Living the disciplined life

The sadist is big on discipline. And by that, I don't necessarily mean spankings and caning and such, not to mention that recent addition - the wooden spoon, although their looming presence can be an inspiration and an aid to enforcement.

The sadist is big on plans.
On schedules.
On timetables.
And on sticking to them.
He gets very peeved when his schedule is disrupted.

Schedules are good for people like me. I lose track of time. I lose track of goals. Entire days drift away from me and I'm not at all sure where they've gone.

The fiend has tried before to make me schedule my days. I've done it up to a point. When I was working, I would schedule writing time, and I have a set bedtime for "school nights". Meaning Sunday through Thursday. But it's a struggle. I know he enjoys the idea of me struggling. But he enjoys even more my observing the boundaries of the segments and thereby accomplishing more.

Now that I am unemployed, he rightly sees the increased importance of designing a schedule and sticking to it. Which I have been trying. I've been writing schedules and submitting them and entering all the details in my on-line calendar. Now my Blackberry is constantly beeping at me like a high school PA system announcing that it's time to change classes. It's exciting when it works, but annoying when I wander off the chart.

Today I was way off the chart. I had another of the rejection nightmares I've been having since getting laid off, didn't sleep well thereafter, and woke up feeling very shaken. Which meant I was very slow getting going this morning, and sent a poor-pitiful-me e-mail to the fiend.

Bad idea.
Very bad idea.

Between one thing and another (including writing him a long message in response to the one from him that arrived just as I was almost leaving the house), I embarked on a carpet-buying expedition much, much later than I should have. The expedition was successful but it, too, was overlong. In the end, a whole segment of the schedule has gone unfulfilled. But worse than that, it seems, is that things didn't happen on time. Silly me. I thought what was important was to get the things done. But to him, what's important is sticking to the schedule. Doesn't make sense to me. But obviously that's irrelevant.

So I'm sulking.
Can you tell?
I'm sulking
and feeling rotten again
and I can feel my bottom lip
protruding
and curling down
and I'm this close to a tantrum.

Again,
a bad idea.

Especially as he reminded me that the spoon and the cane can be used for discipline as well as for his own amusement.

After the visit at which the wooden spoon was introduced to my pussy, the sadist said he wasn't planning on changing the "pain component" of our interactions. Meaning it wouldn't be increasing or becoming a major feature. But that doesn't rule out employing it as necessary for correction or punishment.

So instead I'm sulking here. Consider this post as the equivalent of me stomping around and kicking at things and throwing myself on the ground and banging my feet and fists into the carpet until I've gotten it all out of my system and can be all sweetness and light again.

Because I do need to be all sweetness and light again. And concentrate on giving him the very best blow-job he has ever had when he visits on Wednesday. Which means I'll be competing against myself.

And I give the most exquisite blow-jobs...

mmm...
my pussy is twitching now...

an orgasm would help...

Not a chance.

Damn.
There goes that lower lip again...

Masturbating on a Saturday night

Those men and their craigslist ads.
They've got this thing about showing their cocks.

Silly men. If they are no more than their cocks, they can be easily replaced by a dildo. Or a vibrator, to give that extra little zap of stimulation. And these dependable substitutes come in such a delicious variety of colors!

Delicious.
Well, maybe not.
A cock can be very delicious.
But a dildo?

You can't really call a dildo delicious.
Even if you coat it in a flavored condom.
I've never sucked a man in a condom.
Flavored or otherwise.

Silly, I suppose, but I've done wilder things.

Like inviting the sadist to my home without first meeting him in some public place and for that meeting or later arranging a silent alarm. I didn't have to. I knew. I knew that I had no choice. That he would come to my house and that would be it. It would be right.

But then, this post isn't about the sadist.

OK.
I lie.
It's always about the sadist.

At the end of his visit on Friday - not confined to an exact half hour now that I am no longer working - he said "You may masturbate. Not necessarily today, but sometime this weekend. And you will, of course, send me a report." "Thank you," I said, from my position on the bed. "Of course I will report. I know that my orgasms belong to you."

The position was the same one I had assumed for the spoon spanking. I posed solidly on forearms and calves, arms wider than shoulders for greater security, legs spread as well for easier access to my pussy. My back was arched as much as I could and then a little more, making my puckered little brown butt hole especially inviting. I suspect that is the ultimate purpose of my learning this position - to withstand being pushed over by the force of his attack on my anus.

Now my pussy is twitching madly.

I think I am indulging in protracted self-foreplay.
Just as sex is more than penetration, masturbation is more than genital stimulation.

Still, I can't imagine why I wandered over to craigslist to browse among the shockingly pathetic ads that men place as they look to get laid. Especially in casual encounters. I mean really, guys. Do they work for you? I suppose so. I suppose there must be some desperate, brainless women who need to have their cunts stuffed and not much more. A good fuck can be just what is needed at times.

But even when it's just for the sex, I still need some intellectual connection for it to be at all satisfactory. I have certainly never replied to a cock standing up and saying "Ooh, look at me! Aren't I the big one. Wanna have some fun tonight?" Though on second thought, if a CL advertiser had enough creativity to present a talking cock, I just might linger a while...

Of course, the problem can go the other way as well. Guys who are quite intriguing or - and here I think of one man in particular - a longstanding friend with whom there has been a longstanding flirtation. But when it comes to his cock, it is neither longstanding nor particularly creative. When we finally got down to it, and the few times we repeated the act thereafter, it just wasn't all that satisfying. So when he came on to me again last year, I turned him down. I did it in a sweet way, and we continue to flirt, and the sexual tension continues to hang there between us. But I turned him down. I would actually be quite happy to kiss and cuddle, to snuggle nakedly - but not to fuck. Too bad. If we really did end up a couple, it would be so convenient, even though he does live up north a few hours.

And he wasn't the only disappointment. I need that magic combined package of physical and intellectual attraction plus the ability to deliver. He doesn't have to be huge. He doesn't even have to be able to sustain a 20-minute fuck. He just has to know how intoxicate me with his kisses, raise and maintain the sexual tension, make my mind disappear into a haze of sensuality and tortured nerve endings, and then leave me feeling beautiful and appreciated and fulfilled, whether or not I actually cum.

Asking too much?
No. There are guys like that out there.
20-minute fuck and all.
[she smiles to herself]

So here I am, browsing the stupidest of the craigslist ads, wondering why, then suddenly remembering that I have a masturbation card to redeem. Could I really be using those cock pictures for inspiration?

Yuck!

So why do I turn to these stupid ads and these ridiculous, graceless pictures?

I think because a part of me - at least in my mind - is drawn to the brutality of a fuck in which the only interest on the man's side is to get his cock into my pussy as fast as he can, and then to use said pussy to satisfy his need. Period. There is cock and there is hole. I am the hole. I am the source of friction he needs to get off. And the rest of me? Something to play with, something to paw at, something to torture or whatever he needs to stimulate his hunger. To make him think of himself as huge, powerful, controlling, whatever the hell it is these guys need to get themselves so hot. Me, I know what my beloved fiend needs and wants, and I am oh so good at giving it to him. Sure, he owns me, he orchestrates everything from our relationship as a whole to our time together to when (or if, ever) I get to cum to my bedtime 5 days a week. But when I am down on my knees before him, his cock in my mouth, I am a Master Chef, and I know just what herbs and spices to add, what incantations to say, how much heat to apply to the pan, and how long to let it simmer to give him a orgasm that sets him growling and moaning and grunting and roaring until he is spent and satisfied.

I suspect this post doesn't hold together.
I read it over and added bits and it seems completely disjointed.
Oh well, who cares.
I'm too tired to fix it.
I think I'll go watch a DVD and fondle myself.
Maybe I'll imagine a camera.
Focused on the bed.
People will be watching.
My legs will be spread
so the view will be clear
and I'll be petting my pussy
and you'll see it grow wetter and redder
and I'll slip my fingers inside
and you'll think about what you'd like to be slipping inside
except some of you will want to hurt me first.
some of you will want to twist my nipples
and bite my neck
and bind me to the bed
so you can spank my pussy with the spoon
or flog it without my rolling away
and you are drinking my screams
and then reaching for the cane
until your cock is ready to burst
and you shove it down my throat
and you drive it into my cunt
and you chain my feet over my head
and stab your cock
deep in my ass hole
and I shriek as you fuck me
and I sob and I cry
and it only makes you harder
and then I start to moan
and I thrust up to meet you
and your balls bounce off my butt
and now we're both grunting
and I'm sobbing and moaning
and your mouth . . .
there are no words for your mouth . . .
and I'm trussed up like a chicken
a chicken being butt fucked
and you slip your fingers between us
and you take pity on my pussy
and you fondle me and fuck me
and I'm writhing in the chains
and moaning and calling your name
and we cum
and we cum
and we cum

Damn, but I'm wet.

Spanked by the spoon

I was not at all cooperative.

I knew it was coming. It was a good 11 days ago, as I was home sick with that miserable cold and telling the sadist that he'd have to postpone his much anticipated visit, that he said:

"While you're making breakfast locate a long wooden spoon and have it nearby when I visit next."

It sounds almost casual... except those were the only words in that particular message.

As of today, he still hadn't used it. Even last Sunday, when he was here for such a beautifully long time, and we made so much progress in my training, and the spoon was lying out there on the bedstand with the flogger and the cane and the 2 glasses of water and assorted other necessaries, it remained lying there unused. As did the flogger and the cane.

But not today.
It did not go unused today.

I knew what it was for.
He had told me.
He taught me a new position
and he told me what the position was for
and he told me what the spoon was for.

He would be spanking my pussy.
With the spoon.

He has a thing about spanking my pussy.
Spanking it.
Flogging it.

Running the heavy chain between my labia and then jerking it up so it nestles in deep and wedges into my pussy and leaves no doubt as to who owns my pussy and every other part of me. Plus he likes to get me aroused first, so that my clit swells and blushes and becomes an easier target. Easier to hit and - with all the nerve ends firing - easier to hurt.

Among the reasons he had me shave my pussy was so that he could see it get all red and swollen. Focus in on the target. See the physical manifestations of my pain.

I do not submit very well to having my pussy spanked.

It occurred to me today that my reactions are rather like how my eyes blink as something approaches them. It is an automatic protective response. Whether or not it is warranted. And whether or not it is appropriate. I was at the optometrist and he really wanted me to keep my eye open as he performed a special test and I just couldn't do it.

The fiend protects me.
He really doesn't strike that hard.

When t.o.m. was here, and the fiend had him hold me back against him, restraining my arms so the sadist could flog my tits, I was terrified at the thought of him damaging my breasts. But in the end, he landed the falls above and below my breasts, and I suffered more from the fear than anything else. It didn't matter, though. It got him the reaction he wanted.

He says I am different after he hurts me.
He's right.
I know.
I can feel it myself.

And when I sent my post-visit report, I had to admit that when he doesn't hurt me, it feels as if something was missing. The pain, the tears, the struggle, the yielding, the knowledge that he is hurting me even more, sometimes, than the pain itself... all these things strip away layers of defense, as if removing my skin with a carrot peeler until you can see and touch and devour the blood soaked tissues beneath.

All that from a very modest amount of pain. I imagine his masochist slave laughing at my reaction. I was down on my forearms and knees before the fiend's chair, legs spread for stability and easy access, back arched as far as I could and then a little more, as I heard him take the spoon off the bedstand and felt him reach under me and then

OW!

He smacked my pussy with the underside of the spoon.
The broad, solid, underside of the bowl.
It stung.
It hurt.
It did hurt.
But really, not all that much.
Not as much as some of the times he has caned me.
I think it was the idea of it,
the idea of his beating my pussy,
that made it feel more painful than it actually was.

Really, I'm so embarrassed. I was such a baby about it. I screamed and closed my legs and then opened them again and he spanked my pussy again and I was rocking back and forth from one knee to another and he brought the spoon up again smack against my poor pussy and I screamed and collapsed and he brought the spoon down on my buttocks, first one cheek and then the other and I got back up onto my knees and he swatted my pussy again and then I was down and curled on my side and crying and pleading and begging him to stop and he spanked my bottom again and I don't think it went on much longer than that if at all but I can't remember.

It did keep hurting.
My poor pussy hurt.
It stung.
And after he was gone
I looked in the mirror
and there were the marks of the spoon on my bottom
and my pussy looked red
and later I sat on the toilet
and took out my little mirror
and brought it close under my poor beaten cunt
and it was red.
Distinctly red.
And it hurt.

And yet as I keep obsessing about it for the ensuing hours, I keep wishing he were here. And that I was back in the position and he had the spoon in his hand and that he was giving me another chance to suffer, to yield, to take the gift of the pain he had planned.

A gift to me because hurting me makes him feel the things he needs to feel. A gift to me because making him feel good, making him happy, is what I live for. A gift to me because the pain brings us closer together. A gift to me because I demonstrate that pleasing him, suffering for him, obeying him, being his good girl means far more to me than my own physical condition.

And a gift to me because I know that he knows how much I can truly handle, and to be protected by a sadist from his own worst desires is a phenomenal gift which I shouldn't reject by squirming away from the torture. I must repay his protection with my trust.

I will learn to accept.
I will train myself to yield.
I will swim in the joy of our ties to each other.

I will force myself to be a very, very good girl
and give him the obedience he deserves
along with the love
he always has had.

Up my ass

There were four of us in the room.
Two men.
One white, one black.
Two women.
Both white and short and Jewish.
One of the women was me.
Neither of the men was the sadist.

Everyone was fully dressed but me.
I wore a black bra and and black socks.
There were cats on the socks.
Purple cats and fuchsia and turquoise and orange and red.

I lay on my side,
my bottom on offer,
my small brown puckered butt hole prepared to be invaded.

And then I passed out.

No, alas, it wasn't some wild, abusive orgy cooked up by the fiend. For one thing, he would have been there, sitting in the corner in his chair, directing the action, becoming more aroused by the minute. He would have been planning it for months, down to the smallest detail, frustrated when circumstances he couldn't control caused changes or delays.

He hates being stymied.
He hates not being in control.

So, no.
No orgy this time.
Merely a colonoscopy.
The routine colonoscopy I should have had when I turned 50 but instead put off for 11 years because I was so traumatized around such things by my 20 years dealing with ex-hubby #2 and his Crohn's disease that my PTSD led me to jeopardize my own health because I kept conveniently forgetting to schedule the procedure.

Luckily, all went well.
There's was nothing for the doctor to comment on.
Not a thing.

Oh, and the cast of characters?
The other Jewish woman was the doctor.
She's even shorter than I am.
The 2 men were both yummy.
The white guy was the anesthesiologist.
Very cute.
I flirted with him.
The black guy had a prominent wedding ring.
He seemed quite yummy, too.
Warm and friendly and reassuring.
Good characteristics for a tech.
He sighed as we waited for the doctor.
Good biking day.
It was a pity to waste it indoors.

As for the fiend, he told me to be a good girl at the doctor's.
So I was a very good girl.
And there was nothing wrong.

Isn't that a nice story?

And I'm sure there will be another occasion when I am similarly vulnerable. But on that day, the fiend will have gathered a group of his cronies to enjoy the privilege of fucking my ass. I know he will. Because just the mention of it makes him crazy hot.

Of course, whether he'll let me tell you about it is a whole other story.
We'll see...

My butt meets Shakespeare. My belly meets the knife.

He has many ways of torturing me.

Today, he came by for 5 minutes.
A suddenly discovered 5 minutes snatched from a busy schedule.
A serendipitous 5 minutes when he found himself passing nearby.

He looked at me.
He touched me.
He bent me over the corner of the navy blue sofa.
He spanked me with a paperback copy of a Shakespeare comedy.
He showed me the knife for the very first time.
My belly met the tip.

He didn't cut me.
He just scared me.
Which was the whole point, I think.
He was teaching me something.
And this time the lesson was very clear.

Then he very deliberately pressed a big red button and gave me an assignment to phone him and tell him something that had me sobbing hysterically into his voice mail until the time ran out. I don't even know when the time ran out. I was crying so hard and begging and pleading and professing my love that I never heard when the time ran out.

And it was exactly what I needed. It served his purpose, it advanced my training, he was ever so pleased. But it also gave me the catharsis I needed after the shock of being laid off.

As I have said elsewhere, I do not take well to rejection.
Of any sort.
It is a very weak spot for me.
Whether deliberately or not,
the fiend gave me an outlet for the violence of my anguish.

I am sure he would deny that this played any part in his stopping by or in the little scene he chose to play out. I am sure he would insist that it was just a mini-version of a long-planned next step in my training. And it is true that he does meticulously plan my progress and becomes quite annoyed should any circumstance disrupt the progress of said plan. Nevertheless, this was not the first time that something purported to have been designed to serve his needs managed to help me as well.

Felicitous accidents do happen.
I'll leave it at that.

Redundant

re-dun-dant [ri-duhn-duhnt]

–adjective

1. characterized by verbosity or unnecessary repetition in expressing ideas; prolix: a redundant style.
2. being in excess; exceeding what is usual or natural: a redundant part.
3. having some unusual or extra part or feature.
4. characterized by superabundance or superfluity: lush, redundant vegetation.
5. Engineering - (of a structural member) not necessary for resisting statically determined stresses.
6. Linguistics - characterized by redundancy; predictable.
7. Computers - containing more bits or characters than are required, as a parity bit inserted for checking purposes.
8. Chiefly British - removed or laid off from a job.

It all comes down to the same thing, really.

Excess.
Like an appendix.
Or a second car you rarely use and can't afford
Not needed.

In which case, in these tight economic times, if you are wise and responsible, you jettison the extra weight that is slowing you down, that is costing you money, that no longer has a function because you are changing direction and redesigning the carriage and mixing way too many metaphors - which all translates as my having been laid off today because they are indeed eliminating my position.

This sounds a lot more bitter than I actually am. If I weren't in such serious economic difficulties I wouldn't care at all. I have felt there was not much more I could learn there and no new place for me in any growth plans. I was feeling a strong urge to be home, to spend my days reading and writing and playing music and exercising and, always, through everything, serving the sadist.

Except there is of course this little issue of paying the bills.

So given that I am still getting over this truly awful, I am really quite cheerful. The fiend was very sweet about it. All he has to say are just a few words but that are always the right words. He knows me so well, and knows just the right way to take care of me. He offered to help me develop a schedule for my days which I know I need to do.

And I know, too, that a big reason why I don't feel so devastated by this latest in a lifetime of layoffs is that he has made me feel so strong and confident and good about myself that I don't take this as any kind of judgment on my worth. And I feel good about myself not just because he values me but because he has taught me to value myself - insisted on pain of bodily harm that I had better value myself! And I do. Not just because of threats, but because he has taught me and convinced me.

Meanwhile, there is a good chance (I'm holding my breath) that I may have a new housemate come September, which will make my finances a little less awful than they might otherwise be. And I get paid through the end of that month, after which unemployment kicks in. Of course, it will be almost completely devoured by payments for heath insurance, which I absolutely cannot give up. But somehow I will manage.

Somehow.

Now if only I could sell 8 stories a day...

Excuses, excuses

Sorry for the silence.

Less than a day after getting home from vacation, I came down with a bad cold. A REALLY bad cold. A nonstop dripping and sleeping cold, turning the skin around my nose as red and sore as my butt after being spanked with the hairbrush.

Speaking of spanking...

The sadist is not at all happy with the current state of my health. He specifically told me that he does not appreciate people returning from vacation thoroughly exhausted and unable to serve him. The irony of it all is that, unlike most of my cabin mates, I was ever so responsible about going to bed at a reasonable hour. There was just that one morning at 3 am...

And here I am sick.
Home from work 2 days so far.
Sleeping.
Snuffling.
And contagious.

The sadist was all set to visit today.
All set to launch the next phase of my training.
All set to...

Let's just say that it was going to hurt.
Which scares me.
And makes me leave large gooey wet spots on the sheets.

Weird, no?

Precious ambivalence.

Oatmeal Girl gets a glowing review, OR Structural Analysis of Literary Technique in Smut

There are three main stages to being an author:

1. writing
2. being published
3. being reviewed
   

Note that only the first stage is presented in an active verb form. Writing may be a struggle, but theoretically it is something over which the author has control. The other two are in the hands of the fates or the gods or the vagaries of the business.

In the case of my story that was published in the anthology Best S&M Erotica Volume 3: Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex, the writing was the easy part. It burst out of me in response to an assignment from the sadist, which in turn was a response to a poem which you can read here. Even being published was relatively easy, as Chris had invited me to submit something for the collection, and when my initial attempts at writing failed I asked if he would take this piece instead. I was too naive to be as worried as I should have been about whether it would be accepted or not.

Which brings us to the review.
For yes, there is now a review.
A quite glorious review
by Sharazade
which praises the book as a whole
and has some extra nice things to say about me.

It feels funny writing that here. It makes me feel shy... even though I know that I need to publicize the book and I do know that my story is good, and I quite agree with Shar's observations.

Anyway.

Please do go over to her blog and read the review. She is remarkably intelligent and perceptive and on its own the article makes great reading.

(Of course, I left out the fourth stage. Being read. Shar's review is her testimony to my having been read. It is her own way of saying "Good girl." And we all know how I like being called a good girl...)

Mostly home

I am back.
I am happy.
I am tired and scuzzy and happy.

(Hmm... what will one of those automatic translation programs make of "scuzzy"?)

It was very hard to leave. For a week every year, my friends and I live in a place outside of time and space. We live together in the same room, we eat together, we dance together, and - oh, ever so important - we make music together. What we have there is our only reality.

At least, it used to be that way.
Technology always gets the last word.
Meaning that now there are lots of words that weren't there before.
E-mails and texts.
Skype to friends abroad.
The New York Times on line.
Repertoire CDs downloaded to ubiquitous laptops.
Photos posted to Facebook the morning after.

And messages to my Master.

Saying what I'm doing.
Saying how I'm feeling.
Saying I'll obey him.
Saying that I love him.

So all that time, in that very special place, I swam in being his and glowed my secret smile.

And now, although sad that it is over, I am happy to be near to him again.

And so the next phase of my training commences.
He says it will be difficult.
His words frighten me.
And my panties are suddenly wet.

Leave of Absence

I'm going on vacation for a week.
Going away.

And it's because of all the preparations and complications that I haven't been writing. Because everything is ok. Everything is lovely. Lovely and different and beautiful and happy.

However, I won't leave you without some reading material. Sharazade (a new friend) will be publishing an interview with M. Christian, the writer and editor who so kindly included me in Best S/M Erotica Vol. 3. This will be followed by a review of the book, including of my own little contribution, which she claims to have liked. You can read about her plans and general take on anthologies here.

Finally, I'll leave you with this little tidbit - or tit-bit, as the case may be. My dear sadist surprised me with a last minute lunchtime visit - the second one this week. I knelt naked before him, down between his legs, my head bobbing up and down as I made love to his cock and sucked him - truly sucked him - in those special ways that only his precious treasure knows.

I was such a good girl today.

And at certain points in his own vacation in the coming week, he will be overtaken by thoughts of his own good girl and her profusion of red waves billowing up and down over his very happy cock.

Cold - and hot

The new fridge arrived.
The delivery men easily got the old one out.
They easily got the new one in.
They turned it on.
And soon it was cold.

I cleaned up the floor.
I washed out the water pitcher.
I took another shower.
I shaved my pussy so it was sweet and smooth.

Then the sadist arrived.
I met him naked at the door.
He ordered me downstairs.
He made me wait for him in the closet.
Where it was dark.
Where it was scary.
Then he opened the door.
And it wasn't scary any more.
And I turned him on.
And soon he was hot.
And his kisses were gentle.
And his smile was sweet.
And he came with a roar.
And happiness filled the room.

Not a bad day after all.
Right?