There is nothing sexy about this.
My refrigerator died.
The compressor.
Like its heart giving out.
And since I've had no housemate since the end of November, I am horribly horribly broke. Still, I went out and dropped a thousand dollars on a nice new refrigerator, though I passed up on getting a third bottom-freezer fridge (which I actually like so much better) because they keep on dying.
My life is littered with the corpses of appliances and relationships.
What I really need to be doing is packing for a week at music camp, and cleaning up the house for the friend who will keep the cats company while I'm gone, and finding some new carpeting for the unrented room that I am also going to paint a lovely pale yellow so it will rent more easily except dammit, it is really the sadist's room and the old knotty pine wood paneling seems much more suitable to our activities.
But he has yet to offer to pay the rent himself in order to maintain our privacy and the delight of having a room set aside as a place for us to be together.
So I am in a bad mood today. Well, more vulnerable than bad. Very vulnerable. Which I think is how he wants me today. It makes me more responsive to his current training plans. Still, I am feeling tender and weepy and tired from unrelated insomnia and worried about money and getting everything ready for my trip... so everyone should order multiple copies of the book with my story so I'll feel loved.
The end.
Time to curl up in bed with a cat or two.
[she yawns]
And then tomorrow I get to throw out spoiled food.
Please tell me that you love me!
PS - if you're ordering a physical copy of the book, you'll probably get it faster from Amazon than from the publisher.
PPS - this didn't start out as an ad for the book. I promise. I just needed to moan and pout a bit. But my mind holds its own reins...
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (11)
Now my memory grows vague.
Now the details fade and merge.
Bits and pieces stand out but the order isn't clear.
I do have some notes. His instructions had mentioned bringing my laptop and writing materials. I had bought a new little notebook, to be used only in connection with that night, and only for writing for his benefit. He is always very specific, and always very precise. This is good for me. I need direction. I lose focus. I need someone standing over me as I do my homework, keeping my mind from wandering. I just went back to look at the notes. They reminded me that in the restaurant I took a seat downstairs, near the bar. It was definitely too hot to be outside, and I didn't realize there was an upstairs at first. Plus while I don't hang out at bars, he does, so it made me feel as if I had already entered his world.
A TV was on over the bar. He had told me not to watch TV. Of course, he was only thinking about while I was waiting for him in the room. He wanted me to focus. But I take his instructions very seriously so I kept my eyes averted from the TV.
The blues was playing through the speakers. I can't remember if it was the radio or a recording. Probably the radio. I have this thing with the blues. A lover a long time ago turned me on to the blues. Literally. He'd play records of these old Mississippi Delta guys while he taught me what sex could be like. Over the years, I've been learning in bits and pieces what sex can be like. Mostly, I think it needs to be transgressive one way or another to be truly exciting and intense enough. Anyway. I was trained. Already, then, being trained. I'd hear a blues song and my panties would soak through. Around that time, I was working in a shop in Boston. You could get some really cool music on the radio back then in the early 70s. One day a blues song came on and in a flash I was so horny I had to dash into the scuzzy little employees' toilet and take care of the problem. I'm surprised the customers didn't hear me cum as they tried to decide which cheese to buy.
As I left the restaurant, the waitress said: "Thank you. Have a great night!"
Yes.
I hoped so.
My mind was as hazy as the heated air as I walked back towards the hotel. I wandered up and down a small street, unwilling to be in the room too soon while nervous about not allowing myself enough time. Finally, I could put it off no longer.
I could barely breathe.
I tried to focus.
I entered the room and tried to focus.
Tried to concentrate.
Tried to think of my tasks and of being efficient and perfect.
Perfect.
I wanted to be perfect.
I took the ice bucket and brought it back filled with ice.
There was no other reason I could imagine for leaving the room.
I locked the door.
And took of my clothes.
Now.
Now it had truly begun.
Now the details fade and merge.
Bits and pieces stand out but the order isn't clear.
I do have some notes. His instructions had mentioned bringing my laptop and writing materials. I had bought a new little notebook, to be used only in connection with that night, and only for writing for his benefit. He is always very specific, and always very precise. This is good for me. I need direction. I lose focus. I need someone standing over me as I do my homework, keeping my mind from wandering. I just went back to look at the notes. They reminded me that in the restaurant I took a seat downstairs, near the bar. It was definitely too hot to be outside, and I didn't realize there was an upstairs at first. Plus while I don't hang out at bars, he does, so it made me feel as if I had already entered his world.
A TV was on over the bar. He had told me not to watch TV. Of course, he was only thinking about while I was waiting for him in the room. He wanted me to focus. But I take his instructions very seriously so I kept my eyes averted from the TV.
The blues was playing through the speakers. I can't remember if it was the radio or a recording. Probably the radio. I have this thing with the blues. A lover a long time ago turned me on to the blues. Literally. He'd play records of these old Mississippi Delta guys while he taught me what sex could be like. Over the years, I've been learning in bits and pieces what sex can be like. Mostly, I think it needs to be transgressive one way or another to be truly exciting and intense enough. Anyway. I was trained. Already, then, being trained. I'd hear a blues song and my panties would soak through. Around that time, I was working in a shop in Boston. You could get some really cool music on the radio back then in the early 70s. One day a blues song came on and in a flash I was so horny I had to dash into the scuzzy little employees' toilet and take care of the problem. I'm surprised the customers didn't hear me cum as they tried to decide which cheese to buy.
As I left the restaurant, the waitress said: "Thank you. Have a great night!"
Yes.
I hoped so.
My mind was as hazy as the heated air as I walked back towards the hotel. I wandered up and down a small street, unwilling to be in the room too soon while nervous about not allowing myself enough time. Finally, I could put it off no longer.
I could barely breathe.
I tried to focus.
I entered the room and tried to focus.
Tried to concentrate.
Tried to think of my tasks and of being efficient and perfect.
Perfect.
I wanted to be perfect.
I took the ice bucket and brought it back filled with ice.
There was no other reason I could imagine for leaving the room.
I locked the door.
And took of my clothes.
Now.
Now it had truly begun.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (10)
I can't remember now if I sat in the car a bit, taking it all in, before going in to register. If so, it wouldn't have been for very long. This was another of our furiously hot weekends. I was glad that none of my responsibilities required me to be outside.
Checking into a hotel always puts me in a slightly different place, even when the room will not be the site of sexual activities of any flavor.
The room is rarely the site of sexual activities of any flavor.
But I always feel as if I am in a movie. Or in some way playing a part outside of my normal life. But this time was more intense. (Damn, my cunt is twitching madly as I write about this...) I had been given orders. I had been given instructions. I had made this reservation immediately on his departure the Saturday before, while still naked. I had sat there naked on my caned butt and gone on line and made these reservations exactly as the sadist had specified. And then e-mailed him to say I had done it. And then later run into DC in the sweltering heat to buy champagne. Cheap champagne, yes. But champagne nevertheless. And knowing what it was meant for.
I checked in, confirming that the room was on the quiet side of the building. I was friendly and polite and you might almost have thought relaxed but of course that was all a mask.
I was afraid of the room.
I went back to the car to fetch my bags as there was only the one entrance, and negotiated my way through the various people who were in town for 2 different weddings. The town doesn't offer a whole lot of hotel choices.
I went back to the car and collected my small, wheeled suitcase with the green floral cloth upholstery, and the soft-sided blue cooler, and my MacBook in its purple raiment and living in a bag from a music conference, and a cloth shopping bag from one of the music camps I go to and negotiated my way up to the 5th floor (I think it was the 5th floor...) and with my chest growing tighter while I headed down the hall, I finally came to the door.
I could hardly breathe.
I was afraid of the room.
I wasn't quite sure what would happen there, but knew it would be special. I knew it would be intense. And I was sure there would be some sort of... something... hanging in the air in that room even before anything began. Even before he arrived. I knew I had to bring in my things and then get out of there. Not just to be sure I was back with enough time to prepare for his eventual arrival but so I didn't scare myself half silly waiting around in the room prior to starting the process of dedicating myself to the evening's service by taking off my clothes.
This is hard.
This is a struggle.
I am starting to float away... he is always warning me against floating away when I am supposed to be paying attention to his cock.
I can't remember exactly what I did. I must have put my things down in some sort of place, and put my little suitcase up on one of those folding holders they have in hotels, and taken out my dress and changed into the dress and left the room to walk in the steam bath heat the 3 blocks or so to someplace I thought I might have dinner.
Exiting the elevator, I was nearly creamed by one of the 20-something male wedding guests who couldn't be bothered to let me out even when he realized I was there.
The whole time, I felt like I was in a trance.
I was there
in that town
after a year and a half
of wondering
and fantasizing
and waiting
and worrying
and then thanking
and working
and driving
and trembling.
I was there.
And within a few hours it would truly begin.
And now I'm afraid I must leave you hanging again. I was a very good girl today and am allowed to cum tonight, after which I must report. So I want plenty of time for both. Because I really did earn this orgasm. I was a very, very good girl today and he was very, very happy. Aren't you pleased for me? Except that I am so horribly aroused that I'm not sure how long I can drag it out. I'm afraid that the minute I stroke my sweet little clitoris with the middle finger of my right hand, spreading the moisture that has been lingering there all day, I will explode. Listen for it.
Checking into a hotel always puts me in a slightly different place, even when the room will not be the site of sexual activities of any flavor.
The room is rarely the site of sexual activities of any flavor.
But I always feel as if I am in a movie. Or in some way playing a part outside of my normal life. But this time was more intense. (Damn, my cunt is twitching madly as I write about this...) I had been given orders. I had been given instructions. I had made this reservation immediately on his departure the Saturday before, while still naked. I had sat there naked on my caned butt and gone on line and made these reservations exactly as the sadist had specified. And then e-mailed him to say I had done it. And then later run into DC in the sweltering heat to buy champagne. Cheap champagne, yes. But champagne nevertheless. And knowing what it was meant for.
I checked in, confirming that the room was on the quiet side of the building. I was friendly and polite and you might almost have thought relaxed but of course that was all a mask.
I was afraid of the room.
I went back to the car to fetch my bags as there was only the one entrance, and negotiated my way through the various people who were in town for 2 different weddings. The town doesn't offer a whole lot of hotel choices.
I went back to the car and collected my small, wheeled suitcase with the green floral cloth upholstery, and the soft-sided blue cooler, and my MacBook in its purple raiment and living in a bag from a music conference, and a cloth shopping bag from one of the music camps I go to and negotiated my way up to the 5th floor (I think it was the 5th floor...) and with my chest growing tighter while I headed down the hall, I finally came to the door.
I could hardly breathe.
I was afraid of the room.
I wasn't quite sure what would happen there, but knew it would be special. I knew it would be intense. And I was sure there would be some sort of... something... hanging in the air in that room even before anything began. Even before he arrived. I knew I had to bring in my things and then get out of there. Not just to be sure I was back with enough time to prepare for his eventual arrival but so I didn't scare myself half silly waiting around in the room prior to starting the process of dedicating myself to the evening's service by taking off my clothes.
This is hard.
This is a struggle.
I am starting to float away... he is always warning me against floating away when I am supposed to be paying attention to his cock.
I can't remember exactly what I did. I must have put my things down in some sort of place, and put my little suitcase up on one of those folding holders they have in hotels, and taken out my dress and changed into the dress and left the room to walk in the steam bath heat the 3 blocks or so to someplace I thought I might have dinner.
Exiting the elevator, I was nearly creamed by one of the 20-something male wedding guests who couldn't be bothered to let me out even when he realized I was there.
The whole time, I felt like I was in a trance.
I was there
in that town
after a year and a half
of wondering
and fantasizing
and waiting
and worrying
and then thanking
and working
and driving
and trembling.
I was there.
And within a few hours it would truly begin.
And now I'm afraid I must leave you hanging again. I was a very good girl today and am allowed to cum tonight, after which I must report. So I want plenty of time for both. Because I really did earn this orgasm. I was a very, very good girl today and he was very, very happy. Aren't you pleased for me? Except that I am so horribly aroused that I'm not sure how long I can drag it out. I'm afraid that the minute I stroke my sweet little clitoris with the middle finger of my right hand, spreading the moisture that has been lingering there all day, I will explode. Listen for it.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Home and empowered
No, not empowered with relation to the sadist.
He holds all the power.
More than ever.
Which is as it should be.
But there was a huge storm in the DC area while I was gone. Luckily, as reported by M--, who was feeding the kitties, I was without power for only around 4 hours. And reports that I was without Internet access were a false alarm. The cable for Internet and TV is fully intact. But a HUGE tree limb came crashing down from very high up on one of the county trees between the street and the sidewalk, and took down what may be either a now-unused phone line (as I now use my cell phone only) or the old cable line. In any case, it didn't affect my service, but the limb does need to be cleared away and the wire dealt with one way or another.
Power is still out at my office - so maybe I'll have tomorrow off as well!
More tomorrow.
o.g.
He holds all the power.
More than ever.
Which is as it should be.
But there was a huge storm in the DC area while I was gone. Luckily, as reported by M--, who was feeding the kitties, I was without power for only around 4 hours. And reports that I was without Internet access were a false alarm. The cable for Internet and TV is fully intact. But a HUGE tree limb came crashing down from very high up on one of the county trees between the street and the sidewalk, and took down what may be either a now-unused phone line (as I now use my cell phone only) or the old cable line. In any case, it didn't affect my service, but the limb does need to be cleared away and the wire dealt with one way or another.
Power is still out at my office - so maybe I'll have tomorrow off as well!
More tomorrow.
o.g.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Dear Teacher -
Please excuse o.g.'s absence. Her presence is required at a family event up north. Conveniently, that takes her away from Saturday's projected excessive heat of 101 °F.
She promises to drive carefully, while dutifully fulfilling the task her owner has assigned her. Meanwhile, her mind will be filled with the new plan her demon mentor is hatching for her further education and despoilment, the training for which began last night. Her performance was excellent, in reward for which she was awarded the treat of masturbating to orgasm.
And what a yummy orgasm it was! Extremely clitoral, spasming repeatedly in a way that hasn't happened in a long time. She is convinced that the unlocking of her responses is the result of a particularly delicious episode in her Master's car not long ago, for which she is very grateful.
However, there is no time and no permission to go into that now. The girl must leave before the pavement melts. Please forgive her, have a good weekend, and if you really can't wait until Monday night for a new post, you can always purchase the instant download of Best S&M Volume 3, where you can read a never-before-published story by o.g. and so many more. (Sorry. Couldn't resist.)
Until Monday...
She promises to drive carefully, while dutifully fulfilling the task her owner has assigned her. Meanwhile, her mind will be filled with the new plan her demon mentor is hatching for her further education and despoilment, the training for which began last night. Her performance was excellent, in reward for which she was awarded the treat of masturbating to orgasm.
And what a yummy orgasm it was! Extremely clitoral, spasming repeatedly in a way that hasn't happened in a long time. She is convinced that the unlocking of her responses is the result of a particularly delicious episode in her Master's car not long ago, for which she is very grateful.
However, there is no time and no permission to go into that now. The girl must leave before the pavement melts. Please forgive her, have a good weekend, and if you really can't wait until Monday night for a new post, you can always purchase the instant download of Best S&M Volume 3, where you can read a never-before-published story by o.g. and so many more. (Sorry. Couldn't resist.)
Until Monday...
Thursday, July 22, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (9)
Finally.
I was on the road.
Beside me on the passenger seat was a folder with travel directions and the hotel reservation (2 beds, no smoking) and all my Master's instructions and the piece I wrote and memorized to incite his desire. Or, as was more likely, further inflame it. On the floor was the soft-sided blue cooler with the cheap champagne and bottles of spring water, all purchased with money from the stash of $20 bills he had inserted into my demure white cotton panties and unremarkable white racer-back bra as I knelt before him just one week before.
In the CD player was a compilation of 5 songs my Master had made for me very early on as part of my education on what was meaningful to him. I played them over and over all the way out.
Already, I was in that place. I was aware enough to be safe on the road, but I was surrounded by his ownership. Each thought, each breath, each cell was focused on the reality of my existence as his property. His pet. His angel. His whore. The only world that existed was the one my Master had created for me.
And then the phone rang.
I had finally left the spreading outskirts of the city and was racing along at 70 miles an hour, not quite the fastest creature on the road. I was most definitely not going to answer the phone. But I did manage to glance over and see who had called.
My mother.
Damn.
My parents don't normally call me. They complain about not hearing from me, but wait for my Sunday call without thinking to pick up the phone and call me themselves. They are plus-or-minus 90, with health issues, but delay telling me when something goes wrong so as not to worry me. Grrr...
I am always expecting The Call.
I pulled off at the next exit. I was convinced something serious had happened and I would have to turn around, head back to town, and then drive 6 hours north to deal with a major crisis. This was not one of the emergencies my Master and I had foreseen.
I listened to the message and called home. My mom didn't sound great but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. She's been having fainting spells, had another one, passed out, hit her head, and spent a couple of nights in the hospital AT THE BEGINNING OF THE WEEK. And now was ready to tell me about it. This is one of many reasons why I have a family of choice. When my friends have health issues, an e-mail goes out to the whole gang with all the details, and then there are follow-up e-mails afterwards. You can't expect people to feel close to you if you shut them out.
End of diatribe.
Call over, I took advantage of the stop to dash into the gas station and pee, and then was back on the road, trying to return to that same state of calm and focus that I had had before.
There is magic in my Master.
There is power.
There is comfort.
I may miss him, especially if a week goes by without a visit, as is likely to happen this week because I haven't been well. I may fret and worry if a day goes by without a message, as may happen if he is busy (more than usual) or having computer problems. I may not so subtly fish for reassurance that I haven't done something wrong. But I always feel the power of the connection, of his control, of his knowledge of who I am and what he wants me to be and what I need to keep me on the path he has built for me.
I do not wear a collar, or a ring, or a tattoo, or bits of metal through my nipples or labia. I don't need these things to remind me that I am his. But I feel his chain around my neck, I feel the other end in his hand, I feel it running deep into the delicate tissues of my dripping cunt, and I breathe the air that he has mixed for me in proportions that always leave me slightly dreamy and slightly hypnotized and very happy.
So very soon I was back in that place and I sped along the road and resisted the temptation to pull off at scenic rest stops and didn't let myself pee again and listened to those same 5 songs over and over and recited to myself the piece I had written and then I saw signs for the town and then I took the exit and then I made the turn and then I saw the hotel and I drove around until I found a parking place and I pulled into the spot and I turned off the engine.
And I just sat there.
I had arrived.
The next stage had begun.
I was on the road.
Beside me on the passenger seat was a folder with travel directions and the hotel reservation (2 beds, no smoking) and all my Master's instructions and the piece I wrote and memorized to incite his desire. Or, as was more likely, further inflame it. On the floor was the soft-sided blue cooler with the cheap champagne and bottles of spring water, all purchased with money from the stash of $20 bills he had inserted into my demure white cotton panties and unremarkable white racer-back bra as I knelt before him just one week before.
In the CD player was a compilation of 5 songs my Master had made for me very early on as part of my education on what was meaningful to him. I played them over and over all the way out.
Already, I was in that place. I was aware enough to be safe on the road, but I was surrounded by his ownership. Each thought, each breath, each cell was focused on the reality of my existence as his property. His pet. His angel. His whore. The only world that existed was the one my Master had created for me.
And then the phone rang.
I had finally left the spreading outskirts of the city and was racing along at 70 miles an hour, not quite the fastest creature on the road. I was most definitely not going to answer the phone. But I did manage to glance over and see who had called.
My mother.
Damn.
My parents don't normally call me. They complain about not hearing from me, but wait for my Sunday call without thinking to pick up the phone and call me themselves. They are plus-or-minus 90, with health issues, but delay telling me when something goes wrong so as not to worry me. Grrr...
I am always expecting The Call.
I pulled off at the next exit. I was convinced something serious had happened and I would have to turn around, head back to town, and then drive 6 hours north to deal with a major crisis. This was not one of the emergencies my Master and I had foreseen.
I listened to the message and called home. My mom didn't sound great but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. She's been having fainting spells, had another one, passed out, hit her head, and spent a couple of nights in the hospital AT THE BEGINNING OF THE WEEK. And now was ready to tell me about it. This is one of many reasons why I have a family of choice. When my friends have health issues, an e-mail goes out to the whole gang with all the details, and then there are follow-up e-mails afterwards. You can't expect people to feel close to you if you shut them out.
End of diatribe.
Call over, I took advantage of the stop to dash into the gas station and pee, and then was back on the road, trying to return to that same state of calm and focus that I had had before.
There is magic in my Master.
There is power.
There is comfort.
I may miss him, especially if a week goes by without a visit, as is likely to happen this week because I haven't been well. I may fret and worry if a day goes by without a message, as may happen if he is busy (more than usual) or having computer problems. I may not so subtly fish for reassurance that I haven't done something wrong. But I always feel the power of the connection, of his control, of his knowledge of who I am and what he wants me to be and what I need to keep me on the path he has built for me.
I do not wear a collar, or a ring, or a tattoo, or bits of metal through my nipples or labia. I don't need these things to remind me that I am his. But I feel his chain around my neck, I feel the other end in his hand, I feel it running deep into the delicate tissues of my dripping cunt, and I breathe the air that he has mixed for me in proportions that always leave me slightly dreamy and slightly hypnotized and very happy.
So very soon I was back in that place and I sped along the road and resisted the temptation to pull off at scenic rest stops and didn't let myself pee again and listened to those same 5 songs over and over and recited to myself the piece I had written and then I saw signs for the town and then I took the exit and then I made the turn and then I saw the hotel and I drove around until I found a parking place and I pulled into the spot and I turned off the engine.
And I just sat there.
I had arrived.
The next stage had begun.
Begging for favors: Reviewers wanted
No, this isn't yet another bit of shameless self-promotion for Best S&M Erotica Vol. 3: Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex which happens to contain my first published story. Published as in a book you can hold in your hands as well as in e-book format. There are enough plugs littering up this blog already.
So instead this is a request for a favor.
A gentle plea.
Actually, I'm really good at begging.
Want to see me crawl?
Should you happen to get the book in either format.
And then should you actually read it.
And should you get the urge to share your opinion of it,
we could really use some reviews on Amazon.
Notice that I am not qualifying the request with "and should you like it." No qualifiers. We do want to know what you think, though of course we hope that you like the collection as a whole - or at least some of the stories within.
So if/when you have ordered the book, and if/when you receive it and if/when you read it and if/when you have the urge to write a customer review... here are the links on the Amazon website:
Best S&M Vol. 3 - Paperback
Best S&M Vol. 3 - for Kindle
And on behalf of all of us, many thanks.
o.g.
PS - the writers haven't received our own copies yet, so I really am curious as to what you all think of the other stories in the collection!
So instead this is a request for a favor.
A gentle plea.
Actually, I'm really good at begging.
Want to see me crawl?
Should you happen to get the book in either format.
And then should you actually read it.
And should you get the urge to share your opinion of it,
we could really use some reviews on Amazon.
Notice that I am not qualifying the request with "and should you like it." No qualifiers. We do want to know what you think, though of course we hope that you like the collection as a whole - or at least some of the stories within.
So if/when you have ordered the book, and if/when you receive it and if/when you read it and if/when you have the urge to write a customer review... here are the links on the Amazon website:
Best S&M Vol. 3 - Paperback
Best S&M Vol. 3 - for Kindle
And on behalf of all of us, many thanks.
o.g.
PS - the writers haven't received our own copies yet, so I really am curious as to what you all think of the other stories in the collection!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tribute
I'm not sure why I need to do this tonight, but I do, so you'll have to forgive me.
This is a straight-out honest statement. No attempts at being artsy, or literary, or sexy, or provocative, or whatever you keep coming back for. Just a statement.
This man. This man who typed his way into my life for whatever reasons of his own. Yes. He's a sadist. Yes, he's a predator. Yes, he is truly dangerous, and brilliant and creative and funny and perceptive.
But here's the thing. He has done for me what no one else has ever been able to do.
All those things he wrote to me were absolutely true. All those things about my being different and isolated and imprisoned by my difference - all true. What he said there - that didn't change anything. I'm still very different from most people. I am tolerated as much as anything else.
But he taught me to value myself. To make no apologies for who I am. He has made me hold my head up and be proud of my talent, proud of my creativity, proud of my sexiness which I never fully swam in before he showed me who I am. And on top of all that, he has given me structure and direction and discipline. I try not to think of what I might have been and achieved if I had had all that for 2 decades instead of not quite 2 years.
He doesn't read here, so he won't see this. Not that he doesn't know how I value what he has done for me. But I wanted to say it straight out. Here. Just so you all know.
Because of this man, I have grown so much. And I am glad that when I kneel before him I can offer him my strength along with my vulnerability and submission and love.
Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for teaching me to treasure myself.
This is a straight-out honest statement. No attempts at being artsy, or literary, or sexy, or provocative, or whatever you keep coming back for. Just a statement.
This man. This man who typed his way into my life for whatever reasons of his own. Yes. He's a sadist. Yes, he's a predator. Yes, he is truly dangerous, and brilliant and creative and funny and perceptive.
But here's the thing. He has done for me what no one else has ever been able to do.
All those things he wrote to me were absolutely true. All those things about my being different and isolated and imprisoned by my difference - all true. What he said there - that didn't change anything. I'm still very different from most people. I am tolerated as much as anything else.
But he taught me to value myself. To make no apologies for who I am. He has made me hold my head up and be proud of my talent, proud of my creativity, proud of my sexiness which I never fully swam in before he showed me who I am. And on top of all that, he has given me structure and direction and discipline. I try not to think of what I might have been and achieved if I had had all that for 2 decades instead of not quite 2 years.
He doesn't read here, so he won't see this. Not that he doesn't know how I value what he has done for me. But I wanted to say it straight out. Here. Just so you all know.
Because of this man, I have grown so much. And I am glad that when I kneel before him I can offer him my strength along with my vulnerability and submission and love.
Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for teaching me to treasure myself.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
“Now wash me, my pet.”
I haven't been feeling well the last few days, so must beg off posting another installment about that special week of serving my Master. Now don't go carrying on. The sadist had it much worse today, as he had hoped to use my mouth for his pleasure. I am his property, and he does not like being denied the use of his property.
But I don't want to leave you completely wanting. So here is a poem I wrote for my demon muse on May 30, 2009. It inspired him to assign me the task of writing a prequel, which was to include a particular aspect. My Master permitted me to submit the results to M. Christian, who took it for the anthology Best S&M Erotica Vol. 3: Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex. Should you have an urge to read that story, along with many others by writers far more well-known and well-published than I am, you can purchase the entire collection from Logical-Lust as an e-book or as a REAL book, paper and ink and a cover and everything that you can put on your book shelf or hide from your friends just as I will when I finally receive my own copy.
Anyway.
Here
for free
is the poem.
Enjoy.
I'm going to bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Now wash me, my pet.”
I join you in the shower
and kneel at your feet.
The water draws my hair down,
darkened red, flowing
over my face like a veil.
I fill my hands with
soft scented bubbles and
cup your growing cock.
You lean into the wall and
give yourself to lust.
Time is not the master. Here,
now, you rule the world. And me.
But I don't want to leave you completely wanting. So here is a poem I wrote for my demon muse on May 30, 2009. It inspired him to assign me the task of writing a prequel, which was to include a particular aspect. My Master permitted me to submit the results to M. Christian, who took it for the anthology Best S&M Erotica Vol. 3: Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex. Should you have an urge to read that story, along with many others by writers far more well-known and well-published than I am, you can purchase the entire collection from Logical-Lust as an e-book or as a REAL book, paper and ink and a cover and everything that you can put on your book shelf or hide from your friends just as I will when I finally receive my own copy.
Anyway.
Here
for free
is the poem.
Enjoy.
I'm going to bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Now wash me, my pet.”
I join you in the shower
and kneel at your feet.
The water draws my hair down,
darkened red, flowing
over my face like a veil.
I fill my hands with
soft scented bubbles and
cup your growing cock.
You lean into the wall and
give yourself to lust.
Time is not the master. Here,
now, you rule the world. And me.
Monday, July 19, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (8)
My Master thinks I'm very sexy. And beautiful. Very beautiful. I've learned to accept his view on the matter. One doesn't question a sadist's judgment, especially when one is naked and the sadist has a long, nasty, pointed strip of wood near to hand.
Besides, I'll never forget that tone of wonderment when he first saw me standing naked before him. "You're beautiful..." he said. It makes me wonder in a way about the people who have been serving him till now. But I probably shouldn't do that either.
So. I'm beautiful. I'm sexy. He's got this thing about my voice. And I am a talented and superbly creative cocksucker. But, as he points out, there are plenty of people who would happily suck his cock, and many (most) of those would satisfy much better than I do his need to inflict very serious pain.
But, as he often reminds me, I can offer him something that none of the rest can.
My mind.
So when I serve him, he wants the products of my mind. I write poetry for him, and then I recite for him, from memory, naked, vulnerable, pressed into the wall or kneeling before him, my hand replacing my mouth on his cock as that orifice is turned to service of a more vocal sort.
For the night we would be spending together at the hotel, he specifically assigned me to create a short piece, 4-6 lines, designed to arouse him. Poetry or prose, whichever seemed to fit best. And explicit. Very explicit. Which is a challenge for me. He didn't want a flood of atmospheric images. This was to be functional and pornographic. As the assignment was made on that previous Saturday, I had a week in which to compose and polish and memorize.
I am becoming very aroused as I write this... squirming, twitching, contracting... anything having to do with my Master's assignments arouses me. Being ordered. Being commanded. And never questioning - either of us - that I will obey.
I chose prose, and set to work, hampered by the limit on the length. It is good for me to be constrained. And I did work very hard to make it explicit. But of course, being me, being a poet, I could never write straight, dry porn - and I'm sure the sadist knew that. I doubt he would have wanted straight, dry porn from me.
So here is what I wrote, and revised, and trimmed, and ultimately committed to my inadequate memory, created based on my knowledge of my sadistic Master and of the things that excite him. And I would recite it for him on that magic night.
[All this has been prelude. At this point, I am somewhere on the highway. I suppose I should check into the hotel soon. Previous episodes can be found here: Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 and Part 7.]
Besides, I'll never forget that tone of wonderment when he first saw me standing naked before him. "You're beautiful..." he said. It makes me wonder in a way about the people who have been serving him till now. But I probably shouldn't do that either.
So. I'm beautiful. I'm sexy. He's got this thing about my voice. And I am a talented and superbly creative cocksucker. But, as he points out, there are plenty of people who would happily suck his cock, and many (most) of those would satisfy much better than I do his need to inflict very serious pain.
But, as he often reminds me, I can offer him something that none of the rest can.
My mind.
So when I serve him, he wants the products of my mind. I write poetry for him, and then I recite for him, from memory, naked, vulnerable, pressed into the wall or kneeling before him, my hand replacing my mouth on his cock as that orifice is turned to service of a more vocal sort.
For the night we would be spending together at the hotel, he specifically assigned me to create a short piece, 4-6 lines, designed to arouse him. Poetry or prose, whichever seemed to fit best. And explicit. Very explicit. Which is a challenge for me. He didn't want a flood of atmospheric images. This was to be functional and pornographic. As the assignment was made on that previous Saturday, I had a week in which to compose and polish and memorize.
I am becoming very aroused as I write this... squirming, twitching, contracting... anything having to do with my Master's assignments arouses me. Being ordered. Being commanded. And never questioning - either of us - that I will obey.
I chose prose, and set to work, hampered by the limit on the length. It is good for me to be constrained. And I did work very hard to make it explicit. But of course, being me, being a poet, I could never write straight, dry porn - and I'm sure the sadist knew that. I doubt he would have wanted straight, dry porn from me.
So here is what I wrote, and revised, and trimmed, and ultimately committed to my inadequate memory, created based on my knowledge of my sadistic Master and of the things that excite him. And I would recite it for him on that magic night.
They fuck your little whore before your eyes. One by one, their cocks scrape her tonsils, batter her cervix, and explode her butthole until it oozes bloody, shit-stained cum. As a farewell gift, they surround her weeping, fetal heap and pump their dicks in unison, coating her in cataracts of cum. They leave, thanking you for the use of her holes. She drags herself to your chair and raises her tear-stained, pain-streaked face. “Please, my Lord…” You douse her head with urine as she sticks out her tongue to catch the sacred stream.
[All this has been prelude. At this point, I am somewhere on the highway. I suppose I should check into the hotel soon. Previous episodes can be found here: Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 and Part 7.]
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (7)
Digging through the debris on my kitchen counter the other day, I came across a slip of paper. It is a list of things to do on (or by) that Saturday morning, before leaving to join my Master.
Review
Pack
Nails
?Exercise?
Play w/kitties
Bills
Saturday
Shave
Hair
Leave by 2 or 2:30
GAS
Being me, I did not of course get to exercise as much as I had hoped, and certainly not that Saturday morning. And I didn't get to pack until Saturday, either. Probably just as well. I would have made myself crazy if I hadn't had tasks with which to fill the time before I left.
I did have tasks, very specific ones, and plenty more once I got to the room. In fact, that first item in the list, "Review", meant reviewing the list of instructions so I didn't mess up.
All week, with the growing list of instructions and the intense inspirational and manipulative pieces, I was in a place that was not quite of this world. Certainly not quite in my normal world. I was in that beautiful place where anything outside of my existence as my Master's treasured poet and pet was purely an illusion. My task for Saturday morning would send me even deeper.
Before your trip, shave my pussy very carefully. Be mindful throughout of the ritual of offering that procedure signifies.
The ritual of offering.
My pussy belongs to him.
So I filled the tub, to soak and soften the skin and hairs.
I put a new blade in the razor.
I had shaving cream ready.
And afterward, I would wash my hair.
I was preparing myself for service.
I can feel myself slipping back into that place merely from describing the preparations. And all went as it was meant to go. Except for one small problem.
The tub didn't want to drain.
I soaked my cunt and stood up to shave and tried to drain the tub before washing my hair in the shower. But the drain had been slow for the previous 2 days and now would hardly drain at all. So I stood there with water sloshing around my calves and washed my hair and cleansed my body with gently scented goat's milk soap, and put away the awareness that here was another expense I couldn't afford to deal with. I would return to practicalities on the Monday. On this day, that life didn't exist.
Except, of course, it did. And kept trying to intrude. As I was nearly ready to leave the house, M-- called, kindly inviting me to play music with her. At any other time, I would have been delighted. But instead, I sounded stressed out. Which I suddenly was. I said I was on my way out, leaving right then to meet a friend... more or less true. But I am convinced she had the urge to call right at that time because she picked up that something was up, even though she couldn't clearly hear my thoughts. Or maybe it's that she couldn't interpret them. They made no sense in context of the friend she thought she knew.
Despite the world's attempts to sabotage my plans, I left by 2:30 pm.
Despite the world's attempts to sabotage my plans, I was calm and focused.
It was hot and sunny and the car was filled with gas and my hair was clean and abundant and my legs and pussy were smooth and hairless and the cooler was filled with water and cheap champagne and on the seat beside me were driving directions and contact instructions plus very precise specifications as to how to prepare the room for his arrival.
You may go as early as you like, but arrive no later than 7:30.
Have the room and yourself prepared by 8 pm.
Once you enter the room and do not anticipate going back out (to get ice, for instance) strip naked before preparing the room to my specifications. TEXT me at that point. That is, as soon as you are naked, but before prepping the space.
I will sleep in the bed nearest the bathroom. You are to turn down the left ( standing at the foot, facing the bed) side only, forming a triangle with the pulled back sheet. Locate any extra pillows and blankets in the room's closets and drawers. All pillows (including any on the other bed) are to be placed on mine, at the head, but not on the turned-down side. Any extra blankets are to be placed at the foot of the other bed.
At that point I wrote:
I was going to reply "Do you have any idea, my Lord, how these precise instructions make me feel?"
But that would be redundant. Because of course you know, my Lord. You know exactly how they make me feel.
And he replied:
Of course I know the effect my detailed instructions have on you. I also know how that effect will be increased when you, stripped bare, carefully carry out each task, making sure every minute detail is completed to my exact specifications. So, to continue..
Bring (or obtain there) two bottles of water for me, plus whatever you will need. Place one of the water bottles so it is easily accessible from either bed.
You may go out to eat as long as you are back at the room by the time I gave you earlier. Pay for anything you eat ONLY with money I have given you.
Once you have returned to the room you will immediately strip, placing all clothing in whatever travel bag you brought, zipping/fastening/closing it as completely as possible before placing it in the most inaccessable space the room has to offer, i.e. the top shelf of the closet, a bottom bureau drawer, under the desk chair. If a space exists which would require the use of a chair to to stand on for access, use that, then place the chair as far from it as possible.
You may bring your laptop, and/or writing materials, to use exclusively for work for my benefit, and specifically for that night. You may not watch TV.
oh...
yes, Sir.
I am feeling very vulnerable, my Lord.
I'm sure you are aware that was my intention, my pet, as I am also sure that when you are actually in that room, alone, naked, unable to quickly cover your nakedness, far from home, waiting anxiously (in the worst sense of the word) for an undetermined time at which a sadist (who has never hidden, in fact recently reiterated, that he wants to torture you) will enter to do who-knows-what to you, that feeling of vulnerability will, to my remote enjoyment, increase exponentially.
Yes, my Master.
I do know that was your intention.
And yet, as I read your message and went to that place, I recognized and reached out to what you were doing to me.
This is what I am, my Lord.
This is what I have yearned for.
This is how I was meant to be.
Confined.
Isolated.
Naked.
With no thought,
no purpose,
no existence,
but being yours,
serving you,
yielding to you.
I have no choice, my Master.
I never had a choice.
I belong to you as surely as if it were stamped on my birth certificate.
And despite my fears, I accept my fate with joy.
Review
Pack
Nails
?Exercise?
Play w/kitties
Bills
Saturday
Shave
Hair
Leave by 2 or 2:30
GAS
Being me, I did not of course get to exercise as much as I had hoped, and certainly not that Saturday morning. And I didn't get to pack until Saturday, either. Probably just as well. I would have made myself crazy if I hadn't had tasks with which to fill the time before I left.
I did have tasks, very specific ones, and plenty more once I got to the room. In fact, that first item in the list, "Review", meant reviewing the list of instructions so I didn't mess up.
All week, with the growing list of instructions and the intense inspirational and manipulative pieces, I was in a place that was not quite of this world. Certainly not quite in my normal world. I was in that beautiful place where anything outside of my existence as my Master's treasured poet and pet was purely an illusion. My task for Saturday morning would send me even deeper.
Before your trip, shave my pussy very carefully. Be mindful throughout of the ritual of offering that procedure signifies.
The ritual of offering.
My pussy belongs to him.
So I filled the tub, to soak and soften the skin and hairs.
I put a new blade in the razor.
I had shaving cream ready.
And afterward, I would wash my hair.
I was preparing myself for service.
I can feel myself slipping back into that place merely from describing the preparations. And all went as it was meant to go. Except for one small problem.
The tub didn't want to drain.
I soaked my cunt and stood up to shave and tried to drain the tub before washing my hair in the shower. But the drain had been slow for the previous 2 days and now would hardly drain at all. So I stood there with water sloshing around my calves and washed my hair and cleansed my body with gently scented goat's milk soap, and put away the awareness that here was another expense I couldn't afford to deal with. I would return to practicalities on the Monday. On this day, that life didn't exist.
Except, of course, it did. And kept trying to intrude. As I was nearly ready to leave the house, M-- called, kindly inviting me to play music with her. At any other time, I would have been delighted. But instead, I sounded stressed out. Which I suddenly was. I said I was on my way out, leaving right then to meet a friend... more or less true. But I am convinced she had the urge to call right at that time because she picked up that something was up, even though she couldn't clearly hear my thoughts. Or maybe it's that she couldn't interpret them. They made no sense in context of the friend she thought she knew.
Despite the world's attempts to sabotage my plans, I left by 2:30 pm.
Despite the world's attempts to sabotage my plans, I was calm and focused.
It was hot and sunny and the car was filled with gas and my hair was clean and abundant and my legs and pussy were smooth and hairless and the cooler was filled with water and cheap champagne and on the seat beside me were driving directions and contact instructions plus very precise specifications as to how to prepare the room for his arrival.
You may go as early as you like, but arrive no later than 7:30.
Have the room and yourself prepared by 8 pm.
Once you enter the room and do not anticipate going back out (to get ice, for instance) strip naked before preparing the room to my specifications. TEXT me at that point. That is, as soon as you are naked, but before prepping the space.
I will sleep in the bed nearest the bathroom. You are to turn down the left ( standing at the foot, facing the bed) side only, forming a triangle with the pulled back sheet. Locate any extra pillows and blankets in the room's closets and drawers. All pillows (including any on the other bed) are to be placed on mine, at the head, but not on the turned-down side. Any extra blankets are to be placed at the foot of the other bed.
At that point I wrote:
I was going to reply "Do you have any idea, my Lord, how these precise instructions make me feel?"
But that would be redundant. Because of course you know, my Lord. You know exactly how they make me feel.
And he replied:
Of course I know the effect my detailed instructions have on you. I also know how that effect will be increased when you, stripped bare, carefully carry out each task, making sure every minute detail is completed to my exact specifications. So, to continue..
You may go out to eat as long as you are back at the room by the time I gave you earlier. Pay for anything you eat ONLY with money I have given you.
Once you have returned to the room you will immediately strip, placing all clothing in whatever travel bag you brought, zipping/fastening/closing it as completely as possible before placing it in the most inaccessable space the room has to offer, i.e. the top shelf of the closet, a bottom bureau drawer, under the desk chair. If a space exists which would require the use of a chair to to stand on for access, use that, then place the chair as far from it as possible.
You may bring your laptop, and/or writing materials, to use exclusively for work for my benefit, and specifically for that night. You may not watch TV.
oh...
yes, Sir.
I am feeling very vulnerable, my Lord.
I'm sure you are aware that was my intention, my pet, as I am also sure that when you are actually in that room, alone, naked, unable to quickly cover your nakedness, far from home, waiting anxiously (in the worst sense of the word) for an undetermined time at which a sadist (who has never hidden, in fact recently reiterated, that he wants to torture you) will enter to do who-knows-what to you, that feeling of vulnerability will, to my remote enjoyment, increase exponentially.
Yes, my Master.
I do know that was your intention.
And yet, as I read your message and went to that place, I recognized and reached out to what you were doing to me.
This is what I am, my Lord.
This is what I have yearned for.
This is how I was meant to be.
Confined.
Isolated.
Naked.
With no thought,
no purpose,
no existence,
but being yours,
serving you,
yielding to you.
I have no choice, my Master.
I never had a choice.
I belong to you as surely as if it were stamped on my birth certificate.
And despite my fears, I accept my fate with joy.
Continuing the room preparations:
Prepare the shower in case I want that as soon as I arrive. So, soap and shampoo unwrapped and placed, mat positioned.
As for lighting, since I will have been in the sun all day and then plunged into the grotto-like darkness of a bar, have the room light very low but not dark. I want to be able to see... everything.
Yes, Sir. The room preparations... These instructions always have a profound effect on me.
You want to see... everything.
All those handy little items arrayed for your use.
Tiny soap.
Tiny shampoo.
Bottles of water to sate your thirst.
And a little whore - to sate a different thirst.
A little whore...
with insistent nipples,
rounded belly,
bruised buttocks,
and a pussy as hot and moist as the shower.
You will see it all...
the vulnerability in her eyes
the blush of her spanked ass
the beckoning lips dangling between her thighs
the tears that teeter as you torture her nipples
and her bobbing head as she sucks your cock.
All are yours.
If you want them.
[More to come. If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 and Part 6.]
Yes, Sir. The room preparations... These instructions always have a profound effect on me.
You want to see... everything.
All those handy little items arrayed for your use.
Tiny soap.
Tiny shampoo.
Bottles of water to sate your thirst.
And a little whore - to sate a different thirst.
A little whore...
with insistent nipples,
rounded belly,
bruised buttocks,
and a pussy as hot and moist as the shower.
You will see it all...
the vulnerability in her eyes
the blush of her spanked ass
the beckoning lips dangling between her thighs
the tears that teeter as you torture her nipples
and her bobbing head as she sucks your cock.
All are yours.
If you want them.
[More to come. If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 and Part 6.]
Saturday, July 17, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (6)
When I look back on the series of thoughts that the sadist injected into my mind during those days before the trip, I am not completely sure what he was trying to achieve. Part of it, I know, was to keep me completely, intensely immersed in that place in which he can so easily put me with nothing more than a word or a phrase. Part of it, perhaps, was a recapitulation of how far we had come in the nearly 2 years since he found me. And another part, I suspect, was to reveal to me why I am his treasure.
Why I was being honored by being allowed to go.
Why - damn, I'm crying now - why he wanted to have me with him.
The piece I am not sharing certainly speaks to that.
My dear friend jcn mentioned in a comment that there seems to be a contradiction between my Master's image of me and my own, especially as relayed in the last post. She writes:
Before I give the sadist's response, here is a small part of my reaction to that very long message. Remember, he had written:
And so you see my pet, though we use euphemisms and prosaic verbiage to describe the dynamic, you truly, actually are imprisoned, and only I know where you are, and what you need. Only I can bring you even the tiniest bit of relief from your suffering. These words have certainly saddened you, and I revel in that. They may have even angered you. But I have zero concern that you would do anything that would cause me to lose my ability to amuse myself with my treasure. You could cut off contact. Maybe even hold out for a while. But you would be back, and I would always know that.
And I replied:
Your words did not anger me, my Master.
And they saddened me only in reminding me of my life-long pain.
I cried exactly where you predicted, but there was a measure of joy and relief in it, too.
How could I not give myself to probably the only person in the word who understands me?
How could I not love you, even though you use your knowledge of me purely for your own amusement?
With you, only with you, do I feel a little less alone.
Perhaps that is why I say, contrary to all logic, that with you I feel safe? And certainly, my Lord, that is why I say that you have freed me.
You were what I needed.
You are what I need.
And so I ran to you.
There was more, of course. But I'll leave it at that. Except for now giving my Master's reply to to jcn's comment about the seeming contradiction:
"those 2 dynamics [...] are in fact inseparable"
Perhaps, to make it clearer, I should give you a little more from my responses, which continued throughout the day:
Oh yes, my Lord. I well know that I am your prey. But at least you understand me. You value me. You take pleasure from me. And you pay attention to me! I am not alone any more.
This feels like a lead in to the 23rd Psalm.
For Thou art with me.
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Ouch.
I have never known anyone like you, my Master. And what you give me, I have never had from anyone. Can you wonder that I would sacrifice as necessary to remain at your feet?
[ . . . ]
And if I don't want to escape, my Master?
If I feel more alive as you torture me than I ever did flailing about on my own?
I say how you free me, my Master. It's not that you change me, I am still cut off from the rest of the world. But you free me from being cut off from myself. You allow me to see myself as valuable, rather than as an inconvenient pain in the ass.
What is key here is that you truly understand that you really could not escape, even if you wanted do.
I have been saying that myself for a long time, my Lord. I had no choice.
There were a few more comments, including one or two from me that seemed to penetrate past his armor, at which point he switched the conversation to practicalities.
All this happened on the Thursday night. Friday was completely devoted to discussing details, adding to instructions I had received over the course of the week as to what to buy (water and cheap champagne) and what to bring.
As I mentioned previously, because of the schedule of the main purpose for his trip, it made sense for me to travel separately, and to return on my own on the Sunday. I was sorry about this, as the previous year's discussions including a delicious scenario of my masturbating in the seat beside him on the whole trip out, exhausting myself with orgasms for his amusement while he fondled my tits and pussy at 70 miles an hours. Add to this the possibility of drivers choosing to hover beside us to share the entertainment and you can see why we regretted the necessary change in plans. But some things can't be helped.
Because of our separate arrivals and projected late rendez-vous at the hotel, clear specification of means of communication were crucial. Besides, being a dom and all - and doms being notorious control freaks - my Master does seem to get off on precision and ritual. So I was clearly informed exactly when to text him with the room number, followed by an e-mail, to be repeated after a defined interval if I didn't hear back, and then a further back-up plan if I didn't hear back after that.
There were three paragraphs of this, which I dutifully transferred to the sheet of instructions I would take with. I then condensed and listed the steps, so I wouldn't miss anything in his profusion of verbiage. However, what I forgot to put on that hand-written list was something buried in paragraph 4: as soon as I get a reply to my message, text him yet again so he will know we have 2-way communication.
There is always something...
Saturday dawned sunny and hot.
Very hot.
The cats were clingy. They knew I was leaving town and were not at all happy. I would be gone for pretty much precisely 24 hours, and felt they would manage with heaps of extra dry food. The last thing I wanted to do was ask my friend M-- to feed the cats while I was gone, thus letting her know I'd be gone, thus leaving her wondering where I was going. She doesn't know about the fiend. It's not like with the philosopher, where eventually people knew of him as my boyfriend and all I was keeping from them was the D/s part of our relationship. The sadist and I exist in a world of our own creation, which no one else may enter unless it serves his pleasure to assign a small part in our play. Besides, M-- is telepathic. I think she is already picking something up. She just has no idea how to read it, so it floats in her mind undefined.
I had hoped to do my small bit of packing on Friday night. A very small bit of packing. After all, from about 7 pm Saturday until I floated out of bed Sunday, I was to remain naked. But I just couldn't focus enough on Friday night. So Saturday morning I allowed myself a little extra sleep and then diligently packed a change of underwear, a sleeveless summer dress for dinner, my toiletries, and my own pillow into a small, wheeled floral suitcase. The champagne and water went into a small, blue, soft-sided cooler. I made sure not to forget the charger for my Blackberry, and brought my laptop as well.
And the cash.
We must not forget the $20 bills he had, on the previous Saturday morning - stuffed in my white racer-back bra and my plain white cotton panties as if I were a prosaic whore or a stripper or (more exotic) a belly dancer being hired for a very special party. I was allowed to pay for the hotel and gas with my credit card, but otherwise everything else had to be bought with the cash.
The purchases... for the champagne I went on that same Saturday to a store in DC, where I knew the selection would be better. Not that it really mattered. I suspected I knew why he wanted the wine, and taste would be irrelevant. But I liked the sense of making a special trip, dedicated to fulfilling my Master's command. I was excited and nervous, feeling as if I were doing something illegal, as if anyone looking at me could see that I had abdicated control over my body, my mind, and my life. Could see that I was someone who willingly gave her body to a man selected by someone who claimed the right to make a gift of her services. I reeked sex. I was sure everyone in the store could smell it.
I felt my Master's chain clipped tight around my neck, and could feel him pulling on it from miles away. I could feel his eyes on me, enjoying my arousal, feeding on my trembling, watching over me like a not-so-benevolent deity. And as I left the store, I could hear his voice... that voice I can't describe but which stops my breathing - I could hear his voice saying:
"Good girl."
[I think that will be enough for tonight. If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4 and Part 5.]
Why I was being honored by being allowed to go.
Why - damn, I'm crying now - why he wanted to have me with him.
The piece I am not sharing certainly speaks to that.
My dear friend jcn mentioned in a comment that there seems to be a contradiction between my Master's image of me and my own, especially as relayed in the last post. She writes:
We have (in your Master's voice), I found you in prison, and I chose not to help, or befriend or support or encourage you.
Which is difficult to match up with your image of yourself, downy and delicate, crouched beneath him, being fed precisely the correct diet to strengthen your wings.
And there is the problem of his view of an unrelenting and merciless captor, and yours of joy dancing within you as you waited to be subject, yet again, to his terrible ministrations.
I do laugh, too, when I read your descriptions of yourself, sparkling and full of soul songs in his hands, and his descriptions of you, bleary-eyed, hanging from a branch, in despair over his command over you.
So, dear OG, we wait for all these mysteries to be solved, for these apparent discrepancies to be explained [...]
Before I give the sadist's response, here is a small part of my reaction to that very long message. Remember, he had written:
And so you see my pet, though we use euphemisms and prosaic verbiage to describe the dynamic, you truly, actually are imprisoned, and only I know where you are, and what you need. Only I can bring you even the tiniest bit of relief from your suffering. These words have certainly saddened you, and I revel in that. They may have even angered you. But I have zero concern that you would do anything that would cause me to lose my ability to amuse myself with my treasure. You could cut off contact. Maybe even hold out for a while. But you would be back, and I would always know that.
And I replied:
Your words did not anger me, my Master.
And they saddened me only in reminding me of my life-long pain.
I cried exactly where you predicted, but there was a measure of joy and relief in it, too.
How could I not give myself to probably the only person in the word who understands me?
How could I not love you, even though you use your knowledge of me purely for your own amusement?
With you, only with you, do I feel a little less alone.
Perhaps that is why I say, contrary to all logic, that with you I feel safe? And certainly, my Lord, that is why I say that you have freed me.
You were what I needed.
You are what I need.
And so I ran to you.
There was more, of course. But I'll leave it at that. Except for now giving my Master's reply to to jcn's comment about the seeming contradiction:
"those 2 dynamics [...] are in fact inseparable"
Perhaps, to make it clearer, I should give you a little more from my responses, which continued throughout the day:
Oh yes, my Lord. I well know that I am your prey. But at least you understand me. You value me. You take pleasure from me. And you pay attention to me! I am not alone any more.
This feels like a lead in to the 23rd Psalm.
For Thou art with me.
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Ouch.
I have never known anyone like you, my Master. And what you give me, I have never had from anyone. Can you wonder that I would sacrifice as necessary to remain at your feet?
[ . . . ]
And if I don't want to escape, my Master?
If I feel more alive as you torture me than I ever did flailing about on my own?
I say how you free me, my Master. It's not that you change me, I am still cut off from the rest of the world. But you free me from being cut off from myself. You allow me to see myself as valuable, rather than as an inconvenient pain in the ass.
What is key here is that you truly understand that you really could not escape, even if you wanted do.
I have been saying that myself for a long time, my Lord. I had no choice.
There were a few more comments, including one or two from me that seemed to penetrate past his armor, at which point he switched the conversation to practicalities.
All this happened on the Thursday night. Friday was completely devoted to discussing details, adding to instructions I had received over the course of the week as to what to buy (water and cheap champagne) and what to bring.
As I mentioned previously, because of the schedule of the main purpose for his trip, it made sense for me to travel separately, and to return on my own on the Sunday. I was sorry about this, as the previous year's discussions including a delicious scenario of my masturbating in the seat beside him on the whole trip out, exhausting myself with orgasms for his amusement while he fondled my tits and pussy at 70 miles an hours. Add to this the possibility of drivers choosing to hover beside us to share the entertainment and you can see why we regretted the necessary change in plans. But some things can't be helped.
Because of our separate arrivals and projected late rendez-vous at the hotel, clear specification of means of communication were crucial. Besides, being a dom and all - and doms being notorious control freaks - my Master does seem to get off on precision and ritual. So I was clearly informed exactly when to text him with the room number, followed by an e-mail, to be repeated after a defined interval if I didn't hear back, and then a further back-up plan if I didn't hear back after that.
There were three paragraphs of this, which I dutifully transferred to the sheet of instructions I would take with. I then condensed and listed the steps, so I wouldn't miss anything in his profusion of verbiage. However, what I forgot to put on that hand-written list was something buried in paragraph 4: as soon as I get a reply to my message, text him yet again so he will know we have 2-way communication.
There is always something...
Saturday dawned sunny and hot.
Very hot.
The cats were clingy. They knew I was leaving town and were not at all happy. I would be gone for pretty much precisely 24 hours, and felt they would manage with heaps of extra dry food. The last thing I wanted to do was ask my friend M-- to feed the cats while I was gone, thus letting her know I'd be gone, thus leaving her wondering where I was going. She doesn't know about the fiend. It's not like with the philosopher, where eventually people knew of him as my boyfriend and all I was keeping from them was the D/s part of our relationship. The sadist and I exist in a world of our own creation, which no one else may enter unless it serves his pleasure to assign a small part in our play. Besides, M-- is telepathic. I think she is already picking something up. She just has no idea how to read it, so it floats in her mind undefined.
I had hoped to do my small bit of packing on Friday night. A very small bit of packing. After all, from about 7 pm Saturday until I floated out of bed Sunday, I was to remain naked. But I just couldn't focus enough on Friday night. So Saturday morning I allowed myself a little extra sleep and then diligently packed a change of underwear, a sleeveless summer dress for dinner, my toiletries, and my own pillow into a small, wheeled floral suitcase. The champagne and water went into a small, blue, soft-sided cooler. I made sure not to forget the charger for my Blackberry, and brought my laptop as well.
And the cash.
We must not forget the $20 bills he had, on the previous Saturday morning - stuffed in my white racer-back bra and my plain white cotton panties as if I were a prosaic whore or a stripper or (more exotic) a belly dancer being hired for a very special party. I was allowed to pay for the hotel and gas with my credit card, but otherwise everything else had to be bought with the cash.
The purchases... for the champagne I went on that same Saturday to a store in DC, where I knew the selection would be better. Not that it really mattered. I suspected I knew why he wanted the wine, and taste would be irrelevant. But I liked the sense of making a special trip, dedicated to fulfilling my Master's command. I was excited and nervous, feeling as if I were doing something illegal, as if anyone looking at me could see that I had abdicated control over my body, my mind, and my life. Could see that I was someone who willingly gave her body to a man selected by someone who claimed the right to make a gift of her services. I reeked sex. I was sure everyone in the store could smell it.
I felt my Master's chain clipped tight around my neck, and could feel him pulling on it from miles away. I could feel his eyes on me, enjoying my arousal, feeding on my trembling, watching over me like a not-so-benevolent deity. And as I left the store, I could hear his voice... that voice I can't describe but which stops my breathing - I could hear his voice saying:
"Good girl."
[I think that will be enough for tonight. If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4 and Part 5.]
Friday, July 16, 2010
I'm feeling a cock moving in and out of me...
There has been a request for more smut. But coming as it did from jcn, it was phrased somewhat more delicately: "When do we get back to the salacious stuff?"
My Master says I should give you all more of what you want, and gave me permission to share the following. I wrote it last Saturday. I didn't mean it to be a story - a vignette, to be more accurate. I can't pretend that it's a fully developed story. All I meant to do was observe that I felt a cock moving in and out of me...
******************************************************************
I'm feeling a cock moving in and out of me, Sir... slowly, deliberately, the man taking his time, consciously feeling the heat, the kiss, the embrace of the moist velvet passage that is my pussy. I squeeze my muscles around him, ever aware of your order to enhance his pleasure in any way I can.
I am bent over the foot of the bed, a position that maximizes the separation of my openings from my greater identity. Nothing exists for him but the dance between his appendage and my receptor, his cock and whatever part of my body is at that moment stimulating its nerves.
I hear a groan. His pace has accelerated, just one notch, but enough with his utterance to signal the growth of his arousal. He plunges harder, his pelvis pushing against my butt hole, his balls slapping against my perineum. He reaches under me and cups my breasts, massaging them into my chest, desiring my own arousal as a way to incite his own. The stimulation of my tits telegraphs my cunt: CONTRACT.
I squeeze around him, tight as a fist - once, twice, and then again. He moans, and the tit massage changes to a series of nipple pinches followed by hard, rough twists. His actions surprise me, as until then he had shown no sign of wanting to hurt me. I push my ass back into him, doubling the force of his fucking. He releases my screaming nubs and, digging his nails into the tender flesh beneath my breasts, scratches tracks under each tit from the valley between them to the outer edges and up under my arms. If I could care about such things, I would realize that I would find the evidence the next day and would resist wearing a bra for a week thereafter.
His right hand moves up to my neck and pushes back against my throat, thrusting my head up. He could strangle me if he wished, but he is not like you, and is only stopping briefly on his way to the nape of my neck. He clutches my flowing hair in his fist, twists it around his hand, and jerks my head back. Swiftly, he bends over me and fastens his teeth into the back of my neck. Again, his bite isn't as hard as yours, lacking that sadistic drive, but he is drowning in testosterone and is only one step beyond a lion smelling a female in heat.
He maintains his hold while his cock thrusts so deep that he hits my cervix. Now I am the one who is grunting, moaning, releasing small cries of pain and surrender. Suddenly, he pushes me hard down on the bed and I am aware of the absence of his penis. Unconsciously, I cry out at the loss, and then scream as he impales my nearly virginal butt hole with his condomed but unlubed prick. K-Y jelly was included in the bedside display, but he is beyond thinking of such niceties now. He needed the tighter clutch of that tiny, puckered entrance, and the harder thrusts needed to fill it.
I scream two more times as he makes his way further and further in, screams resolving into grunts as tears slide from my eyes and down my nose, leaving a puddle on the patchwork quilt. Now he is spanking me as he fucks me, hard, deliberate slaps echoing the hard deliberate pistoning of his prick. More than ever I am nothing but a road to release. His entire being has contracted into his cock.
His rhythm has picked up and his grunts join my own. I moan "please... please..." not even begging for anything in particular, only responding to his urgency and now my own and the pain and all my body knows is that together we are going somewhere and oh please, let it be soon, and please, you are hurting me, and please, please, perhaps I will cum?
I don't.
He does.
The thrusting stops when he is deep within my ass, and I feel the semen pulsing up through his penis, I feel his penis pulsing within my anal pussy, I am holding my breath and drinking in his orgasm and feeling almost as much relief and release as he must be...
And then the air is driven out of me as he collapses on my back, pressing my belly into the bed.
We lie there for 5 minutes, sweaty and drained, our breathing slow and synchronizing as our bodies smile and relax. He strokes my hair and kisses the site of the bite on the back of my neck.
Finally, with a gentle slap to my right butt check, he rises off me. I sigh as his shrunken dick completes its withdrawal from my battered butt hole. I lie there, not moving, hearing him behind me, clothing his satisfied body and gathering his things. He says nothing. No praise, no thank you's, no request for a return visit. All such appreciations and arrangements will be dealt with through you.
I hear the door open as he heads out.
"Next!" he calls out.
My Master says I should give you all more of what you want, and gave me permission to share the following. I wrote it last Saturday. I didn't mean it to be a story - a vignette, to be more accurate. I can't pretend that it's a fully developed story. All I meant to do was observe that I felt a cock moving in and out of me...
******************************************************************
I'm feeling a cock moving in and out of me, Sir... slowly, deliberately, the man taking his time, consciously feeling the heat, the kiss, the embrace of the moist velvet passage that is my pussy. I squeeze my muscles around him, ever aware of your order to enhance his pleasure in any way I can.
I am bent over the foot of the bed, a position that maximizes the separation of my openings from my greater identity. Nothing exists for him but the dance between his appendage and my receptor, his cock and whatever part of my body is at that moment stimulating its nerves.
I hear a groan. His pace has accelerated, just one notch, but enough with his utterance to signal the growth of his arousal. He plunges harder, his pelvis pushing against my butt hole, his balls slapping against my perineum. He reaches under me and cups my breasts, massaging them into my chest, desiring my own arousal as a way to incite his own. The stimulation of my tits telegraphs my cunt: CONTRACT.
I squeeze around him, tight as a fist - once, twice, and then again. He moans, and the tit massage changes to a series of nipple pinches followed by hard, rough twists. His actions surprise me, as until then he had shown no sign of wanting to hurt me. I push my ass back into him, doubling the force of his fucking. He releases my screaming nubs and, digging his nails into the tender flesh beneath my breasts, scratches tracks under each tit from the valley between them to the outer edges and up under my arms. If I could care about such things, I would realize that I would find the evidence the next day and would resist wearing a bra for a week thereafter.
His right hand moves up to my neck and pushes back against my throat, thrusting my head up. He could strangle me if he wished, but he is not like you, and is only stopping briefly on his way to the nape of my neck. He clutches my flowing hair in his fist, twists it around his hand, and jerks my head back. Swiftly, he bends over me and fastens his teeth into the back of my neck. Again, his bite isn't as hard as yours, lacking that sadistic drive, but he is drowning in testosterone and is only one step beyond a lion smelling a female in heat.
He maintains his hold while his cock thrusts so deep that he hits my cervix. Now I am the one who is grunting, moaning, releasing small cries of pain and surrender. Suddenly, he pushes me hard down on the bed and I am aware of the absence of his penis. Unconsciously, I cry out at the loss, and then scream as he impales my nearly virginal butt hole with his condomed but unlubed prick. K-Y jelly was included in the bedside display, but he is beyond thinking of such niceties now. He needed the tighter clutch of that tiny, puckered entrance, and the harder thrusts needed to fill it.
I scream two more times as he makes his way further and further in, screams resolving into grunts as tears slide from my eyes and down my nose, leaving a puddle on the patchwork quilt. Now he is spanking me as he fucks me, hard, deliberate slaps echoing the hard deliberate pistoning of his prick. More than ever I am nothing but a road to release. His entire being has contracted into his cock.
His rhythm has picked up and his grunts join my own. I moan "please... please..." not even begging for anything in particular, only responding to his urgency and now my own and the pain and all my body knows is that together we are going somewhere and oh please, let it be soon, and please, you are hurting me, and please, please, perhaps I will cum?
I don't.
He does.
The thrusting stops when he is deep within my ass, and I feel the semen pulsing up through his penis, I feel his penis pulsing within my anal pussy, I am holding my breath and drinking in his orgasm and feeling almost as much relief and release as he must be...
And then the air is driven out of me as he collapses on my back, pressing my belly into the bed.
We lie there for 5 minutes, sweaty and drained, our breathing slow and synchronizing as our bodies smile and relax. He strokes my hair and kisses the site of the bite on the back of my neck.
Finally, with a gentle slap to my right butt check, he rises off me. I sigh as his shrunken dick completes its withdrawal from my battered butt hole. I lie there, not moving, hearing him behind me, clothing his satisfied body and gathering his things. He says nothing. No praise, no thank you's, no request for a return visit. All such appreciations and arrangements will be dealt with through you.
I hear the door open as he heads out.
"Next!" he calls out.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (5)
We return to our regularly scheduled program after that shameless commercial interruption announcing the publication of Best S&M Erotica Vol. 3, containing the first smutty story of mine to be published in a book you can hold in your hands. It's an e-book, too. Oh, and there's an on-line book release party going on at Cyber Launch Party. Head on over and shmooze with the other authors and our editor M. Christian!
Now where were we?
Oh yes. The insidious thoughts, images, and scenarios that the sadist was planting in my brain in the days leading up to the magic weekend. So far, we've been through his pet as a lush jungle creature, neither plant or animal but all lure, and nothing but an item tossed into his travel kit that might or might not be used.
On the third night, he gave me a piece of himself. Raw and bleeding. I will not share this with you. I'm ashamed that I even asked for permission, and ashamed of what I wrote for him in response. Oh, at the time I thought it was quite fine. It was long, and intense. (I wrote it, so of course it was intense.) But re-reading it now, I see that it overlooked the thrusting and vulnerable honesty of his own few sentences. So no. I won't share that.
What I will share are enough of his words for you to drown in.
He introduced part of the concept the night before:
And continued on the following day.
[If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, and Part 4.]
Now where were we?
Oh yes. The insidious thoughts, images, and scenarios that the sadist was planting in my brain in the days leading up to the magic weekend. So far, we've been through his pet as a lush jungle creature, neither plant or animal but all lure, and nothing but an item tossed into his travel kit that might or might not be used.
On the third night, he gave me a piece of himself. Raw and bleeding. I will not share this with you. I'm ashamed that I even asked for permission, and ashamed of what I wrote for him in response. Oh, at the time I thought it was quite fine. It was long, and intense. (I wrote it, so of course it was intense.) But re-reading it now, I see that it overlooked the thrusting and vulnerable honesty of his own few sentences. So no. I won't share that.
What I will share are enough of his words for you to drown in.
He introduced part of the concept the night before:
The injection I had planned for you for tomorrow may take a bit more time than I originally anticipated, but it is a crucial step. Therefore I will begin some foundational work now.
I have spoken before about the red-tailed hawk that considers my yard his killing field. I think it is because 1) it is the largest open land-space near the water he considers his dominion and 2) it is usually teeming with potential prey. I have had several encounters with him, watched him in action, and found the remains of many of his victims on my property.
One thing I have learned from these observations is that despite the propensity to project human characteristics upon creatures like these their actual comprehension is very small. They do possess, however, a very compact, but very effective decision matrix. Almost every moving object is immediately categorized as Prey or Threat. From there the only decision is Strike or No (in the case of Prey) or Evade or No, if the object has been identified as Threat.
This concept is key to my promised discussion of your imprisonment. And continued on the following day.
You have often remarked on how I made you my prisoner, thanked me for holding you in my cell, admitted to joy at being bound by my chains. Yet none of those are true. Not in a literal sense, or even figuratively. Make no mistake, I believe, I know, you are imprisoned, isolated, separated, walled off from the general population, from society. You are denied access to normal interaction with other humans as surely as if there actually were concrete walls and steel doors between you and everyone else in the world. You most definitely are a prisoner. But not in any structure of my making, nor did I put you there.
You were a captive when I found you. Your own nature, or, more accurately, the way the world reacted to it, doomed you to be shunned, figuratively locked away. You always knew you were special, but that also meant you were different. You were misunderstood. Each broken dream, each shattered illusion, each unkind reaction to your otherness, every man that rejected you, every coworker that thought you were odd, every acquaintance that passed out of your life, pushed you farther and farther away from community and deeper and deeper into your own mind. It seemed safer there. Not as many hurts. So you built up defenses from the inside, as they had constructed barriers from the outside, and your prison walls grew thicker. No one could hurt you, or so you thought. But your longing, your heartache did not stop. You dreamed of breaking out, or more specifically, of being rescued. You knew you had so much to give. Your mind was full of wonders if only they could see but there was no one to marvel at them, to approve of them, to enjoy them, and you. I could go on, but the tears you are no doubt now crying fill in the rest of the details better than my writing could. And besides, you know all this anyway, even if you have pushed it away.
My point is that the place I have described is where I found you. I recognized it immediately. Remember the hawk's crude decision matrix I described earlier? My predator's sense saw much more in you but came instantaneously to the same two conclusions: Prey. Strike. I saw not only a victim but a gifted, valuable, rare prize, defenseless within a blanket of pure, obvious vulnerability. Stumbled accidentally upon you to my surprise and delight. Looked around to see if others saw too, and couldn't believe my good fortune. I could have helped you, you know. I could have freed you. Befriended you, supported you. At very least I could have left you no further harmed. But that was not my choice, was it angel? As you hung there by your bound wrists and squinted in the light through your bedraggled hair at your rescuer finally come, you hoped for release, but soon found that instead of liberation he intended only to take advantage of your bondage for his twisted pleasure.
And here, HERE, my sweet, is the cruelest, the most tragic part; you needed what you desired so badly you were now powerless to resist. Because he knew, he had seen and instantly recognized all those things you wanted so desperately to be known. And even though he offered only miserly bits of what you hungered for from his hand, and demanded such agonizing sacrifice for even those few, brief moments of relief, you knew, and still know, it is a price you must pay. Now that someone knows, someone understands, someone can touch even if that touch is a painful strike on an open wound, you know you cannot go back, cannot live entombed as before. So you deny and subjugate the wish that if only your discoverer had been someone, anyone other than him. And worst of all, you know he relishes, thrills at that combination of heartache and addiction because that is exactly where he wants you; it is not enough to give him total devotion, he wants you completely broken, your utter capitulation outweighing the abject, pathetic hopelessness you feel that your new captor is as he is.
And here, HERE, my sweet, is the cruelest, the most tragic part; you needed what you desired so badly you were now powerless to resist. Because he knew, he had seen and instantly recognized all those things you wanted so desperately to be known. And even though he offered only miserly bits of what you hungered for from his hand, and demanded such agonizing sacrifice for even those few, brief moments of relief, you knew, and still know, it is a price you must pay. Now that someone knows, someone understands, someone can touch even if that touch is a painful strike on an open wound, you know you cannot go back, cannot live entombed as before. So you deny and subjugate the wish that if only your discoverer had been someone, anyone other than him. And worst of all, you know he relishes, thrills at that combination of heartache and addiction because that is exactly where he wants you; it is not enough to give him total devotion, he wants you completely broken, your utter capitulation outweighing the abject, pathetic hopelessness you feel that your new captor is as he is.
And so you see my pet, though we use euphemisms and prosaic verbiage to describe the dynamic, you truly, actually are imprisoned, and only I know where you are, and what you need. Only I can bring you even the tiniest bit of relief from your suffering. These words have certainly saddened you, and I revel in that. They may have even angered you. But I have zero concern that you would do anything that would cause me to lose my ability to amuse myself with my treasure. You could cut off contact. Maybe even hold out for a while. But you would be back, and I would always know that.
Once more to the hawk: an early encounter with him was when he had a still barely-alive victim beneath him in my yard, held fast by talons nearly as large as the small bird itself. When I came into his view he immediately assessed me: Threat, but Evade No, since I was too cumbersome to approach him without allowing more than ample time for escape. So he stood there, while his victim frantically flailed, occasionally striking with his beak into the doomed creature. Not to feed, but seemingly to to torture, or more likely to prove to it that it had no hope of escape.
Let all this be your thought for the day, my pet. And the issue will be continued following your ascent into the hills.
[If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, and Part 4.]
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The book has been released!!
I am so excited I can hardly think. Which is too bad, since I'm on my way to the writer's group.
The book is out.
Published.
And to my surprise, they are offering it in a tangible copy, on real paper, as well as in e-book format. Damn, I'm excited. This is ridiculous.
One of my "fans" (as the sadist likes to call you guys) has already ordered her copy. Who will be the next? I only wish I could autograph them for you.
You can order one HERE.
Yes, HERE!!!
I'm for sale and you can buy me HERE!!!!
Please do buy one....
Thank you...
o.g.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (4)
In a way, the days that followed were like a fairy tale. You know the ones - where the innocent but clever heroine is locked away in a tower, to be visited each night by a beast or an ogre, Rumpelstiltsken or Marley's ghost, who assigns a task that must be completed by morning or some horrible fate will befall her.
Except the assignments were not meant as trials. Rather, they were training, preparation, education in the realities of her life.
The realities of my fate.
In a way, none but the last contained any surprises. But there was a ritual nature to their presentation, along with touches of both sadism and protection. She seemed to be simultaneously trying to puncture any illusions with little stabs while protecting me from how he might treat me while inoculating me beforehand.
The second night's piece is a prime example of that dichotomy.
OK, new thought implant for today. Not as erotic as steamy jungle vegetation but necessary:
You are nothing more than part of my travel kit, like the little bag that contains reduced-sized toothpaste and shaving equipment, single-dose antihistamines and antacids and little packs of tissues. There for my temporary comfort, on the off-chance I might feel the need to use something (unless a more effective substitute can be obtained locally) and then discard it.
I had heard this image before, in connection with the possibility of bringing me along on a different trip a couple of months earlier. The fiend had been warning me that he would be spending most of his time with friends and on the main purpose of the trip. There was always the possibility that he would return to the room too hot and tired and drunk to have any interest in the pleasures I had to offer. I was dubious of that ever being the case, but appreciated the warning.
In this case, I expanded slightly on the seed he planted but was not all that inspired. he had made his point. That would do.
Yes, Sir. I understand completely. You have used this image before, specifically in relation to what I would be if you did bring me along on this trip. A useful item to have along, just in case. I suppose you might even find some girl at one of the bars who would seem to appease your need more than the little whore who waits back in your room. Perhaps you would go home with her, or drag her into an alley, or bring her back to the hotel where I would watch her have the honor of sucking your cock as I served only as your caddy.
Reduced-size toothpaste... I will be your Tinkerbelle whore, my Lord, wedged into your travel kit, just in case...
(You are impressively adept at manipulating my mental state, my Master. Still, while your words at first struck me like a slap on the face, they have not turned me cold. Your magic is still functioning overtime, and the sting of its power drives the contractions in my womb while my arousal breaches the dam and floods my plain, white, cotton panties.)
I suspect the wryness of my tone betrayed my lack of belief in this claimed perspective. Could it be that he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to prepare me? In any case, in the end there was no indication that his interest in me was somewhere below his anticipation of making use of his dental floss.
[If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 , Part 2 and Part 3.]
Except the assignments were not meant as trials. Rather, they were training, preparation, education in the realities of her life.
The realities of my fate.
In a way, none but the last contained any surprises. But there was a ritual nature to their presentation, along with touches of both sadism and protection. She seemed to be simultaneously trying to puncture any illusions with little stabs while protecting me from how he might treat me while inoculating me beforehand.
The second night's piece is a prime example of that dichotomy.
OK, new thought implant for today. Not as erotic as steamy jungle vegetation but necessary:
You are nothing more than part of my travel kit, like the little bag that contains reduced-sized toothpaste and shaving equipment, single-dose antihistamines and antacids and little packs of tissues. There for my temporary comfort, on the off-chance I might feel the need to use something (unless a more effective substitute can be obtained locally) and then discard it.
I had heard this image before, in connection with the possibility of bringing me along on a different trip a couple of months earlier. The fiend had been warning me that he would be spending most of his time with friends and on the main purpose of the trip. There was always the possibility that he would return to the room too hot and tired and drunk to have any interest in the pleasures I had to offer. I was dubious of that ever being the case, but appreciated the warning.
In this case, I expanded slightly on the seed he planted but was not all that inspired. he had made his point. That would do.
Yes, Sir. I understand completely. You have used this image before, specifically in relation to what I would be if you did bring me along on this trip. A useful item to have along, just in case. I suppose you might even find some girl at one of the bars who would seem to appease your need more than the little whore who waits back in your room. Perhaps you would go home with her, or drag her into an alley, or bring her back to the hotel where I would watch her have the honor of sucking your cock as I served only as your caddy.
Reduced-size toothpaste... I will be your Tinkerbelle whore, my Lord, wedged into your travel kit, just in case...
(You are impressively adept at manipulating my mental state, my Master. Still, while your words at first struck me like a slap on the face, they have not turned me cold. Your magic is still functioning overtime, and the sting of its power drives the contractions in my womb while my arousal breaches the dam and floods my plain, white, cotton panties.)
I suspect the wryness of my tone betrayed my lack of belief in this claimed perspective. Could it be that he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to prepare me? In any case, in the end there was no indication that his interest in me was somewhere below his anticipation of making use of his dental floss.
[If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 , Part 2 and Part 3.]
Monday, July 12, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (3)
The days that followed were focused on 2 main things:
His words inspire me.
Cruel or glorious, they inspire me.
They are like a drop of red wine,
dissolving into the clear, sweet water of my brain.
You can see the color spreading out,
disseminating its metaphors,
changing how I think.
Changing who I am.
I kneel below him.
I tilt up my head.
He feeds me like a baby bird,
a diet designed to direct my development.
I am his little poet whore.
His treasure.
His angel.
And he has made me so.
So.
Here is what he wrote.
Remember and think on that image I gave you of yourself as a creature of the rain forest; neither plant nor animal but growing like a tender tree, pure lure. Your green skin penetrable anywhere, for sexual gratification by anything. Scent, sound, heat and defenseless vulnerability radiate throughout the warm wet jungle, drawing wanderers to you. None can resist your pale belly, though it provides just enough resistance that, in your obligation to serve, and through your tears, you are bound to inform each rapist that they must plunge themselves into you hard enough to hurt you if they are to reach their moist velvety reward. You manage a weak smile, for their benefit, as each viciously pumps himself into you, and finally a whispered "Thank you Sir" as they withdraw and as your leafy head lowers, a jade rivulet oozes from the newly-made scar down you to the ground where it joins a pool from your previous encounters. You sob softly, and hear a rustle, signaling the approach of others.
And here was my response (although not the only one, as my references to this image have continued since then.)
I feel myself dancing naked in an Henri Rousseau jungle. Slow, sensuous, sinuous dancing, swaying like the huge green fronds that surround me, arms up, belly rotating, pussy dripping lush, sweet, green sap.
My scent rises... from beneath my arms... from between my legs... from that spot at the back of my neck...
The beasts smell prey.
They will come.
They will mount me.
They will rake me with their claws.
They will pierce my throat with their jaws.
And then they will leave me to the next.
On this, I will thrive.
And every night, my Master, you will return and take what is yours.
Like an aloe plant, my Lord, whose appendages must be broken off to soothe the pain of others, I must be wounded to satisfy the needs of those who are drawn to me.
But the liquid that drips from where they have pierced me can do nothing to ease my own suffering.
(I know, my Master, that I should be frightened by this image. But instead I am horrifically aroused. A very different sort of pain, my Lord, but pain nevertheless.)
And from there we returned to practicalities.
[If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 and Part 2.]
- Arrangements and details, all very precise.
- Writing assignments to shape my mind so as to enhance my service and his pleasure. Assignments to put me in that place. In the many rooms of that place.
His words inspire me.
Cruel or glorious, they inspire me.
They are like a drop of red wine,
dissolving into the clear, sweet water of my brain.
You can see the color spreading out,
disseminating its metaphors,
changing how I think.
Changing who I am.
I kneel below him.
I tilt up my head.
He feeds me like a baby bird,
a diet designed to direct my development.
I am his little poet whore.
His treasure.
His angel.
And he has made me so.
So.
Here is what he wrote.
Your thought for tonight.
Remember and think on that image I gave you of yourself as a creature of the rain forest; neither plant nor animal but growing like a tender tree, pure lure. Your green skin penetrable anywhere, for sexual gratification by anything. Scent, sound, heat and defenseless vulnerability radiate throughout the warm wet jungle, drawing wanderers to you. None can resist your pale belly, though it provides just enough resistance that, in your obligation to serve, and through your tears, you are bound to inform each rapist that they must plunge themselves into you hard enough to hurt you if they are to reach their moist velvety reward. You manage a weak smile, for their benefit, as each viciously pumps himself into you, and finally a whispered "Thank you Sir" as they withdraw and as your leafy head lowers, a jade rivulet oozes from the newly-made scar down you to the ground where it joins a pool from your previous encounters. You sob softly, and hear a rustle, signaling the approach of others.
And here was my response (although not the only one, as my references to this image have continued since then.)
I feel myself dancing naked in an Henri Rousseau jungle. Slow, sensuous, sinuous dancing, swaying like the huge green fronds that surround me, arms up, belly rotating, pussy dripping lush, sweet, green sap.
My scent rises... from beneath my arms... from between my legs... from that spot at the back of my neck...
The beasts smell prey.
They will come.
They will mount me.
They will rake me with their claws.
They will pierce my throat with their jaws.
And then they will leave me to the next.
On this, I will thrive.
And every night, my Master, you will return and take what is yours.
Like an aloe plant, my Lord, whose appendages must be broken off to soothe the pain of others, I must be wounded to satisfy the needs of those who are drawn to me.
But the liquid that drips from where they have pierced me can do nothing to ease my own suffering.
(I know, my Master, that I should be frightened by this image. But instead I am horrifically aroused. A very different sort of pain, my Lord, but pain nevertheless.)
And from there we returned to practicalities.
[If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 and Part 2.]
Sunday, July 11, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (2)
A week before the main event, the sadist subjected me to a test. Even now, I'm not sure of what all the parts were meant to prove, and I suspect that was at least partly by design. And with a few weeks gone by, I can't really remember everything that happened that morning.
I do remember being warned that the visit would be very important, would determine whether he would allow me to go or not, and that I needed to concentrate very hard.
Normally, I meet him at the door completely naked.
Actually, I wait for him behind the door naked,
and only slip out once the door is closed.
But this time, I was instructed to wear bra and panties.
Plain, white bra and plain, white, cotton panties.
I remember the way he touched me. The beast was there, lurking in the background, but the sensuous lover was there, too. The way he touched me, caressed me, fondled me... even the way he put his hand to my throat...
He wanted me to succeed.
That I knew.
It would have been easier to leave me at home.
But he wanted me to be there for him to enjoy.
So he warned me to concentrate.
And when he was enthroned in the Eames chair
and I knelt before him,
he took my head in his hands
and slapped my left cheek.
Hard.
Then my right cheek.
Just as hard.
Far harder than ever before.
My ears rang.
His intensity had gotten the better of him.
His desire had gotten the better of him.
And he knew that slapping me focused me.
I don't remember much more beyond that of what might have been the sections of the test. But I do remember one of them, with which I reveal something you may find curious.
My Master always wants me to be clear on the underlying truth that everything we do is for his pleasure alone, and that I must never forget that. He is quite taken with my mouth, which in the very beginning he hadn't expected to be such an important part of my service to him. He devours my mouth. I open my mouth, present my tongue, and then he takes from me what he wants. I am not supposed to kiss back.
I am really into kissing. A good kiss... oh, it is the most beautiful, sensuous thing! And I have been with one or two truly delicious kissers over the years. The quality of a lover's kiss is quite important to me. I can make myself cum, but a kiss? For this I definitely need a skilled and sensitive partner.
The fiend's kisses are beyond description.
And I am not allowed to kiss back.
I must admit that I am not truly passive as he enjoys my mouth. That would be impossible. But there is definitely an imbalance of activity between us.
On that morning, I was given permission to kiss him.
And in those kisses, I believe he read everything.
I think I earned a lot of points right there.
At some time in the visit, he mentioned that when he left me he was going to see his slave, who is quite an extreme masochist. The very first time he came to meet me, he told me the same thing. To taunt me. To be cruel. And it did hurt. I was jealous as hell, not fully understanding what was going on. I knew the slave would be getting what I had inspired. I thought it was sex. I didn't realize it was pain. Now I know better. And I said I was grateful for his slave, who suffers horribly because of the desire I inspire in my Master to torture me. The slave's suffering helps the sadist protect me. So I said I was grateful, and that I appreciated that the slave and I and the other submissives all serve his different needs, and that I am now secure in my place and am no longer jealous. That I am his treasure, and that he suffers to try to keep me safe from his worst desires.
I did know I had passed the test even before he officially told me. And as he intended for me to pass, he came all prepared for the next step. He said that despite attendant difficulties, I would be allowed to drive out to this other town, a few hours away, check into the hotel, precisely follow the various instructions he would send me, and await his arrival at the room.
He had a pile of $20 bills, which he started peeling off and sticking in the waistband of my panties and the cups of my bra, all the while listing what they were for. He talked about making the hotel reservation immediately after he left, and e-mailing him that it was done. He spoke of things I should buy for the trip.
I was allowed to fondle him as he spoke, but not to take him in my mouth. Not to make him cum.
He said he wished he were staying with me rather than going on to the next stop. He said he wished he could do to me what he would be inflicting on his poor slave.
I shuddered.
I knew what he meant.
He said it in so many words,
with a sad, desperate longing.
He wanted to torture me.
I do not think he uses that word lightly.
He didn't torture me.
I wish he could.
I wish I could handle it.
It pains me that I cannot take that pain from him.
But we both know it could destroy the relationship.
And I am his treasure.
He doesn't want to lose me.
So his slave suffers in my stead.
But his hunger was great that day, and the sight of my butt and my pale round belly contained in those innocent white panties was too much for him.
He ordered me onto the bed. First, I think, on my back. I'm not sure, and I don't remember what he did. Then I was ordered onto my belly and he caned me. Hard. Harder than he meant to. Those plain white cotton panties cushioned the blows - and I hate to think what the pain would have been like without that soft armor.
There is still one small bruise remaining from that morning 3 weeks ago.
And then he was gone.
If I had been smart, I would have applied the bags of frozen peas to my cheeks - both those on my face and those surrounding my tight little ass hole. But I had been instructed to make the hotel reservation right away and so I did. I ran upstairs, cautiously sat down on my very sore butt, and made the reservations, trying not to be distracted by the sense of joy that was dancing inside me.
He had given me a very special gift.
And a very special privilege.
The privilege was to serve him for a night.
The gift was knowing that he wanted me with him.
Me.
His pet.
His angel.
His treasure.
I still hold that joy within me,
cupped in my hands.
I take it out daily,
bring it to my mouth,
gently kiss it,
and whisper in its ear
I love you.
I do remember being warned that the visit would be very important, would determine whether he would allow me to go or not, and that I needed to concentrate very hard.
Normally, I meet him at the door completely naked.
Actually, I wait for him behind the door naked,
and only slip out once the door is closed.
But this time, I was instructed to wear bra and panties.
Plain, white bra and plain, white, cotton panties.
I remember the way he touched me. The beast was there, lurking in the background, but the sensuous lover was there, too. The way he touched me, caressed me, fondled me... even the way he put his hand to my throat...
He wanted me to succeed.
That I knew.
It would have been easier to leave me at home.
But he wanted me to be there for him to enjoy.
So he warned me to concentrate.
And when he was enthroned in the Eames chair
and I knelt before him,
he took my head in his hands
and slapped my left cheek.
Hard.
Then my right cheek.
Just as hard.
Far harder than ever before.
My ears rang.
His intensity had gotten the better of him.
His desire had gotten the better of him.
And he knew that slapping me focused me.
I don't remember much more beyond that of what might have been the sections of the test. But I do remember one of them, with which I reveal something you may find curious.
My Master always wants me to be clear on the underlying truth that everything we do is for his pleasure alone, and that I must never forget that. He is quite taken with my mouth, which in the very beginning he hadn't expected to be such an important part of my service to him. He devours my mouth. I open my mouth, present my tongue, and then he takes from me what he wants. I am not supposed to kiss back.
I am really into kissing. A good kiss... oh, it is the most beautiful, sensuous thing! And I have been with one or two truly delicious kissers over the years. The quality of a lover's kiss is quite important to me. I can make myself cum, but a kiss? For this I definitely need a skilled and sensitive partner.
The fiend's kisses are beyond description.
And I am not allowed to kiss back.
I must admit that I am not truly passive as he enjoys my mouth. That would be impossible. But there is definitely an imbalance of activity between us.
On that morning, I was given permission to kiss him.
And in those kisses, I believe he read everything.
I think I earned a lot of points right there.
At some time in the visit, he mentioned that when he left me he was going to see his slave, who is quite an extreme masochist. The very first time he came to meet me, he told me the same thing. To taunt me. To be cruel. And it did hurt. I was jealous as hell, not fully understanding what was going on. I knew the slave would be getting what I had inspired. I thought it was sex. I didn't realize it was pain. Now I know better. And I said I was grateful for his slave, who suffers horribly because of the desire I inspire in my Master to torture me. The slave's suffering helps the sadist protect me. So I said I was grateful, and that I appreciated that the slave and I and the other submissives all serve his different needs, and that I am now secure in my place and am no longer jealous. That I am his treasure, and that he suffers to try to keep me safe from his worst desires.
I did know I had passed the test even before he officially told me. And as he intended for me to pass, he came all prepared for the next step. He said that despite attendant difficulties, I would be allowed to drive out to this other town, a few hours away, check into the hotel, precisely follow the various instructions he would send me, and await his arrival at the room.
He had a pile of $20 bills, which he started peeling off and sticking in the waistband of my panties and the cups of my bra, all the while listing what they were for. He talked about making the hotel reservation immediately after he left, and e-mailing him that it was done. He spoke of things I should buy for the trip.
I was allowed to fondle him as he spoke, but not to take him in my mouth. Not to make him cum.
He said he wished he were staying with me rather than going on to the next stop. He said he wished he could do to me what he would be inflicting on his poor slave.
I shuddered.
I knew what he meant.
He said it in so many words,
with a sad, desperate longing.
He wanted to torture me.
I do not think he uses that word lightly.
He didn't torture me.
I wish he could.
I wish I could handle it.
It pains me that I cannot take that pain from him.
But we both know it could destroy the relationship.
And I am his treasure.
He doesn't want to lose me.
So his slave suffers in my stead.
But his hunger was great that day, and the sight of my butt and my pale round belly contained in those innocent white panties was too much for him.
He ordered me onto the bed. First, I think, on my back. I'm not sure, and I don't remember what he did. Then I was ordered onto my belly and he caned me. Hard. Harder than he meant to. Those plain white cotton panties cushioned the blows - and I hate to think what the pain would have been like without that soft armor.
There is still one small bruise remaining from that morning 3 weeks ago.
And then he was gone.
If I had been smart, I would have applied the bags of frozen peas to my cheeks - both those on my face and those surrounding my tight little ass hole. But I had been instructed to make the hotel reservation right away and so I did. I ran upstairs, cautiously sat down on my very sore butt, and made the reservations, trying not to be distracted by the sense of joy that was dancing inside me.
He had given me a very special gift.
And a very special privilege.
The privilege was to serve him for a night.
The gift was knowing that he wanted me with him.
Me.
His pet.
His angel.
His treasure.
I still hold that joy within me,
cupped in my hands.
I take it out daily,
bring it to my mouth,
gently kiss it,
and whisper in its ear
I love you.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (1)
I will never forget the smile on his face.
That - and my hairbrush landing on my ass.
Add to that the hours waiting in the cold, the salt coating his body, the hot urine running down my back... the memories of that night are almost too rich to contain in a catalogue.
And yet it was more than just one night.
More than 24 hours.
It was a full week of service,
with every word,
every thought
focused on my Master,
on what was to come,
and what had just passed.
On June 22, I mentioned that I was on exclusive assignment for a week, and was working for my Master alone. This was true, but it was more than that. The entire week was like an arc, culminating in a very special night.
That Saturday night.
A night together in another town.
A night of pleasure for my Master.
A reward for his pet, for being such a very good girl.
A possibility first mentioned a year and a half before.
And now I have permission to write about it. Within limits, of course. The sadist is always very clear and very wise about limits to protect our privacy.
Every year, for quite a long time now, the fiend spends a weekend in a town a few hours away to visit with friends and attend an event. A few months into our relationship it occurred to him to bring me along.
Always seeking ways to taunt, torment, and inspire me, the sadist told me about the possibility. His initial vision of the weekend, processed through the mill of my submissive creativity, produced the poem Re-creation. I do hope you will follow the link back and read it.
The possibility of our making the trip together hovered over us until shortly before the weekend itself, although I think we both knew for weeks before that it wouldn't work out. Here, I wrote about how I felt while he was away, and the gifts he gave me - the gift of calling him and the possibility that I might be able to be with him in the future.
The future arrived 2 weeks ago.
And it was good.
The story is too rich and full to be told all at once, so it will be doled out in episodes. Besides, I have learned from my sadistic owner how to torment and tease. Speaking of the sadist, these posts are written with his permission, and within his limits. You may thank him for allowing me to reward your curiosity about our activities that week by leaving lots of intelligent and thoughtful comments, which he has asked me to pass on to him. He does love to know what reactions he inspires.
That - and my hairbrush landing on my ass.
Add to that the hours waiting in the cold, the salt coating his body, the hot urine running down my back... the memories of that night are almost too rich to contain in a catalogue.
And yet it was more than just one night.
More than 24 hours.
It was a full week of service,
with every word,
every thought
focused on my Master,
on what was to come,
and what had just passed.
On June 22, I mentioned that I was on exclusive assignment for a week, and was working for my Master alone. This was true, but it was more than that. The entire week was like an arc, culminating in a very special night.
That Saturday night.
A night together in another town.
A night of pleasure for my Master.
A reward for his pet, for being such a very good girl.
A possibility first mentioned a year and a half before.
And now I have permission to write about it. Within limits, of course. The sadist is always very clear and very wise about limits to protect our privacy.
Every year, for quite a long time now, the fiend spends a weekend in a town a few hours away to visit with friends and attend an event. A few months into our relationship it occurred to him to bring me along.
Always seeking ways to taunt, torment, and inspire me, the sadist told me about the possibility. His initial vision of the weekend, processed through the mill of my submissive creativity, produced the poem Re-creation. I do hope you will follow the link back and read it.
The possibility of our making the trip together hovered over us until shortly before the weekend itself, although I think we both knew for weeks before that it wouldn't work out. Here, I wrote about how I felt while he was away, and the gifts he gave me - the gift of calling him and the possibility that I might be able to be with him in the future.
The future arrived 2 weeks ago.
And it was good.
The story is too rich and full to be told all at once, so it will be doled out in episodes. Besides, I have learned from my sadistic owner how to torment and tease. Speaking of the sadist, these posts are written with his permission, and within his limits. You may thank him for allowing me to reward your curiosity about our activities that week by leaving lots of intelligent and thoughtful comments, which he has asked me to pass on to him. He does love to know what reactions he inspires.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Beaten
red
swollen
throbbing
welted
pain
echoes
the beat
of the cane
on my butt.
not for punishment.
all for pleasure.
his.
all for training.
mine.
all for
the beauty
of Master
and pet.
here
is my suffering.
feed
on my offering.
take
what you want from me.
everything's yours.
swollen
throbbing
welted
pain
echoes
the beat
of the cane
on my butt.
not for punishment.
all for pleasure.
his.
all for training.
mine.
all for
the beauty
of Master
and pet.
here
is my suffering.
feed
on my offering.
take
what you want from me.
everything's yours.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
On ice
Now.
Now is the time.
Remember the snow.
Clean, white, beckoning cold.
Feel it now.
Take off your clothes.
Step from the sauna of the day.
Lay your body on the merciful, merciless snow.
Your nipples will burn their way to the sidewalk.
Steam will rise from the white beneath your cunt.
Give yourself to the cold
and take pictures of the heat.
You'll treasure them come January.
(Thanks to Mykola Dementiuk for the inspiration.)
Now is the time.
Remember the snow.
Clean, white, beckoning cold.
Feel it now.
Take off your clothes.
Step from the sauna of the day.
Lay your body on the merciful, merciless snow.
Your nipples will burn their way to the sidewalk.
Steam will rise from the white beneath your cunt.
Give yourself to the cold
and take pictures of the heat.
You'll treasure them come January.
(Thanks to Mykola Dementiuk for the inspiration.)
Monday, July 5, 2010
Too much heat! Too much laundry!
It's nearly 10 PM Eastern Daylight Time as I begin this post, and the temperature has made it all the way down to 89 °F (32 °C). For tomorrow they are predicting a high of 102. Wednesday we will be treated more gently, with a projected peak of only around 100. I am sure we will be dancing in the streets.
I had put myself on this new exercise regimen a few weeks ago, and started off well enough, but then weather and air quality and circumstances sabotaged my intentions. I can't really lose weight without the exercise, so today I was determined to get back to it. I got in the car, heading out on the first of my pre-exercise errands, and heard the very unwelcome announcement that it was a Code Red air quality day. Code Orange means that "sensitive people" shouldn't go out and certainly shouldn't exert themselves. By "sensitive people" they don't mean submissives who go all soft and weepy at the thought of earning a master's smile. They mean people with certain health conditions. Such as asthma. Meaning me. For Code Red, you should lock yourself in the house with the air conditioning going full blast and not move more than absolutely necessary.
At least, that's what the cats think it means. They have barely stirred from the couch all day.
But that's not why I have been quiet, for which I must apologize.
The sadist followed my week-long exclusive assignment with a complete change of direction which I found very difficult to handle. It has been quite a struggle and painful in a way that had nothing to do with leaving marks on my buttocks. Happily for me, he decided to lift his order early. He took pity on his pet today, and gave me a task which sent me back to that place where nothing exists but what he creates for me. Every atom is now smiling sweetly, and my heart is at peace.
Plus it doesn't hurt that the culmination of the task was permission to masturbate (fingers only) and then to cum.
I am his pet.
I am his treasure.
And today I am happy.
I had put myself on this new exercise regimen a few weeks ago, and started off well enough, but then weather and air quality and circumstances sabotaged my intentions. I can't really lose weight without the exercise, so today I was determined to get back to it. I got in the car, heading out on the first of my pre-exercise errands, and heard the very unwelcome announcement that it was a Code Red air quality day. Code Orange means that "sensitive people" shouldn't go out and certainly shouldn't exert themselves. By "sensitive people" they don't mean submissives who go all soft and weepy at the thought of earning a master's smile. They mean people with certain health conditions. Such as asthma. Meaning me. For Code Red, you should lock yourself in the house with the air conditioning going full blast and not move more than absolutely necessary.
At least, that's what the cats think it means. They have barely stirred from the couch all day.
But that's not why I have been quiet, for which I must apologize.
The sadist followed my week-long exclusive assignment with a complete change of direction which I found very difficult to handle. It has been quite a struggle and painful in a way that had nothing to do with leaving marks on my buttocks. Happily for me, he decided to lift his order early. He took pity on his pet today, and gave me a task which sent me back to that place where nothing exists but what he creates for me. Every atom is now smiling sweetly, and my heart is at peace.
Plus it doesn't hurt that the culmination of the task was permission to masturbate (fingers only) and then to cum.
I am his pet.
I am his treasure.
And today I am happy.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Best S&M III
See?
It's for real!!
I could lie and say that's the sadist and me on the cover
but they look nothing like us.
For one thing, you'll never see a flat belly on me.
My belly...
My belly is round.
A round, vulnerable, enticingly pale belly...
And if I were that skinny, my tits would disappear.
Her hair color is definitely not natural
and mine is much longer.
As you have seen.
Anyway, no true redhead would have skin that dark.
My belly is white.
Pale, round, and white.
Besides, we'd never have that light-hearted, teasing look.
We are much too intense.
Oy, are we intense.
(Why does Blogger's spell-check not recognize the validity of "Oy"?)
But it doesn't matter who or what is on the cover.
What matters is who and what are on the inside
Me!!
I'm on the inside!!!
Can you tell that I am more than a little ridiculously excited?!
I am on the inside.
With people who have written and published a LOT!!!
Oh, I am much too excited and wriggly about this.
This cannot do. I must act sophisticated. Nonchalant - meaning not so hot and bothered. As if this is no big deal. As if my stories gets published every day between the same covers as the big guys.
I'm getting into bed with the big guys.
I wonder if they spank.
OK. That's enough. I'm embarrassing myself. But I'll probably do it again, since I can't brag about it to most of the people I know. So please forgive.
And when I say GO, buy the book.
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