as scrap.
Loyalty and tradition, these count for nothing.

But loyalty and tradition are codes I live by.
Words, actions, thoughts, feelings, physical
responses planted in my organs, set to go off
in explosions of trembling, contractions and
moaning when given an order. Even a word,
one word said in passing, triggers an earthquake.

So here. Here I am. Without hesitation
I give you this deed to my heart and my soul.
And oh yes, my body is part of the deal. Skin,
tissues, pleading orifices flushed with desire,
betraying their passion in patches of moisture
left like a snail's trail wherever I go. All yours.

The lawyers go over the list before we sign the deal.
Mouth? Check. Nipples? Check. Tits and belly,
butt and pussy, strangled throat that like the rest
betray the signs of prior use. The test drive had been
long. All involved examine the merchandise.
Condition accepted as satisfactory.
And the contract is signed.

With my blood.

Au lecteur

C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.

[ . . . ]

Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.

~ Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal

I surrender

I began the day in a very good mood.

And now?

This place was my refuge, where I hoped I could be myself - or at least part of myself - without fear of judgment or censure. A naïve hope from the beginning.

I thought I could write without censoring myself. Again, naïve - and not quite honest, because I've been censoring myself all along. There are things I've never told you about the philosopher - to protect him, because I loved him. Because I didn't want to hurt him.

People have lives outside their blogs, people have relationships outside their blogs. You will never know the whole story. You will never really see the diamond glistening with all its facets. A writer is both brutally honest and cautiously selective.

This afternoon, I wrote a short, rhymed poem about shutting down the blog. About keeping it for myself, as a place in which to express myself as I wish to.

I was discouraged from doing that.
Instead, there is this:

I am no longer permitted to write about him.

Perhaps I'll just write about the cats.
Days and weeks and months of poems about my cats.
It should all become pretty insipid after a while.
But at least it won't alarm anyone.

Speaking of which, I'm sorry I mentioned that I know meg. I'm particularly sorry that people are assuming that she has a responsibility to look after my safety. To call the police. Leave her alone. She has no responsibility for looking after me. I have good friends very nearby who do look after me.

I appreciate all the love and concern, but please stop now.

The sadist plays with his prey

The sadist is having a grand time.
He is playing with us.
He is playing with us all.

Not that it isn't very serious play.

I think of Ketzel when she has the supreme good fortune of finding a hapless mouse in the house. She could kill it quite readily if she wanted. But she enjoys the sport. She enjoys chasing it, cornering it, swatting at it, taking it in her jaws, and then "accidentally" letting it go. I am convinced that in the end the poor little creatures die of exhaustion more than of injuries. Her first prey looked like it had been licked to death. Or perhaps licked quite thoroughly after death, in hopes that it would revive and return to the game.

(I do rescue them when I can, but it's not always possible.)

I don't know why I wanted to write what I did in the last post.
It was I who asked to share what he had written about the knife.
I wanted to share the power of it.
The beauty of it.
The hypnotic effect.
He wouldn't let me give you his exact words.
I think they are much too naked and revealing.
So he said I could paraphrase
and give my own reactions.
And he wanted to hear your comments.

A sadist - or at least this sadist - doesn't just get off on inflicting pain. He - or at least this one - gets off on the power, the control, and - especially this one - on the reactions of the victim.

But only partially a victim.
Because to my Master the most important thing is the offering.
He wants the words.
He wants the plea.
"Hurt me, my Master."

I'm wandering off course.

Reactions.
He wanted your reactions.

And after the first three, in which Angharad (welcome to the community of those who speak, Angharad!) said she understood, and meg said she was so concerned she didn't think she could read here any more (which upset me greatly), and then Florida Dom said: "My take was that the danger was part of the turnon but you really don't have to worry about your safety" and Paul offered his own voice of concern - after all that, my Master wrote back:

They are all right. Some contradict themselves though. [ . . .]
Still, you should listen to them.

So what, then, does he want me to take from those and the later comments? And how much concern should we all of us have about my safety?

I think that, like Ketzel with her mouse, he wouldn't really want to destroy me. I wouldn't dare try to guess what his feelings are for me. Whatever they are, he not only doesn't reveal them to me, he probably does his best not to reveal them to himself. But he treasures me. He values me. He wants me. I'm not the only one he has. There have been many before his current holdings, and certainly more to come. More to make him cum. But he has never had anyone like me, and never will again.

He has been doing his best to protect me.
From the beast.
And he has kept the beast at bay.
Or perhaps the creature was just sleeping.
Gathering strength.
But the monster is awake now.
It has burst out of its cage.
It - he - is hungry.
And he wants me.
He wants me.

My Master has a slave. A very masochistic slave, who had been serving him at least a year and a half before I came along. The slave craves pain, needs pain, like air and water. The slave is part of what protects me from the beast. My Master has been able to find release by torturing the slave, which takes the edge off before he gets to me. And with me he usually holds himself back. In general, he holds himself back. Or at most the beast just sticks his maw out, rakes me with his claws, and then retires with a warning.

That doesn't mean I'm not in danger. The beast has challenged the slave's tolerance for pain. The slave has suffered greatly. I don't... I won't... I can't talk about that any more. I respect my Master's privacy too much, and his trust in me. There is pain for all of us in this.

My Master isn't guaranteeing my safety. That is true. And probably wise. He wants me to come to him with open eyes. He knows he cannot always control the beast - although his very stern order not to call to that cruel hunger shows that he wants to protect both of us from what might happen should the thing get loose. He wants me to offer myself fully, nakedly, completely vulnerable. To lay myself naked on the seaside rocks, my belly exposed to the wind and the rain and the beaks of large birds, and wait for what is to come.

I tell him that I love him.
I tell him that I love all of him.
All that I have told you and more.
I will not turn my back on the parts that are different.
The parts that are scary.
We all have those.

Still, he is goading you.
He wants your reactions to his threats.
He wants your reactions to what he has made of me.

He drugs me.
With his words, he drugs me.
With some sort of hypnotic gas
that travels the Beltway
and the 45 minutes
that keep us apart.

He wants you to know what I sound like when I'm drugged.
He ordered me to share this,
the words that I wrote
after he said
he couldn't guarantee my safety.

My body is yours, my Master.
It exists for your pleasure.
For that and nothing more.

Use me, my Lord.
hurt me, my Lord.
Fuck me, my Lord.

I am yours.

And this, too:

Scary as it may be, my Lord, I am beyond turning back. I want to serve you so badly that I block out the sensible warnings floating around in my head. They must be there, but I don't hear them. I am truly beyond being able to hear them.

I want to prove to you how deeply you own me, how thoroughly I am yours.

You can see how he drugs me.
Just with his words, he drugs me.
If you leave me,
if you don't keep issuing warnings,
who will keep me from floating away?

There was one more thing... he said "you may relate the story"... which I suppose is a couched order. But I think this is already too much for one night. It has to do with the reason our relationship came apart last December. What he did and how I reacted and how I am still trying to understand...

I'm not sure what I've accomplished with this post. I'm very tired and very aroused and because the voice mail I left him when I was cumming last night was so extraordinary he is allowing me to phone him tonight and leave him a different sort of message.

So I'm not sure what you will get from this. I don't know... in many ways, I've lived a very cautious life. A very lonely life. And now? I tremble, I glow, I sing... I don't drink, I don't do illegal drugs, I don't text and drive. Instead I burn and I serve, and have a union that is in a million ways very unconventional but that eclipses all the emptiness of the last 60 years.

He is dangerous.
He is glorious.
And he has taught me to value myself.

The damage he might do me nowhere approaches the damage my ex-husband did to my soul.

The sadist, the beast, and the knife

The beast is awake again.
The beast is awake and out of his cage.
The beast is awake
and he's roaming the streets
and he knows what he wants.

The beast wants to hurt me.
He wants to torture me.
He's got other options
but I'm the one he wants.
I'm the one he wants to torture
because he knows I'll suffer more.

I've been thinking about the knife lately. A while back, the sadist first mentioned it, and described it, and thereafter continued to bring it up every so often. And then he stopped. But recently he started thinking about it again. As did I - perhaps even before he mentioned it. I think... there is a connection... he sent me this intense e-mail today and I checked my Inbox immediately after he sent it, after not having looked for an hour or so.

Immediately after.
As if I heard him calling to me.

There are thoughts that move between us...

We had a long IM conversation later.
A long, intense, instructive conversation.
A lesson.
A training session.
I learned a lot.
He continues to transform me.

I asked if I might post his earlier e-mail here.
He said no.

I wasn't really surprised that he said no, as it was a very intimate piece of writing. Very naked. Very revealing. A dom can show himself to be vulnerable, and something about his words seemed very vulnerable indeed.

They showed me to be very vulnerable as well.

So he said no, but did give permission to write about it, to paraphrase it, to discuss my reaction.

He also ordered me to convey his repeated warning that he cannot guarantee my safety.

He had been protecting me.
Or at least, he claimed he had been protecting me.
From the beast.

He didn't want me to rouse the beast, he was trying to protect me from the beast, but I realize now it was because once the beast was loose he could not guarantee my safety.

I say that, I know its implications, and yet I find myself to be horribly aroused.
Aroused about something potentially horrible.
Because I want to please him.
Because I want to serve him
Because he has changed me
so that his desires
are now my desires.

I want him to hurt me.

And that e-mail message?
The one about the knife?

It was beautiful.
It was horrible.

There was me, his pet, naked in his lap.
There was the large, steel knife.
There was my pale, round belly.
My belly
and the sharp tip of the knife.
And...

I was not safe.
He did not hold back.

And I read it and felt myself being drawn into the reality of it. I felt myself in his lap, I felt him gently fondling my pussy, I felt the tip of the knife against my belly... and I felt my total, loving submission as I gave him my life.

I wrote:

What you describe is very beautiful, my Lord.
Very beautiful and very arousing.
To submit so fully.
To love so totally.

The only pity being that it can be done only once.

I am yours, my Lord.

I'm having a hard time writing this post. I'm having a hard time concentrating. I'm having a hard time ignoring my pulsing pussy. I am re-reading what he wrote, and then what we wrote to each other, and I'm back in that trance he invariably pulls me into...

There is such a beauty in submission. When it is given truly, when you give up your soul, when it isn't just play, when it isn't just a source of erotic amusement... I'm supposed to be so good with words and right now they have utterly failed me.

No, I don't honestly think he would kill me.
And no, I don't think I would willingly invite him to kill me.
But there's a part of me that can see the beauty in it.
And therein lies the danger.

We all crave intimacy.
We all crave union.

And the intimacy achieved through submission,
true submission,
a giving,
an offering,
a yielding...

He has taught me so much.
He has taught me
and he has changed me.

He is hungry.
He ordered me to cum for him tonight.

And I have been so changed that the first image that came to mind was not that of me lying in my bed, my fingers finally allowed to fondle, my body finally allowed release of the arousal that has been building for weeks and that became unbearable today.

No.
Not at all.
He has trained me.
He has changed me.
He has transformed me.
I am his creation.
I am his pet.
And my purpose in life
is to think
only
of what he wants.

So when he said I should cum for him tonight, my first image was of me lying there in the bed. The cell phone on the pillow near my head as I fondled my pussy and paced myself so as to give him the experience he wanted.

The moans.
The little whimpers.
The straining.
The peaking.
And then the sobs...
oh, such rich and gut-shaking sobs.
The cumming of my heart
along with the cumming of my cunt.

I am yours, my Lord.
And all that matters is what you want.

Pale and pure

Two feet of snow.
We really did get two feet of snow.

It started Friday evening, and went straight through Saturday.

I wanted to go outside and dance naked in my backyard.

I wanted to set up my camera and take pictures of myself lying in the snow, pressing the snow into my rapidly freezing cunt, still adorned with the small red curls whose destruction has been decreed.

I wanted to roll over and bury my breasts in the frigid white expanse. I wanted to melt the snow with my heat even as the snow's cold contracted my nipples into dark red knobs of frozen, tortured flesh, so that I could photograph them for my Master.

For my sadistic Master's pleasure.

I wished he were with me.

I wished he were there and had ordered me out into the back yard.
Naked.

I could feel the cold searing my bare feet as I made my way through the falling snow. I could feel his eyes scarring my skin, pale as the snow itself, as he watched from behind the dining room's picture window. I could feel his satisfaction as he watched my obedience, as I walked up to the large tree and embraced the rough bark.

I could hear the door close, I could hear his boots shushing their way through the powdery snow that covered the back patio. I could feel his heat draw nearer... the heat of his lust... the heat of his need... the heat of his sadism...

He wants to hurt me.
He needs to hurt me.
This part is true.
He wants to badly hurt me.

But yesterday...

I knew what he would have wanted.
So I felt it.

I felt him push me hard against the tree.
I felt him use icy chains
to link my hands around the far side of
a tree much wider than my reach.
I felt him reach between my body and the tree.
I felt him twist my nipples so hard
I thought they would come off.
I heard him step back.
I felt the lashes of the flogger
turn my snow pale buttocks
to holly berry red.

I heard my cries ring through the neighborhood.

I felt the honey freeze as it dripped from my cunt down my thighs.
I felt his hand close around my neck.
I heard myself gurgle as he cut off my air.

I started to float away.

And then we were back in the dungeon and I was down on my knees and his cock was in my mouth and his body was moaning and I was naked and shivering and thinking of nothing but my Master's needs.

Thoughts with which to pass a snowy day.

Today, when the snow stopped, and the sun came out, I went out and shoveled for hours. But first, I took pictures. Including this one, of the pale virgin snow in my yard.

If he had been here, he would have ordered me to crawl
back and forth across the field of white.

Because he loves to watch me crawl.
And because he loves to watch me obey.

He knows I will obey.
He owns me.
He has trained me.
he continues to train me.
And my only desire is his pleasure.

Zero tolerance policy

I.
She lies curled in the corner of her cage.

She has been there for 2 whole days.

His patience has expired.

He doesn't say a word.

He reaches in and pulls her out

by her hair. Deliberately, he slaps

each cheek. He plants her on his knees

and spanks her. 5 times a side.

He pushes her off his lap.

She crumbles on the ground between his feet.

Drawing herself up to her knees,

she sets to work with her mouth,

doing what she was trained to do,

tears streaming down her face.

He swells and moans.

Life is back to normal.


II.
He imposes a re-focusing routine. Naked as always, she is crawling back and forth across the floor. He ignores her (or tries to) and devotes himself to spreadsheets. By the end of the designated hour, she is clearly exhausted. She drags herself across the carpet, rug burns forming on her pale skin, tears staining her face.

An alarm signals the end of the exercise. She collapses at his feet. He places a bowl of cool water before her. She laps gratefully. She takes him in her cool, moist mouth. There is nothing in her mind but to please him.

He accepts her attentions as his due. He is not yet ready to reward her with the two words he knows she craves.

In time...


III.
She kneels up naked between his legs. She presents her mouth, lips parted, tongue extended in invitation. He seizes her tangled locks and pulls her closer and straighter.

She gives him her eyes.
He takes her right nipple.

He starts to squeeze, slowly increasing the pressure, watching her expression change, watching her submission deepen, knowing that the honey is starting to pool in her pussy and seep down through her labia, leaving tracks on her legs.

There are traces of pain flecking the blue of her eyes. He transforms the squeeze into a twist. Tiny tears betray the struggle to hold his gaze. He knows she is fighting the urge to pull away. He twists again, and digs his nail into the little knob of flesh.

She screams.

"Say it," he says. His first words to her all day.

"I love you."

Another twist.

"I love you!"

More pain.

"I love you! I love you! Please, my Lord, I do love you..."

She is choking on her tears.

His hand leaves her tit for her hair. He grabs it close to her scalp, twines his fingers into the flow of red, and pulls her to his mouth. He devours her lips, her tongue, biting into her, evoking more screams, while she sobs into his greedy maw her pathetic words of devotion.

Her struggles are swelling his cock. He wants more. He surrounds her throat with his large hand. He exults in the beauty of her strangled croaks of love as he watches the light fade from her eyes. He stops just in time. He knows he could have gone on.

His cock is smiling.

"Good girl."

She sobs her joy.

He thinks about his knife.

Written for my sadistic Master after a pretty pathetic IM session in which I was clearly not concentrating on his desires as opposed to my own concerns. The imagined punishment reflects my own extreme displeasure with my failure, not his. Posted here with his permission.

Here Be Smut

M. Christian is an extraordinary chameleon of a writer.

The first story I read was a bit of lesbian erotica, and I was quite dubious years later to see the author referred to with a male pronoun. He writes quite convincingly from every possible perspective about things that he has not necessarily experienced. And more than that, he's just a damn good writer.

So I was awed and honored the first time he asked if I would contribute a piece to his blog Frequently Felt. I complied, of course, and have sent him a few more pieces since then.

Not long ago, he asked for another story. My attempt at writing something specifically for him fizzled out, but I had recently created something for my Master's amusement and arousal, and the sadist generously permitted me to share it. Well, I suspect it was more than mere generosity. He is proud of me, and of course my successes reflect on him, as if I were a prize race horse and he were owner, trainer, and jockey, all rolled into one.

The story, Tailgate Party, appeared today for the first time anywhere outside of the sadist's inbox. It's one of the hotter, more explicit pieces I've written, as my owner loves to read about strange cocks pounding into me. So gather your vibrators, grease up your palms, and head on over to to M. Christian's place, which is the only place you can read it.

OK, since you insist, I'll give you the first few lines here:

You gather with the guys for an afternoon of football, beer, and debauchery.

"Toss me a beer," one friend says.
"Send over the chips," says another.
"Have some pussy," you offer.

Damn, I wrote the thing, and it gets me wet and twitchy!

Go read and masturbate.

Whose pleasure?

At the end of a post on limits, Discerning Dom (in my early days somewhat of a mentor to me - or at least a listening ear - under his former alter ego The English Gentleman) said the following:

A dom wants to bring her to sexual fulfilment. He wants that for her even more than he wants it for himself (because her fulfilment is in his gift; she depends on him for hers, and so it’s a big achievement for him if he can provide it for her).

Oh? Here, yet again, was another reminder of how different my relationship with my sadistic Master is from so many others. Because my Master's concerns with regard to sexual fulfillment are all for himself.

He has made this clear from the very beginning. There was no bait-and-switch. But recently, during the last and most extreme of the sessions of corporal punishment I've had to endure, he gave me a clear statement of what must always guide my life:

What does he want?

That's it.
That's all that matters.
What does he want?
What will bring him pleasure?

Now sometimes that may include my own sexual fulfillment. But even then, my own pleasure is incidental to the main goal. My orgasms belong to him, as do the accompanying moans and cries and sobs. When he allows me to cum, whether in his presence or on my own when he is miles away, I must always be aware that I am cumming for him. The pleasure is his, to be enjoyed via a report of my fantasies and methods of stimulation and intensity of the actual orgasm, or through a voice mail that includes the rising sounds of arousal and then the peak of cumming and the sobs that inevitably follow - a voice mail he can wallow in again and again and again.

Of course, whether or not that was my focus, I do receive substantial physical pleasure of my own when I cum - and from the various things he does to me despite the fact that I am deprived of orgasms. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise. But it is also quite clear to me that the pleasure is far greater - if different - than when all I was after was my own physical release. Rather than being turned inward, it all flows outward, to the one I serve, to the one who owns me, to the one I love in a much different and, dare I say, more fulfilling way than I have ever loved before.

Curiouser and curiouser.

It is really just a reverse of what Discerning Dom wrote. The reverse and the same. Just as he says the dom wants her pleasure more than his own, and finds his fulfillment in that achievement, so I feel such an extraordinary joy from the pleasure I give him. My own pleasure and the moans it triggers are as nothing compared to my satisfaction from the moans that I elicit from his throat with my own mouth on his cock. His orgasms are my artwork just as my poems are. I feel as if I am channeling his pleasure, his arousal, and in a way his orgasms as well.

Later, I will feel the nagging desire for an orgasm, but with the right words that usually subsides. And for a day or more I will exude a rosy glow as if the ecstasy had been mine.

Which it was.

I left a comment on this point, to which the Dom replied:

But perhaps he knows that this is exactly what you want. Or does he really not care?

It's a fair question. And a smart one. I am the sadist's creation. And yes, he is giving me what I want. Somehow, when he first spotted me on FetLife, he managed to read things in my profile that revealed who I really was and what he could make of me. And what he could make of me was what he was after. So he trapped me and, very slowly, has been training me - not to be something I wasn't but to free what I really was. To free me to embrace and accept my truth. And while some might call him unforgivably manipulative - hell, he takes pride in his talent for manipulation - the fact is that he saw me quite clearly.

He has indeed freed me to be myself. I have never been happier. And while one could say that my happiness comes from the attention he gives me, whatever that requires of me, my happiness comes from so deep inside me, from such a feeling of stability, that I have to believe his judgment is correct.

So no sexual fulfillment for me. My blue vibrator sleeps alone in the bedside drawer, contenting itself with reading erotica collections. My pussy weeps copious amounts of sweet honey, which accumulates in wasted wet spots on the crotch of my panties. And my fingers have to be reminded to stay away from my beckoning clitoris. Have you ever heard a clitoris beg? Absolutely shameless. So many false promises. Amusing but dangerous, because if it succeeds, it will be flogged.

Perhaps it's a masochist?

Brainwashing - Belly

Last Tuesday morning, I received these instructions:

You are to concentrate on your belly, specifically its softness, its yielding vulnerability. Focus on it in your car and at your desk. Feel it soften, release ANY tension you experience there. Breathe out as it melts into warm marshmallow softness, ready to accept a push of my finger, a punch from my fist, invasion by my knife or my cock. See yourself lying on your back with me naked straddling you. A pillow is under your back to offer your pale round softness higher. I have lubed your belly and am sliding my cock and scrotum up and down on it. You are helping with your fingers and imploring me to cum on you, to use that soft pillow of sex to relieve myself.

By this time I was completely primed. The responses burbled out, one after another. I don't know how I made it through the work day. How could the others in our small office not have smelled the sex and submission that surrounded me like the scent of an over-perfumed slut?

I'm still stunned by these words, my Lord. Stunned as in a deer in the headlights, knowing I'm doomed. Stunned as in concussed, unable to think clearly, unable to do anything more than give myself to the will of my attacker.

To you.

It will be a challenge to soften my belly, my Master, which is currently distended due to a spurt of (normally temporary) weight gain due to the SAD. But it is certainly vulnerable, and if anything can make it melt it is your order.

Your knife, my Master... its mention always has a very powerful effect on me, my Lord.

But most of all, it is that image of you positioned above me, hovering over me, sliding over me... I can feel it, my Lord... I feel your body, my Lord... I feel your cock... I feel your ownership...I have to force myself to stop thinking about it so I can get off to work.

I am utterly yours.
Use me.

And later.

mounded

molded

shimmering

flan

smooth and sweet

firm

penetrable

inviting consumption

promising pleasure

inspiring hunger

and only for you.

To which he replied:

Best if plunged into warm, then licked from the implement.

I'll offer one more taste of my response throughout the day as his images ate at my brain like some perverted worm.

home again, my Lord... my body feeling exquisitely vulnerable... that belly image... lying on the bed... belly presented, unprotected, vulnerable, vulnerable...

the knife.

the knife and you rubbing yourself against me... somehow, my manipulative Master, that seems a more blatantly utilitarian approach to getting pleasure from my body than any other image.

and then the knife, my Lord. except for occasional intrusions into my imagination, the knife hasn't featured much in my thoughts for quite a while. nor have you mentioned it much. but it has a frightening power over me... an attraction... another of those poison seeds you've planted inside me.

you make me want to meet your knife, my Master.

i think of you coming here one evening... somehow being able to come here one evening... you bring the [a DVD]... you bring a new and nasty flogger... you bring items i can't imagine... and you bring the knife. we have hours... you have hours... you accept your pleasure from me... you take your pleasure from me... you drag your pleasure out of me... you array me on the bed... do you bind me to the bed? for sure my arms and legs are open. everything is exposed, everything is on offer, and whether because of ropes or chains or the purity of my submission, nothing is held back from you.

i tremble.

you flog me.

i scream.

you hold the knife before my eyes. the light glints off the newly honed blade, i am the patient, you are the surgeon, there is no anesthesiologist, and the surgical plan has not been revealed.

you drip hot caramelized sugar on the delectable mound of fleshy flan.
my belly sizzles and burns.
i scream and strain against my bonds because yes,
for this there would need to be bonds.
you insert the knife and begin to feed.

My reactions continued until bedtime, and then the exercise was over. But its effects lingered, as I wrote to him the following day:

I know this pair of assignments is over, my Lord - at least for now - but their effect continues. I drink coffee and remember that it is your mouth, that it is only on loan to me to aid in ingestion. I sit at my desk and am drawn to run my hand over my round belly as it hides under my bright red shirt. I caress it, knowing that it is yours, knowing that it is likely you won't be at all as gentle.

Your skill at training me is breathtaking, my Master.

And you do take my breath, my Lord.

It is yours as well.

Brainwashing - Mouth Part 2

The exercise continued:

Tonight, continue your mouth awareness. Think about the foregone opportunity, the waste, the absolute injustice of your tongue, your lips, your cheeks being used for any purpose other than sucking me off. Ponder the insignificance of any words, sounds or exhalations emitted that are not cheerleading, or otherwise part of the task of eliciting my ejaculation. Feel me, taste me, hear the sounds of my pleasure. A smile? Meaningless unless it comes from your joy in having provided exactly, perfectly and only what I want. Tonight, let all other organs, sections, parts and systems of your body be jealous, for it is your mouth that is given the honor of actually receiving, touching, serving me.

By this time, I was not much more than modeling clay in his hands. Warm, moist, modeling clay.

I replied:

little moans...

little whimpers...

tiny sounds, wasted perhaps, but emitted unconsciously as i read your words, my Lord.

i've tried to come up with words to describe how i feel right now, my Lord, but the sensation is beyond pinning down into anything as definite as words. it is all sensation... a purity of sensation... all focused towards serving you as you demand and expect.

you are my Master.
you are my Universe.
everything else is peripheral.

And then:

my lips are parted, my mouth open, my tongue moving, licking, fondling the tip of your cock, which even in your absence is always in my mouth. my tongue is moving of its own volition, like a finger under the chin of a kitten, caressing the underside of your cock just below the tip.

i don't know why that's what my tongue is doing. it just is.

my mouth loves your cock. if it could, it would carve that into the trunk of a tree. but perhaps it doesn't have to. tongue, lips, teeth, cheeks, they all declare their love as they serve your pleasure.

and you hear it, my Lord.
you feel it.
i know you must.

their service may not be perfect, but it is i who should be punished for any lack of attention to details. not they. these dedicated body parts were created for nothing but this, and they rejoice in the service to which they were born.

I don't usually dispense with capitalization like that. But when I'm feeling extremely submissive, it just happens. So I don't fight it. And the sadist accepts it for what it signifies.

This time, it signified that my brain was a bowl of mush.

And oh, that felt so very good!

Tomorrow, a new body part.

Brainwashing - Mouth Part 1

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Happy Chanukah

"I'm going to hurt you."

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The sadist speaks on my=his orgasms

I don't get to quote my Master much, and he doesn't write specifically for these electronic pages. He also no longer reads here. But I do sometimes show him what I've posted, and occasionally pass on your comments - either per his request or because I think they'll amuse him.

It is always wise, when dealing with a sadist, to keep him amused.

So yes, I showed him yesterday's piece on my sympathetic orgasms. I will blushingly admit that his praise for the post was over the top, which is why I didn't even ask if I could quote him here. However, I also told him of the comments by two of my devoted readers which betrayed either concern about possible disapproval of my unauthorized orgasms or, perhaps, a secret hope that the appearance of my post would result in a painful punishment for my disobedience and a subsequent description here of my suffering.

My Master offered these words:

You may tell your readers I do not mind your sympathetic orgasms as they are my possessions also, and serve as a pilot light to keep my furnace ever ready.

I'm not the only one in this relationship who deals in metaphors.

Meanwhile, speaking of orgasms...

It's been weeks since I've seen my Master.
Weeks since I've served my Master.
And weeks since I've cum.
The sadist hasn't been here since the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.
Since the day before my aunt died.
And I honestly can't remember if I came that week or not.

It's not that he hasn't wanted me. But the time... the season... our schedules... plans were made and plans dissolved.

So how is this relevant?

He doesn't like me to have cum within 48 hours before a visit - or after he announces a visit if I get less than 2 days' notice. And since he kept thinking he was going to be here, he kept not allowing himself the pleasure of one of my orgasms.

Which hasn't stopped him from arousing me.
Or me from arousing myself.

Whenever we are in contact, I am aroused. And an important part of my job as his pet is feeding his libido. If I can't do it with my body parts, I do it with my words. And those words make me crazy.

Instead of the hoped-for meeting tomorrow, we had an almost painful post-dinner IM session of masturbating each other's minds. I was writhing in my chair. Moaning, bent over my belly battered by contractions, my pussy pulsing with desire and fear at the scenario he presented. Eventually, it will become a story. Right then, it was a puddle in my panties.

I didn't ask.
I rarely ask.
But he read my need.

"I know this exchange excited you," he wrote.
"You still may not cum."

"Oh, really? I never expected it, my Master."

"You may tell your fan club that."

"I exult at the chains of orgasm restriction. Thank you, my Master."

And those last words of mine are the truth. Not being allowed to cum... it makes me feel closer to him. It increases my sense of being owned. And when he does allow me to cum, when he pulls out of the strongbox one of those orgasms I freely handed over to him, I accept it as a gift and rejoice in how closely to himself he clutches the chains of my life.

What's the big deal about giving him my orgasms when it is only with his permission that I am even allowed to breathe?

PS - watch this space for more words from my sadistic Master. Coming very soon.

Why I Have Sex

In her contribution to lg's orgasm extravaganza, meg gives a link to an article called Ask an Academic: Why Women Have Sex. Which of course immediately caused me to ask the same question on a more personal level.

Why do I have sex?

It wasn't a very challenging question.
I have known the answer for a long time.

It's for the intimacy. The actual web of psychological reasons doesn't really matter. It's the need that counts. An almost desperate need for closeness, for connection, for intimacy.

Back in the 60s, as we fought the sexual revolution in our uniforms of bare skin, many of my contemporaries were after pleasure pure and simple. And certainly there was pleasure to be had, though being young and naive and leery of the efficacy of condoms in barring a baby from taking up residence in my 18-year old womb, I refrained from intercourse until I got my hands on The Pill.

mmm... I'm remembering... damn but the pleasure is intense when you're 18 and finally away from home. I'd happily take my clothes off for anyone. But it wasn't really the search for pleasure that drove my minor adventures in what could hardly be termed promiscuity. It wasn't really my rioting hormones. It was that need to touch. To be close. To achieve some illusory semblance of intimacy.

Cut to 40 years later. (You cannot imagine how scary it is to write that... 40 years later... can it really be that long? can I really be that old? Nope. Burn the birth certificate. If people who see me think I'm 40 then so be it. Let my young doms think that they're the ones with a sweet young thing. They certainly manage to make me feel very small and submissive - I've learned never to argue with a dom. Especially when he's a sadist.)

So here I am now. I've learned some things over the years. 10 years ago, S-- taught me about sex as a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon. An evening. A full 23 hours with almost no sleep. He taught me how very pleasant it could be, and in how many ways. And now there is Evan, who fucked me with energy and delight and control and enthusiasm and many many orgasms, and whom I do think I will be seeing again when next we get our schedules to mesh. He's a sweet man, is Evan, if a thoroughgoing workaholic and more than a little cautious. But he makes me feel safe and comfortable and satisfied and happy, and I do look forward to having sex with him again for the pleasure.

And the intimacy.
A relaxed intimacy.

And then
and always
there is my demon muse.
My Master.
My Lord.
My owner.
My life.

As far as sex goes, the sadist has one goal, and one goal only.
His own pleasure.
If I derive pleasure from our time together,
it is purely a side effect.
He's in this for his needs alone.
Or so he says.
If I get to cum, it is for the pleasure he will derive.
If I get high on serving him,
I must never let that interfere with my focus on the job at hand.
Or mouth.
Etc.

If I had read about this a year and a half ago, I would have been enraged. But now...

I'm getting what I need.
I always get what I need.
I get the intimacy,
which is
deeper,
closer,
fiercer,
sweeter,
and infinitely more naked
than anything I have ever known
and anything that you can imagine.

Even with all the rules, the walls, the regulations, the compartmentalization, the limitations, I have never in my entire life felt closer to, more bound to, more intimate with anyone I have every known or talked to or touched or kissed or fucked.

Never.

No one.

Ever.

And I will do anything for such a union.

How can a mere orgasm compare to that?

Sympathetic orgasms

There is a certain irony to writing about orgasms when I have ceded control over mine to the sadist and am allowed very few indeed. Even then, they are still his, elicited for the pleasure he derives from observing my responses and relishing the sounds of my moans and whimpers and indescribable noises followed by a rising sequence of squeezed squeals and then soul-shaking sobs.

Oh, he does enjoy the sounds I create for him.

But I'm not writing about those orgasms. And some might not even think to grant the noble name of Orgasm to what I am about to describe. But there is no question that this is what they are. There is the pleasurable stimulation, the rising tension, and then a physical manifestation of release. Sometimes there is even an unguarded escape of noises at the moment of climax. However, there is nothing obviously sexual in the activity. There is no cock deep inside me, no hand caressing my clit, no fingers pinching my nipples, no mouth melding into mine.

You can't see the lover who forces such a response from my body.

My molester is music.

Now here I'm afraid I have to be a little evasive. For the reaction I'm revealing is caused by a specific family of instruments. My friends, who are totally oblivious to my kinky alter ego, are well aware of my love for these magical arrays of strings. Some have heard me describe how the music strikes me in the womb, and my very best friend has been with me as the tremors flash through my helpless body. I'd hate to have one of our crowd Google the instrument and come across this post.

I will say that they are multi-stringed folk instruments. Lots and lots and lots of strings. Requiring lots and lots of tuning. And when everything is in harmony, the whole world vibrates. If you really want to discuss it further, please e-mail me privately.

What I said about the effect on my womb is not metaphor. It really happens. As the sounds and the joy and the exuberance and the lushness of the tunes and harmonies and ornaments swirl around me, they set off these little contractions in my womb.

And I always use that term.
Womb.
It seems much more primal than the other one.
Uterus.
Nope.
Not uterus.
Womb.

So the contractions start and the tension spreads through my body and I am high on the ecstasy of the music and I'm grinning ear to ear except then suddenly I'm not grinning and I get that look - you know that look - not exactly a grimace here in the middle of a concert but my eyes change and the texture of my face changes and my lips part and my breathing... I'm not sure what my breathing does, by that point I'm not observing very well and then all of a sudden it happens.

A sharp shiver shakes my body from top to bottom.

If you were sitting next to me, you couldn't miss it.
You might pass it off for a sudden chill.
But it was quite the opposite.
Things became much too hot.

Among the world's stringed instruments, there are those equipped with what are known as sympathetic strings. These are not played directly. They are neither bowed nor plucked. They just hum along. When properly tuned, they respond to the song of the stimulated strings, forming a heavenly backup chorus. An example in Western music is the viola d'amore; folk instruments range from the sitar to the gudulka and the hardingfele.

My womb contains a set of sympathetic strings.
And when I hear my favorite music played, I have no choice.
I cum.


Written by invitation for little girl's project orgasm. You can read about lg's own orgasmic experiences here: parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6. Then check out today's post for links to the many courses in a big, potluck project orgasm holiday party. See you there!

Sacrificing pelvic curls on the altar of submission

So there we were, my Master and I, around mid-day, engaged in instructive and very arousing conversation courtesy of Yahoo Messenger. I was embroidering on a scenario that was rapidly growing out of a handful of words he had tossed at me, expanding, elaborating, enriching, when my mind and my body were drawn back to compelling physical memories of the slash of his flogger on my cunt.

I spoke of that a little, of its power over me, the particular type of pain. It's real pain, and I don't crave the pain itself, but there's something about it...

I don't hunger to be caned.
I do hunger to be flogged.

And then there it was. Out of the blue.

"I may have you shave."

I froze.

I had been wriggling and squirming like mad, aroused and submissive and adoring and barely able to contain myself. But at those six words, I froze.

Silence.
Then -

"oh."

I described my frozen state.
I begged to be allowed to trim very close instead.
I get all these irritated bumples just from shaving up at the top of my thighs.
And my hair is so light, you'd think a close trim would do it.

"shave"

And I felt incredibly, exquisitely owned.

Of course, now that he's seen what a strong effect the possibility had on me, there's no way I'll get out of it.

I'm squirming as I write.

The philosopher and I used to talk about the possibility. We mulled over his taking me down to the place in Dupont Circle where, right before his inaugural visit, I had my eyebrows waxed for the first and only time. I liked it there. It felt professional and safe. And I thought they could handle his bringing me in to have my cunt stripped bare. Making it clear that he was in charge, that my pussy belonged to him. He would stand there and watch and enjoy my yelps of pain and enjoy the little puddle of arousal that would form on the sheet just below me. I wrestled with the idea - I didn't like the idea of going bare. We don't do that in my circle. And yes, I do know what the others do because when we all spend a week together at music camp there's a bathroom with 2 toilets and 3 showers for the 15 of us. So even though not everyone is as much of an exhibitionist as I am, there are glimpses...

I'm still squirming.

I worry what people will think of me. I worry what my gynecologist will think of me. I imagine her calling my psychiatrist, who referred me to her, and asking if she knows why I suddenly shaved my pretty little curls. And since I'm not really in therapy, and have scrupulously avoided discussing my submission, there will be no ready answer.

I am feeling very small.

I think of that bare area between my legs. How it will look so childlike, even with my large, floppy, aging pussy lips hanging down and inviting torture. And I think of how it will feel...

The philosopher finally accepted my explanation about irritation, and allowed me to trim very close instead of getting waxed. And even that felt incredibly naked. I'm rocking back and forth madly on the chair as I remember how I felt everything rubbing against the tender skin. Against my labia. Against my clit.

So here I am.
Feeling very small.
Feeling very submissive.
Dreading what's to come.
Yearning for what's to come.
Anticipating the humiliation of presenting myself unprotected by my little curls.

I swim in his power and willingly give myself up to the rapids that pull me towards the waterfall and the rocks below.

Uninvited image OR When similes go bad

Her nipples hard as glass, she
ran the right one down his naked calf.
A thin trail of blood sprang up behind.

He reached for the cane.

"Good girl"

They're better than a gold star,
these two sweet words presented
as a sign of satisfaction
mixed with quite a bit of pride.
I am his creation,
so performance that is pleasing
signifies his own success
at least as much as mine.

These two sweet words he gives me
gently outshine any other gift,
except perhaps those three dear words
that I will never hear.
But there are many kinds of iron
chains and silken ropes that bind
two people in a complex web
with beauty all its own.

And so I take those words of praise,
that say how much he treasures me,
and press them to my lips and breasts
when I lay down to sleep.
A year ago we parted,
but we couldn't stay apart. So now
I am his precious poet whore
curled naked at his feet.

a piece of ass

holes.
i'm sensing my holes.
i am my holes.
open spaces.
tender places.
voids to be filled.

they beg for pain.
i'm needing pain.
i need it sharp.
relentless.
cutting.
thrashing.
spurring tears
i cry at your feet.

tear me down.
push me down.
make me drown
in submission,
in debasement
as you use me
as you share me
as you teach me
that i'm nothing

but yours.

i am yours.

and that's enough.