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.

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.]


Anonymous said...

Well, yes, I would think you would be twitching. /I/ certainly am! This is amazing - and I think you did brilliantly on the porn. I can't imagine how I'd manage were it required of me. (This is a comment - post? - I'm tempted not to share with The Man. But, alas, that would be dishonorable, drat it!) In any case, extremely hot stuff indeed, though, as you said, not the prose of the dubious drug store novels of my youth. Thank goodness. Yours is much sexier.

And, OMG, the thought of /reciting/ it is - terrifying. And arousing. But I think the terror would outweigh the tingles. But then, of course, the terror of not following instructions would be worse...

How nice that he said, "You're beautiful" immediately.

Biting my nails - jcn

oatmeal girl said...

Now, now. No dishonesty. You MUST share it with the man. Although it is starting to feel like I now play a bit of a role in your lives. The invisible third...

I think the first time or two I was terrified about reciting. But now, I feel the power. I know the effect my poems (normally) have on him. I speak them with manipulative meaning. I have him in the palm of my hand so to speak. I watch his reaction, I hear his reaction, and I feel it if he has me standing against the wall and smashes himself into me as I press the buttons that I know are there.

I am his little poet whore.
And I rejoice in my skill.

Try it sometime!

(And oh, those times when he looks at me with his rare and beautiful smile. And he says "Good girl." And there is so much condensed in those 2 little words...)