Coming soon: Oatmeal Girl in a book!

I am returning from my week-long exclusive assignment with some major news.

First, I should say that my Master was very pleased with my work, and has rewarded me with (among other sweet gifts) a long delayed and always delicious orgasm. Tonight. I am going to take my time with this one, caressing my - no, HIS pussy as I fondle sweet memories of service and pleasure and pain. After nearly 2 years, there are many memories to fondle.

Now.
The news.

I wrote a story well over a year ago that I ended up submitting (I am always submitting, aren't I...) to my very kind and supportive friend M. Christian. For those who aren't familiar with Chris, he is a prolific writer and anthologizer of sex and sci-fi stories. In this case, he flattered me by asking me to send him a story for the third volume in the series Best S/M Erotica. The subtitle is Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex. Now honestly, I don't think my story is all that extreme as S and M goes. In fact, to my mind it is rather poetic (no surprise), sweet and beautiful and intimate and affectionate.

It is called "You awake ahead of the alarm", and I am very proud of it.

Just before writing the previous sentence, I went back to read over my precious piece. A writer should be allowed to say when something is good. And honestly, I do think it's good. But "good" is a matter of judgment, and that can vary from one to the next. What I can offer is that it is one of my favorites among everything I have written.

And soon you will be able to read it.

To start, it will be an e-book, published by Logical-Lust. We still don't have a hard release date, but it should be out very soon. Chris says they are "very happy with the book and plans all kinds of promos and stuff." Now of course I would like lots of people to read my story and then tell me how great I am. (Like many submissives, I am so badly in need of reassuring praise!) But what I am really after is to be able to hold the book in my hand. A real book. You know, some of you old folks might remember back when books came out on paper? With a cover? Something you could hold in one hand while you masturbate with the other? Well, if they sell enough copies as an e-book they just might bring it out in paper. Given that I have volume 2 in paper stashed away in my bedside table, this is not an unreasonable fantasy.

Now I know I don't have a huge readership here, but if even a quarter of my regulars could buy the e-book, it would certainly help nudge things along.

I'm a submissive.
I have no pride.
I will do what is required of me.
And as my Master knows
I am very good at begging.
Not to mention cock-sucking.

Begging is kind of the verbal equivalent of cock-sucking.

Obviously, I will let you all know as soon as the book containing my little masterpiece is available for purchase. Meanwhile, you can read Chris' pitch for the book (ignoring the over-ambitious projection of a street date) and start thinking about how you will pass up one or 2 lattes so you can buy a copy of the book - which does, of course, have stories by other people as well.

And yes.
I'm getting paid.

Now tell me what a good girl I am for getting published.
I do so love being called a good girl...

Leda and the Swan

Afterglow. The painting is by François Boucher, who is also responsible for my signature odalisque. Both parties appear to be in a state of happy satiety, although that swan, greedy god that he is, can't help eying her proffered pussy. He is a bit of a sadist, as well as a god, and wants to feed on her screams as he clamps his beak on her labia.

She is swimming in a haze of sex and endorphins. It's not every day one is fucked by a god. Seduced, claimed, raped, there are many names you can put to it. Vocabulary is irrelevant. She is his now. Swan, Zeus, a bird, a god, whoever, whatever, he owns her now.

She can want nothing more.

The Odalisque and the Swan

Note the girl's dreamy look.
See the swan's hunger
as he eyes her tender nipple.
Cornered and captured,
she has no thought of escape
and desires nothing more
than to rest in his wings.

On assignment

The fiend has me on exclusive assignment, lasting about a week, during which I am to write for no one but him. I have special dispensation to go to my writers group as usual, but other than that he will be the beneficiary of all my creative efforts during that period.

I will be back after the assignment is finished. Meanwhile, you may amuse yourselves in the archives. Just don't spill coffee on any of the old manuscripts.

Tested

It was to be a test.
He told me as much.
Warned me.
Instructed me to concentrate.
Advised me to choose my words carefully.

But beyond that, except for how I should present myself, there were no instructions. No way I could study. No review, no practice exams, no Submission for Dummies from which I could cram. All I could give him was everything, and hope for the best.

And now?
12 hours later?

My ass is striped and sore.
A bruise is preparing to blossom below my navel.
And both cheeks are stinging still as my head pounds.

I am very happy.
I passed.
And the reward, long dangled, will be sweet.

Rejoyce

-- Mkgnao!

-- O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.

The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writing-table. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.

Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.

-- Milk for the pussens, he said.

-- Mrkgnao! the cat cried.

They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.

-- Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.

Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.

-- Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.

-- Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.


(Happy Bloomsday.)

He makes me keep my glasses on

Lunchtime.

15 minutes between when I leave the office and when my Master arrives at the house. I rush home from work and take everything 0ff. Shoes, shirt, slacks, underpants, bra, socks, support knee-hi's for the surgery and medication-instigated swelling in my legs... I take the combs from my hair, the silver from my ears, watch and ring from my arm and hand...

And I leave the glasses
I greet my Master in my glasses.
I offer him my mouth while wearing my glasses.
I suck on his cock, glasses pressed against his belly.

The world grows a little vague.

I fight not to lose focus as I swim in the joy of his presence and his body and his sweetness and his cruelty and the amazing, complex bond between us. I fight not to lose focus and at that I am more or less successful. At least it is something I have a chance at controlling.

Keeping my glasses clean is a lost cause.

Occasionally, recently, he has removed them. Perhaps twice. I see reasonably well without them as long as I don't have to read. And without them the world is not obscured by the fog of passion and the smudges of sweat.

Actually, except for their inconvenient interference with certain angles of kisses, my glasses don't bother me. My eyes are not one of my better features. One is bigger than the other, and not very big even then, one doesn't move properly, both have short, thin lashes... surrounding them with thin purple frames can only help, I think.

But that's not why he makes me keep them on. Men have obsessions. They all have their own obsessions. And lately, it seems, I have been blessed or cursed with men who have a thing for glasses.

Perhaps it goes with an attraction to intelligence.
In which case I'm in good shape.

In any case, what I think is irrelevant.
Bra, glasses, panties - on or off -
Whatever he wants,
he gets

Which makes us both very happy.

(And yes, his visit on Wednesday made us both very happy.)

No cumming tonight - he's coming tomorrow

I am not supposed to cum 48 hours before my Master visits.
He is coming tomorrow, around 1 o'clock.
Instead of a sandwich, his cock will fill my mouth.

Tonight, we are both thinking of the same thing. Tonight we are both - we are each - thinking about his using me. Mad contractions were set off in my womb as I wrote those words. I feel his hands on me. I feel his mind on me. His thoughts are gently fondling the folds of my cunt, after which there is no telling what he might do.

Probably not very much.
Time will be short.
He will explore much more tonight.
His sleep will be filled with dreams of blow jobs.
Tongues and lips and cautious teeth
will dance around his bed.

Time for me to stop writing.
Time for me to prepare the room.
Time for me to return to the world
where nothing exists
but him.

I've heard of worse places...

Feast or famine

And the good times keep on cumming.

It is not for me to question what excites my Master, or what feeds his delight in owning and controlling me. I suspect it is a combination of things - arousal from the descriptions of how I touch myself, satisfaction at how he is training and developing his property, and, especially, the beautiful knowledge that my pleasure is all for him.

I feel his eyes on me. As I lie there naked in my bed I feel his eyes on me from 45 minutes away. Sometimes I pull back the covers so he can see me better, even though he is not physically in the room. I pull back the covers and I pass the tip of the middle finger of my right hand back and forth over my clitoris until my insides start to melt and I think of sweet and horrible things.

It is all for him.
In this hiatus from orgasm denial
I am reawakening my womb's convulsions
and the moans and contractions are all for him.

Tonight, again, I will slide in the vibrator, condom-encased for easy clean-up and generously doused with Astro-Glide to protect my aging tissues, and I will suck it, hard, with the muscles of my cunt.

And up the road, in his own bed, he will feel me.
He will feel me squeezing him.
He will feel me sucking him.
He will feel me fucking him.
And he will know that all my pleasure is for him alone.

Damn. I have to cum AGAIN?!

So yesterday I had that nice long masturbation session, followed by a nap of decadent duration. I reported this whole thing to my Master in quite evocative detail and today received his response.

Short and concise.

"Excellent. Now do it again today."

The man is never satisfied.

[she grins]

I am sensing a qualitative difference between being told I may masturbate and being ordered to do so. Now given that my orgasms all belong to the fiend along with the rest of me, I have always interpreted permission to cum as being equivalent to at a minimum being encouraged to cum. He gets great pleasure out of my highly descriptive reports, so of course the permission is not meant for my pleasure alone. And when he tells me I may touch and cum and leave my orgasmic exclamations as a voice mail message after a specified time, you know damn well it's an order, not a request.

But there is a special flavor to this current requirement that I exercise my cunt. It's another way he makes me feel so deliciously owned. He took my request and scrawled his initials all over it and made it into another demonstration of his power, while making me want him to take over even more parts of my life.

When chaos howls outside my door and uncertainty snaps at my toes, the thought of signing over to him every minute and every breath becomes increasingly tempting.

It's probably a good thing it will never be possible.

Meanwhile, I feel more limits crumbling.
As if they were ever mine to erect in the first place.

I have always been very good at self-delusion...

End of the orgasm blockade

Last Sunday,
after steeping himself for an hour in my service,
my pleasure,
my pain,
my Master granted me an orgasm,
to be enjoyed later.

He has been strictly controlling my orgasms for quite a long time now and rarely allots me one. Of course, when he does, my own pleasure might perhaps be viewed as incidental, as it is for his enjoyment that I get to touch and to cum. Sometimes I present him with the sounds of my cumming as a voice mail. Always, I send him a report on the experience. He used to sit beside me on the bed, and later stand over me, watching me masturbate for him before wallowing in the sights and sounds of my orgasms, but our time together is always short and he hasn't done that in a long time.

My orgasm last Sunday was virtually non-existent. I tried to draw out my pleasure, to delay the eruption, and instead disrupted the whole process. They are never as convulsive now as they used to, which may be due to either age or pharmaceuticals or some annoying combination of both factors, but I usually get at least a healthy emotional catharsis out of the process.

Suddenly, I was afraid that protracted orgasm denial had resulted in permanent orgasmicide. What if I had lost the ability to cum? And what if lack of use had caused my previously agile cunt to petrify? When I inserted the vibrator last week, it hurt. What if I could no longer wrap my pussy juicily around the cocks of the men my Master keeps declaring he means to bring to use me? I had already warned in a post a couple of years ago of the dangers of neglecting regular cunt maintenance. What if it was too late to correct the damage?

I had mentioned my fears in the orgasm report I made to my Master last week and reminded him of it today. I meant to ask not for more regular orgasms but rather for permission to exercise my vaginal muscles with the vibrator, even without cumming. But he had already decided to grant me an orgasm both today AND tomorrow!

I am still recovering from the after-effects of today's masturbation session, despite a post-orgasmic nap of an hour and a half, so will be a tease and not describe exactly what I did and how I came. I will say, though, that I was so horrifically aroused by the end of our chat, which had concerned, among other things, his possible plans to do something to me he has till now restrained himself from doing, that I could barely wait to get started and never even fully undressed. Not that I would need to be fully undressed. But I touch myself for his pleasure and he likes to see me naked, so I usually strip as if he were there in more than spirit.

I always feel his eyes on me.

He likes to see me naked.
But he makes me keep me glasses on.

Thank you my Master, for the session of cunt maintenance, and the pleasure I received from touching myself, and the cleansing stress relief of my orgasms.

I belong to you, my Lord, and my life is richer for being your property.