There are many ways to share

Imagine two scenarios.

1. You're driving up into the mountains? Here! Take my car. Well, no it doesn't really have 4-wheel drive, but it's kind of beat up already and what the hell, enjoy yourself, take it over rough roads, push it to its limit, I don't care. Enjoy yourself, man! Naah, I won't be bent out of shape if you bring it back with a few more scratches. I'll probably add more the next day. And what the fuck, I've got more cars than I can count. If I can't use one, I'll use another.

2. Thank you, my friend. You did me a great favor. Now let me do something special for you. Come with me to where I keep my most precious possessions. Look at this lovely statue. The purest marble, and yet, when you stroke the stone, you could swear it warms and quivers beneath your hand. It was already beautiful when I acquired it for my collection, but then I polished the stone with my own hands, bringing out the rich swirls that were hiding beneath. Here. Touch it. Run your hand over the curves. You could almost believe it breathes. Stay here for a while, enjoy its magic. But don't let any harm come to this work of art. It is my prize possession.

And now, imagine what we shall call Scenario Two-and-a-half.

Thank you for service far beyond the call of duty. Come. I will take you to a special place and introduce you to one of my most precious possessions. Look. Look at this beautiful ass. And these glorious nipples. I think you will find them to be quite responsive. I've had to take some special pains with her... these artists! But I think you will agree that she was worth the effort. So here. Enjoy her. Enjoy her even more knowing that she is special to me. But be careful with her. Yes. I know. I have many others. But this one...

Well, no. Those weren't my Master's exact words as he introduced his associate to the pleasures that awaited him. But in some ways, they are not that far off. And at the same time, with the same words, he was saying to me:

You are my angel.
You are my treasure.
You are precious, my poet,
my beautiful pet.
You are mine,
only mine,
and have nothing to fear.

And I smiled, and relaxed, and gave of myself, knowing that I was being offered as a very special gift. There is certainly nothing humiliating in that!

Liberation theology - an exposition on Passover

At Passover we speak of slavery
of bondage
of freedom.

Interesting concepts to contemplate for those who say we are willingly owned, whether we call ourselves slaves or not. But freedom also means free to explore who we are, to discover who we, to embrace who we are in all our complexities and confusions. To free ourselves from the bonds of definitions and perceptions imposed on us by others.

I have never felt as strong, as alive, as creative, or as free as I do now.

Blessed is the ineffable name of my Lord.

Sneak preview: he didn't torture me after all

i am still floating.
he did not torture me.
he protected me.
he gave me water to drink from his hand.
he said i made him proud.
he fucked me.
he told me i could masturbate.
he told me i could cum.
and after he left
i curled up in the bed
with his chain around my neck
and floated into happy sleep
and awoke with a floating smile
to find Marko asleep behind my knees
and the tail of the chain tucked between my legs.

oh yes. and the reason why i couldn't tell you more beforehand was that he was bringing another man with him. i was being given as a thank-you gift to be spanked and flogged and fucked. which i was. and that was fine. but you may remember my having been told at one point that i couldn't write anything more about it. so once i realized that the other man (i suppose i should call him t.o.m) was coming, i knew i couldn't say any more.

however, my ever so beloved Master has given me permission to write anything i want about it. which perhaps i will do tomorrow.

meanwhile, here is a lovely little tidbit revealed to me when it was all over. when t.o.m. had left and i was alone with my Master. before they arrived, the sadist instructed t.o.m that he was not to hurt me too badly. isn't that sweet? because my Master knows that my tolerance of pain is limited. the worst pain i suffered today was at the hands of my Master. which made it beautiful.

(some of you may remember that the flogger was especially designed to be relatively gentle, even when wielded with great force, except when directed at targets such as my clitoris and my nipples. yes, he is a sadist. but he treasures me. he protects me. and when he poured the water from his glass into his large hand and gave me to drink, it was with such sweetness, such gentleness, that my heart overflowed with honeyed joy.)

and now, purring, to bed.

Don't ask

I am not allowed to tell you what will happen to me tomorrow.
I do not know if I will be allowed to tell you about it afterwards.

I am afraid.
Aroused, yes.
but afraid.

I am aroused and afraid and terrified and bombarding my Master with one frantic and loving e-mail after another and my cunt is naked and unprotected and looks like it has diaper rash.

I am aroused and afraid and my imagination is working over time and I am ever so grateful that still in my freezer are 2 very large bags of frozen peas.

He left me no protection

i am feeling very soft.
i am feeling very bare.
i am left without protection.
naked, revealed,
exquisitely vulnerable,
stripped of much more than
a patch of scraggly hair.

i am wide open,
everything is visible,
heart, lungs,
veins, colon,
all the little scars of
a long and varied life.
heart. most of all.
and soft.
everything feels soft.

i am so very, very vulnerable.

it was like a ritual.
it was transforming.

i don't think i will give you the details. i can list this and that, but you won't understand. it was a ritual, an offering, think perhaps of circumcision as part of the covenant. i remove this, because you command it, and i offer it to you as a sign of my commitment, as a sign of my acceptance, as a sign of my faith. i make this small sacrifice, and then something changes.

something did change.

one by one, he creates for me these rituals, and by each i am changed. he leads me slowly down the path of his worship, i fall before his altar, i strip off my armor and offer my body and offer my soul.

and he called me angel.
he called me Angel.

Saturday he will come
and i will softly yield.

i am so soft...
i am a cloud...
i am his angel...

i am his.

He will leave me no protection

The order has been given.
Tonight it will be done.

First, the gathering of the tools.
Scissors, razors, cream, lotion.

I will take up the scissors and closely trim the unruly hairs, pulling the tufts of now age-straggled curls as far from my body as I can, sliding the scissor blades up against my pelvic flesh. Then, the luxury of a long hot bath, the water oiled and scented with fear. The razor will be waiting, equipped with a new, sharp blade.

Nothing must be left behind.

My Master demands perfection.

I am to call him.
I am to call and leave a voice mail.
I am to call and leave a voice mail as I soak my body - his body - as I soak this body he owns and controls. The hairs will soften, the skin will swell with moisture, and oh, just think of the moisture that will be seeping between those lips that soon will be exposed to eyes and fingers and...

He will flog them.
I know he will flog them.
He will come on Saturday,
Saturday morning,
and he will flog my naked pussy
and he will flog my naked breasts
and maybe this will be the day,
the day that he will bind me,
bind me to the bed
so I can't provide protection,
can't protect my nipples
from the brown and turquoise lashes
of the beautiful new flogger
he commissioned just for me.
Beautiful, soft falls
that hurt like burning hell
when they crash down on my nipples.
Sweet,
tender,
tortured
nipples.

The razor awaits.
The danger of injury lurks.
The danger of my Master hovers over all.

He will gaze on me.
He will touch me.
He will praise me.

I will beg him to hurt me.

And he will.

Anarchistic hearts

There are a number of blogs that I follow. A number of blogs that I like. I don't list them all here. Some of them you probably already read. Some of them get listed by everyone else.

The ones I list are the special ones. Created by special writers. Those with something different to say. Those with a different way of saying it. Those who fondle the English language, who take it in their arms and then mold it the way my Master molds me.

And then there are those who throw darts at your heart and write lines I wish I'd written myself. Like this one:

"Our hearts are the things that do not follow orderly and manicured paths."

The words are by Liras.
The blog is called Rebirth.
The piece is called Defy Logic.
And that line made me cry.

Cum tomorrow and cum yesterday

- but never cum today.

Nor tomorrow, in fact.
Nor yesterday, of course.
Later in the week, he said.

Yes, my Master, I said.

Later in the week.

Everything is easier to swallow when he addresses me as "my pet." Which he did. I melted into acceptance. But still. I had a hard night and a hard day. An intense night and day. Spent apart yet together, the day was intense and wearing and emotional and demanding. And now I'm worn out, with tears dammed between my heart and my throat.

It was all very private and intimate and involves things I never talk about here. And in some ways, it was very beautiful, touching on emotions that don't often get discussed. So I won't share the details, but it's not something to worry about. Still an orgasm would help. Not from a sexual point of view (though the arousal I spoke of yesterday continues to eat at my cunt), but for the sake of the release. For the sake of the cataclysm of sobs that would erupt as the tension explodes and my womb contracts. I would start to cry and then roll over and the sobs will trip over each other on their way out, and my body will shake and everything that has been bottled up for weeks and weeks will be flushed out on the tail of the tears, staining the pillow with my pain and love.

A caning would do that, too, of course.
Or a nice long flogging.
Or a serious spanking.

Or looking in my Master's eyes
as he pinches my left nipple and
pulls me down into his soul
and I lose myself inside him
as he reads the love inside me
and the other things inside me
that I will never know.
And I make love to his cock
while I'm looking in his eyes
and I channel his arousal
and my tears flow when he cums.

However.
Not till later in the week.

I think I should start a cumming calendar. Or at least mark a little "c" on the days that I cum. Or a big "C". Or a giant round "O". Because by now I have no idea how long it has been. Weeks and weeks for sure. Which was no big deal in winter, but now that it is spring and there is maple syrup instead of honey running down my thighs, it would be awfully nice to cum.

But it would be even nicer to be with that selfish, sadistic, miserly man who keeps my orgasms locked away in an old wooden sea chest, bound around with iron staves and padlocked with three heavy locks.

That cruel and gentle, poetic and pedantic, controlling, guiding, sweet and selfish sadistic man who binds me with his words as surely as if they were long links of chain.

So.
No orgasm tonight.
Later in the week.
And with that I must be content.

SAD yields to HAPPY (Horny And Pleading for Pleasure from You)

It is spring, and this little pet is bouncing off the walls.

Have you ever seen kittens bounce off walls? They really do that. My old cat did when he was a young cat. He had so much energy and enthusiasm that he would go racing around the house, carom off a wall, and head off in another direction. Any direction.

Well, that's what this little submissive pet is doing. This submissive and very manic pet. This old cat who is still a kitten. It's spring and I haven't been lowering my meds fast enough and my mind is tripping over itself and ideas are littering the floor and I'm so horny I could scream.

I need to be fucked.
A lot.
Right this minute.

I need to be kissed and caressed and spanked and bitten and flogged and tied to the bed and chained to the heavy iron rod in the closet and caned and fucked.

Fucked in the ass.
Fucked in the mouth.

Cock after cock buried in my pussy while my nipples are twisted and my neck is bitten and a hand is clamped around my throat until I'm gagging and gasping and I struggle out the words "hurt me..."

I need to be fucked.
I need to be hurt.
I need to be controlled to counter my wildness.
To subdue me just enough...

I need to be hurt.

A few days ago I was startled by the urge to be caned. Now, I really do hate the cane. Not that it matters any. But I do hate it. Especially as wielded by my beloved sadistic Master. There are never that many strokes. I couldn't handle that many strokes. But they hurt like hell. They cut right through me... I think that would help settle me right now.

To be caned.
To be fucked.

To be fucked on the floor after I'd been caned so that the carpet rubbed against the welts and the hard floor never let me forget the screaming muscles in my beaten butt.

I want to be fucked so it hurts.
Fuck me so that your wildness matches mine.
It's the mating season.
Nature demands sex.

And if I lower my meds, I'll be able to cum better.

Oops.
Slight problem there.
I'm not allowed to cum, am I?
How inconvenient...

But the seriously sadistic torture of springtime insatiability is made even more delicious when one's orgasms have been snatched from one's snatch and are being held under lock and key in a warehouse, doled out for no apparent reason except for the owner's amusement.

An orgasm is here and then it's gone. But deprivation? Every moment of desire is a reminder of my Master's ownership and of my obedience. And every sigh that slips from my pussy is like a million fingers tickling my clitoris.

Orgasm denial at this time of year is like having a vibrator permanently installed in my vagina, with only one setting. ON. It's like being forced to masturbate day and night. Yes, there is pain. But oh, the delicious sensations as my metaphorical fingers fondle all those sensitive bits...

Better this than no desire, no heart, no love, no submission...

Still, orgasm or no, a line of men outside my door, waiting to fuck the mania out of me, followed by a line of women outside my door, waiting to meld with me and celebrate the earth goddess the way only women can...

Touch me.
Bite me.
Hurt me.
Fuck me.

My mouth is open, my legs are spread, my nipples are hard, my cunt is hot and my ass is tight.

It's spring, and this submissive kitten's mind is desperately fixed on sex.

Fuck me.
please...?

Eavesdrop on the mind and heart of a sadist

I have a new friend.
Actually, he's an old friend.
Well, he wasn't actually a full-scale friend, but we were headed there, through the magic of blogs. And then somehow we lost track of each other. Until I stumbled on him again.

He calls himself Dreamwalker.
He's a good writer.
A very good writer.
And a sadist.
Surprised?

He is a good writer and a sadist and he has written an amazing poem that says something about the need, the love, the pain that drives the sadist.

Obviously, not every sadist feels exactly the same. But...
I recognize this.
I know it...

[she shakes her head to clear the memories]

Go read the poem.
And the comments.
I had more to say.
And if you like his words, tell him.

All writers need encouragement.

Even sadists.

I really am not a masochist

A tsunami has landed on the shores of my site meter. Yesterday. All of a sudden there came a huge spike in my stats, starting sometime Monday afternoon. Hundreds of new visitors were (and are) turning up on my doorstep, sent to me by a site called Tantilism.org: "an exploration of the delicious tension arising from thwarted sexual release." Somehow I was discovered by a woman calling herself littlemoon, and she gave me and submission & metaphor the most delicious review:

This is a very hot blog. I've pulled the orgasm denial topic for you. The woman is a masochist and a poet of considerable talent. She's given all her orgasms to her sadistic owner. Her submissive journey is far beyond my own, but I'm sure many of you will be impressed and envious.

There are so many things crammed into those few sentences. Not just the compliments, though of course those are highly appreciated. "... a poet of considerable talent." That phrase I would like to frame in gold and hang on the wall above my desk. If only it had appeared on the New York Times website! We're back to the old issue of things I can't show my mother...

But 2 other things also jumped out at me. The first (actually, the last) was "Her submissive journey is far beyond my own [...]" I had to smile, thinking back over the last three years, and of how far I have come myself. I never would have imagined, for example, that I would be so content at having given away my orgasms. Or that I would accept the kind of pain that I do.

Which brings me to the final point, which is the first point. "The woman is a masochist."

No.
This woman is not a masochist.
My Master is most definitely a sadist,
but I am not at all masochist.
Really.
I do not like the pain,
I do not need the pain.
But I do beg him to hurt me.
Because I want to please him.
Because I want to satisfy him.
Because I love him.
Because he owns me.

I thought I would have to write a whole long justification of my opinion on the matter. Happily for all concerned, the sadist has allowed me to share with you his own comment, with this warning:

You may use my comments, but you may also mention that since my longstanding rule against using my words or getting too specific about our interactions has been loosened lately, there will not likely be much more forthcoming.

And with that, here is what he said:

I agree with all she has to say, except, of course, the masochist part. As you know, I don't read your blog, for various reasons, but I suspect you may have disavowed any maso-ness, probably repeatedly. But maybe not. You have certainly discussed that particular dichotomy with me, many times. I would think they (especially the orgasm-denial group) would find your willingness to suffer physical torment, despite being the sensitive opposite of a masochist, to be even hotter (I know I do), to evoke even more empathy and even admiration, from submissives and dominants alike. It's one thing for a pain lover/needer to scream "Beat me! Hurt me!" but quite another for a sensitive person with an aversion to pain to ask for that which her tormentor desires. No! No! Don't! Stop! as opposed to No, no! Don't stop!

His words moved me... I do know he gets a special pleasure out of my willing suffering. It takes very little to make me scream and cry and collapse. But I always get up, after every strike of the cane (which so far is the most painful implement of all)... I somehow get up and offer my ass for another blow. And when he flogged my tits with the beautiful new flogger... ah, but I do owe you a whole post on that, don't I...

My pleas to be hurt are honest.
But they are never for the pain on its own account.
I beg to be hurt in order to give him pleasure.
There is nothing else.

P.S. - speaking of orgasm denial, please go visit toy to commiserate about the quite serious punishment to which she has been condemned. I'm wondering if going without orgasms is more painful when it has been imposed as a punishment rather than being merely (merely?) a condition of one's submission that one must accept.

Please excuse OG for having been absent...

I feel the need to apologize. I know I have been silent for days. In the old days, my response would have been to give you a string of excuses, one of which would surely soften your hearts despite my having shirked my responsibility towards you, (yes, you, you personally), this blog, and the rest of my readers.

But I am being taught that my excuses will not be accepted, so there is no point in reciting them. And that, then, is why I have been silent here. I had a project to finish and my Master was fed up with the delays. Oh, he has been understanding despite his growls. He knew I had been very ill. But enough was enough. I had set deadlines for myself and had been late on most of them.

The project was a story. A very long story. Longer than I had expected and longer than anything I have previously written. Most of it was written but the pieces needed to be knitted together and the writing polished and synonyms sought and my lifelong habit of never quite finishing anything fought.

So this weekend was it. And Sunday I spent at least 8 hours over the course of the day pulling my story together into what I hope is the penultimate version. I do think it needs one more round of editing, just to be sure, but by now I have lost all perspective. So I will let it sit for a few days. I'll let it marinate and then go back and tidy up the last stray strings. And hope someone will want to publish it.

Meanwhile, I am exhausted. Part of that, I know, is from the switch to Daylight Savings Time. People with SAD have an even worse time making the adjustment than do most people, and in this direction (losing an hour) it's even worse. But so be it.

There may be something else, though. It suddenly occurred to me today that I could be suffering from a case of postpartum depression. I know, I know, it wasn't like giving birth to a whole book. But it still hurt coming out. It's pretty wearing on a girl's body!

Whatever it is, the well is now dry.
No sparks.
No flashes of brilliance.
No traces of creativity.
Nothing.

It frustrates me. It scares me. But I have been ordered back to my notebooks to look for inspiration and undeveloped ideas. And I have been scolded for not observing the new bedtime my Master has set for me. So I will read and think and rest and open myself to the scents of sex and inspiration that are blowing into Washington on the warming spring breezes.

And then I will sit down and write.

Including about the beautiful new flogger my Master designed just for me...

Postscript - "I did mean to frighten you"

I did tremble as I awaited my Master's visit the day after he threatened to leave me "naked, shaken and crying on the floor." Not so much that night, but definitely the next morning. Something inside me was trembling the whole morning as I sat at my desk, trying to work, yearning to see him, yearning to serve him, but terrified of what he would subject me to.

The beast was rampant. Growing, growling, swelling, wresting control from the my Master's more deliberate sadistic nature. And I was afraid not so much of the pain itself, but of what it might do to my emotional state. I've had the occasional bad trips, receding afterwards into myself, taking days to come back, and prompting him to rethink his plans for me.

As I've said before, I get no aftercare, and find to my surprise that almost always I don't need it. If nothing else, the order is usually pain first and cock-sucking second - with some intimate nipple-twisting thrown in to form a more perfect union. (My use of the adjective "intimate" is not at all meant as irony. It truly is. What happens in those moments approaches alchemy...) Now if that isn't enough to soothe the soul of any pet, I don't know what is. But I was terrified of being subjected to an experience such as he described, and then left to pull my clothes on over my battered body and battered heart before rushing back to the office. I would bravely march in, face still swollen from crying, and delicately lower my cross-hatched bottom into my desk chair as my heart retreated into its cave.

I am always supposed to have a poem - one of my poems - prepared to recite from memory. This time, he wanted to hear - finally - the poem without words that he had commissioned back in January, now hurriedly returned to my repertoire at his command. I have enough trouble with my memory, and my reference to a repertoire is a joke on myself. Once performed, once I am learning a new piece, the old one is forgotten. But those are poems with words. The non-verbal work was hard enough to write. Memorize it? That was hell.

I am not going to describe the session, as I don't have authorization to do so. However, he did return three days later, and at the end, as he most uncharacteristically had me watch him pull his clothes back on - or is it more accurate to say he uncharacteristically had me sit so that he could look at my face and my tits and my belly as he pulled his clothes back on - anyway, at the end he surprised me - so many surprises that afternoon - by saying I could blog about his visit. And so I will.

But about Monday, I will add these 2 things:

1. I had reminded him that time was an issue, as I tended to return to work quite late from these lunchtime trysts.
2. He brought the new flogger. My beautiful new flogger, built to his perfectly thought-out specifications. Beautiful and perfect.

And with that bit of background, here is our post-visit exchange:

And yet, my Master, it wasn't like this. It was beautiful. You took from me, yes, but you also gave me so much, my Lord.

Were your words meant merely to frighten me, my Lord? Or is this what you meant and then something changed...

Although I meant everything I said, I did mean to frighten you, and wanted you in a specific mood today. As I said, I had more segments in mind, but I do not want to cause problems which may decrease your availability in future. Plus, you are right, something did change. I was so pleased by your non-verbal piece I felt you were due, if not a reward, at least not the harsh treatment my mood might have provided otherwise.

Was it my admittedly impressive poetic performance that made the difference? Perhaps. And I would never question my Master's interpretation of his own reactions. All I can do is say what I sensed.

I felt the change before I began to perform.

And that's enough about that.
Except that I've been floating ever since.

"I will take from you tomorrow, my pet."

I do love you, my Master. As cruel as you are.

I love you.
I need you.
I want you.
I miss you.
I desire you.
My skin yearns for you.
My mind yearns for you.
My mouth yearns for you.
My pussy yearns for you.

I am yours, my Master.
And you miss me.

And I will take from you tomorrow, my pet. You will think all night about my arrival, and you will think about my departure. I will walk in your door and command you and you will do as I say and I will do to you exactly what I want and take from you all that you are and then I will stand and walk out and you will feel discarded and abandoned. I will place that thought in your mind so that I can access it and feed on your hopelessness and helpless surrender. After I've beaten you I will take your head in my hands and make you tell me you love me while I torture your body and mind for my pleasure and when tears come (and I will make them come, my pet) I will rub my cock on your cheek to catch them and fuck your face and exult in your vulnerability and your utter inability to do other than worship me even as I torment you. And now my last command to you is, after reading this, hold on to your abject misery until we meet tomorrow, so I can use it, like your tits and your mouth, to toy with, to revel in, for my amusement, until I leave you naked, shaken and crying on the floor.

Oh yes, my angel, I have missed you.

and yet
and still
and always
i love you, my Lord.

You may post anything from this string, including my words. Let your fans watch you suffer too.


And here ends the string, except for a small postscript about the visit. If you missed the previous installments, the serialization of our correspondence began here. Please do comment. My Master is a narcissist and wants to know what you have to say. Especially about him. And I always do my best to give him what he wants.

Begging for more

It's all a question of rationing
when demand exceeds supply.
So I wait on line, in need of
it all, while rules grant me
this much and no more.
At the door stands the owner.
"Tell me," he says. "Tell me,
why do you want this?
How much do you want it?
What would you do for but
one extra ounce? A pound?
A bushel? Beg me. Crawl
for me. Humiliate yourself.
By law I can grant you
this much and no more.
But crawl for me
or you get nothing at all."
So I crawl and I weep
and I toss away pride.
I give the cruel owner all that I have
and am grateful for the tiny
packet that I carry home
tucked in my bra next to my
bruised and swollen heart.
I take it to my bed and press
the sealed sachet to my nose,
savoring memories,
searching for meaning,
and crying myself to sleep.


And my Master responded:

See? Beautiful. Clean.


This poem continues the series begun here
on Sunday, March 7, 2010 and continued daily since.
There is one more post to go.
Meanwhile, the sadist is eager for your comments.

You are cutting gashes in my heart

He said:

Give that ache to me, my pet.

And I obeyed.

You're making me cry again, my Master.

You do know that this is beyond erotic, my Master. Even if I were allowed to masturbate, that wouldn't help. It's the nearness, the intimacy...

To just lie with you like that, my Lord... to feel with our bodies the intimacy we've created with our words... to have the luxury of time... to lie there, to smell you, to feel you...

You're hurting me, my Lord, making me feel all this...

I love you, my Master - though in a way that I can't define and that doesn't seem to connect with any definition of the word that I can imagine. I am confused and in pain and I am yours.

I'm going to take a shower now.
I am going to wash my hair.
I am going to stand there under the water, reaching up my hands to lather my thick hair, caressing my body with naturally scented goat's milk soap, cleansing my breasts, cleansing my pussy, cleansing that cleft, that tiny hole, between my butt cheeks, and hoping that you are seeing me, feeling me, wanting me.

Want me, my Master.
Grow hard for me.
Burn for me.
Feel me lying soft and yielding against you.
Yearn for me yearning for you.

And then drink my tears.

More longing

I long for the impossible, my Master.
I long for what only time can give.

I long to be with you.
To be with you.
And I have no idea how to give that word enough weight.

I long for integration, for the hours that we would need to piece together these precious parts of our relationship that now come only in snatches. We write, we chat, you come, you take, you hurt, you cum, like a McDonald's drive-through except the food is of the finest, though eaten in the car.

I bury my nose in you, my Master, in your crotch, in your chest hair, and the scent is nothing more than you. Fresh, sweet, honest, sometimes a touch of stale urine... I've never treasured the scent of a man this way. It is you, my Lord, you without pretense, you with nothing to prove, nothing to hide... for those seconds the clock isn't ticking, there is no agenda item to be ticked off in the limited time that remains...

Oh, well, yes, my Master. There may indeed be. Item: 10 seconds sniffing chest hair. And yet no. Your scent betrays you, my Master. In those moments I am so close to you, feeling your body beneath mine as I pull myself up to bury my nose in those hairs...

I find it interesting, my Master, watching [your talent for manipulation]. And I know how you do play me like a tightly-strung harp, knowing more and more as time goes on how to get from me the exact notes you seek. But it doesn't matter. There is the closeness beneath it all, and I am allowed these tiny tastes and, in a phrase you like to use, it's killing me.

Those moments of painful beauty... when you kiss my eyes... when you stroke my hair... not only the gentle times... when you lie on top of me... when you push behind me... when you strum my pussy, my Lord... not because of my arousal, my Lord, but because of the touch... to have more time... time enough to feel... to be allowed to feel... to be allowed to lose myself in the closeness... to lie next to you and listen to you breathe... to lie next to you all night and do nothing more than feel your presence... to not let myself fall asleep because I don't want to waste a moment of it... and to go to the goddamn opera with you and feel you by my side, your large hand over mine, to feel the intensity of your response, to feel the warmth of your hand and the warmth of your breath on my ear as you whisper to me little things I should be sure to notice.

You are dehydrating me with crying, my Master. You are torturing me. There are many kinds of knives. You are cutting gashes in my heart by making me say these things. But perhaps this is your revenge for what that video of my crawling is doing to you.

I can't sit here and cry all day, my Master. I have things to get done. You are forcing me to remember, forcing me to face my desire and pain, forcing me to think about what I can't have. And it hurts.

[still more to come]

"Give that ache to me, my pet."

And the conversation, begun here, continued:

Please, my Lord, I keep trying to remember - what were your instructions to me? What were your instructions that made me change the way I was crawling and end up with that?

I remember how it felt...

No instructions I would have given could have caused that. You cannot know, and it doesn't matter. Poor thing.

Why does it hurt so much, my Master? Why does it hurt me so much that you see these things that I don't even know are there? Why, when you say things like this, does it just make me cry?

I feel as if you've stripped off all my skin. I have no protection, my Lord.

I am feeling too much, and it's a pain I don't understand. I've been wrestling with it all day. Trying to pin it all down, trying to write it into something, coming up with pieces, and just now one thing... I don't know, my Lord.

My curfew approaches.
Maybe I'll understand in my sleep.

No. You won't.

Sadist.

Though it was not my intention, I'll admit that I can physically feel your struggle, and it fires me.

Well then, my Master, I am glad that my suffering is providing you this pleasurable stimulation.

You know (of course you know, my Lord), not knowing what you see is frustrating. But what is worse is how I drown in emotion when you make statements such as you did yesterday. I'm not even sure what the emotions are, my Master, but they hurt, and they scare me, and the pain of them overwhelms me and I can't find any outlet for them.

I'm suddenly feeling you touch me, in that way you almost never do. These sensations come over me at odd moments as well...

I ache for you, my Master. I am drowning in you and my body is screaming to be close to yours.

You may serve me today by fully feeling that aching desire. Don't block it. Tell me where it hurts my pet, and experience it for me. Let yourself imagine how badly you want to feel my arms around you, yours around me, your nakedness against mine, your nose in my chest hair, breathing deeply my scent as I permit you to sink into me, to luxuriate in my nearness, your flesh at once tingling and softly melting. Give that ache to me, my pet.

[to be continued]

"your left leg, and the small of your back"

"I can't stop watching my video of your crawl, specifically the 1 to 2 seconds in which the small of your back twists as you drag your unwilling left leg. I have mentioned many times how art has a life, a meaning of its own, if it's achieved only under the umbrella of the artist's overriding intent. Nevertheless, some tiny unintended detail can be more revealing, more enlightening, more truthful, than all of the creator's overt cues.

"It's killing me."

Sent to me by my Master, yesterday (Saturday) morning, and posted here with his permission and at his suggestion. More will follow.

Lament

Touch me.
Kiss me.
Hold me.
Love me.

Let me be the one giving orders for a change.

I need you, my Lord.

Hidden beauty

There are things I will not tell you.
There are things you'll never know.
Every couple has its secrets,
and we... we are no different,
and yet we are.
Very different.

There are things he will not tell me.
There are things I'll never know.
There are things he sees...
things in me...
and I am very different
and his admiration shakes me
and he says that I'm an artist
and I work so hard to please him
and he sees things deep inside me
that I will never know.
He sees it all.

depleted

i have been quiet.
i have been tired.
i have been feeble.
i have been sick.

nothing fatal. just a nasty cold that has sapped all my energy and left me weak and coughing. i finally went back to work on Monday. if i were still commuting into town i couldn't have done it. 10 minutes door to door in my little Honda was about all i could manage, and then i went home early. now i stay full days, but i eat lunch down the street. no energy to run home for lunch. no energy for writing.

i'm so enervated that i have trouble motivating myself to go to bed, which makes me even more tired the next day.

i probably won't fully recover for weeks.
i know.
i've been through this before.

there are some to whom this is attractive. there are predators who look for wounded animals on the side of the road as they prowl the countryside, looking for weakness.

i have little to give except my proffered throat.
sink in your teeth.
drink of my blood.
and then tear me to shreds.

Lick me

I lie here feeling sick and weak.
Bored with feeling sick and weak.
Days and days in bed,
barely eating,
sleeping bare.

I'm weak but feeling restless. I kick back the blankets and let the draft caress my body. But an invading breeze is not what I need.

I need a girl to lick me.

I need a girl to bury her head between my legs, to push them apart so I know that she is in charge. How good she will make me feel is up to her.

She will make me feel very very good.
Teeth and tongue, lips and fingers,
all are conspiring to make me feel very very good.

I remember being a camp counselor the summer after my freshman year in college. I came down with a very bad summer cold, and could always be seen with a big box of Kleenex. (This was a long time ago. Back before Puffs Plus. The dark ages of facial tissues. Things were rough in those days of the Vietnam War.) One afternoon I went off to some secret empty little cabin and indulged in some very serious petting with one of the other counselors. Male. I didn't know yet... And I discovered a most wonderful thing. Sex can be almost as good as spicy food for clearing nasal passages! I think it must be the endorphins. Even without a spanking.

So I think I need some serious petting - or whatever - with someone new. Someone female. Someone not afraid of my germs. Someone who wants to lick me. And then stop. And lick me some more. And stop. And lick me and lick me and have me begging to be allowed to cum and then, of course, she will have to text the sadist, asking for permission to make me cum.

And he'll say no.
Not yet.

Some things aren't yet clear in my head. I see her being younger than me (that's easy) and pretty. Soft and sweet with pretty tits so that I will love to feel her lying on top of me, rubbing herself into me, and then we will roll over and I will desperately push myself into her and her skin will be soft and her cunt will be wet and she will pinch my left nipple with her right hand and an urgent message will run from that little stab of pain down to my pussy, there must be synapses directly connecting one to the other, and she will be on top of me and hurting my nipple and sinking her teeth into my neck...

When I started writing this, I wasn't sure if I wanted a girl to hurt me. I do want her to be in control. I do want her to lick me. I do want her to hurt me in some standard sexy ways.

I do want her to teach me.

I really am bisexual. It's not just a question of playing around sometimes with women. I am bisexual in that I am not limited by gender as to who will draw me, who will spark my desire, who will inspire my love. Bisexual is a deceptive term, really. It sounds so binary. This or that. This and that. I try to explain it to those who don't understand, who just think it's so sexy and don't really understand. It's like saying that sometimes I'm attracted to a blond. Sometimes I'm attracted to someone dark. Too often, it seems I'm attracted to the Irish... It's something inside as well as outside that draws me, and it doesn't mean that I must have one of each.

Maybe I should just say I'm unbounded.
Open to possibilities.

But it's easier to use standard terminology, I suppose. So yes, I'm bisexual, and I do find women attractive. I have dated one lesbian and one bi woman and fallen in love with one woman who is bi but rejects that part of herself... she broke my heart.

I do get my heart broken much too easily.

But the only one I had a sex life with was that last one, and what we did together was intense and passionate and exploratory and based on the amazing sex we each had with S--, who was seeing both of us but was in love with her. What a mess. But I digress.

Because the point is now. Now as in right this minute. Now as in an hour ago when I was leaving a comment on Saturday's deliberately masturbatory post, a reply to Liras' perfect little comment, and I realized "I think I need a girl to come over and lick me."

Someone sweet and delicious and commanding and experienced, who can teach me and arouse me and lick me and fuck me and teach me to please her and then I'm not sure what. Perhaps tie me to the bed but not hurt me the way the sadist does. A little erotic pain will do, but...

No one can replace my Master.
No one.

Still, a sweet young female tongue...