Sunday, December 13, 2009

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.

5 comments:

Paul said...

OG, the last one had me thinking, it can't get any better.
Then your Master pulls something even better out of you.
I'm almost afraid to visit!!!
Love and warm hugs,
Paul.

nancy said...

Oh my ~
He is certainly good at this, whatever this is!
The images are very clear to me.. thank you so for sharing!

oatmeal girl said...

Paul, he doesn't often write for me like this. But when he does... I love the writing itself, as well as the power of his images. We share the love for words. That is what drew him to me, and that is how he built his trap.

nancy, "whatever this is" is training. Training through brainwashing. Manipulating my mind. Sort of like marinating meat. youc an tenderize meat by marinating, and you can do it my hammering at it. But marinating adds the flavor you are after. Over the last year, he has been breaking me down and making me into the meal he wishes to... I was going to say devour, and certainly often when he is here there is that feel to it. but really, from a longer view, he savors me. And then he manipulates me a bit more... The pleasure is from both the sense of power and accomplishment and from enjoying Galatea herself.

oatmeal girl said...

Perhaps I should have presented his words on their own, with my own in a separate post, so here the reader could concentrate purely on my Master.

nancy said...

OG.. he does indeed "savor" you.. how very lucky you are to have such a thoughtful and thorough Master.