Thursday, December 30, 2010

Daddy knows what he's doing

Cuttin' up cucumbers,
listenin' to the blues.

The cats are asleep on chosen floors.
A two state solution
brings temporary peace.

I don't have the blues.
I am at peace.
and at peace.
A bad year brought me that at least.
I am grateful.
I know who I am.

I've been thinking a lot about this. Knowing who I am. Being grateful. I am grateful to have been scooped up by a man who wanted me for who and what I was, for what he saw in me, rather than for what he could turn me into. His goal was to bring out what he saw and - certainly - to exploit it for his pleasure, but not to take some preconceived notion of what he wanted and cram me kicking and screaming into that mold. His method is to guide, steer, encourage, and wait. Certainly he has exhibited frustration, poor man, and certainly there have been punishments. I suspect that training me has sometimes felt like trying to break a wild horse.

Except that he never wanted to break me.
He never wanted to lose the treasure within.
He did want to focus me, and to teach me
the basics of respect and obedience.

He really wasn't asking that much.

His patience has been extraordinary.
It took nearly two years for me to see what he had seen all along.

If he had pushed me, it never would have worked. If he had said early on "You are my baby girl. You will call me Daddy," I would have said "Yech!" and kicked and screamed and... No. I wouldn't have kicked and screamed. But I would have pulled back. Shut down. Written about how it didn't feel right, about how I didn't know if I could be what he wanted me to be. And he knows that. So he waited and watched and eventually, as he knew would happen, without any force or demands on his part, I saw it.

He said

That's it.
You are my little girl.
You will call me Daddy.
Relieved, at home, I embraced who I was.
Who I am.
Who I have been all along.

My respect for him is immeasurable.
I do not grant respect lightly.

Because of his patience,
because of his respect for me,
I feel comfortable with what I do.
I feel comfortable with what I am.
I feel comfortable with what I give him,
what I do for him,
what I feel for him.

And I welcome the new year with joy.

Thank you, Daddy.
I am your precious little girl.
I love you.
And I'm sorry for all the grey hairs I gave you.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

2 for the price of 1: Daddy & the Beast pay a visit

Daddy came to visit this afternoon.
So did the beast.
The latter was both unexpected and uninvited.

Well, unexpected by Daddy at least.
I rather thought he'd be here.
And perhaps I'm the one who invited him in.

Before leaving, Daddy said that when I blogged about his visit - and that I did have permission to blog about his visit - I should be sure to say that it wasn't my fault.

So I guess it wasn't my fault.
Although it felt like it was.

There are all sorts of ways to arouse my Master, to make him feel good, to build up his excitement, to make him cum. On top of my superbly skillful cocksucking. There are things he likes me to say... I use my imagination, I read his mood, I spark his most powerful fantasies. But there's a trick to it. And a danger. Because the images that excite Daddy can also be the ones that cause the beast to break through the bars of his cage.

I'm not the only one kept on a chain.

He says it wasn't my fault.
And in general he is right.
Anything could have done it.
The bars had been gnawed through.

This is always a very stressful time of year for Daddy. I've said that before. Holidays can be stressful and demanding, and particularly so for him it seems, for a longer than the standard Thanksgiving through New Year's stretch. With his visiting so soon after Christmas weekend, I rather expected him to be - if not the beast exactly - then at least a very hungry Daddy.

Instead he arrived all sweet and gentle.
The way he looked at me.
The way he caressed me.
And then, once we were down in the dungeon,
there were his sweet kisses
and the way he stroked my breasts
and reached down for my pussy
and even when he spanked my butt
it was just right.
Just hard enough to hurt
but not so hard that it hurt too much.
The right amount of pain
to yield the right amount of pink.
And then I handed him the glass of ice water
and he filled his mouth
and took me in a kiss
and watered my mouth from his.

Ice water.

He was still thinking about yesterday's poem, Ice Hot.

He took an ice cube from the glass and rolled it around in his mouth. He sucked and smoothed the ice cube, then took it between his fingers and slipped it into my mouth to suck before rubbing it against first one nipple and then the other until they were cold and red and even harder than usual. He rubbed the ice over my tits and down my belly and now my memory is somewhat fuzzy but it was oh so sensual and oh so beautiful. And then I sucked his cock again and my mouth was moist and cold and I was making him feel so good and I sucked his cock and sent out words around it and then rubbed my hard, icy nipple against his leg which he loves and spoke of how he loves my hard nipples and then made the mistake of saying how he loves to hurt them.

And that's when something snapped.

Right after I said the words, I worried that maybe I had triggered something. And within seconds I knew that I had. He pulled me up to him and I felt it and I saw it in his eyes and he saw in mine that I saw what was in his and he said something about there being someone else in the room.

But I already knew.

The change is so dramatic that it's not just that he slips into a different level of arousal or desire. It really is almost as if he were another person. Except he's not. He is and he isn't. I even looked up multiple personality disorder. It's not that. He doesn't forget what happens. he doesn't forget what he does. Daddy doesn't disappear, he isn't driven out by the beast.

But the steering wheel is wrenched from his hands.

He was fierce.
He wasn't all that dangerous but he was fierce.
His kisses changed
and his eyes
and his voice
and his grasp of my nipples.
And his urgency.

I can't remember exactly, but I think the chain was already around my neck. I think it was already clasped very snugly around my neck. In any case, he grasped it at my throat, shoving his hand between the chain and my throat, and pulled me harshly to him. He wrapped the loose end around my neck and pulled it down and then yanked it up through my pussy, pulling up roughly so that it was wedged and I felt contained and constrained and raped by the chain and utterly perfect.

He wanted to be my sweet Daddy but he needed to be the beast. I think there would have been no way to contain it.

It unnerved him, though. Because there had been no warning. No nasty thoughts of torture had been setting up camp in his brain.

As he was leaving, I said "I love you, Daddy. I belong to you."

"You belong to Him," he said.

"I belong to You," I replied.

Later, I wrote:
I love you, Daddy.

And I'm worried about you.

I'm worried that perhaps,
when you said that I belong to HIM,
you might have meant/thought/feared that you belong to him.
He replied with but 2 words.
Very perceptive.

Monday, December 27, 2010

Ice Hot

craving missing winter snow, i
crawl, burning palms and
naked legs on frozen backyard ground.
pressing breasts against the earth, i
lick, seeking vagrant fallen flakes,
teasing them from sleeping mounds
the way i tease arousal from your cock.
you melt, you burn, as
laughing off mere logic's chains i
water you from passion's well
until you blaze with flames.

Written for the sadist, and published with his permission as follows: "You may post it. If you mention that I suggested a change, make sure you add that I rarely make such suggestions, out of concern for polluting the purity of your work." He did suggest a one-word change, which I immediately saw was perfect. It is true that he rarely proposes such edits. I wish he felt freer to do so more often. His mind is sharp, his ear sensitive, and his command of words as strong as is his command of me.

I won't tell you which word he suggested, for it fits the rest of the poem as well as if I had come up with it myself. A good editor knows how to speak in the writer's own voice. Daddy has done more than that. He has helped me find my voice and, indeed, myself.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

The calm before... more calm

I am floating in calm contentment.

No, Daddy wasn't here today. This contentment is not directly related to any particular interaction. It is general, surrounding, caressing, and unusual before the last year or so.

I know who I am. I know what I'm about. I live in the embrace of a relationship that shouldn't necessarily lead to such a sense of security - except that it does. Despite my various medical challenges, despite living on a financial fault line, despite finding myself in an identity that would worry and displease almost all of my friends and certainly all of my family, I feel anchored and at peace.

Last year was a series of unexpected, unwelcome, and very costly events, from the death of my Mac laptop just before Christmas 2009 to the death of my car and the near death of my boy cat early in November of this year. At some point this fall, after being laid off from my low-paying and highly stressful job, I speculated that I might be under a year-long curse. If so, I decided, it would end at Christmas, a year after it began.

Some things have already improved. I have a delightful, rent-paying, if often absent housemate. My relationship with the sadist has stabilized, and my insecurity about it has disappeared. And I celebrated Christmas in the traditional way with a thoroughly satisfying movie followed by too much good Chinese food.

One can't expect a year to go by without set-backs. Especially with very aged parents, my own aging body, and an economy that isn't all that healthy either. But it was the accelerated accumulation of financial hits that made me feel cursed.

I have decided
that the curse has run its course.
I have decided
that this year will be better.
I have decided
that the winds swirling outside my windows
will soften as they pass over my cheek.

And I know
that belonging to the sadist,
that serving the fiend,
that being my Daddy's adoring baby girl
has strengthened me to cope with whatever may come.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Oatmeal Girl & the 7 Gay Dwarfs: Another Jewish Christmas come and gone

This Chinese food and a movie tradition was unknown to me growing up. I think we were protected from the barrenness of Christmas for Jews by living in a neighborhood that was almost completely devoid of Christmas lights. Plus eventually we were spending Christmas week in our little vacation house in the country an hour and a half outside the city. (The City. Do I have to explain which city I'm taking about? Oh yes, I guess I have to, for my non-American readers. There is only one City. It used to be Constantinople. Now, of course, and forever, it is New York.)

Mostly, I think, my parents never knew of that tradition.

Now, though, as a member of a synagogue, I have a community with which to spend what used to be a very dreary day, no matter how much sun there was lighting up the sky. And today there was no sun at all.

It's a gay synagogue.
Well, not just gay.
LGBTQ etc etc...
I'm one of the very few in the B category.

So we do this Chinese food and movie thing on Christmas Day, although in reverse order. And since the lesbians are prone to nesting, and lots of them are in mixed relationships anyway so may be doing that other Christmas thing, I am often the only woman escorted by a dozen or so gay Jewish men.

I could do worse.

This year there was one other woman, but she was someone's sister, and didn't really count. And when our ravenous horde finally sat down to the three round tables they needed to accommodate us, I could honestly describe it as what in jest I have cited for years.

Oatmeal Girl and the 7 Gay Dwarfs

The meal was delicious.

And the movie?

True Grit.
It's really, really good.
Spare, in a way, but rich, too.
And marvelous acting.

Plus there's this spanking . . .
The crotch of my plain, white cotton panties provides mute testimony to my reaction.

Merry Christmas to all of you, however you chose to pass the day.

Friday, December 24, 2010

The very best present of all

Say it.

I love you, Daddy.


I love you.
I love you...

Good girl.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Open invitation

run your mind
across my belly
leaving nicks
and tiny scars.
i am your country.
drink my tears.
fondle my trust and
swim in my love.
it's all yours anyway.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Daddy comes for a blow job and finds peace

Daddy needed his baby girl today.
I knew he would, even before I knew he did.
The world devours him this time of year.
At this time of year, the world feeds on him.
His life is not his own.

He's been surprising me.
I usually see him once a week.
More often than not on a Wednesday.
When work puts him near my home.

As jcn e-mailed me this morning:
It's Wednesday...
"...and in Silver Spring, MD, Wednesday is cocksucking day..."
Oh, the Prince spaghetti ads of my youth...
[Some people are far too observant for their own good.]

But this time of year, with all the demands made on his time, I don't expect much. I didn't expect much. Or rather, I expected to go for weeks without seeing him, without engaging in more relaxed visits courtesy of Yahoo Instant Messenger, with little more than a quick e-mail here and there.

But Daddy needs his baby girl.
He needs his special little girl.
And week after week he has found time for visits.

I am his Daddy's baby girl. I give him something no one else can. And with me, he can free that part of himself, with all its sweetness and all its vulnerability, that no one else gets to see.

Now don't go thinking that my Daddy is a total cuddly fluff bunny when he has me naked at his feet, ecstatically sucking his cock. Or when he has me pressed against the wall - a fully clothed Daddy molesting his naked little girl - and he grinds his cock into the crack between my baby butt cheeks. There is nothing innocent about any of that. My Daddy is the sadist is my Daddy. They are not separate beings, just different facets. And they wallow in transgression.

So I settle down on my haunches, knees far apart, naked between his feet as he rules his kingdom from the chair that may or may not be a genuine Eames chair, and I suck his cock with my sweet baby mouth until he pulls me up and kisses me for what seems like hours and is never long enough. And when he releases my mouth I see all the sweet softness in his eyes, and he sees the love and perfect surrender in my mind, and he takes my left nipple between two fingers of his right hand and squeezes until the sweet pain dips its toe into hard pain and something changes and we are together in a place of perfect intimacy. And then he places his large hand against my throat and squeezes.

And I do not struggle.
I am his in pure surrender.
I am his special little girl.
I am his special treasure.
I do not struggle.
I am his in perfect trust.
And he protects me.

I am my Daddy's special little girl. And in my mouth, in the middle of insanity, he knows he can find relief. But it's more than the relief of orgasm. There are lots of people who can give him that. Who would love to give him that. But here...

Here he can be.
Here he is loved.
Here he is accepted as everything he is.

Here he can be my Daddy.

I love you, Daddy.

And I am here whenever you need me.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010


I made it out of the house today.
I'm so proud of myself!

SAD makes me antisocial, and now I'm noticing a seasonal tendency towards agoraphobia as well. After all, why should a hibernating bear cub need to leave the cave? (I read this morning about a traveling Russian circus on an 8-day road trip. It was a long, cold trip for the four bears traveling in a truck, so naturally they went into hibernation. Their trainer plied them with strong tea and chocolate to try to keep them awake. Maybe that's what I need.)

But bears don't usually need allergy shots. Or have appointments with the hairdresser that are as much about spending an hour with a friend as about being made beautiful. Not to mention the massaging shampoo chair... So I did have to leave the house, finishing up the trip with a stop at the Trader Joe's next door to the hair salon for hibernation provisions.

And when I finally got home?

A treat.
A much anticipated treat.
An IM visit with the sadist.

I was such a naughty girl. He was working as we exchanged messages. He was trying to work, he was trying to type things and fielding phone calls and I was sending him messages about how his special little girl would give her Daddy a lovely blow job while he was talking on the phone and he ended up getting distracted just from what I wrote. I did have to laugh at that. The idea of Daddy losing focus is ever so funny.

But we were talking about things, too.
We talked about how people know only part of who we are.
It's natural, he said.
No one talks to one's friends and one's mother the same way.
But it's more than that.
We show different faces.
I like to think I am the same person at all times, he said. But no one is.

Maybe it's like with a kaleidoscope, I said. All the pieces are always in there. But shake the tube, turn the ring, and you see something different.

All the pieces are always in there. And sometimes we don't know ourselves what is in there. Not until someone else comes along and says - I see you. I know who you are. I look straight through the glass and see all the moving pieces and I know just what to do to get all the different pictures I know are there. Come to me. You are beautiful. You are my special little girl and you are beautiful and I will show you just how beautiful you are.

Come to me.
Give yourself into my hands.
And I will show you who you are.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Wanna watch?

Well! There sure must be a lot of voyeurs out there. Or at least voyeurs who can readily translate descriptions of an activity into provocative visions. Because my series of masturbation posts got a spurt of hits. Of course it's possible that's because I am one of the few bloggers still writing regularly this month. One advantage of being Jewish... no Christmas shopping! (And no, growing up we did not get a present each night. Who could afford a present each night? Maybe one record. Remember LPs, anyone?)

Anyway, back to my recent orgy of public masturbation. It has stopped for the moment. Enough is enough. I got sore. I mean, my pussy was sore. Which of course speaks to the fact that I probably should be masturbating every day, to keep it moist and supple. And I might have continued but I pleaded for relief and my sweeter-than-he-admits Master allowed me to stop.

He was somewhat dubious about my complaints, however. So he decided to test the condition of my pussy.

Of HIS pussy. Luckily, it was feeling much better after a day or two of rest, because last Wednesday he shoved two large fingers deep inside me and fucked me most energetically. (I left that out of the telling. Saving a little morsel for an unexciting day.)

It was delicious.
And it did not in fact hurt.
I suspect he was a little disappointed.
But oh... it felt so very good.

He doesn't usually fuck me. For various reasons, the main activity is usually a display of my exceptional cocksucking talents. Time is short and his concern is his own pleasure. Every so often, though...

[she sighs from the memory]

Such a happy little girl.

And no.
I'm not going to give you a blow by blow description of that.
I may be a bit of an exhibitionist.
OK, yes, I am a shy person with an exhibitionist streak.

But Daddy has a right to his privacy. So no detailed description of what I look like with my head bobbing up and down in his crotch. Although I have no problem with mentioning that my duties leave me absolutely disgustingly sopping wet. Warm and velvety and oh so wet.


All this gave me the idea that you might enjoy watching me do other things.
Laundry anyone?
(Oops. I forgot. I did mean to do the laundry today...)
How about cleaning the litter box.
Those with an ass fixation might enjoy that...
The way I have to bend over?
And the whole thing could easily be made very humiliating.
Do I see any hands raised?

Washing the floor.
The kitchen floor.
That could be a good one.
The philosopher and I had plans for that.

[she sniffles as she remembers the philosopher. broken hearts take a long time to mend.]

The plan was for me to get down on my hands and knees and scrub the floor, which always needs washing as I very rarely do it. He would stand over me, cane in hand, tapping the business end on his palm, ready to give my butt a sound WHAP! if I missed a spot.

Still. Even without the philosopher, I could wash the floor. (I really do need to wash the floor). I'm sure the cats would be highly amused. I could wash the floor, all naked, and give you all a juicy description.

Or maybe you'd like to watch me write a poem?
Ooh... that could be fun...

Well no.
Not really.
I haven't been writing much lately.

Oh, I've been corresponding with my Daddy, of course, and writing for this blog. But creative writing? The occasional poem for the sadist. Very occasional. No stories, though. It feels as if I burned out with the publication of You awake ahead of the alarm in Best S/M Erotica Volume III. Odd, no? (Hey. Did anyone actually buy the book? Did you like my story? Even if you didn't like my story, I'd still really like to know... Speak up, now. And remember. There's no Sell By date. You could always get it for your favorite whomever for next Valentine's Day...)

But no.
You don't want to watch any of that.
Except for me sucking the sadist's cock, maybe.
Or his taking me over his knee,
just because he feels like it,
and giving me a firm spanking until my butt burns.
There are a bunch of you who'd love to see that.
How many would like to watch him flogging my pussy?
Am I getting warm?

I'm not being fair. Because in fact he doesn't hurt me much.
And I'm just flailing around trying to find something interesting to say.
My brain is mashed potatoes
and my creativity is champagne without the bubbles.
Without the alcohol, too.

Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice.
The shortest day of the year.
It really is!
At least here in DC.
I looked it up.
Wednesday will be
than Tuesday.

Isn't that glorious?!

I should be back in action by the end of January.

Meanwhile, who wants to send me some cookies?

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Sex toy party - fun for the whole family!

Having received the gift of a new sex toy,
it seemed only fair to share the fun with the cats.
Marko had the first shot at trying to get it open.
What he doesn't know is that there is another layer of plastic inside.

Hmm... I wonder what this is good for?
Should I eat it now or just steal it?
Except I can't seem to get my jaws around it!

Maybe if we work together,
we can liberate these 2 shiny things.
Then we can fight over who gets which one.

Given the choice, I'd rather eat the plastic.

(Now that you've seen the cats' reactions,
go read yesterday's post for my own take on
both the Lipstick Vibe and the clamshell case.)

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Lipstick Vibe: my first sextoy review

As I mentioned back in November, my inclusion in the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2010 brought me new attention from unexpected sources. This included a number of invitations to review products, some more appropriate than others. With permission from the sadist, I agreed to test and review an item for

Before I go on, I must say how delightful it has been to deal with my contact at Brittany has been quite tolerant of all my questions and provisos and objections. As it turned out, a number of the staff members are sex bloggers themselves, and some of them are actual fans of mine. Unlike some people, I get nowhere near 800-1000 hits a day, even on special occasions, so whenever I learn about a fan it's very exciting.

I did have to do some clarifying as to appropriate items for me to try out. No to pink plush handcuffs. Yes to vibrators, assuming I received masturbation permission from the sadist.. Eventually I was offered something called the Lipstick Vibe. Based on what some of my blogger friends have been getting, I have to admit to a fair amount of disappointment. I had been envisioning something tasteful. And elegant. And expensive. By LELO. Like this sweet little Siri, which is even purple! I do love purple... But I can understand their wanting me to prove myself.

Once agreement was reached, the item arrived very fast, in a shipping box that was too big for the clamshell inside. Note to the packers at - you could go down a size and save money on shipping. And then there is the clamshell itself, which is utterly excessive. It somewhat resembles the ones my local supermarket uses for their yummy rotisserie chickens. Of course, it's not that big. You could use it for a rotisserie pigeon, perhaps. (OK, that sounds too disgusting. Let's call it a squab. Same thing but somehow more upscale, don't you think?) Still, that whole big clamshell for an item that looks like a lipstick?

And that's the gimmick.

It looks like a lipstick.

So you can carry it with you and anyone digging through your bag to steal your wallet, or looking on without helping when you drop your overstuffed purse as you try to fish out your airplane ticket and everything tumbles on the ground, will not realize that what seems like a lipstick is really a sign of what a shameless, oversexed slut you are. It's when you bend over to gather your things and they get a clear view of your panty-less butt latticed with welts from the caning you received just before heading to the airport and the stark tattoo saying SEX SLAVE that they start to wonder...

Anyway, that's the idea. Or as the package says: "Discreet design fits nicely in your makeup bag."

Makeup bag?

You've got the wrong slut.
I almost never wear make-up.

Anyone who saw me carrying around a lipstick would know something was up. Or figure I was coming back from a job interview. Though maybe taking a camouflaged mini-vibrator to a job interview could be a good idea... I could slip into the ladies' room, have a quick orgasm, and emerge fully relaxed and exuding that certain je ne sais quoi that would make my interrogator either very relaxed as well or else really eager to have me.

[Be back soon. It's time to adjourn to the laboratory and run a few tests.]

[Time elapses. She staggers back to her office, eyes slightly glazed, legs wobbly...]

I take it all back. All the snarky comments. Well, it's not that I take them back, exactly, but they won't count against the final grade.

Because the thing is highly effective.

I admit to being surprised. The thing feels cheap, the concept seems dumb, and the package... But who cares? And while the packaging is excessive, at least it's not hard to get open.

I washed the thing off.
I inserted a single AAA battery.
I checked the settings.

On is very loud. Like my cell phone buzzing when it is sitting on a table, or a very large and vociferous fly near my ear. Given how simple the device is, I did expect it to be loud, as there is nothing to absorb the sound. If I were to use it in that previously mentioned ladies' room, I would have to hope I could persuade anyone in the next stall that I'd had a sudden urge to take an electric shaver to my legs.

On the other hand.
It works.

I headed to the bedroom, yanked off my jeans and plain white underpants (too cold to take off anything else), and prepared to formulate more snarky comments.


I turned on the lipstick and pressed it to my clitoris and then I was elsewhere and this little voice emerged from my lips and I was calling to him and begging him and then the fantasies started and I resisted the temptation to let my fingers take over and then I didn't have to except I kept pressing it against my clit even after I came and got one little aftershock after another and for only $24.99 the Lipstick Vibe is really quite a bargain.

(Do note, though, that this is not a very sophisticated item and the twist controls are fairly rudimentary. When turning from On to Off, it's easy to go a little too far so that it pops open and the battery jumps out. On the plus side, it is said to be waterproof [I haven't tried that feature yet] which does have potential.)

So thank you to Brittany and the rest of the team over at Now can I try out one of those lovely LELO's?

Thursday, December 16, 2010

I am a table

"I am a table," I kept saying to myself, as I tried to hold very still. I was posed before him on my hands and knees, my head raised to keep in view the old movie he was playing for his benefit and mine. Straining my head upward coincidentally deepened the trough running down my back over my arched spine. "I am a table."

"Actually to me it felt more like you were a dish or serving platter." This he wrote afterwards, in response to the obligatory report on my experience of his latest artistic triumph.

At times I did experience it like that.
But mainly I kept thinking "I am a table."
To help me focus.
To not forget.
To hold perfectly still.
To let nothing spill.

Nothing was what I had expected. When announcing the visit, he had indicated a desire for " a nice relaxing blow job. No training, no drama, no big emotional event, just friendly and efficient service from my personal cocksucker." Which was fine with me - not that it would have made any difference if it weren't. Any time with him, every time with him, enriches me and deepens our connection. Even the catastrophes.

And then - the text. About an hour and a half before he was due. "Change of schedule. Text me your earliest availability." I was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, coffee not yet ground, plenty of time... and then this.

I asked for a half hour, regretting the change, assuming an appointment had popped up and the visit would be early and shortened. Shows how much I know.

Another text.
Prepare the DVD.

Now that was a surprise. He'd been talking about it for almost as long as we'd known each other. Talking about its significance for him. About wanting to show it to me. About wanting to do things to me while it played. I had purchased a copy on his orders. And been reimbursed, of course. I bought it in person, not on line, which felt like yet another ritual. I was in a mild trance the whole time. But there was still the issue of when we could arrange a showing. I would remind him of it every so often, and then suddenly it was now.

Things are like that with him.
It accentuates my sense of being subject to his will.
Subject to his whim.
I am his subject.
I am an object.

He arrived with a take-out cup of coffee and a large Black and White cookie packaged in cellophane. If you don't know what that is, look it up. It's a New York City thing. A Jewish thing, I always thought. They were a special treat growing up, those Black and White cookies, but not packaged. Fresh. From the local bakery. They inspire intense nostalgia. So something in me smiled at the sight of it. But I don't know which I wanted more, the cookie (which I shouldn't eat anyway, as I am more or less diabetic now) or the coffee, which was deleted from my suddenly rushed breakfast menu.

I ended up having both.
One way or another.

He made a cursory inspection of his property, no more than a quick glance, then ordered me downstairs with a stop-off in the kitchen for a mug and 2 napkins. No plate.

I missed the significance of that last specification. How could I have known?

The usual rituals ensued, and then he had me start the movie.

He positioned me where I could watch the movie, submit to nipple pinching, and pay appropriate attention to his cock. He drew my attention to the lighting, cinematography, and set design, while pointing out certain significant lines. Then he ordered me on my hands and knees, before him, while at a small distance from his chair and facing the TV screen.

Recently, DL's toy put up a couple of posts (here, with this one as a follow-up, including an overly long comment from me) about giving her sadistic Master a blow job while he watches porn. To quote toy: "It makes me feel like i'm inadequate with serving my Owner and sometimes it even lowers me into the space of feeling incompetent as a slave."

Inevitably, I thought of this as the morning's activities unfolded, including the part that was totally unexpected. The film we were watching isn't normally classified as porn, but it does have a sadistic component and resonates deeply with my own sadist on that and other levels. He was showing it to me as part of my education, as well as for his own amusement and inspiration. Still, some of the concept was the same.

Even if it had been out-and-out full blown XXX-rated porn, it wouldn't have bothered me. Nor would I have felt as if we were competing for the fiend's attention and response. As I said in my comment to toy's post: "I would feel as if I and the porn were all part of a combined effort to give my Master pleasure."

I should note, though, that when he finally had me settle down to some serious cocksucking, he paused the movie. The thought of which makes me smile and feel all-over warm and treasured. He sure does love my cocksucking...

But enough about the cocksucking.
It's not as if I haven't written plenty about that before.
Time to get back to my main point.
Being a table.
Or a dish.
Or a serving platter.

I'm on my hands and knees, facing the TV, head straining upwards to see the movie, when I hear the crinkling of cellophane. Time for his mid-morning snack, I think. He'll settle back for his cookie and coffee, and if he thinks I'm a very good girl he'll break off a piece of cookie and offer it to my mouth. I do love when he feeds me. I wish I could live off nothing but what he feeds directly into my mouth. Drinking only the water he gives me from his cupped hands.

Or with a kiss from his own mouth into mine.

He did break off a piece.
A few pieces.
He broke off some pieces and laid them in the valley of my spine.
He lined them up.
Small pieces of cookie.
And then he bent over me
and ate from my back.

I held very still.
I am a table.
A table doesn't wriggle and squirm.

Small boys drink milk with a cookie.
Big boys drink coffee.
The sadist is a big boy.
He poured the coffee
onto my back
and lapped it up.
The arch of my back formed a trough over my spine.
He poured in the coffee
and licked it off my skin.
Sucked it off my skin.
Kissed it off my skin.

I was afraid it would be hot.
I was afraid it would burn
even after the time that had passed.
It wasn't all that hot.
The next serving was.
Did he pour it from closer?
It doesn't matter.
It was hot.
It hurt.
Not that much.
But enough.
And I welcomed the pain.
I was a table.
I held very still.
I wanted to please him.
I didn't want to spill a drop.
And yes,
I admit it,
I didn't want any drops on my carpet.

He hurt me.
Just a little.
As if he had dripped wax on my back.
But this was coffee.
To go with the cookie.
He ate the cookie off my back
and then he pressed his mouth to my skin
and he drank the coffee off my back.

He hurt me.
I just remembered.
Not that I'd forgotten.
But I just remembered now.
Before I became a table.
When I was just a girl on her hands and knees.
He hurt me.
He spanked me.
How could he not?
Presented with my most inviting ass,
how could he not?
And then he flogged me.

He doesn't often flog me. I wish he would do it more. It's the only implement I can say I love. Except when he uses it on my tits and pussy. The first instance scares me and the second hurts too much.

I'm such a wimp about pain.
But I always submit.
That, however, is for a different post.

So. He flogged me with the beautiful turquoise blue and soft brown leather flogger that his slave constructed from our Master's precise specifications. It is beautiful to see and beautiful to caress and beautiful laid next to my pale skin and only hurts if he whips me very, very hard.

Which he did yesterday.
For just a bit.
It didn't even hurt all that much.
And I loved it.

But tonight I am writing about being a table. And when I wrote him with my feelings about the flogger, he replied: "Part of the reason for the flogger yesterday was to decorate my eating implement."

He does love that word.
There is something of the torturer's mindset to it.
Don't you think?

I am a table.
He placed his food on me.
On me as a table.
On me as a plate.
And he pressed his mouth against my body,
taking sustenance from me
as I do from him.
And I held very, very still
and didn't spill a drop.

The coffee.
The slight burn of the coffee.
I wanted more of that, too.
I didn't get more of the burn.
But I did get more of the coffee.

I was sucking his cock. Perhaps the movie had been paused by then. I had been down on my haunches, down on the floor sucking his cock when he raised me up on my knees and positioned my body close to his. He took the cup of coffee and slowly, carefully, poured some over my left breast and then put his mouth to my pale breasts and licked the rivulets of cooled coffee from my skin and then took my breast in his mouth and sucked the coffee off my skin.

He was eating from my body, and yet I was the one receiving a sacrament.

And the carpet?
Are you wondering about the carpet?
He was thinking of the carpet.
He dribbled the cooled coffee on my left breast with his belly positioned underneath to catch any spills. In the cool dungeon he was still wearing an undershirt, and the cloth caught the errant drops and took them away as a souvenir.

He is a sweet man, my sadist.

And once again, I have been transformed.

We never did make it to the end of the movie, and in truth I didn't see much of what came before. But I have it here and will watch it soon. As for the rest, once my amazing Master left I devoured what was left of the cookie - which was most of it - and gratefully drank the last of the coffee. Then I took a shower.

I felt a little guilty at first about taking the shower. As if I were washing him off me. But as I stood under the warm downflow, I knew I was washing him into me. I gave my body to the water as if to a baptismal blessing, and as happens more often than not after each of my Master's visits, I was embraced by his ownership.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

No dildos today - hooray!

I have been given a reprieve.
At least as far as shoving phalloid items up my pussy.

My pussy is sore.
Very sore.
All that self-fucking.
My aging vaginal innards are just not up to it.
At least not all at once.

Nearly three years ago, I wrote this post (do read it) about the importance of regular masturbation for protecting one's cunt as one grows older. Especially masturbation with some sort of long, fat object inserted. For maintaining elasticity and all.

Well, obviously, what with Daddy keeping tight control of my orgasms, and my normal mode of masturbating being more clitoral anyway, I haven't been doing much in the way of regular cunt maintenance.

So after shoving that disgustingly fat purple dildo up my cunt 2-3 times a day, for just a very few days, Daddy's poor pussy is very, very sore.

I asked nicely if I could please take a little break. Because I'm afraid of it becoming infected. For real. I promised to work with my little purple butt plug instead, and on how to convey to my audience what having it inserted in my tight little ass does to me.

It makes me whimper...

So he agreed.
And said he spoils me.

Which, relative to the way he treats the rest of his human positions, I suspect he does. I don't know for sure. But I suspect he does.


Monday, December 13, 2010

Another day, another dildo

I must admit to a small amount of embarrassment at how brazenly I am manipulating my stats with the deliberately provocative titles I have been assigning to my masturbation posts. Previously, I've observed that the choice of title can affect how many people wander over here to read. But let's say I had not called last Saturday's post Dildo play - on his orders. What if I had called it simply "New assignment." Traffic would have been half.

Now I don't feel too guilty, because I am delivering on the promise of the titles. In some way, the titles are a flirtation, or a clingy, low-cut blouse worn without a bra. You want more of what for now you have been given only a glimpse. And I give it to you. I rip open the buttons, gather my tits up in my hands, and thrust them towards you..

So yes, I did masturbate again today, as well as last night before bed. I've switched to the vibrator. Except that it is currently not vibrating. The battery died, poor thing. No problem, though, because I'm using it for its likeness to a phallus, not for its stimulative talents.

It's not as brutal a penis as is the purple dildo. That one is more like a battering ram. Large and fat and... well, you guys who are so hung up on being well hung, huge is not always an advantage. It can be uncomfortable. I have to be really well greased to enjoy it. The vibrator, however, which you can see in the bottom picture of the right-hand column, is more slender, shapely, tapered, with a nice little bulb on the end. Not meant to emulate a cock so closely, but close enough. And absolutely delicious when inserted.

It was after 6 pm and cold when I finally slipped into my bed and got down to business. It was too cold to take off my clothes, so I stripped off only my jeans and my plain, white cotton panties. This was good in a way, because it focused attention on the body part that was being exercised. I tried to think of something new to entertain my eventual voyeurs, and ended up raising my bent legs and from there plunging in the lovely blue bit of erotic engineering.

Oh my... how could I have forgotten what that position would yield... Delicious... I don't know if it was hitting my G-spot or the end of the passageway but... oh my...

I had been in an unfortunate mood about this session. I was sick of masturbating. I was sick of scheduling sessions throughout the day. I was sick of my pussy being sore, although the switch to the vibrator was lessening that problem. So I figured I'd just do what I had to do, then pull on my clothes and be on my way. I had no urge to cum.

No urge to cum until I impaled myself with the beautiful blue vibrator while my legs were raised.

Then things started to happen inside... I felt my face change... if my voyeurs had been there, they would have seen my face change and known what was happening, although Daddy would have expected me to describe quite precisely and most erotically what was going on.

There was no way I couldn't cum.
I was desperate to cum
I wished I had replaced the vibrator batteries.
I kept rubbing the tip of the vibrator against my clit,
willing it to vibrate.
For some reason, I didn't want to use my fingers.
That would have been a dependable method.
It always is.
but I wanted the vibrator to get me off.

even without the batteries,
it did.

[she pounds out that finally period, and sighs. it was a lovely orgasm.]

There could be worse assignments, no?

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Orgasm denial has its good points

You would think that being ordered to shove a phalloid object into my pussy and masturbate at least 2 times a day would be a welcome task. I'm even allowed to cum each time if that's what my body wants to do - as long as the cumming and recovery time don't cut into my masturbation schedule. But this new regime just got started yesterday and already it's becoming a bit wearisome.

Not that I mind masturbating. Hell, I've gone through periods where I was constantly so desperately horny that I was racing to my bed 3 times a day or more to get myself off. But this isn't for my pleasure. This isn't for efficiency of release. It's to practice shoving those damn dildos up my cunt and pumping away while giving a good show for the men who will be watching me.

This is practice.
This is rehearsal.
And now my pussy is sore.

I'm not accustomed to masturbating with insertables. And normally I can only cum from clitoral stimulation. I do enjoy being fucked, but then it's a bigger event. There's the sense of the guy's body, his warmth, his urgency, his response, his deftness at using his equipment, and whatever sort of relationship we have. And hopefully he's been doing all sorts of things to my body. And kissing. A lover loses a lot of points for being a mediocre kisser.

The fiend is truly the finest kisser I have ever encountered. No question there.

I started this post around 6 pm Eastern Time, and then ran off to see a documentary about some musicians I know. Very interesting, watching a film about people you know... anyway, now I'm home and it's just short of midnight and time to give the cats a little more food so they won't act like starving children in the middle of the night and then I'll take off my clothes and slip into my bed and adorn an implement with condom... I think I'll go for the vibrator tonight. My pussy really is sore, even with all the lube I've been using, and the lovely blue vibrator that the philosopher so kindly bought me is more slender than that monster of a purple dildo. And then I'll give myself to thoughts of my Master's kisses as I practice my masturbation act, simultaneously imagine greedy male eyes latched onto the site of that shaking blue penis pumping in and out of my battered pussy, all the while looking forward to what will come when the whole thing is over.

My Daddy's sweet kisses
and those two precious words,
sweeter still:

Good girl.

But for now...

[she groans]

time to get to work.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Dildo play - on his orders

In the next 48 hours I want you to re-acquaint yourself with any dildos you may have in your possession. I want an orgasm from one before, let's say.... aw hell, let's make it a challenge, Monday COB.

The order arrived last night, just after I had abandoned my post in front of my MacBook Pro in its purple plastic case. So there it was, waiting for me this morning. I knew immediately the message had something to do with serving Daddy's friend.

Of course, being me, I had a lot of questions. Some were a result of my natural curiosity, while others came from my desire to clarify terms, and then to get things exactly right. I reminded him that I had both one dildo and one vibrator. Was he specifying the inanimate dildo only?

Either or both, and I want you constantly working with them throughout the weekend when you have a chance. And reporting, naturally.

This unleashed more questions on my part:

My orgasm will still probably be clitoral, Daddy, unless that is forbidden, as I have almost never cum purely from the actions of a cock inside me. Almost never as in maybe 3 times if that? Is that important, Sir? With a vibrator at least I can position it so it is stimulating the clit while fucking me. Is this in preparation for my new boyfriend? Is it important to his pleasure that he fuck me into cumming? I do want to give him - and by extension you - what he wants.

To which he offered his usual, rationed response:

So many questions (as per usual).

Whatever you can accomplish is fine. Yes, this is related to your playmate. No it is not going to be required that you cum while being fucked (if indeed fucking is what he wants at the moment) but using those implements on yourself probably will be. That's right, my pet. You, naked and spread wide, all eyes upon you, working yourself with tools like a pot of hot candy, perhaps being licked, tickled, pinched, spanked and otherwise manipulated while you do.

So now that I think more on it, make sure you incorporate the large dildo into your regimen this weekend, if only for the sake of stagecraft.

I mentioned that I have a little butt plug. Should I practice with that, too? Yup, he wanted that, too. And a couple of hours later came the final instruction for the day: if I was able to practice before late this afternoon (meaning if the electrician who seemed in permanent residence was done by then), I should call his voice mail once the chosen item had been inserted.

Which I did.

By 4:45 the electrician was gone and I was naked, my nipples hard and shining from the cold and the monstrous purple dildo, encased in a condom and coated with AstroGlide, plunged deep into the embrace of my tight, moist pussy. I put my Blackberry on speaker phone and positioned it on the pillow next to me, gave the giant purple dildo a few good, hard shoves to get it properly rooted in my cunt, and then called the fiend's phone.

Fucking myself for him, for them, on top of calling his phone and hearing his voice in the outgoing message, immediately put me in that place. I was transformed. My own voice changed, as it always does for him without any deliberate effort. My voice changed and my face changed and I was in another dimension as I forced that horribly big purple piston past the guardian gate that keeps my pussy so tight. Slowly, I pumped the phony phallus in and out and described my actions and described my feelings until a buzz signaled that my time was up.

In fact, my time was just beginning. Here is what happened, as I e-mailed him when I regained my strength and awareness.

I came, Daddy!
Just from fucking myself with the monster purple dildo!

I really surprised myself, Daddy I didn't expect that to happen without my paying attention to my clitoris. And it didn't even take that long. It happened around 5 o'clock, so not that long after I called you. (I hope you could hear my words OK, Daddy. I put the phone on speaker and then put it up on a pillow not far from my head. Did that work?)

After I hung up, I fucked myself a little more and then changed position so I could see my pussy in the mirrored closet doors, and watch the purple monster moving in and out. I think you both will find the view quite enjoyable, Daddy. I moved the giant thing around a bit, to get different views, and then went back into my regular spot on the bed and focused on impaling myself. First I went slowly, and then started going faster and faster and suddenly I felt everything start to build, Daddy, and started wondering if I could possibly be working towards an orgasm and then suddenly there it was!

If I feel myself cumming again, as I continue to practice, am I allowed to let the orgasm happen, Daddy?

Thank you, Daddy.

Oh, and I really did concentrate on the exercise as being for you, for the enjoyment of those watching me, with my own enjoyment only tangential as it would increase your own pleasure.

To which, a few hours later and mere minutes ago, he replied:

Your last sentence probably explains why you were able to cum, as well as why it sort of snuck up on you.

Not only do you have my permission, but I encourage you to climax as many times as you can, but no pressure. You have already fulfilled my requirement.

I am a very happy little girl, knowing that I have performed well.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Serving his friends - details emerge

He calls them my boyfriends, these men to whom he is offering me.
People within his sphere of influence, he said.
Me, I sometimes just call them his friends.

This evening, he had dinner with the one probably next in line to enjoy my services. My talents, my body. He has been working on two scenarios. One involves one man, a nice one, who had asked what I enjoyed. The other involves two men, at least two, and they are not nice. They will hurt me - within, of course, the protective guidelines that Daddy has established.

Dinner tonight was with the nice man. Again, the man asked the sadist what I liked. Daddy said it took a while before he could stop laughing.

The man is tall, professional, around Daddy's age. Since he is described as "nice", I assume he is not a sadist. But he knows that I am Daddy's to offer, and he has "specific preferences", as Daddy puts it. So kinky in one way or another.

And that's pretty much all I know for now, except for one or two other details that I don't want to mention so as to protect his identity. Which means I'm squirming with curiosity to know more.

The interesting result of what I was told is that now I don't feel like I'm Daddy's little whore, and that he is pimping me to his friends. Rather I feel like this is a chance for me to help someone. Take care of his needs. Make someone feel good.

Isn't that nice?

When the sadist first mentioned giving me to his friends to use, ever so long ago, I was very uneasy about the whole thing. And now...

I can't wait.
Daddy does love to make me wait...

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Hibernating; OR Why I can't masturbate

You would think that with all that lovely stimulation - mental, physical, even (dare I say it) romantic - I would be exceptionally eager to take advantage of the masturbation permission the sadist granted me after his visits of this week and last. Plus I was even given extra leeway so that I could try out the sex toy I was sent to review. Certainly, Daddy's gentle attentions to my body made me disgustingly wet, and now as I think of his touch I'm all squirmy again. But overall I am so deadened by SAD that I have no independent sex drive whatsoever.

I don't even have enough energy to fantasize my way to wanting to masturbate.

Can you imagine? Now you know I'm nonfunctional!

At least I'm not depressed. I'm still managing to avoid depression. And I do manage to do one thing a day, outside of writing my blog posts. (Odd... I wonder why I'm actually being more regular about posting this week...)

Today I brought in from the car the 50 pound bag of chicken feed I use for kitty litter. Pretty impressive, considering I bought it on Saturday.

I should think masturbating would be good for me. Get the blood flowing. And certainly there are many memories that set my pussy dancing without having to manufacture fantasies. Such as when Daddy pulled my naked, kneeling body against his own as he sat up in the Eames chair. He pulled me close to him and resumed caressing my left tit with his large right hand. So gently, he caressed me... I felt my arousal rising and reached out for it... but Daddy, my sweet Daddy, gently said "Don't push, baby. Don't force it. Just give yourself to it." And I relaxed and felt everything and floated up with his tenderness, not cumming but flowing with the stream of sweet pleasure and gratitude and love as he taught me about my body and gently, tenderly, spoke of how beautiful I am.

Don't you think that should make me want to lie back on the bed and try to caress my left tit the way he did? Don't you think that should make me want to fondle the moist velvet of my-right-this minute very wet and twitching pussy?

Alas... SAD is a ruthless Dom who continues to deny me orgasms even when Daddy allows them.

Maybe you could cum on my behalf?

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Well, I think he's romantic...

In a private response to a comment I left on one of sin's blog posts, a mutual reader (and new friend arising from that conversation) wrote:

Your Master might believe we read you for some romanticized glimpse of your relationship and Him, but I don't. I don't think your other readers do either. To my mind, he is the least affable and romantic of all the Doms written about. I'm not implying he is not attractive or worthy, but romantic? Oh Hell No.

As you know, the sadist loves to read comments about himself, so I passed on her words. His response was brief and to the point.


On hearing the fiend's response, my reader later clarified:

I meant that you did not romanticize him, not that he wasn't romantic, or affable.

But I think that her initial statement was both true and honest, especially as she had previously added:

I must say, his sweet side does not come through on your blog ;-).

Honestly, I have no complaints with her characterization of either the man himself or of the way I present him here. In fact, for reasons which I can only suspect, he makes a great effort to sabotage any inadvertent hints of the romantic in his feelings. Yet her words seem to have gotten under his skin, and he brought them up today during his visit. On two separate occasions.

And so, I wrote this in my post-visit report:

Ah, Daddy, if I didn't want to risk misinterpreting, I could say you were very romantic indeed.

The way you touched me today, the way you stroked me, the way you kissed me, so sweetly and tenderly... if I didn't know you would reply that you did it only because you thought you'd enjoy it, or to achieve a certain effect, I would say that was very romantic. But I try not to misrepresent you, Daddy, try not to romanticize you in my writings, so I hold back from saying those things.

Still... the way you made me feel, Daddy... your sweetness... the intimacy... I felt so close to you.

I still feel so close to you.

My body is remembering the beauty of laying my head against your belly, of melting into you, of feeling so soft and of feeling your softness too, Daddy...

I rein in my mind and cross out words before I even write them.
But my nipples still sigh, still feel the tender caress of your mouth.
My body is seeking you.
I want you.

Thank you, Daddy.
I am your own baby girl.
And I do love you.

He always kisses me. Amazing, long-lasting kisses. Beautiful, gentle, soft, seeking, devouring kisses from which at times the beast emerges with a hard bite on the left side of my lower lip. There is always that softness. That sweetness. But today, there was something more. He caressed me. Something he almost never does.

He had me lie down on the opened futon, on the dark red sheet that shows off the pallor of my skin. He sat on the edge, bent over me, and softly, sweetly, kissed and licked and sucked my nipples. So sweet... so gentle.. so arousing in a soft and floating way. And then with his fingers he stroked my breasts and caressed my belly. Softly, sweetly, gently caressed my belly.

And later, as I knelt before him, he again caressed my breasts, and if I didn't forbid myself from using that word with respect to his feelings for me, I would say he caressed them lovingly. He gave my bottom little spanks that can hardly be called spanks at all. They were so light and tender that they, too, were almost caresses. He called me his baby girl, he was my sweet gentle Daddy with the tone in his voice and the look in his eyes that emerge when he is my sweet gentle Daddy. They are not put on, the voice and the look. They are part of him, my sweet Daddy is part of him. As is the beast. But the way he caressed me...

It is not safe to say this.
It is not safe to see it.
It is not safe to feel this
because I am vulnerable enough as it is.

Love and romance are not on the table.
And yet.
The way he kissed me,
the way he caressed me,
the way he looked at me,
the way he spoke to me...

If he were anyone else
I would say he was loving.
If he were anyone else
I would say he was romantic.

But he is who is he.
And the situation is as it is.
So I don't think things that I shouldn't.
I just enjoy what is there.
I smile and I float and I treasure what is there.

And I bury my suspicions.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Coming soon: Daddy shares his toys

Well, one toy anyway.
A very special one.
His treasure.

There has been an agreement in principle.
Now, as the sadist says, it's all a matter of logistics.
Coordinating availability.
Gathering the cast members,
preparing the set,
while the fiend puts the finishing touches on the script.
He will be writer, director, producer, and audience.

And me?

I guess you could say I'll be the prop.
Used by everyone.
Passed from hand to hand,
from mouth to mouth,
from cock to cock.
Appetizer, entertainment, and dessert.

There are, of course, details I don't know. Is he talking about the one friend? The one who will give me pleasure for my Master's pleasure? Or the more difficult event, with two or more, at which even with the sadist's safeguards, I will suffer as I embrace my objectification. For me, even a small amount of pain put me in that place, and although the torment will come from people I don't know - especially because it will come from people I don't know - I will yield to it in perfect surrender.

Whatever you want, Daddy.
Do to me whatever you want.
Watch them.
Watch me.
I will give you what you've been waiting for.
And I will make you very proud.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Knife banned; belly relieved.

The knife is off the table.
Left in the car, most likely.
Just to be sure.
Just to be safe.

We've been talking.
About the danger.
Or what passes as talking in our electronic world.
E-mails filled with cautious questions
and answers that clarify even as they disturb.

I am ready to see. I am ready to understand. I am ready to learn and arm myself and still, in the end, surrender, knowing that my safety is not guaranteed but that in his own self-centered, egotistical, amoral way he will do his best to protect me from the sadistic hungers that demand to be fed. I am worth too much to him to risk losing. I am his treasure. When you feel like breaking dishes, you don't throw fine crystal against the wall.

Two years ago, we came apart. He sent me a voice mail, and I completely misunderstood the message. It was only about 3 and a half months into our relationship. Everything was still so strange and new and often incomprehensible. When you speak in metaphors, as we both do, and are as economical with words as he often is, there are always dangers of misunderstandings.

The voice mail, which he had told me was coming, contained only 8 words.

Be careful what you wish for, my pet.

Eight words,
followed by around 3 minutes of tortured screams
from his tortured masochist slave.
It was horrible.
It made me nauseous.
It made me nauseous and angry
because I didn't understand why he had sent it.
What his purpose was.

I didn't understand.

Plus, like now, it was December and I was struggling to hold myself together. Struggling against the dark. Struggling against the dark and the SAD and the stress of my job and of not being able to escape to the Arizona sun. Add to this my tendency to think too fast. Meaning not that well. My brain races ahead - from the ADD, I suspect, as well as from being too smart so ultimately stupid. It races ahead and skips over things and makes assumptions and in the end really fucks up.

This was one of those times.
I really fucked up.

Of course, he did, too.

I sent a long, furious message which I think clearly indicated that I didn't understand what he was trying to say. (Although maybe it wasn't so clear. I'm afraid to look back at it. Afraid to see my own part in the mess. Afraid to relive the emotions of that awful time.)

He's a proud man, my Master.
He wanted to warn me.
Warn me of the danger.
He wanted me but he wanted to warn me
and he did something risky and extreme and it didn't work.
He could have saved it.
He could have written back and explained.
But he didn't.
Perhaps he took my reaction as a sign.
Perhaps it broke the spell.
In any case, it was over.

About a month later, he took me back. I won't go into how and why it happened, but it did. Extraordinarily for him, he took me back. And we've been struggling along ever since. I still infuriate him, raise his blood pressure, add to his grey hairs... and give him things he can get from no one else.

He is still warning me of the danger. More and more explicitly. And suddenly, this weekend, I remembered that voice mail and as if the sun were sending holy rays through a Cecil B. DeMille sky I suddenly saw it. I remembered and saw and suddenly knew what he had been trying to say.

I felt so bloody stupid.

So I e-mailed, with an apology for my denseness and he was kind enough not to berate me for my stupidity. We talked, back and forth and back and forth - about danger and risk and warnings and his attempts to protect me with no guarantees that he would succeed. We talked and it was clear now and on a few points he was more specific than usual, and on others, even with his obfuscating generalities, he gave me a view into things he hadn't discussed before.

I am not running away.
I know the danger and I am not running away.
I know the danger but I also know how hard
he is trying
to protect me.

And I know certain specifics.
Such as the banning of the knife.
And an assurance that I will be safe with anyone else who gets to enjoy me.

I am his pet.
I am his treasure.
He will take care of me.
And I will continue,
with a clear mind
and open eyes,
to surrender.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

The Shapeshifter

Seductive whispers salt the night with fear.
Come to me...
Stay away!
Bare your breasts...
Flee my claws!
Offer me your pulsing throat
but don't expect romance and kisses.
I'll tear your flesh, devour your life.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
locked in a lethal lover's quarrel,
good and evil, both alluring,
battle for his soul and mine.
"My name is Beast and I am a sadist."
What do you say
when the one you love
must warn you away from himself?
What do you do
when you look in his eyes
and see the hungry crimson glow
and feel him changing in your arms
from wolf to serpent,
from tiger to shark?

I am his treasure.
I am his pet.
The warning is posted throughout the town.
Predators roam the streets.
Keep your cats safely indoors or
coyotes will eat them for breakfast.

Friday, December 3, 2010


Doms and sadists.
By and large, I take them with a handful of salt.
Thrown back over my left shoulder.
Plain, ordinary iodized salt.
None of that fancy sea salt.
Don't want them to get a swollen head.

Of course, my view of submissives is liberally sprinkled with salt as well.
We're a romantic bunch, we submissives.
Easily swayed by a whole assortment of hypnotic techniques.
A word.
A look.
A touch.
A raised eyebrow.
A voice.
We lose perspective.
We get carried away.
Their power washes over us,
the power they like to think they have,
and our brains short-circuit.

We're never the same again.

They know it.
Or they think they know it.
Doms and sadists,
they think a lot of themselves.
They think they have that
and it should work with everyone.
Oh yes, they can be full of themselves.

Like the ones who come on to you on FetLife, going on about what they're after without bothering to read your profile that clearly says you're quite happy with what you've got, thank you very much, and anyway you live clear across the country.

It's all a question of his finding the right word, of course.
Or the right person for whom his usual word
raises sparks
or destroys vigilance.
And then all common sense falls away and you become mush.

The fiend disarmed me by being self-deprecating. Pretty funny for someone who is so massively narcissistic. But that's what he did. Played at diminishing himself. He was funny and charming and literary and I was lost within a day.

Actually, I was lost from that very first message with which he approached me on - yes - FetLife. He is extraordinary. He truly is. He is scary and smart and wry and demanding and I will never, ever be able to present a proper picture of him. So I toss out bits here and there, more as a way to explain me as anything else. Because I know it's hopeless. It's hopeless trying to explain him.

Just as the rest of you submissive bloggers will never really be able to convince me of what you see in the one who - to one extent or another - spanks you and fucks you and runs your life. To me you all seem - to one extent or another - brainless ninnies who have been swallowed up by the machinations of some self-important man (mostly men, but of course not exclusively) who thinks he deserves your worship.

I don't like self-important men.
And I give true respect only where it has been earned.

I do not completely exclude myself from the brainless ninny category.
And I don't deny that sometimes I sound like one.
Still, you must read me and all of us with a bit of detachment.
How much is real?
How much is exaggerated?
How much is real but edited for effect?

The sadist is a dangerous man.
That is for real.
He also has his vulnerabilities.
He has his soft spots.
And sometimes he lets the mask slip.

Still, the question has arisen - which is the mask?
And which is his true face?

Me, I think it's one of those composite pictures. Or the blind men and the elephant. We aren't blind, all of us who have our little places in his life. But we only see what he wants to show us, and each of us sees a different part. I think he is disconcerted at his occasional urges to briefly remove my blinders, to drop the masks he has chosen to wear in my presence, and show me the wounds that fester below.

There are many kinds of danger, and I am not the only one who at times feels a threat.

The sadist is a dangerous man.
This I know, and am given more reasons to believe.
He seems to want me to know.
The sadist is a dangerous man.
But he protects me.
He does his best to protect.
The beast is banging on the bars,
but Daddy will protect me.

So this weekend he has arranged to let the beast out of his cage in a situation where that is... appropriate. The creature will gorge himself and, unlike the scene in La belle et la bĂȘte, there will be no risk of my coming across him with blood dripping from his maw.

No risk of my vomiting as I see him tearing a deer to shreds.
And no risk of my kneeling before him
and offering my own throat to his waiting jaws.

Somtimes love makes no sense at all.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Protection from the beast and the wolves

A visit from the sadist always requires certain follow-up tasks. I must e-mail a report on my experience of his visit. If I recited a new poem, I must e-mail him the text. And if I was allowed or ordered to masturbate, I must send him a report on that as well.

Serving the fiend does not allow for emotional squawking. He is quite blunt about his lack of interest in my mental torments, especially as related to things in my life away from him. [I must note that in serious situations he always has just the right sentence or two to stabilize me and establish that he is a much sweeter person than he usually betrays.] These post-visit reports, however, are the one place in which, within reason, I am allowed - nay, expected - to give my own honest reactions to what I have been through. To what he has done. To what he has required me to do. To what I have learned and to what I have suffered. My words give him pleasure, as do my emotions, and we both learn.

He has of late [anyone recognize the source of that phrase?] been surprisingly open about the beast. He now refers to his alter ego by name, and has given me some details about some of his actions. There have been various periods in our relationship where his struggles against his own personal Mr. Hyde have been particularly intense, and one time [I'm too lazy to find the link to that post] when he was close to sending me away because he feared he couldn't keep that very bad boy from taking control and hurting me in ways that Daddy doesn't dare allow.

As I said in my last post, Je suis la putain de Papa, yesterday we both felt the presence of the beast. I saw him leering out through Daddy's eyes, trying to break through the force field my Master has erected to protect me. We talked about it afterwards - Daddy brought it up - and I talked about it more in my report, as did Daddy in his response. We both have our fears - mine that I have this urge to summon the beast and Daddy that eventually the creature will take hold of him to a greater extent than he has before.

I have another fear as well, which I debated bringing up in my report and then decided not to.

The sadist likes to scare me. He enjoys mental torture at least as much as the physical kind. Combine with that his penchant for planning and the delight he gets from living through an event in his head before it actually happens and you can just imagine the fun he is having as we suddenly move much closer to the next time(s) he shares his precious pet with others. On top of that, we have my own tendency to anticipate, to embroider, to fantasize, and the stage is set for him to tease and taunt and torture. He sparks my speculation but provides only just enough detail to both arouse and frighten me. He knows I am an expert at scaring myself, and he only needs to add a few bits of kindling to the flames.

Yesterday was a prime example. He spoke a bit about the acceleration of planning, and answered most of my questions with "maybe." One issue for me all along has been what kind of men (and maybe not just men) he will be bringing to me. While it now sounds as if one of the visits will result in some rare pleasure for me - solely because it will entertain Daddy - the other one (or more than one other one) will definitely include people who will hurt me. And here lies the big question. Here is where I try to balance in my mind what the sadist is saying - because he is of course a sadist and enjoys my fear - with what I know of Daddy and his desire to protect me. The one time so far that he did bring someone else to enjoy my body, the pain I suffered was minimal. Yes, I was spanked and flogged and beaten with some sort of leather strap, but none of that really hurt much. I was even wishing the man would beat me harder. The only real pain came when the sadist himself took a couple of whacks at my butt with the cane, more to show off than anything else. After the other man left, Daddy revealed that he had told him that I had very little tolerance for pain and warned him to hold back.

Now that man is a switch, and one of my Master's other submissives, so is perhaps less into inflicting serious pain as well as being very obedient to our Master's orders. Daddy describes these new men as being "in his sphere of influence", so probably also somewhat likely to respect any guidelines he sets out for the event. On the other hand, it does seem that they are sadists of some stripe, and that the beast is sitting at the table as they plan the event. I fear they may all egg each other on as they write the script. Still, Daddy has shown time and again his commitment to protecting me, to protecting his property, to protecting his investment in his treasure. Protecting the time he has put into polishing his jewel into a source of enormous pleasure. I am special to him. So I think (I hope) that I may enjoy the arousal of contemplating my very harsh treatment at their hands (mouths, cocks, canes and belts) while keeping safely tucked away in a cozy corner of my wildly fantasizing mind the knowledge that Daddy will in the end protect his precious little girl.

I hope...

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Je suis la putain de Papa

Today, I licked his cock in French.

He told me I could tell you that.
That I licked him in French.

Which he had ordered me to do. Yesterday. My brain was moribund yesterday, due to the dark and the wet and the continuing exhaustion from my trip north. I had sent him a morning greeting but admitted I didn't really have anything to say. He was not pleased. He doesn't care if I exercise my body or not, but he will not tolerate an idle brain. So he gave me 3 phrases to translate into French. Phrases which I was to translate and then use today while serving him.

I am your whore, Daddy.
Enjoy your little girl.
Fuck my mouth, Sir.

Everything sounds better in French.
And everything tastes better in French.
Not my Daddy's cock.
That is always delicious.
There is no cock in the world as sweet as my Daddy's cock.

It's the words that taste better in French.
It's the words, in French, that are so sensuous in my mouth.

Je suis votre putain, Papa.
Tenez plaisir de votre petite fille.
Baisez ma bouche, mon Seigneur.

To fuck.
The word they told us never to use.
Of course, that was back in Junior High School.

I didn't tutoyer him. I used the formal vous. Votre. A sign of respect, a reflection of my place kneeling at his feet, and somehow a much more powerful and graceful signifier of place than the capitalized pronoun thing.

So I spoke to him in French.
I incited his passion in French.
I sucked his cock in French - lingering over every syllable, saying both for fille and all three for petite. The words in my mouth turned me on.

They obviously turned him on.

The beast was in the room.

Daddy told me later that the beast had been there, trying to get out, but I already knew. I had seen him in Daddy's eyes, in his face, and felt him in the way he tortured my breasts, squeezing their softness, twisting and pinching the nipples, even as he tried to contain the raging sadist who has a name of his own.

There is danger there. I know what to say to arouse Daddy's passion, what to say to make him roar, to make him cum, but those same words, those same images, those same scenarios can summon the beast. It's a fine line, a dangerous line, and the greatest danger is the seductive air of the beast. I know I should stay away from him, but I can't help flirting with him, calling to him, wishing I could dance with him without being destroyed.

Because he would destroy me.
Daddy and I both know that.
He would destroy me and destroy what we have.

And yet, I can't help but thinking that he is sitting in on the planning sessions for my Master's friends to use me. Which both excites and frightens me. As does the whole project. Things are proceeding there. Schedules seem to be coming together to make it possible. At least twice, with different people.

One could be pleasurable for me, Daddy said today.
The other, he said, won't be.
But I knew that.
He has friends who will enjoy hurting me...

Speaking of hurting, that was something else Daddy said I could tell you all. That I hurt him. Something to do with his hamstring. I wonder if he's like me, putting the tension into his leg muscles as he becomes more and more aroused. And oh my, Daddy was most definitely very, very aroused.

And I was grinning.
I knew what I was doing.
I knew the pleasure I was giving him.
Je suis la putain de Papa.
And I am a very good little whore indeed.

Happy Chanukah

On this first night of Chanukah
celebrate freedom
and the power we have
to push back the darkness.

A small flask of oil -
a different kind of love -
they both can burn bright
and hold back the night.

I love you, Daddy.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Flirting with fantasies

Daddy... my fantasies scare me.
The way they are more extreme than my tolerance.

Everyone's fantasies exceed reality.

The sadist's words reassure me. Arousal and anticipation gnaw at my pussy, while my mind spins wild and evil scenarios of rape and beatings and hordes of cocks forcing their way into every approximation of an orifice... my buttocks glow pink, turning a burning red the monogram scar his green-handled knife carved into my skin...

I'm afraid of what it will do to me.
I can't really handle all that pain.
And my psyche is horribly fragile...

I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that such a brutal experience would send me into the place where I'm dark and lost, and that I would sink so far down that nothing I could want or that he could do would bring me back.

But now his words reassure me.
They remind me.
Even he has his limits.
He alludes to the evil things he has done.
He lets slip his scariest fantasies...
the one with the knife...
his green-handled knife
and my pale, vulnerable belly.
A fantasy so seductive that even I can feel its attraction.

And then every so often he reminds me. He lives on the edge, it is true, but he doesn't throw himself over. His appetites are huge, and his dark side is very dark. But he's not a fool. We are both safe from the knife. As he says, he doesn't go in for blood. It's too messy. And he values me too much to send me so far down into that dark place that a verbal slap on the face can't haul me back out.

So yes.
We all have our fantasies.
We may even get to drink deeply.
But most of us stop before draining the bottom of the cask.
For in the dregs lies the poison.
Even the sadist knows that.
He will keep me safe.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Things are happening

Those were his words.
Things are happening.
When you are a glacier,
a move forward of 2 inches a year counts as things happening.
In my mind, a more accurate phrase would be planning proceeds.

The sadist does love to plan. Times, people, locations, implements, everything must be coordinated, arranged, adjusted, lined up perfectly so at last a gentle puff of air from his oh so kissable lips will set off the action. Writer, director, producer, and actor, my Master takes his time and then fusses if everything hasn't played out to his satisfaction.

With all his talk of sharing me with his friends, it is perhaps surprising that there has been only one encounter so far, and that was a good 8 months ago. That hasn't stopped him from referring to his plans for me, from mentioning that he has been talking to one of my potential playmates (as he calls them), or from dropping hints about the various scenarios he has in mind.

These days, I've been itching for the action to proceed. There was something about my previous experience that fed an intense need to be objectified. Something about being used like that, about the feeling of detachment that accompanied being used merely as a source of sexual gratification, fed a need that I can't quite explain. Of course the aftermath was intensely satisfying, as the sadist was highly aroused from watching his well-trained pet perform, from seeing confirmation of what a valuable asset his poet whore had become, and from knowing that everything I did was out of devotion to him. There are so many routes to the extraordinary intimacy we share, to the ecstatic heights we attain, and his insufficient references to the progress of his plans sets my pussy twitching and my mind conjuring possible scenarios.

The cast of characters seems to be growing, and a potential encounter may be nearing. The men (I think so far they are all men) have varying knowledge of our relationship, which will affect the script as well as whether the fiend will be present. I have changed so much over the years of my training that I am no longer disturbed at the thought of giving myself to someone he dispatches alone to my door as if to a suburban callgirl. The mere thought of it sends me to that place, where all that matters is that I am serving the desires of my Master.

Another scenario seems to involve multiple people, men who understand the nature of our relationship. These men will want to do more than enjoy my willingness to be fucked. A couple of days ago, the sadist referred to a conversation with one of these men, who added some of his own ideas to the developing screenplay. This scares me a little, this idea of another sadist adding his imagination to the plot, but it also arouses me almost painfully.

And why?
Why do I want this so much?
Why do I crave that sense of being crassly used?

Contrast this with my fear of a "real" relationship. There are men now who are showing interest. A man who knew me in elementary school, with whom I had lunch on the way home from my Thanksgiving foray up north. My car salesman, who for no good reason called yet again to see how I liked me car. It's not just my concern about how I would explain my need to have an undefined relationship with another man should something ongoing develop. (It won't happen with the old schoolmate. Not my type.) Something in me feels uncomfortable with their interest. And something in me definitely fears that a relationship would lead to my being swallowed up. My relationship with the sadist feels much safer. Sure, at any time he could lose control and hurt me badly. Sure, he could become so caught up with one of his plans that it escapes his control. It is not unreasonable to have some fears for my physical safety, although in general he is working very hard to protect me so that he doesn't lose me.

But emotionally I feel quite safe.

I know the parameters.
I know the rules.
I know the limits.
I know what I can expect.
I know what will never happen.
He knows that I love him.
I'm not sure what that means to him,
but it arouses him and that,
at least,
is something.

I'm tired.
I'm babbling.
I've said more than I meant to say and less.

Meanwhile, I'm writhing in my chair, rocking back and forth on the leather seat, pushing the hard seam of my black jeans through the crotch of my plain, white, cotton panties so that it rubs against my clitoris and between the folds of my labia and makes me crazy hot as I think of being presented naked to the chosen few of his sadistic friends to hurt and fuck and abuse and humiliate as I keep my eyes locked on the eyes of my Master and cry out that they are hurting me and cry out that I love him while a part of me remains calm and focused as I do what he has trained me to do and endure what he has ordered me to endure and rejoice in being what he wants me to be and delight in being what he says I am.

A thoroughly sexual being,
created to serve the sexual pleasure of others.