Clearing a path

She's waiting for you.
She's always there,
waiting for you.
Tiny and naked,
arousing and aroused.
This time she stands on the edge of the shovel,
naked and hot
in the sun and the snow,
perched on the edge,
daring you to ignore her.
Droplets of desire run down her leg.
Sizzling, they hit the ground,
leaving a landscape of
cylindrical tunnels
straight to the sidewalk below.
Pick her up.
Remove your gloves.
Run your smallest finger
between her trembling legs.
Walk down the path to the street,
the high priest of lust, shaking
his censer of desperate need,
melting the snow with the
liquid that boils from her cunt.
When you get to the end,
the snow is gone.
All that remains is a trail of green,
and roses that bloom
where once there were none.


Written for my sadistic Master
and posted here with his permission.

As my red cunt gently weeps

I'm on the couch, legs stretched out, back leaning into the arm, Ketzel asleep at my feet.

My pelvis is rocking, up and back, as if I were fucking a man who was fucking me. My crotch rises to meet his, my lips spread as we connect, opening and then closing so that I am sucking him with my labia. I give one final push upwards, and then rock down as he withdraws before plunging again.

Fantasies are all I get these days. The sadist likes me hot and horny. It makes me more creative. With the economy the way it is these days, increased productivity is worth its weight in orgasms.

Property Report

All clear.
No cancer.
No pre-cancer.
No D&C.

I hung up the phone and e-mailed my Master.

It's funny what happens in our minds. To our minds. It's funny how usage changes thought and then changes reality.

I say: "He owns me."

Well, you know, I can say anything I want. He can surely say anything he wants. The patterns we have set, the way we relate to each other, the rules that he established from the beginning and which I have compulsively taken further on my own...

I do not wear a collar. The marks he leaves in my flesh do eventually fade away. Well, maybe... his initial scratched into my left buttock with the sharp end of the stick he uses as a cane... I can still detect that one with my fingertips, weeks after he inscribed it.

I have not been given any formal category of status. I'm not his slave - that he has made clear. To be called his submissive seems inadequate to what passes between us. He calls me his pet, which has a certain affectionate underpinning that seems appropriate, but I can't imagine looking it up in a BDSM glossary and finding a definition that suits.

Still, he does own me. He owns me in some deeper way than can be conveyed by my being listed in some registry or by the signing of a contract. He has trained me, continues to train me, developing my natural skills and imposing the kind of structure and discipline with encouragement, correction, and punishment that is needed to make me achieve the potential I have always shied away from.

The leash never falls slack.

And inside, I do feel different. My brain certainly, as I write according to a strict schedule every day - although I insist on taking off Friday nights. It's Shabbos, after all.

And my body feels different. Not my body as this abstract thing, or as this collection of sensations and skin and fat and bone. But this body that I live in. I really don't feel like it is mine.

I inhabit it.
He owns it.

And so I reported in, although by right my doctor should have called him directly, to say that this piece of fine art that he treasures as part of his collection has not developed a fatal crack.

But others can be funny about such views. So I made the report, and at that moment I truly felt as if my body - as if I - belonged to him.

And I felt very, very safe.

Tender tissues and sharp instruments

I lie on my back, thighs parted, knees bent, legs raised. The position forces me back onto the cane-tenderized area of my upper butt, the bruising bearing witness to recent abuse. I embrace the pain. That pain.

But not this new assault. Cervix pinched open, instruments inserted, the first passes only mildly agitating, small voiceless complaints sneaking through my compressed vocal cords. Then the real nastiness begins, executed by an implement I'd rather not see.

My sounds change, first to those little wordless emissions he knows so well, then changing to gasps and moans and whimpers. I try to hold still, but can't help writhing, undulating, the waves of my body echoing the waves of pain as cramping attacks this womb he owns.

The doctor apologizes.

"I don't like to torture people," she says.

I smile grimly to myself, and do not share my thoughts.

The Tailgate Party

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

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

I crawl from my place at your feet to the middle of the room and lie down on my back.

"Touch yourself, my pet," you say. "Spread your legs and touch yourself. Writhe for them. Moan for them. Pull apart your lips so they can see the heat rising from within."

I obey. My middle right finger curls up under my vestigial cock, caressing tenderly. My clit smiles at this rare visit; you tightly control my access to such pleasure. The delicate tissues swell and blush, the tiny button hardens, and moisture gathers and swirls. Little sounds without a name issue from my throat. Per standing order, I give my eyes to yours and you feast on the film of arousal that coats my pupils.

My pelvis rocks into my hand, and the finger slips inside the begging hole.

"Don't cum," you warn me.

"No, my Lord." I gasp, hoping it's not too late.

It's half-time. The men give their full attention to the floor show. I glance around. There's not a floppy in the house. The host stands up and cocks his head towards me. You nod. It’s his house. He should have the first shot.

"Sleen," you say.

I comply. Jeans and briefs are left on the floor by the sofa. The host kneels behind me. He shoves two fingers in my cunt, like a mechanic testing the level of oil. He comments crudely on my readiness for use, then slams his cock into me with a surprising degree of aggression. He holds my hips as he rams into me again and again, almost as if he resents his desire and hates his need. I can feel my expression change. His violence frightens me. There is nothing erotic about it. I dry up.

It's simple rape now. His dick is a rod covered with sandpaper. He curses me, but doesn't stop. I'm crying now, my red eyes telegraphing agony and submission. Your cock is pleading for release.

Suddenly my assailant pulls out. He reaches for his jeans and yanks the belt out through the loops. He stands behind me. I take a deep breath.

I feel my pussy open at the first blow of the belt. It opens and flows. I blush as I scream. After ten leather slashes, he resumes his place behind me. As he re-enters, he reaches around and under and twists my right nipple almost as cruelly as you do. I yelp with pain and surprise and the last reservoir of juices floods the delta as if my nipple were a handy spigot.

Again, he fucks me hard. His balls slap against my perineum. There is something about this man that I do not like, but my pussy has disconnected from my head and my heart. My pelvis pushes back into him; my beatable bottom, welted and sore, collides with his crotch.

The other guys are cheering him on. They're enjoying the scene, but they want a chance, too. "Enough already," one of them grumbles. "Give the rest of us a chance!"

His movements change. His prick moves fast and deep. He's large and long, and I feel him banging into the end of the channel. We're both grunting now. And then I feel it. I feel the semen surging through his exulting cock, and whatever he has been harboring bursts out and paints my pussy walls cream.

I suspect he'd like to walk away nonchalantly, kicking me over to the next taker, but he can't. He falls on me, and we both lie there a minute or two, catching our now synchronized breaths.

He forgoes the desired nap with regrets. Only his cock gets to curl up and sleep. He gets off me, giving my ass a slap as he parts, and throwing a compliment towards you by way of thanks.

"That's a hot little fucktoy you've got there, man."

"Good girl," you say.

Written for my sadistic Master and originally posted with his permission here on M. Christian's site frequently felt*.

Saturday, 5 December 2009

I need to cum, damn it!

I need to cum.
You cannot believe how much I need to cum.
But I need to not cum even more.

It hurts. The arousal hurts. My cunt feels as if it has been flogged for the last 2 days and more.

It's all my own fault, of course. I've been writing these scenarios for the sadist, serialized scenarios to keep him amused throughout his busy days. And I've been turning myself on with them. Not surprising, of course, because they came out of my own perverted brain. But perhaps not the smartest thing to do when there is no hope of relief.

It never occurred to me to say those magic words: "May I cum, my Master?" No way. I know I'm not allowed until he wants to unlock the strongbox and dole out a preci0us orgasm for his pleasure. For his pleasure. Mine does not figure in this story. I did let him know of my suffering, because I knew he would enjoy it, and it is my job to maximize his pleasure. So I let him know of the burning pain, and of how yesterday the wet spot in my panties was renewed throughout the day, and of how today the wet spot stayed wet.

My pussy is panting. It is red and swollen, the female equivalent of a cock stuck at full mast, one of those more-than-4-hour erections the ads warn about. It is red and swollen, my cunt, red and swollen and open and dripping, begging to be entered, begging to be filled, begging to be fucked, begging even to be flogged. Anything. Just so long as it gets some attention.

But there are other forms of satisfaction. Such as knowing that my Master knows that no matter how horny I am I will not touch myself. I will not take the relief I so badly need. No way. I am only thinking of it so that I can tell you that I don't think of it. My pussy is his and off-limits as surely as if he had locked it up with an old fashioned chastity belt. Which he has. But it is in my mind.

And he owns my mind.

So I embrace my suffering. I welcome the chains. I envision lying in bed, on a bed, naked, my hands and feet chained to the 4 corners. My Master stands there. Watching me. Watching me writhe. Watching me wanting him. Watching me aching for him to touch me.

Every so often he does.
Touch me.
With the flogger.
Sometimes he draws the falls gently over my pleading labia.
Sometimes he brings them down harder.
It is enough to hurt in a measured way.
Enough to arouse me even more.
The sheet grows damp beneath me.
He flogs my breasts.
I strain against the chains but they keep me stretched tight.
I weep with frustration.

He does not touch my cunt.

He does not let me cum.

I am a very lucky pet.

The Pain Thing

Pain.

If I could, I would make the word pulse on the page, like the pulsing of pain itself. Maybe I should write it in red.

PAIN.

Or in italics.

pain.

I wonder why I keep putting a period at the end of the word? Maybe it symbolizes the impact. Though when he takes my left nipple between his fingers and gradually increases the pressure until I almost squirm away before remembering that escape isn't an option, or when he takes my left nipple between his fingers and gives a sharp squeeze-and-twist so that the pain pierces me like the sudden ignition of a flame...

But even when he canes me, which so far has been the worst pain of all... even when he canes me, there is the horrible impact after each stroke, and then the pain lingers and vibrates down into my muscles...

I am a bell, a bronze gong, struck with a giant bronze stick. You can here the clang of metal on metal, the scream of the bell at the moment it is beaten.

At the moment I am beaten.

And then the ringing continues,
the bell shakes,
the bell sings
in pain and devotion,
in suffering and joy,
the music of submission.

In fact, you know, I am hurt neither all that much nor that often. Certainly not anywhere near as much as one would expect, given that I serve a man who does not play at his sadism. If I were smart, I would not offer enticing scenarios involving pain and rape and degradation, such as I did throughout the hours to ease my Master's day. I worry that I will prod the sleeping beast, the beast who feeds elsewhere, and remind him that I am the meal he craves.

The meal he shouldn't have.

But they are, after all, my fantasies.
And have been for... oh, a good 50 years or so.

To be chased.
To be caught.
To be bound.
To be hurt.
To be raped.
Painfully.
Degradingly.

I started to write out some of the things I imagine. And then stopped. Not that you'd be all that shocked. Well, I dunno, maybe you don't expect them to come from me. Certainly you have read them elsewhere. Flesh, pain, cocks, holes, orifices dripping semen and blood, skin scarred by a web of welts, candle wax dripped from so close that my skin is burnt by the flame as well as by the molten globules...

I don't know how much of it I could stand in real life. But while there are some shared fantasies of suffering and abuse that I know for a fact will happen, and some that are merely four-handed études of arousal, there is this middle collection... these imagined scenes that I poke at again and again, experiences that lure me to walk towards them, to stand before them naked saying:

Here.
I am here.
I want to know.
Teach me.

A small part of me is always watching myself, wondering how someone who was always so cautious (mostly always, anyway) could be so drawn to the flame.

I will hold my hand closer and closer to the fire.
I will be burnt.
I will be hurt.
And I will glow.

Home and needy

I arrived home tonight at around 6:30 and immediately turned on my laptop. It's not as if I had been disconnected while I was gone. Now that I have a BlackBerry, I can bother my sadistic Master anytime I wish with a stream of little e-mails detailing the state of my mind and my body as they both respond to the images with which he supplies me for contemplation and inspiration.

All the visits and activities went well. But there was the odd sense of being 2 people at once... whichever identity was appropriate to the activity, and then, inside, like a warm soothing hot water bottle wrapped in soft flannel, was my submissive self, property of the sadist, dedicated writer, a mind to suck for arousing images and a body to despoil and put to his service.

It felt as if I were always wearing a secret smile.

Along with the now two long stories I am committed to writing over the next couple of months, I am working on a series of pieces on masks - which of necessity is an important image when you are hiding a major part of yourself from most of the people in your life. I'd be grateful for any observations any of you have about how you present yourself to the world (including to people close to you), the efforts you make to hide your other side, and how that makes you feel.

Meanwhile, here I am. Sitting and writing with Marko at my feet. He's happy now. I know how he feels. Thanks to Yahoo IM, I spent a precious half hour back at the sadist's feet, and now I am whole again.

Too sweet

Something's missing tonight.
There's an edge missing tonight.

I'm leaving town until Monday. Going up to New York for a big event, a wild cultural event. Any of you planning on being there?

I feel as if I should be writing something really edgy.
I wanted to send my Master some very inspirational notes.
I think of this, and my pussy pulses, but the rest of me just purrs.

He was here yesterday.

I am not supposed to write about him, and I do try to be obedient, so I won't describe our reunion. I will, however, say these two things.

1. I am sporting no new marks today.
2. My soul is smiling.

Marko is lying on the bed beside me as I write. He is lying on his side, with his belly exposed to my caressing hand. His paws knead the air. He knows I'm leaving town - he and Ketzel have been doing their best to impede my packing by stationing themselves either on top of or inside the suitcase. He knows I'm leaving town but at this moment he is near me and he is very, very happy.

I was very, very happy.
And still am.

There is a bond... unlike anything I have ever known... stronger than the chain that was clipped around my neck and with which I was allowed to sleep last night, cradling it against my belly like a favorite teddy bear.

I bought a Blackberry last weekend. I now have a little computer living in my pocket, masquerading as a phone. Another chain. A very welcome chain. I will be off at my parents for a couple of nights before heading back down to New York for the big event. I will be at my parents with their slow as molasses dial-up connection and my uneasiness at discussing my kinky life on their computer. I doubt I will post anything while I am gone - and I promised to do some work on my new story tomorrow night - but I can exchange e-mails with my master whenever I wish, and easily receive and write text messages. It makes me feel very secure, whether or not we communicate much in my absence.

I am a happily tethered pet.

I suppose by the time I get back I will be bursting with the need to evoke my dark desires. But for the moment, I am swimming in his sweetness, and am quite content to remain there.

Return to the Poetry Sweatshop

The Owner of The Poetry Sweatshop™ is on a rampage. Production is down. Quality is down. Profits are down. And nothing he has tried to improve the situation has worked.

Oh, there are still plenty of poets chained by one leg to their little desks, slaving away to churn out verse of all forms to massage the ego of the patrons who brought them here to earn their keep. At night they are taken back to the lavish dwellings of the plainly pseudo art aficionados. There they perform their work for family and guests. Sometimes the writer will be required to perform privately for the patron, the performance usually extending far beyond a simple recitation. An indescribable level of meaning is added to a work when the words surround a rich man's cock or are slid down a lapping tongue into a reddened, flowing cunt.

So yes, the poets are still chained to their desks by day. And to be honest, while their patrons have been noticing a decrease in quantity, they are mainly too boorish to appreciate true quality when it take a nibble out of their testicles.

The Owner, however, is another matter. He takes pride in his work. He wants to take pride in the work of his charges. He wanders the aisles between the desks, flogger gripped in his fist, a sadistic teacher in a one room school house. He calls working lunches, at which he lectures the hapless writers on organization, outlines, and research. He requires them to spend an hour a day executing little exercises in rhythm and rhyme.

He notes some improvement.
On general principle, he is pleased.
But these poets, property of others, are not his real concern.

There is the one.
The one that belongs to him.
The one who sits naked at a desk apart from the others.
The one with a choke chain around her neck.
The one from whom he expects true art.

The one who makes him crazy.

This one, he knows, has talent.
This one, he knows, has skill.
This one, he knows, has no self-discipline.

He has been trying his best for a year. Kindness, cruelty, instruction, guidance, letting slip ever so slightly the mask that hides whatever feelings lie deep inside.

OK. He admits that he didn't let the mask slip deliberately. It was a mistake, a big mistake, and he doesn't allow himself mistakes. But he'll make up for it. He'll make up for that moment of weakness, those seconds of softness, and he'll get what he wants from her - what he knows is there - if he has to give her up to do it.

So he goes on a rampage. But this time, it is addressed only at her. His pet poet. His private property. His potential pride, if only she didn't let her creativity wash away with her focus.

He storms up to her desk, grabs her by the choke chain, and drags her off to the room her almost never uses. Not the usual punishment room, from which all the poets can hear every scream, every moan, every crack of the whip. This one is worse.

It is completely soundproof.

As he pushes her inside, he pronounces his sentence.
4 days.
4 days alone.
4 days in silence.
4 days deprived of the sound of his voice.

He pushes her inside, and locks the door. A minute later he is back with her laptop and her assignment. And then he is gone.

And that's it. For 4 days. She sees no one. Food and water are slipped in through a cat door by disembodied hands. Not a sound penetrates from the rest of the factory, nor from the world outside.

She cries a bit, and then sets to work.

The Owner, however, is struggling with feelings he refuses to admit. He misses her, damn it! She infuriates him, she complicates his life, and he misses her. He brushes it off, comparing the exercise to having your car in the shop. For repairs. For a tune-up. It's aggravating, it's a disruption of ritual, but it's not that big a deal.

He dreams about her.

At 7 o'clock on the fourth morning, he unlocks the soundproof room and storms inside. She is awake and calm. Waiting for him.

Calmly she hands him the completed assignment.
Calmly she watches his face as he reads.
Calmly, gratefully, she accepts his praise,
as a puddle of pussy juice
pools
on the hard wooden chair beneath her.

Calmly, happily, she takes her place on her knees.
Calmly, passionately,
she sucks his cock the way only she can.
Calmly, worshipfully,
she accepts the sacrament of his cum.

And then, shining with joy, she returns to her desk and produces a book of love sonnets.

What's it worth to you?

I wrote the following as a response to Remittance Girl's impassioned essay entitled New Valuations: Erotica and What It's Worth. Please go read it. And then tell her what you think. It's the least you can do. And while you're there, take some time to read a few of her stories. She is a brilliant, intelligent writer.

Thank you so much for tying together the two issues of money and comments. I never would have thought of it like that, but of course you are right. These are different methods by which a reader parts with something (a few dollars, a few seconds, a few words) to indicate that what you gave was of some value, whether potential in the case of purchase or after the fact with a comment.

In some ways, the greatest reward is a really thoughtful comment, one which adds something to my mind's conversation with itself as I wrote. A bit of payment in kind.

Your words are especially apt for me right now as I try to write a story specifically in hopes of getting it published. In an anthology. In print. On paper. Something I can hold in my hand, if not show to my mother, and say look, I did this, someone thought my thoughts worthy of memorializing in a probably disappearing tangible form. And wouldn't it be nice, since I do write and can't live on what I make at my more respectable job, to receive a few dollars for my efforts?

I was stunned to find out exactly how few those dollars might be. Especially as I remember the $100 I received 10 years ago for a fairly short magazine article.

Still, I'm proceeding with the project. Maybe it's the submissive in me, longing to be tossed a monetary "Good girl."

Right after I read your post, and while contemplating what to respond, I took a quick look at my stats. They were fairly low for last night - I haven't put anything up in over 2 days. But someone had been there who really liked my stuff. Liked my stuff enough to spend 23 minutes yesterday evening looking at 169 pages, and then returning very early this morning to spend 57 minutes on 201 pages.

And what did I get for this?

Bupkes. Goat dung. Less than nothing. Without the electronic surveillance cameras of site meter I would not even know this person had been there.

It would have killed you to have left your calling card on the silver tray by the door? With a little note, maybe to say hi, you moved me, I came 5 times, the butterflies were pretty...

I feel raped.

This comment is too long. I am tempted to delete it and publish it over at my place, but you deserve to know how much your writing affected me. As it always does. The comments section is your tip jar and I'm stuffing in a wad of twenties.

As always, thank you.

Reassurance

It occurred to me that I should pop in here and reassure you all that I am still alive... Which I am. However, I am being worked very hard, with an eye towards maximizing and structuring my creative output. I have to construct a schedule for when I will write (obviously I may spend more time than what I allocate), set goals for what I will write, prepare a damn outline (!), and set milestones of progress along the way.

Some of you may suspect that this is not at all the way I normally operate.
About anything.

I do not deny that this sort of imposed discipline is good for me and will, once I get used to this way of working, make for increased production and better quality. It does not deny me the option of flashes of inspiration, but it requires that I apply myself beyond that.

It scares the hell out of me.
I worry that I can't live up to his expectations.
But I don't really think I have a choice.
I have to try it.
I have to do it.

You may also suspect that the imposition of this structure on me is horribly arousing.
Painfully arousing.
I feel as if I am being caned.

Not so much for punishment, but for correction, for direction, for making it painfully clear that he is quite serious and will not tolerate any shirking on my part.

I can envision him coming by daily, dragging me down to the dungeon bedroom, ordering me to strip and take the position up on the bed which offers my ass for a beating.

And then beat me he would.
Not for long.
A few firm strokes of the cane.
Perhaps 4 on each cheek.
Reminders, reapplied each day, that I must take him seriously.

He owns me.
I am his poet whore.

And just as I am required to suck his cock with all the skill and concentration and devotion that I can muster, so am I required to produce poems and stories with all the talent and intelligence he claims is there.

And thus I will.

Caned and corrected

My butt hurts. The caning yesterday was not administered for his pleasure. The caning was punishment and correction. I am supposed to be prepared to do something whenever he visits, but he hadn't called upon me to do it for a long time. I got lazy. I let it slide. And this time - on a Saturday, when there was more time - I was expected to produce. And couldn't.

So I was caned.

The strip of wood that is used as a cane is not your standard rounded implement. It is a nasty nasty thing, re-dedicated to sadistic and educational use from its normal function. And it has different surfaces. There is a flat side and a rounded side and then the two evil aspects: the two edges where the round part intersects the flat part and a ragged, sharp tip at one end. The tip with which he cut his initial into the top of my left buttock.

Perhaps "cut" is the wrong word, and too provocative a word, considering the reaction to my mentions of the knife - the knife which, in fact, I have never seen. So let us, perhaps, call it a scratch. A deep scratch. A scratch that did not, you will be reassured, cause blood to run down my ample ass.

I was happy when he marked me. I felt it, I knew what he was doing, and I was happy. It hurt, and I was happy. The last old marks were long gone, and I missed them.

And the caning?

Well, you can't ever really be happy about a caning, unless you are a masochist and crave the pain. Which I don't. But I was grateful for the punishment.

I'm sure I have talked about this before. This curious dichotomy. I can't say that I like being caned. But I like having been caned. I am grateful for the punishment. I am grateful for a way by which my wrong can be dealt with and the slate wiped clean. He gets to express his anger and disappointment and I get to suffer and cry out my grief at having let him down.

I am grateful that it is punishment and correction. It is expected to make a difference. It is a stage in my continuing education and development. I love that idea. There is something so positive about it.

I love the chance to demonstrate my submission.

[Pause to wince and readjust my position. The pain is in the muscle, not just in the flesh, and the muscle is pulsing. Caning - the gift that keeps on giving.]

I take the required position on the bed, my ass presented for castigation. The cane strikes. Eventually the accumulated pain makes me collapse down off my knees, flat on the bed. I am struggling with the pain. But - and this is where I am so proud of myself - I immediately, without hesitation, rise back up on my knees, head down, back arched, ass raised, and prepare for the next blow. I don't know how long it will last. It's usually not for all that long, but however long it is, I will cooperate. It's part of the deal.

And that, perhaps, is one reason I love having been caned. Because it says something. It says that we have these roles. Not roles like parts in a play - this is not a game, this is not just some form of sexual diversion. We have roles with respect to each other, we have positions in this relationship. Mine is at his feet. Mine is looking up at him with gratitude for everything he has given me, has taught me, has showered on me to make me worthy of being his. To make me into what he is convinced I can be. Not just the best cock-sucker this side of the Mississippi, not just yet another submissive to fall in love with him and sing his praises - albeit praises better worded, I'm sure, than those offered by any of the others past, present, and future. But what he is convinced I can be as a poet, as a woman, as a person who can embrace her beauty and her talent and her brain and accept her own worth. I am learning to see in myself what he sees, and to walk in the light of his amazing comprehension of who and what I am. All of it.

The blows from his cane, the bruises a beating leaves, the lingering pain that causes me to wince today every time I sit down and rise up... these are as nothing compared to the inner pain and bruises from all those who don't understand me, who don't see my beauty, and who are left befuddled and impatient by the way my brain behaves. My poet's brain.

And finally, the caning makes me feel secure. Safe. It has to do with our roles again, but somehow more, and I'm not sure that I can elucidate what I mean. It's a security that comes from his having the right - which I ceded to him - to train me and mold me, to punish me and correct me. I feel safer from having someone else be in charge of me. I am no longer wandering lost. Like a dog who appreciates being able to retreat to his crate at night, I embrace the safety of my metaphorical cage, and have a clearer idea of who I am because of it.

The sun has set, my brain is growing cloudier, and I fear my ideas have become less distinct as well. Plus it's time to feed the cats and pay the bills. I sit beside Marko when he eats. On the floor. I will wince when I sit down and wince again when I haul myself up. But each time, deep inside, as deep as the muscles that still suffer from the sadist's cane, I will smile with gratitude that my Master has taken me as his.

And that he considers me worth punishing and correcting.

Glowing

caned and spanked
flogged and kissed
left butt marked
with his initial
brilliant blow job
smiling praise
happy poet
hopeful year