He gave me a gift today.
My Master gave me a gift.
I should have been the one giving him a gift.
And perhaps I did.
Perhaps I did.
But oh, that sweet, sweet gift he gave to me.
He allowed me to float.
He allowed me to melt.
He allowed me to give myself to the emotions that rise to the surface as I serve him and love him and offer my body and yield to his torments and pleasure his penis with mouth and tongue and teeth and lips.
Normally, this is not permitted.
Normally, I must focus on the task at hand.
At hand and mouth and tongue and teeth and lips.
I must focus on his pleasure, and any floating joy that comes from my task must be suppressed if it threatens to distract me from my work. Of course I may enjoy what I am doing. How could I not enjoy the...
I'm having trouble writing. I think about how serving him makes me feel and I'm having trouble writing. My body is remembering his body, my softness is remembering his softness, my sweetness recalls his sweetness, and I can't concentrate to write.
And that is why I'm not allowed to float as I settle down before him on my haunches and do such things to him that will... his exclamations of pleasure... the look in his eyes...
He said I could blog about it.
When he left, he gave me my assignment
and then said I might blog about his visit.
And I started writing it out in my head.
It was halfway done before I sat down.
And then when I started to write,
when I started to recall it,
started to relive it,
how he touched me so gently
before cutting my airflow
just enough to make me gurgle
how I gave him a new poem
with a sparkle in my eye
as I fondled his cock,
each line eliciting
another note of pleasure
how he spanked me
only, perhaps, to see my ass turn pink.
only, perhaps, to make him think
of what he'd really like to do
to make me scream and writhe and plead
as he marked me as his own.
Even when he took my breath
even when he stopped the air...
I'm getting lost again.
And I looked in his eyes
and he invited me
and things happened
and I felt
and things that I cannot describe.
There are no words.
And I pressed my head against his chest
and knew I was home.
I belong to him.
This is not a metaphor.
This is not a construct.
This is not some game we act out
with rules set by others
and a number tattooed on my butt.
This is what is.
I belong to him.
And he makes me whole.