Monday, November 30, 2009

They can always sniff fresh prey

The funeral was Sunday.

I drove up to Philadelphia Saturday afternoon. Or, rather, to a suburb of Philly. My sister and I and a cousin of my late aunt's (and thus of my mother's) were all staying at a hotel along a road of shopping malls, chain stores, and local favorites, just off the Pennsylvania Turnpike. To avoid the illegal U-turn needed to reach the hotel from the direction I was traveling, I had to cut through the parking lot of a local tavern/bar.

Suddenly, in the pit of my stomach and the folds of my cunt, I sensed a vibe akin to that of the biker/thug bar, which I haven't yet visited but in which I will one day be raped and abused and utterly objectified.

I wanted to go in.
In the worst way, I wanted to go in.
I wanted to go in
and go up to the bar
and...

I didn't.
My cousin was waiting.
My sister was on her way.

Later, as we discussed where to go for dinner, I said "Hey! How about the tavern next door?" Which my sister thought was a reasonable idea. Until one of my late aunt's kids said it was a Hooters wannabe. Idea vetoed.

I was feeling wild.
I was feeling sexy.
I joked about going,
having a wild night out.

The 72-year old cousin seemed to think that was a reasonable idea. She said after all, I had turned 60 this year, and should be able to celebrate.

I was impressed.
My sister deemed it not worthy of response.

(Side bar: the cousin asked how many years older than me my sister is. I'm the older one. By 3 years. And my sister has had a bit of face lift. I'm sorry. Can you blame me for gloating? You take your pleasures where you can get them when you're in mourning. And shameless.)

So we didn't go. But in my mind...

I came to town a day ahead.
I needed time alone.

I arrived late, tired and hungry and moody. Too tired to go looking for good food and a peaceful place to eat. I unpacked my few things, took off my bra and panties, and walked back to the Stone House Tavern next door.

The place was crowded and noisy. In the old days it would have been smokey as well. Instead, there was the smell of sweat, lust, and spilled beer. The waitresses were young, nearly jail bait, in scanty jeans skirts and tops so tight you could see the tiny holes at the ends of their nipples that would one day yield milk.

I went up to the bar.
I went up to the bar and spoiled the mood by ordering a Coke.
No rum.

Heads swiveled. Many turned back to their more appropriate drinks. A few kept their attention on me. I felt their eyes nibbling at my tits after running through my swirling mane of hair. I felt my cunt swell, and knew there was a growing wet spot in the crotch of my jeans. The jeans were tight, cutting into my clit, courtesy of my usual winter weight gain.

My face grew hot.
I was scared and bold.
I tossed my head and stared at my drink.
Waiting.

It didn't take long.

I felt him come behind me even before his body heat bounced off my back. I could tell he was large. I knew he was dominant. There was no way he hadn't sniffed out submissive prey. He was a predator like my Master, a predatory sadistic dom, looking to feed.

He came up behind me and stood just behind me, barely touching, thoroughly threatening. I stopped breathing. He didn't mess around with gradual measures. He reached both arms around me, put his large hands between my thighs, pushed them apart, and ran 2 fingers of his right hand up and down my cunt.

He smelled my want.
He smelled my fear.

"I'm going to have you tonight."

I noticed his choice of words.
He wasn't just going to fuck me.
He was going to have me.

"I'm owned. You'll have to ask my Master."

"Call him."

Now I was truly scared. I only call my Master when he orders me to. But it seemed I had no choice.

I left a voice mail.
The sadist called back 5 minutes later.
I handed the phone to my new admirer.

The phone was put on speaker, so I could hear them discussing my fate. My date for the night had implements of pain stashed in his truck, just in case he happened on an available victim. My Master instructed me to offer myself for whatever the new guy had in mind. The guest dom was to call back afterwards and describe what he had done to me and how well I had served him. I was to e-mail a report as soon as I was alone again. And just before my borrower began whatever activity would hurt me most of all, he was to call my Master and leave him a voice mail of my pain.

I think I was in shock.
I floated in my submission.
And despite my stunned fear,
I knew I had no choice.
Not now.
The choice had been made long ago.

We walked next door and entered the hotel through the side door, avoiding the lobby. I took him up to my room. He locked the door and put on the safety latch. Safety for him. I stood there and trembled while he took his time inspecting me. I could easily have been naked for all the protection I felt.

He gestured with his head.

I took off my clothes.

He took off his belt.

He left just before dawn.
I had to remain standing as I typed up my report.

My Master would be pleased.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Tortured, teased, and denied

You chain me to the wall.
Naked.
Spread.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
You torture my pussy
with pain and with pleasure.
You use the flogger
to beat and caress.
You gently tickle
my swollen clit
and then walk away
leaving me moaning,
leaving me begging,
leaving me writhing,
leaving me yours
as you lick from your fingers my honey.


Written for my Master after he said he wouldn't let me cum for a while, and posted here at his suggestion.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Grief and gratitude

Thanksgiving usually means a lot of traveling to be with family - whom I don't see very often as much by my own choice as anything else. For the last couple of years it has meant a long drive north on the Thursday and a return trip on Saturday, back to the friends who are my family of choice.

My aunt died this morning.
I loved her.
We've canceled Thanksgiving.

Instead there will be a shorter drive, a Sunday funeral, and a different sort of family gathering.

I think of the people who are dear to me. I think of my Master, with whom I will have minimal e-mail contact over the next few days, if any. I am very grateful for all those who know me and love me for who I am. And for the one who has seen into me deeper than has any other, and has taken who and what I already was and freed me to fly and to yield, I am grateful most of all.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Wordless comfort

He said not a word.
And yet he said everything.

He came for his needs
and yet he met mine.
He nearly was tender,
he nearly was gentle,
he nearly caressed me
and said not a word.

I cried.
He came through the door
and I cried.
He eyed me and touched me
and sent me downstairs -
with a nod of his head
he sent me downstairs,
and I knew I was safe
and I knew I was treasured
and only with him
could I cry.

And as for the rest,
it went on as always,
and yet it was different,
it all tasted different,
the torture was lighter,
the kisses were sweeter,
I knelt to his cock
and my mouth and tongue loved him,
I gave him my eyes
and he drank that I loved him,
I served his desire
and he honored my grief,
he said not a word
but accepted my grief,
as I sucked on his cock
and fondled his balls
and offered up scenes
igniting his fantasies,
yielding my mouth
to the cock that belongs there
and glowed at the sounds
of pleasure and need.

And then I spoke of how I loved him
and he roared.

And he came.

And after he was gone, I held my usual position down on the ground. His last action, before heading upstairs, was to drape his chain across my naked back like a cold, hard, warm embrace of ownership. And I sobbed and sobbed and knew he was there for me.

Even though he never said a word.


Written for this blog at the suggestion of my Master.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Frustration

I am staked to the ground, a naked female Gulliver surrounded by over-excited Lilliputians. Small energetic people of many sexes and gender identities crawl all over me, poking and prodding, exploring and stimulating. Two of them lasso my nipples with thin ropes and pull them tight, so the slip knots cut into the tender flesh and threaten to sever the little nobs from the mounds beneath. Teams march systematically across my body, scourging my flesh with small whips as if beating the English countryside for hiding foxes.

A line forms on my left thigh. The thigh that is numb. The accumulated weight presses down into my muscles below the scarred flesh. The line ends at my pussy. The prize is a chance at sucking my clitoris as if it were a penis. My vestigial cock fills their minuscule mouths as they prod my already painful arousal with lips and tongues and teeth, struggling to maintain their balance as the flood of honey accelerates and sends a slippery stream out between my labia and around the feet of the queue along my thigh. Each cunnilinguist gets one minute. I squirm and pull against my bonds, but am restrained too tightly to move much.

My moans of frustration threaten to render deaf their delicate little ears.

You stand over the scene, smiling with satisfaction.
You swim in my suffering.

You hand small, metal-tipped floggers to those arrayed along my leg, urging them to whip the tender inner flesh of my thigh as they wait. The creature attending to my clitoris is provided with a tiny vibrator, with which he/she/it is instructed to increase my torment before yielding it and the place at my pussy to the next in line.

Tears form at the corners of my eyes, as they meld with yours.

"Please..." I form with my lips.

"Your begging is most delicious, my pet," you say. "But I don't believe I will permit you to come for a long while."

My clitoris as red and swollen as it can possibly be, you pick up a full-size flogger. The little creatures scatter in a surge of self-preservation. You raise the scourge and bring it down hard on my pussy.

Your scrotum contracts in a most delicious manner as I shriek with pain. The wet spot on the carpet below me doubles in size. You pull down your pants and stuff your erection in my mouth.


Written for my Master and posted with permission.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

"I don't believe I will permit you to cum for a while"

Saturday.

Still floating from my Master's visit on Friday, the 2nd in 3 days. I was tired and happy and painfully aroused. But my pleasure belongs to him. I don't even touch without permission, let alone cum. So I suffered. I wrote him and I suffered and I squirmed and I twitched, and my suffering was compounded by watching Ohio State destroy the University of Michigan (how can anyone doubt that I am a true masochist?!) and my messages became more rich and creative and really -

that was my mistake.

Because that's when he said it.
I don't believe I will permit you to cum for a while
Now being a poet and all, I noticed something very sinister about this statement. Look carefully.

There is no period at the end.
There is no end.
It goes on and on...

And the prohibition had exactly the effect my Master was hoping for. The effect he was expecting. Because, of course, by now he knows my responses. He knows that if he twists this, bites that, spanks with a finely calibrated degree of force, he will elicit from his malleable pet precisely the sounds and colors and words and welts he is after.

My Master is very pleased.

And the prohibition continues.

Friday, November 20, 2009

I talked him into cumming

He came again tonight.
He came to me again.
He came to me again after only 3 days.

He came again tonight.
He came in my hand.
I took him in my mouth
and I showed what I had learned
and he came in my hand.

He came again tonight.
but not from my hand.
It was not from my mouth
and not from my tongue
and not from my sucking
and not from my licking.

He came from my brain.
He came from my mind.
He said it himself.
He came from my mind.

Not, I think, from the exact words I said, looking in his eyes as I jerked on his cock. Not even from the words I spoke as his cock was in my mouth. They were pretty ordinary words. You know what guys like. And as he reminded me early on, this is not the time for long, complex paragraphs.

So the words themselves were ordinary. Anyone could have said them to him while attending to his cock. And I'm sure many people have.

I think when he said that he came from my mind, he meant it. He has me jerk him at the end, rather than sucking, so he can see into my mind. He looks in my eyes - he looks into my eyes - into my eyes and into my mind and into my heart and deep into my soul and it is from what he sees is there that he cums. What he sees in there, what he knows is there, all that he owns which is all that he sees. He sees what was always there. He sees what was lying dormant. He sees what he has awakened. He sees what he has created and what remains to be developed and even what it will all be when nothing is being wasted, when nothing is lying fallow, when he has made me into the treasure he knew I could be because I was that creature all along.

And then he will push me even harder.

I kneel before him, my hand on his cock, saying that I'm his whore, and he looks into my eyes and he hears poetry.

And then he cums.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Physical therapy

I had a hard day. News of a family medical crisis. It's serious and sad, and accompanied by the usual characteristic histrionics and dysfunctional dynamics.

I need cleansing.
I need catharsis.
I need a beating.

I've been e-mailing dominick today. If only he would come down, he could give me what I need. He could give me what he needs to administer. A long, slow, sadistic session, something wide and a cane descending again and again on my bound and vulnerable body. His fingers, his cock, my holes, after all these years, after all those fantasies, after all those e-mails, and the blushing pictures I took and sent him because he told me to and I do always want to please him.

I took the pictures according to his specifications. I am bent over, legs partly spread so he can see my lascivious labia hanging down and my puckered little brown ass hole, ever so tight and, at the time, quite virginal. And then in the second picture I have reached behind and buried the middle finger of my right hand in that little butt hole as far as I could drive it.

Just one little middle finger. Nothing compared to his lovely slender cock, which I still hope he will one day ram into me most energetically. I have a picture of his cock. Of his cock and of his belt. I keep hoping that he'll relent one day and agree to come down and acquaint me with both his cock and his belt.

I need a beating so that all I will know is the pain as his belt and his cane crash down on me and drive everything out. And then he will fuck me, pushing his pelvis against the welts he left across my reddened ass. And we will both cum, in a conflagration of combusted frustration and pain.

One day, dominick.
One day you will relent.
One day you will risk the disappointment of reality
and claim what has always been yours.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

The World's Greatest Cocksucker

OK, I exaggerate.
I'm not really The World's Greatest Cocksucker.
Not yet, anyway.

But I'm in training.

So I can't spend a lot of time writing tonight. Because I have exercises to do. A total of 15 minutes. 30 seconds of this. 15 seconds of that. Then back to the other thing. Then something else. And not just meaningless exercises but with explanations of what function each action takes in the process.

Because, of course, it's not just a question of getting the guy to cum. It's the pleasure he has along the way. And my problem, it seems, is that I am so good and so creative that I get all caught up in doing the interesting moves, which are meant to spice things up, and am (big confession here) too bored with the standard pumping away on his cock with my mouth that I don't do enough of it.

Therefore.
Back to basics.
Or, more accurately, time to learn the basics.
Or time to accept that I'm just going to have to work on the basics.
Boredom or not.

Because, as I've reminded you all before
(join me on the chorus now)
It's not about me.
It's all about him.
Now if only some of you guys lived in the neighborhood, I could use you as crash test dummies. Lab rats. Experimental subjects. Volunteer cocks. But given the situation, I'll have to practice on some of my own fingers and use Marko's snores as a stand-in for the moans I am absolutely positive I would elicit.

I really am very good.
Really.

Just imagine me bent over your cock, my mouth warm and wet, my tongue pressing against you, my red hair falling down around my face, my head bobbing up and down...

Anyone hard yet?

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

He said he'd fuck my crying face...

... and today he did.

He fucked my face as I cried and sobbed and sniveled and gasped and licked and sucked and dragged my teeth across his scrotum...

He brought me a need that was frightening in its intensity.
He brought me a need that he saved for me.
And I did not disappoint. He said that.

"You have never disappointed me.
Sometimes you infuriate me.
But you never disappoint."

And then he gently stroked my head.

Monday, November 16, 2009

My Master wants to fuck my crying face

These are my Master's words.
This is my Master's desire.
This is my welcomed fate.

The tears I want,
the sobs I lust for,
the audible, visible,
and tactile outpouring
I will take from you
must
derive from your
knowledge of the fact
that you
cannot
do
otherwise,
that you are
powerless,
incapable
of anything
except that
which you believe is
my will,
my desire.
Therefore,
when I slide
my cock
in
and out
of your
sobbing
face,
I am
literally
fucking
your abject
surrender.

[The above was originally sent to me in prose format, followed by unrequested permission to post any or all of it if I wished. I wished.]

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Searched and found

They come to me in many ways. I scatter comments like breadcrumbs, and fans generously insert me into their blogrolls even though I don't really keep one myself. Sometimes I'm favored with a fleshbotting, which sounds awfully like some sort of sadistic punishment (Please, my Master, not that, anything but a fleshbotting! I won't be able to sit for a week! No, please, no, no, AAAH... [hideous scream of agony]) Plus Jane's Guide keeps sending people over from that lovely review, and now The Spanking Universe refers perverts who, I am sure, will on the whole be more disappointed than not.

My favorite referrals, however, are searches.

I've been keeping a list. I used to note them all down, as they fascinated me, every last one of them. Now I don't bother with the boring ones, as they became repetitive - may I cum, for example, makes a regular reappearance. Some of them are clearly attempts to find me again when the reader can't remember my name or the blog's name. What else could explain spanking "seasonal affective disorder" "spanking stories"?

Some searches easily reveal the potential reader's own perversion:
  • "please master" spanking pregnant
  • tortured nipples sexual passion
  • slave whip dress rope rape
  • bdsm pain iron hook sex
You know. The usual.

Some make me wonder about the person who came to check out my blog, when the snippet they would have seen on Google clearly indicated that what they would find was not related to the original intention of their search. Such was the case with the very first search parameters I entered on my list: the chair as a metaphor. Which would have taken the researcher here. Was my post inspiring? Similarly, there were stopping lithium and why does scaramouche have a big nose.

Some of these I've mentioned before, and there are always new ones to amuse and divert. But lately, I've seen the beginning of a new trend. Or maybe I'm seeing traces of a new researcher. Whatever the source, I'm reminded of my days in grade school.

I was always too smart for my own good. And kind of snotty about it, to boot. Because being too smart can make you bored. So when we were given spelling words and told to use each in a sentence, I was damned if I'd waste my creativity on such a pedestrian assignment. So I would take a big chunk of the list and use them in a paragraph that in those few sentences implied an entire story. Much more of a challenge - and thus much more fun.

Well, lately I've been found through searches that are far more than a word or two. These read like a line from a story. They are arousing in themselves, and I feel compelled to take them as an assignment, to write a story around each sentence and give some pleasure back to the person who gave me this glimpse into his or her mind.

I read them over again and my cunt feels little electric stabs, adding to the arousal my Master attacked me wit today and making me grateful that tonight I am allowed to touch myself if I fulfill certain requirements.

As befitting my bisexual identity, one implied story line is lesbian and one is straight.
  1. the lesbian whispered relax and enjoy my sweet girl as i fondle your vagina and turn you into my slave slut
  2. she has welts all over her body and whispered i will work as your whore, master
Enticing, no? Maybe if I encountered a woman as in example number 1, if I came across a lesbian to dominate me, to teach me, to control me, to own me, then I would finally be able to have a full relationship with another woman. I can picture myself lying there naked beside here. Would she have remained dressed, the way my Master does, to accentuate the imbalance of power? Would she have bound my wrists together and then to the headboard? or would she already know how exquisitely submissive I am, and that if she knew the right words to cast that spell of dominance over me then bondage would be necessary only for her amusement, not to enforce my submission. Would she have a sadistic streak to her? Would she lull me into that relaxation she requested - demanded - ordered - seduced me into - only to fondle me until I was ready to be taught that erotic pain can be as arousing as gentle touches?

I think I would want her to hurt me.
I think I would want her to train me to beg for the pain.
I think I would want her to whip me
and then hold me in her arms,
sobbing and shaking,
while she fondled my pussy
and smile as I came.

I think I would want to be dependent on her for everything. For food, for water, for light, for air, for pleasure, for pain... I would breathe her approval, I would suckle her love, and if evicted from her cage I would die.

I would want her to be my Master with tits.

All I want is my Master.

I think I'll go cum for him now...

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

The rain made me do it

It rained all day today. It was dark and nasty and rainy and all I could think about was the sadist and his cock and my mouth and his hand around my throat and the flogger on my pussy and crawling and nakedness and curling up next to him, my nakedness and his nakedness and the warmth of our bodies against the cold of the day and the red of my spanked butt against the grey of the sky.

His body.

His body on mine.

His body crushing mine into the futon, pressing into mine as I struggled beneath his weight and his dominance and his desire.

His mouth.
My mouth.
His cock in my mouth.

I had an image - not just a mind image but a whole body evocation - we were lying naked on a bed, in a room warm enough for us to have pushed back the blankets, we were lying curled up and naked, curled up on our sides, and my head was down below his belly and his cock was in my mouth and I held his cock in my mouth and I fondled his cock with my tongue and I sucked his cock sweetly, pensively, as if it were a pacifier that brought me contentment and peace.

Eventually, of course, I had to perform.

I'm a damn good cocksucker.

The sadist was very busy today, he told me from the start that he would be very busy today, but still I flooded his Inbox with expressions of my desire to be near him, all the while thinking of that play by Brecht in which this solider finds himself a slave to his cock. It's the rain. Whenever it rained he'd grow hard. It ruled him. It interfered. And finally he did the only thing he could do.

He lopped it off.

Which seems rather extreme.

So instead I dealt with my distraction by bombarding my Master with distracting e-mails and resisting the urge to let the Irishman know that I was around and available. So instead the Irishman contacted me. And came over. I wasn't the only one being made crazy by the rain.

And he agrees.
I'm a damn good cocksucker.

Spanking fills the universe

What used to be a small private party here at submission & metaphor has become rather crowded in the last few weeks. It always startles me when my stats soar. But if I look at the referrals I can quickly find the reason.

At first, it was all due to being fleshbotted. Twice in the space of 10 days. First on October 20th, courtesy of Always Aroused Girl for i am pussy, and then again on October 30th, by Madeline Glass (someone I hadn't heard of before and wasn't aware knew of me, so special thanks, Madeline!) for A glorious fuck. Both of these brought huge onslaughts of readers. Well, huge for me, since my stats are normally pretty paltry. I suspect I'm a bit too artsy for most tastes.

These surges normally last just a few days, with a bit of carryover after that. I'm still getting readers from both those referrals, as well as a continuing small but steady stream of visitors from my review in JanesGuide. (Sorry for all this - I can't help boasting about my good reviews whether for my writing or for my cocksucking.)

Anyway, I was all set to see my stats lapse back down to their normal level when suddenly WHOOSH. And it continued for days. All because someone decided this is actually a spanking blog and therefore fit to be included in the giant blogroll known as The Spanking Universe.

I suspect s&m has been taken for a spanking blog because Bonnie included me in her blogroll and in the invitation to sign on to Love Our Lurkers Day (the response to which was, I must admit, pretty pathetic here. You guys are awfully shy...) And oddly enough, I was writing an awful lot about spanking and flogging and caning and the like right around when Richard Windsor included me in his Spanking Universe blogroll. So perhaps at least a few of the perverts who came here from there found something to please them.

All of the above boils down to very warm thanks to everyone who has praised me and linked to me and visited here and especially to those few of you who come back and manage to find some pleasure in my pleasure and my efforts to give my Master pleasure and (I know there are a few of you) in thoughts of taking your hand to my ass and your cock to my cunt.

Or vice versa.

Enjoy.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Thumbing my nose at danger

Should I be more afraid of him?

Should you be more afraid for me?

Granted, I have been declared off limits to the Beast, and I have been sternly warned not to do anything to incite him. But my Master is a sadist, after all, even when the Beast is locked securely in his cage. From the beginning, I called him my demon muse, because indeed there are both sides to him - inspiration and manipulation, the urge to create and the urge to destroy.

I am deep in a submissive trance,
complicated by a complicated love.
Perhaps there is a car
bearing down on me,
stalking me,
exciting me,
nipping at my heels,
until one day
the driver's
foot
slips.

My limits are
dropping
one
by one
until being used
for my Lord's amusement
by a gang of thugs
chosen
for their quotient
of evil
seems a perfectly reasonable way
to spend a Friday night.

Should I be placed in protective custody?

And if I were... if you (yes, you, I see the look in your eyes, the bulge in your jeans, the wet spot in your panties), if you took me into protective custody, what would you do to me while you had me in your control? Would I be that much safer with you than at the mercy of my sadistic demon muse?

Do tell...

Sunday, November 8, 2009

All is well

A week ago Saturday -
was it only last Saturday? -
he spanked me
and flogged me
and caned me
and tore at my heart
because I made him doubt me.
I sobbed
and I crawled
and I begged
his forgiveness
and swore that I loved him
and swore I was his.

Friday -
two days ago -
he came here at lunchtime.
He pushed himself against me,
he spanked me for pleasure,
and he let me
suck
his cock.
And partway through,
he pulled me up on my knees
and his eyes kissed mine
and he gently stroked my head
and I was his angel
and I was his pet
and he moaned with such pleasure,
I gave him such pleasure,
I served with such pleasure
that I knew all was well.

I am his treasure.
I am his pet.
And I know all is well.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Performance in Purple - or A Tale of Two Bruises

There is nothing static about performance art. Even if one were to stand in a department store window for 3 days, perfectly still, enduring the curious, probing eyes of passersby, there would still be the passage of time, the drying of skin, the dulling of eyes, the growling of belly, and the traces of urine down tired thighs.

We suffer for our art.
We suffer for our submission.

We suffer, we accept pain, and then pain persists as our skin becomes an evolution of art, like a canvas covered with specially compounded oil paints that change color over time.

I speak of two bruises. But in fact there are many bruises, clustered in two locations. My Master is right-handed. I was going to say his dominant hand is his right, but that seemed too easy. So he is right-handed. My right buttock and my left nipple are the ones that suffer most. There are only traces of a bruise on my left ass cheek. But oh... the right one.

There isn't as much pain now. Or, rather, the pain doesn't jump out at me on its own accord. It is still nestled in the muscles, though, and can be coaxed out with a little judicious massaging. I regret its passing, and do what I can to remind it that it is still welcome.

I wonder if the sadist is surprised at the form my reaction to the beating took. I'm sure he did expect my reaction would be strong - I am very sensitive to everything he does and says. But I don't think he expected this obsession with the torture and the pain and the bruises. I asked but in his usual cryptic way he didn't respond.

The bruise.

The bruise on my left butt cheek is actually more around the side towards the top of my thigh, below my hip bone. Today it has been an amazing purple hue, matching perfectly my long-sleeved pima cotton t-shirt which LL Bean has this year dubbed elderberry. Such thoughtfully coordinated attire is quite unlike me.

On the toilet at work, I squirm my head around to admire my bruise.
Here at home, I pull out a small mirror to get a better view.
In the bedroom, I stand before the mirrored closet doors and embrace my badge of submission.

And while wandering the Internet I window shop for floggers. Expensive, handmade, colorful floggers. I read the descriptions and wonder which would be right for me. What is it that I need to transform me into my Master's perfect, poetic property, trained and restrained by pain and praise? A thuddy blow? Stinging slashes? Nasty cats with tips that cut? This is bizarre, this is confusing, I didn't like the pain!

It screwed up my brain. And once I stopped crying (thank you, magic pills) I felt closer to him by the minute.

And the transformation continues.

Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for beating me.
Thank you for training me.
Thank you for choosing me.
Thank you for teaching me to please you.

I am yours, my Lord.
And the stripes from the cane are dancing in my flesh.

Kindred Poet

I came across an enticing poem on Love Boudoir the other day. My own pieces can be found there as well. I was honored with a place among the center-stage featured blogs in the Kink section. Because I'm an attention slut, I go by there daily to see where I am on the list. If I'm near the topic at any time, I'm liable to get more attention. Or so my thinking goes. Not that many readers come here from Love Boudoir. But a few do. And anyway, I just like to see my words in print. Everywhere. Anywhere.

Love Boudoir is also a good way to find other writers. Which is what happened yesterday. There I was, looking to see if they had posted a link to my latest poem yet, and I stumbled on some promising lines from a poem on the very same topic.

I had just written Invocation of Pain, about my embrace of the pain that remained from Saturday's beating. And here was an exquisite ode to bruises.

The writer is Luna Mauvaise. The poem is called Maker's Mark. Her blog is called La Damnation de Luna Mauvaise. Check it out. There is something about her writing that lures me. I'll be going back to read more. You should, too. And roam around Love Boudoir as well. Just remember to always come back here. I do get jealous...

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Invocation of pain

The pain catches me by surprise.
Small surges of pain from familiar places.
Pain as memory.
Memory of pain.

I gather it in. I hold it close in a fervent embrace. It comes like a surprise kiss as I shift in my chair, but rather than fleeing, I walk towards it with open arms. I move again, deliberately this time, inviting the pain back. My hand tiptoes to the round, moaning flesh of my bruised buttock where it changes identity from ass to thigh.

I press.
I provoke.
I invoke the pain.

And my pussy sings as it weeps tears of desire.

Written for my sadistic Master
and posted with permission.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Flogged to pieces


He broke the flogger on my ass.

Admittedly, it was not that well-constructed an instrument of torture. The Medusa's head of lashes was held to the leather-covered body by upholstery tacks, with short pointy bits that couldn't possibly survive the enthusiasm with which he swung it at my buttocks.

Still, it came apart, and for the final flogging of my breasts and cunt, when he whipped my tits and ordered me to say that I loved him as he again and again brought the knotted lashes down on my bruised and tender nipples, he held the amputated business part in his hand and swung it directly at my tortured flesh.

He enjoyed that part.

Yesterday, I barely heard from him, although eventually he allowed me to write him as much as I wanted. I tried IM in the morning, but burst into tears, having been either crying or on the verge of crying ever since he beat me. He had no intention of comforting me, nor did I expect comfort. I begged to be dismissed and then remembered that I have these tiny magic pills, of which I need only one very tiny half to make me stop sobbing. They were first prescribed for me when I was still crying a week after the attacks of September 11th.

I took a half and it worked. I was so upset that there was nothing unused to give me any side effects of wooziness.

I got back on IM, and before my Master left, he gave me permission to write him as much as I wanted.

And then a very odd and disconcerting thing happened throughout the course of Sunday and into today. After what I call the beating and he calls correction and which was really like a very violent hailstorm of spanking and flogging and caning and slapping and angry words and then more of the same... after he was gone and I managed to cautiously pull on my clothes over my nearly bleeding buttocks and screaming nipples... I was not at all aroused at the thought of what had happened. Not one single bit. After all my fantasies of submitting to his torture, and after other times of less violent abuse by him and by the philosopher when I know the pain and submission made me hotly wet, when it came down to this I felt no arousal whatsoever. The pussy meter was dead. And I have no idea if I was wet while it was happening.

But. Yesterday. Sunday. Once the crying was stopped. Very slowly over the course of the day I started noticing these little twinges in my cunt. Pussy pulses. I tried to ignore it, to make believe it wasn't happening, because for all my declarations of submission this embarrassed me.

I wrote my Master this morning, a few times. Nakedly, creatively, submissively... and eventually, with continued embarrassment and in a state of confusion, I admitted that thoughts of what he had done to me were now arousing me.

And he replied:
You are aroused because you were in that place which you long for; totally under the control of another, to be done with as I pleased. You knew you were helpless, powerless to stop me from doing whatever I wanted to you and I did. Just reading the last sentence is making you aware of a pulsing in your pussy. Despite what would transpire, you were where you ache to be.
As always, he was right.