"You have perfect breasts," she said again.
Definitively.
Authoritatively.
I eyed the pictures, and silently agreed that they did look rather lovely. I thought I could detect signs of my recent weight-loss, which only made them look sweeter. More delicate. Beautiful in form. I wish I had thought to have her e-mail the pictures. If that were allowed.
She's an old friend. Her boyfriend has become back-up cat-sitter for me and my nearby friends when we aren't there for each other. She's a radiologist. I go to her practice when my insides need to be seen, in hopes she will be there and, flaunting protocol, will give me the results right away. In this case, the tests were a routine mammogram, plus a pelvic and vaginal sonogram to confirm the renewed soundness of my pussy and womb. Perhaps all the twitching and contracting had been good for them, permanently banishing the last of the questionable cells.
"You have perfect breasts."
Her evaluation had more to do with how easy they were to read than with how pretty they are. A medical and practical as opposed to artistic valuation. Still, I do think they are rather sweet. See?
"You have perfect breasts."
My Master's reply was brief and clear.
"She was right."
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Did you miss me, Daddy?
My Daddy is a busy man.
My Daddy is a practical man.
My Daddy is a manipulative man
and - as we all know - a sadistic man.
So I didn't bother to ask him if he missed me during the 8 days I was gone. Eight days that were even harder because circumstances conspired to prevent a meeting the week before.
Instead, on Monday, at the next to the last stop on my trip north, I poured out my own longing - and did get a little something in return.
Oh, and the mark?
It is still red.
Red and clear and rising to the touch.
It s good to be home.
My Daddy is a practical man.
My Daddy is a manipulative man
and - as we all know - a sadistic man.
So I didn't bother to ask him if he missed me during the 8 days I was gone. Eight days that were even harder because circumstances conspired to prevent a meeting the week before.
Instead, on Monday, at the next to the last stop on my trip north, I poured out my own longing - and did get a little something in return.
I'm happy here, Daddy.
I'm enjoying my trip.
But I'm yearning to come home.
I'm yearning to kneel before you.
I'm yearning to serve you.
I'm yearning to have everything disappear except for yielding to you.
Enjoy your stay. Training can be enhanced when the subject steps out of complete immersion and experiences a sort-of reset. However, I am looking forward to having you serve me also.
Oh, and the mark?
It is still red.
Red and clear and rising to the touch.
It s good to be home.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Back to the knife
He says I exaggerate.
He says I romanticize.
Poetic license, he calls it.
But finally, he set the record straight.
And I suppose it makes sense. As he rightly pointed out, there was blood, but not that much blood. I was in fact surprised to note the lack of blood on the knife itself, which lay on the carpet beside me as, marked and frightened, I knelt before my torturer and sucked his cock. Similarly, there was pain, but not that much pain. It was probably more panic than anything else. Panic and an embarrassing lack of trust.
In one way, you could say that the beast wielded the knife, the beast cut me, but Daddy had his hand wrapped firmly around the wrist of my attacker, and kept him from hurting me as much as he yearned to.
But I don't think you can say I was misrepresenting. Because I experienced it as if it were the sharpened blade and the piercing tip. So emotionally, it was that. Certainly, the reality explains why he had to work so hard to make the mark he desired. The sharpened blade and the piercing tip would have easily formed his initial. More efficient, less safe, and far less brutalizing.
I continue to contemplate what happened, what he did to me, and my various responses, and - most important - how I yielded. I gave myself to it. I struggled to please him as the beast snapped his (unearned?) displeasure and slapped my face. Twice. Hard. I sucked his cock frantically, terrified at what would happen if I did not achieve the demanded level of pleasure. I lay there beside him on the queen-size futon, my pale skin set off by the dark red sheet, and screamed in terror as he ran the knife over me.
I never said "No. I can't do this any more."
And after it was all over.
After the flood of endorphins exploded into sobs.
After he left.
After it was over, and in the days that passed before my equilibrium returned, as I realized how shaken I was, how numb I was after reaching such a high state of tension and fear, when I realized that I was so cleansed yet numb that I had no desire nor even ability to masturbate, that there was no orgasm in me... during all that time, when part of me wondered and worried whether this time he had gone too far... all I wanted was for feeling to return, for desire to return, for love to return, for my willing and complete submission to return.
And all during that time, the most frightening thing of all was the nagging desire, which I tried my best to ignore, to pledge my fealty to the beast and to give myself to the knife once again.
To hold nothing back.
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
I am grateful to my Daddy for protecting both of us from our scariest urges.
He does protect me.
I love you, Daddy.
He says I romanticize.
Poetic license, he calls it.
But finally, he set the record straight.
I didn't even use the blade side, only the back of the tip, and I have scraped much harder with the [jagged end of the strip of cherry wood that serves as a cane].
And I suppose it makes sense. As he rightly pointed out, there was blood, but not that much blood. I was in fact surprised to note the lack of blood on the knife itself, which lay on the carpet beside me as, marked and frightened, I knelt before my torturer and sucked his cock. Similarly, there was pain, but not that much pain. It was probably more panic than anything else. Panic and an embarrassing lack of trust.
In one way, you could say that the beast wielded the knife, the beast cut me, but Daddy had his hand wrapped firmly around the wrist of my attacker, and kept him from hurting me as much as he yearned to.
But I don't think you can say I was misrepresenting. Because I experienced it as if it were the sharpened blade and the piercing tip. So emotionally, it was that. Certainly, the reality explains why he had to work so hard to make the mark he desired. The sharpened blade and the piercing tip would have easily formed his initial. More efficient, less safe, and far less brutalizing.
I continue to contemplate what happened, what he did to me, and my various responses, and - most important - how I yielded. I gave myself to it. I struggled to please him as the beast snapped his (unearned?) displeasure and slapped my face. Twice. Hard. I sucked his cock frantically, terrified at what would happen if I did not achieve the demanded level of pleasure. I lay there beside him on the queen-size futon, my pale skin set off by the dark red sheet, and screamed in terror as he ran the knife over me.
I never said "No. I can't do this any more."
And after it was all over.
After the flood of endorphins exploded into sobs.
After he left.
After it was over, and in the days that passed before my equilibrium returned, as I realized how shaken I was, how numb I was after reaching such a high state of tension and fear, when I realized that I was so cleansed yet numb that I had no desire nor even ability to masturbate, that there was no orgasm in me... during all that time, when part of me wondered and worried whether this time he had gone too far... all I wanted was for feeling to return, for desire to return, for love to return, for my willing and complete submission to return.
And all during that time, the most frightening thing of all was the nagging desire, which I tried my best to ignore, to pledge my fealty to the beast and to give myself to the knife once again.
To hold nothing back.
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
I am grateful to my Daddy for protecting both of us from our scariest urges.
He does protect me.
I love you, Daddy.
Friday, September 24, 2010
On the road again
I'm on a little road trip, gracing family and friends with my overdue presence. Currently I'm in Boston, visiting my sister, meeting her married lover, and then moving on to an old and neglected friend. I realize that I isolated myself over the last few years - partly because of yielding to the sadist and partly, too, because of the effects of my now non-existent job.
I am not telling anyone about the fiend, although oddly enough, he seems eager for me to let people know about him in an anonymous sort of way. He even suggests I hint a little about his power over me.
I recoil at the thought.
S-- was in town before I left, and my impending departure shortened our visit. We spent a lovely few hours exploring a Nature Reserve on the way home from the airport, had a pleasant dinner and visit with friends, and then headed home for bedtime. Somehow I guessed that he would want to sleep with me again, despite the fact that he had previously stated that he wasn't having sex with people he wasn't in love with. We were very comfortable with each other, and it sounds as if perhaps things aren't quite as close now with our once-mutual lover. But (much to the sadist's annoyance) I turned him down. There were some very practical and sensible reasons for this - mainly that I needed a full night's sleep before the trip (sex with S-- can last for hours and I don't usually sleep well the first night with someone, even if that someone is an old lover). Plus there had been some performance issues previously (on his part) which caused some tension between us. He attributed them to his mixed feelings about sleeping with me considering that he was indeed in love with our once-mutual lover (and she in love with him, although there was no way they could actually be together due to their varied quirks and needs and her major psychological problems).
So it was a wise decision to say no. And how lovely to be able to do so, however gently, to someone who had treated me rather inconsiderately during the years we had a rather confused sexual relationship. He and the once-mutual love hurt me a lot due to their own confusion about each other and what they could handle.
But I also didn't want him to see my Master's mark. I suppose in a few more weeks it will be a vaguer scar, and I can brush it away. But I had no interest in any of the suggested comebacks that the sadist suggested:
My owner is disgusted. He reminds me that my destiny is to serve the sexual satisfaction of men, and that I should take all opportunities that present themselves. I have also turned down another old friend and occasional lover - again because of wanting to protect our relationship. I love the power of saying no to people who said no to me.
But the fiend is right.
It is time to give of myself.
I think I'll e-mail the architect...
I am not telling anyone about the fiend, although oddly enough, he seems eager for me to let people know about him in an anonymous sort of way. He even suggests I hint a little about his power over me.
I recoil at the thought.
S-- was in town before I left, and my impending departure shortened our visit. We spent a lovely few hours exploring a Nature Reserve on the way home from the airport, had a pleasant dinner and visit with friends, and then headed home for bedtime. Somehow I guessed that he would want to sleep with me again, despite the fact that he had previously stated that he wasn't having sex with people he wasn't in love with. We were very comfortable with each other, and it sounds as if perhaps things aren't quite as close now with our once-mutual lover. But (much to the sadist's annoyance) I turned him down. There were some very practical and sensible reasons for this - mainly that I needed a full night's sleep before the trip (sex with S-- can last for hours and I don't usually sleep well the first night with someone, even if that someone is an old lover). Plus there had been some performance issues previously (on his part) which caused some tension between us. He attributed them to his mixed feelings about sleeping with me considering that he was indeed in love with our once-mutual lover (and she in love with him, although there was no way they could actually be together due to their varied quirks and needs and her major psychological problems).
So it was a wise decision to say no. And how lovely to be able to do so, however gently, to someone who had treated me rather inconsiderately during the years we had a rather confused sexual relationship. He and the once-mutual love hurt me a lot due to their own confusion about each other and what they could handle.
But I also didn't want him to see my Master's mark. I suppose in a few more weeks it will be a vaguer scar, and I can brush it away. But I had no interest in any of the suggested comebacks that the sadist suggested:
In fact it might make for interesting conversation-you could make up whatever story you wanted or tell him it's none of his business or you're not allowed to disclose or whatever.S-- and I have always been open with each other about our other relationships. Details aren't necessary, but the basic facts are usually proffered. I'm just not yet at the point where I feel comfortable saying anything at all, after these 2 years of keeping it all a secret. It just feels too personal to me, and an admission, even without details, feels too naked.
My owner is disgusted. He reminds me that my destiny is to serve the sexual satisfaction of men, and that I should take all opportunities that present themselves. I have also turned down another old friend and occasional lover - again because of wanting to protect our relationship. I love the power of saying no to people who said no to me.
But the fiend is right.
It is time to give of myself.
I think I'll e-mail the architect...
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Integration
It's a new year, and the threads of my confused life are weaving a complicated tapestry.
For 24 hours I was immersed in Judaism as I know it. I lit the Shabbos candles before a crowd of hundreds, I prayed with friends, I was a welcoming warmth, I spoke as Jonah, impressing with my theatricality, and I made people think I am sweet and generous. Which I am. Sometimes.
Even there, I was a cut and marked woman. Property of a raging sadist. The scabbed scarlet letter on my butt was covered with gauze, and its healing distracted me with its itching. Prayers and readings reminded me of the man who owns and tortured me, and I made notes relating what I read to what I feel and how I live. And I told my leatherman friend that I'd had a BDSM story published after hugging a young masochist friend whose partner had unexpectedly died of a heart attack a few weeks ago.
I welcome the crossover.
I have a new housemate. Young, sweet, and musical, she has brought good vibes back to my house. She's away for the weekend. I miss her. What joy to have a housemate I can miss!
Musical friends are in town. Tonight they perform at a club in DC. They play Eastern European music and they are great. I'll go see them with other friends from that part of my identity. The guy who started the band is gay. We talk about it. Well, mainly he talks... But he doesn't know I'm submissive. I keep that from most of my gay friends.
S-- comes to town on Tuesday. I'll pick him up at the airport, we'll spend some time at a nature sanctuary, and then have dinner with our mutual friends. The ones I'm going out with tonight. S-- will stay over, but not in my bed. I have to scurry and clean up the guest room, evicting Ketzel from her nest. We are friends now, S-- and I, but no longer have sex. It's better that way. A week ago I had wondered if he would want to sleep with me after all. But I can't now. My Master marked me. Whether or not he wanted that outcome, I won't want to have vanilla sex until the thin line of dried blood disappears and the scar fades.
He will think about his mark, my Master will. The sadist who hacked at my left butt cheek with his knife as I screamed and cried. The beast who burst from his shackles. He took pictures of his handiwork, and of me posed on the floor as if for some centerfold, my eyes red, my cheeks streaked with tears, holding the knife point to my belly per his precise instructions. He is always very precise.
Wednesday I head north for a week, visiting family and friends as I make my way to Boston and back.
None of these know about the fiend.
None of these know about my story.
None of these know about the mark.
I will e-mail my tormentor, and text him, and leave voice mails if allowed. He will make sure that I don't forget who I am. Not that I could. Because any time I'm alone, I will loosen my jeans and reach behind, under the waistband of my plain white cotton panties, and run my finger over the simple, scabbed outline of the first letter of his name.
And I will feel myself return to that place.
That place I never really leave.
That place where all my other identities disappear
and I am nothing but his.
I am happy.
I am scared.
I am grateful.
I am marked.
I am his.
For 24 hours I was immersed in Judaism as I know it. I lit the Shabbos candles before a crowd of hundreds, I prayed with friends, I was a welcoming warmth, I spoke as Jonah, impressing with my theatricality, and I made people think I am sweet and generous. Which I am. Sometimes.
Even there, I was a cut and marked woman. Property of a raging sadist. The scabbed scarlet letter on my butt was covered with gauze, and its healing distracted me with its itching. Prayers and readings reminded me of the man who owns and tortured me, and I made notes relating what I read to what I feel and how I live. And I told my leatherman friend that I'd had a BDSM story published after hugging a young masochist friend whose partner had unexpectedly died of a heart attack a few weeks ago.
I welcome the crossover.
I have a new housemate. Young, sweet, and musical, she has brought good vibes back to my house. She's away for the weekend. I miss her. What joy to have a housemate I can miss!
Musical friends are in town. Tonight they perform at a club in DC. They play Eastern European music and they are great. I'll go see them with other friends from that part of my identity. The guy who started the band is gay. We talk about it. Well, mainly he talks... But he doesn't know I'm submissive. I keep that from most of my gay friends.
S-- comes to town on Tuesday. I'll pick him up at the airport, we'll spend some time at a nature sanctuary, and then have dinner with our mutual friends. The ones I'm going out with tonight. S-- will stay over, but not in my bed. I have to scurry and clean up the guest room, evicting Ketzel from her nest. We are friends now, S-- and I, but no longer have sex. It's better that way. A week ago I had wondered if he would want to sleep with me after all. But I can't now. My Master marked me. Whether or not he wanted that outcome, I won't want to have vanilla sex until the thin line of dried blood disappears and the scar fades.
He will think about his mark, my Master will. The sadist who hacked at my left butt cheek with his knife as I screamed and cried. The beast who burst from his shackles. He took pictures of his handiwork, and of me posed on the floor as if for some centerfold, my eyes red, my cheeks streaked with tears, holding the knife point to my belly per his precise instructions. He is always very precise.
Wednesday I head north for a week, visiting family and friends as I make my way to Boston and back.
None of these know about the fiend.
None of these know about my story.
None of these know about the mark.
I will e-mail my tormentor, and text him, and leave voice mails if allowed. He will make sure that I don't forget who I am. Not that I could. Because any time I'm alone, I will loosen my jeans and reach behind, under the waistband of my plain white cotton panties, and run my finger over the simple, scabbed outline of the first letter of his name.
And I will feel myself return to that place.
That place I never really leave.
That place where all my other identities disappear
and I am nothing but his.
I am happy.
I am scared.
I am grateful.
I am marked.
I am his.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The mark of the Beast
I suppose it was my fault.
He acted is if it were at least partly my fault.
But it's not as if he hadn't been thinking about it.
For a long time he has been thinking about it.
Reminding me that it was there.
Showing me his hunger.
Feeding my fear.
Today, he brought out the knife.
Today, he kept out the knife.
Today...
Why am I so aroused as I write those words, given the fear and the pain and the panic and the screams of Daddy, please, Daddy, don't, Daddy please don't, please stop, please... YOU'RE HURTING ME DADDY!!! PLEASE DON'T CUT ME DADDY!!
He said it was my fault.
It started on Monday morning. We were talking about my discovery that I was his little girl, and how I had to make it clear here that it was just one of many facets of who I am, and I commented:
To which he replied:
I must mention here that I positively hate the term "Jewess" and always have. But as I began my research, I realized that the reason why I hate it is exactly the same as the source of our fascination and threat in the eyes of the majority. I hate the sense of exoticism in the term. The implication of "otherness." Growing up in New York City during the 50's and 60's, there wasn't anything all that Other about being Jewish. There were only 5 non-Jewish families in my elementary school - a bigger school than many of you are probably used to, one where the 4th grade alone had 5 large classes. The Baby Boom generation was booming. Everyone in NYC ate bagels long before the rest of the country had ever heard of them, and at least a few words of Yiddish peppered everyday speech throughout the city.
I hated being seen as exotic when to me I was normal. The summer before my senior year in high school, I went to a 5-week theatre program at a Midwestern university. My roommate was from Ohio, white and Protestant and unsophisticated. She looked at me and said: "Oh. I never met a Jewess before." God, it made me feel so weird...
But you don't argue with the man who owns you, especially when he's a sadist, and I always love to feed his fantasies. He's got this thing about nuns... Hey. He's Irish. What do you expect?
Right.
Irish.
We all have our obsessions, don't we...
So I started my research and I was going to quote some of it here until I realized that I'm just trying to avoid talking about what I really need to talk about so as to exorcise it and that is the hour he spent with me today. And the knife. And the bandages I am wearing after cleansing the cuts with alcohol. That hurt. The alcohol hurt. But Daddy suggested I do it.
He does take care of me.
In his way.
So.
His "Jewess" obsession.
He was coming over this morning and one of the things he likes me to do is to feed the flames of his arousal before he arrives. I can do a better job at that now that I'm not working. Now that I'm not dashing home and trying to have the room prepared and my body stripped before he arrives expecting me to be naked at the door. Now that I have time to wait and compose messages to tease his cock into a state of urgency and his mind into a desperate ferment.
Still.
I should have known better.
I know there are things that are dangerous.
I know there are things that incite his hungers.
I know there are things that call to the beast.
I am not supposed to call to the beast.
There is always the danger that he can't be stopped.
But my mind can't always be stopped, either. It starts on its creative way and my imagination runs ahead of caution and these phrases and images pop into my head and they are for him, they are inspired by him, and it feels dishonest to hold them back.
So this is how it went:
Good morning, Sir.
Good morning, my Lord.
Good morning, Daddy.
I am clean for you.
I am shaved for you.
I am trained for you.
I wait to make you hot and happy.
your whore.
your pet.
your poet.
and your own precious little girl.
Also, I have discovered the perfect way to incorporate a Jewish element into our interaction: Shofar blowing.
~~~
I'm laughing, Daddy, while fretting that I don't know all the proper calls and blowing patterns. I do so want to do everything right, Sir!
I am preparing the main dungeon room for you, Sir. For the morning, we should be reassured of privacy.
~~~
I am ready, my Lord. I await you. Naked, soft, and Jewish.
~~~
(he switches to texting to announce his new ETA)
~~~
I'm not going anywhere, Daddy. I will wait patiently, eagerly, happily, and moistly.
~~~
Opening my mouth, projecting my tongue, inviting you to assault and invade.
~~~
My Jewish mouth, sweet as kosher blackberry wine. Potent as schnapps. Before you drink, say the blessing for fruit of the earth.
~~~
(He is driving so keeps return texts to a minimum.)
Ooo
~~~
Spank my bottom till it's as red as the apple with which Eve seduced Adam. The apple of knowledge from the tree of life. We Jews always want to know more.
~~~
Teach me, my Lord.
~~~
Offer me my Jewess.
~~~
I climb upon your altar, a martyr to your lust. You lay me down on the sacrificial stone, sprinkle me with holy water, and with your green knife send me to God.
~~~
You fuck my mouth as dying gurgles flow with the blood.
~~~
Hot.
~~~
Feel the knife.
~~~
You cut the hair from my head and have it spun into thread.
~~~
You know where.
~~~
I'm scared...
~~~
May be warranted this time.
~~~
I remember the ritual...
~~~
The small knife in my pussy. (That's not what he had in mind.)
~~~
Alone in the dark in the closet.
~~~
But yours is bigger and sharper. And it holds your evil.
~~~
I am already bleeding. (I have my period.)
~~~
There.
~~~
Now just wait.
~~~
And so I did. I stopped writing and watched out the window and finally he came and I met him at the door and he looked over his property and then sent me down to stand against the wall, my face and tits to the wall and my butt thrust wriggling towards him, pressing back towards him, and he usually comes up behind me and presses his still-clothed crotch into me and I rub back against him and there are all sorts of rituals before he goes to his chair and orders me to suck him.
Except this time.
This time I heard it.
I heard the knife click open.
I knew that's what it was.
And I knew I was in trouble.
So yes, I suppose it's at least partly my fault.
I did incite him.
But really.
When you're Jewish -
when you have our history -
our history of being martyred for being the Other -
where did he expect my mind to go?
And the knife?
It has been waiting in the wings for a long time.
Sooner or later, it would hear its cue.
And finally.
There is the mark.
His initial.
Carved into my bounteous but shrinking butt,
and then cut again to make it clearer and deeper.
To make a statement no one can question.
"Mine.
She is mine."
As he said before he left,
"This one will last a long time."
And I'm glad and I'm afraid.
Nothing is ever simple.
Ambivalence always loiters.
He carved his initial into my flesh.
He marked me as his, with blood and with pain.
And I will be his for a very long time.
But right now,
a day and a half later,
I still need to curl up and cry.
[For more from me, including some thoughts on the sacrifice of Isaac, see the COMMENTS.]
He acted is if it were at least partly my fault.
But it's not as if he hadn't been thinking about it.
For a long time he has been thinking about it.
Reminding me that it was there.
Showing me his hunger.
Feeding my fear.
Today, he brought out the knife.
Today, he kept out the knife.
Today...
Why am I so aroused as I write those words, given the fear and the pain and the panic and the screams of Daddy, please, Daddy, don't, Daddy please don't, please stop, please... YOU'RE HURTING ME DADDY!!! PLEASE DON'T CUT ME DADDY!!
He said it was my fault.
It started on Monday morning. We were talking about my discovery that I was his little girl, and how I had to make it clear here that it was just one of many facets of who I am, and I commented:
I would not be surprised if it turns out there are more personae lurking inside me, yet to be revealed.
To which he replied:
Of course there is more, or more accurately, there are more, in you. One in particular (probably because of the holidays) I have been thinking of beginning a module of exploration into: your Jewish-ness (as it relates to your sexuality) and how can I taste it, grow it, exploit it. I realize I am asking for it here; the subject is too huge and its influence so overarching that distillation or even summary is impossible. Still, if I shied away from initiatives (concerning you) that I knew would be a trial we would have no communication at all. And keep in mind (cause I do) that to an American boy of Irish descent, there is a bit of ethnic mystery there. I mean, the mere term "Jewess" kinda gets me hot.So start thinking, NOT OBSESSING (yet) and we will revisit it from time to time.
I must mention here that I positively hate the term "Jewess" and always have. But as I began my research, I realized that the reason why I hate it is exactly the same as the source of our fascination and threat in the eyes of the majority. I hate the sense of exoticism in the term. The implication of "otherness." Growing up in New York City during the 50's and 60's, there wasn't anything all that Other about being Jewish. There were only 5 non-Jewish families in my elementary school - a bigger school than many of you are probably used to, one where the 4th grade alone had 5 large classes. The Baby Boom generation was booming. Everyone in NYC ate bagels long before the rest of the country had ever heard of them, and at least a few words of Yiddish peppered everyday speech throughout the city.
I hated being seen as exotic when to me I was normal. The summer before my senior year in high school, I went to a 5-week theatre program at a Midwestern university. My roommate was from Ohio, white and Protestant and unsophisticated. She looked at me and said: "Oh. I never met a Jewess before." God, it made me feel so weird...
But you don't argue with the man who owns you, especially when he's a sadist, and I always love to feed his fantasies. He's got this thing about nuns... Hey. He's Irish. What do you expect?
Right.
Irish.
We all have our obsessions, don't we...
So I started my research and I was going to quote some of it here until I realized that I'm just trying to avoid talking about what I really need to talk about so as to exorcise it and that is the hour he spent with me today. And the knife. And the bandages I am wearing after cleansing the cuts with alcohol. That hurt. The alcohol hurt. But Daddy suggested I do it.
He does take care of me.
In his way.
So.
His "Jewess" obsession.
He was coming over this morning and one of the things he likes me to do is to feed the flames of his arousal before he arrives. I can do a better job at that now that I'm not working. Now that I'm not dashing home and trying to have the room prepared and my body stripped before he arrives expecting me to be naked at the door. Now that I have time to wait and compose messages to tease his cock into a state of urgency and his mind into a desperate ferment.
Still.
I should have known better.
I know there are things that are dangerous.
I know there are things that incite his hungers.
I know there are things that call to the beast.
I am not supposed to call to the beast.
There is always the danger that he can't be stopped.
But my mind can't always be stopped, either. It starts on its creative way and my imagination runs ahead of caution and these phrases and images pop into my head and they are for him, they are inspired by him, and it feels dishonest to hold them back.
So this is how it went:
Good morning, Sir.
Good morning, my Lord.
Good morning, Daddy.
I am clean for you.
I am shaved for you.
I am trained for you.
I wait to make you hot and happy.
your whore.
your pet.
your poet.
and your own precious little girl.
~~~
Good girl.
Good girl.
You may choose the room in which you will entertain me.
~~~
I'm laughing, Daddy, while fretting that I don't know all the proper calls and blowing patterns. I do so want to do everything right, Sir!
I am preparing the main dungeon room for you, Sir. For the morning, we should be reassured of privacy.
~~~
I am ready, my Lord. I await you. Naked, soft, and Jewish.
~~~
(he switches to texting to announce his new ETA)
~~~
I'm not going anywhere, Daddy. I will wait patiently, eagerly, happily, and moistly.
~~~
Opening my mouth, projecting my tongue, inviting you to assault and invade.
~~~
My Jewish mouth, sweet as kosher blackberry wine. Potent as schnapps. Before you drink, say the blessing for fruit of the earth.
~~~
(He is driving so keeps return texts to a minimum.)
Ooo
~~~
Spank my bottom till it's as red as the apple with which Eve seduced Adam. The apple of knowledge from the tree of life. We Jews always want to know more.
~~~
Teach me, my Lord.
~~~
Offer me my Jewess.
~~~
I climb upon your altar, a martyr to your lust. You lay me down on the sacrificial stone, sprinkle me with holy water, and with your green knife send me to God.
~~~
You fuck my mouth as dying gurgles flow with the blood.
~~~
Hot.
~~~
Feel the knife.
~~~
You cut the hair from my head and have it spun into thread.
~~~
You know where.
~~~
I'm scared...
~~~
May be warranted this time.
~~~
I remember the ritual...
~~~
The small knife in my pussy. (That's not what he had in mind.)
~~~
Alone in the dark in the closet.
~~~
But yours is bigger and sharper. And it holds your evil.
~~~
I am already bleeding. (I have my period.)
~~~
There.
~~~
Now just wait.
~~~
And so I did. I stopped writing and watched out the window and finally he came and I met him at the door and he looked over his property and then sent me down to stand against the wall, my face and tits to the wall and my butt thrust wriggling towards him, pressing back towards him, and he usually comes up behind me and presses his still-clothed crotch into me and I rub back against him and there are all sorts of rituals before he goes to his chair and orders me to suck him.
Except this time.
This time I heard it.
I heard the knife click open.
I knew that's what it was.
And I knew I was in trouble.
So yes, I suppose it's at least partly my fault.
I did incite him.
But really.
When you're Jewish -
when you have our history -
our history of being martyred for being the Other -
where did he expect my mind to go?
And the knife?
It has been waiting in the wings for a long time.
Sooner or later, it would hear its cue.
And finally.
There is the mark.
His initial.
Carved into my bounteous but shrinking butt,
and then cut again to make it clearer and deeper.
To make a statement no one can question.
"Mine.
She is mine."
As he said before he left,
"This one will last a long time."
And I'm glad and I'm afraid.
Nothing is ever simple.
Ambivalence always loiters.
He carved his initial into my flesh.
He marked me as his, with blood and with pain.
And I will be his for a very long time.
But right now,
a day and a half later,
I still need to curl up and cry.
[For more from me, including some thoughts on the sacrifice of Isaac, see the COMMENTS.]
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Baby girl's first spanking
In giving me permission to share this latest step in my development, Daddy (as I do often call him now) specified the following:
One of the major sources of confusion for me was - what happened to all those other things he said I was? Were they just steps along the way? He made a big point about having been waiting all this time for me. For Daddy's Pussy. And the first time he was with me after the big reveal, he spanked me for having kept him waiting nearly 2 years - meaning all that time since he first discovered me.
He has said that he sees things in me that no one else can see. That he recognized them immediately. He saw things in my FetLife profile. And he sees things in my eyes. He always sees things in my eyes. Through my eyes. He looks into me and sees things I don't even see myself.
That I am his little girl, his baby girl, that I am Daddy's Pussy, certainly this was a major thing he saw. I went and looked back at what my FetLife profile was on that fateful day over 2 years ago when he stumbled across me. It began:
Well, really, can you blame him? It seems so obvious in hindsight.
As for what he sees in my eyes... I am sure there are more things. But this seems to have been the major one. And yes, when we spent that night together, there was something different. He was different. I don't know why, but he was starting to let himself be Daddy with me even before I realized who I am. There was a gentleness... the way he spoke with me even though he knew he would have to punish me. He hadn't been planning on hurting me, so hadn't told me to bring along any of the instruments of pain. But after a while he said he was going to beat me. And he went to the bathroom and came back with my hairbrush and oh, I'd never been spanked with a hairbrush before! And aside from the pain - and it hurt ever so much! - it put me somewhere that I almost recognized for what it was. And he brought the flat back of the brush down on my reddening bottom again and again and I was afraid to scream as loud as I needed to because of being in a hotel and I couldn't yell "Daddy, it HURTS!!" because I didn't yet know he was my Daddy, and I couldn't hold the position on my knees and forearms with my bottom offered for punishment because it hurt too much and I collapsed down on the bed and eventually couldn't get back up and he beat me and beat me and something felt very different and I was so wretched at having let him down that I cried and sobbed from pain way down in my heart because he was being so loving even as he hurt me. He wasn't furious. He was regretful. Not that it didn't arouse him, seeing my cheeks go from pale to pink to red. Not that my pain didn't arouse him, and my sobbing and screaming and wriggling and grief and utter collapse. But it all felt very different.
And I think it was.
I think it was the first time he was spanking his baby girl.
Even though she didn't yet realize that's what she was.
And now?
Yes.
I find that, more often than not, I want to call him Daddy.
It fits.
It gives me a way to express my love
and my need
and my dependence
and my intense desire to please him.
Sometimes I have just wanted to run up to him and throw my arms around him because something or other has made me so happy. And that, I know, is his baby girl manifesting herself. And when he is strict about my schedule, and about my bedtime, that, too, brings out Daddy's Pussy.
But at other times, the other names seem correct.
And sometimes he demands the other names.
Like last week
He e-mailed me the morning of an impending visit.
And the mood was set.
We're not talking playing a role here. This isn't a game, it is never a game with us. Everything we do, all the ways we act with each other, they are aspects of who we truly are. Like how you are with your parents, and how you are with your friends, and how you are with your kids, and how you are with the vet and the mail carrier and the gardener who comes in to fuck you after mowing the lawn. It's like having multiple personality disorder, except it's not a disorder.
It doesn't control you.
It frees you.
It frees you to be all that you are.
I am his pet.
I am his poet.
I am his whore and his slave and his cock-sucking fucktoy.
I am his research assistant
and his private pornographer,
his singer and his x-rated model,
and yes,
with all that,
I am Daddy's baby girl.
Daddy's Pussy.
He does to me things that a daddy isn't supposed to do to his baby girl.
And I want him to.
Mostly...
Only if you stress that though Daddy's Pussy may be your default mode, and the one in which you feel most comfortable, most natural, it is but one of the facets which I may access for my pleasure.
One of the major sources of confusion for me was - what happened to all those other things he said I was? Were they just steps along the way? He made a big point about having been waiting all this time for me. For Daddy's Pussy. And the first time he was with me after the big reveal, he spanked me for having kept him waiting nearly 2 years - meaning all that time since he first discovered me.
He has said that he sees things in me that no one else can see. That he recognized them immediately. He saw things in my FetLife profile. And he sees things in my eyes. He always sees things in my eyes. Through my eyes. He looks into me and sees things I don't even see myself.
That I am his little girl, his baby girl, that I am Daddy's Pussy, certainly this was a major thing he saw. I went and looked back at what my FetLife profile was on that fateful day over 2 years ago when he stumbled across me. It began:
very submissive very young-looking very lost needing connection
Well, really, can you blame him? It seems so obvious in hindsight.
As for what he sees in my eyes... I am sure there are more things. But this seems to have been the major one. And yes, when we spent that night together, there was something different. He was different. I don't know why, but he was starting to let himself be Daddy with me even before I realized who I am. There was a gentleness... the way he spoke with me even though he knew he would have to punish me. He hadn't been planning on hurting me, so hadn't told me to bring along any of the instruments of pain. But after a while he said he was going to beat me. And he went to the bathroom and came back with my hairbrush and oh, I'd never been spanked with a hairbrush before! And aside from the pain - and it hurt ever so much! - it put me somewhere that I almost recognized for what it was. And he brought the flat back of the brush down on my reddening bottom again and again and I was afraid to scream as loud as I needed to because of being in a hotel and I couldn't yell "Daddy, it HURTS!!" because I didn't yet know he was my Daddy, and I couldn't hold the position on my knees and forearms with my bottom offered for punishment because it hurt too much and I collapsed down on the bed and eventually couldn't get back up and he beat me and beat me and something felt very different and I was so wretched at having let him down that I cried and sobbed from pain way down in my heart because he was being so loving even as he hurt me. He wasn't furious. He was regretful. Not that it didn't arouse him, seeing my cheeks go from pale to pink to red. Not that my pain didn't arouse him, and my sobbing and screaming and wriggling and grief and utter collapse. But it all felt very different.
And I think it was.
I think it was the first time he was spanking his baby girl.
Even though she didn't yet realize that's what she was.
And now?
Yes.
I find that, more often than not, I want to call him Daddy.
It fits.
It gives me a way to express my love
and my need
and my dependence
and my intense desire to please him.
Sometimes I have just wanted to run up to him and throw my arms around him because something or other has made me so happy. And that, I know, is his baby girl manifesting herself. And when he is strict about my schedule, and about my bedtime, that, too, brings out Daddy's Pussy.
But at other times, the other names seem correct.
And sometimes he demands the other names.
Like last week
He e-mailed me the morning of an impending visit.
You will call me Sir today.
And the mood was set.
We're not talking playing a role here. This isn't a game, it is never a game with us. Everything we do, all the ways we act with each other, they are aspects of who we truly are. Like how you are with your parents, and how you are with your friends, and how you are with your kids, and how you are with the vet and the mail carrier and the gardener who comes in to fuck you after mowing the lawn. It's like having multiple personality disorder, except it's not a disorder.
It doesn't control you.
It frees you.
It frees you to be all that you are.
I am his pet.
I am his poet.
I am his whore and his slave and his cock-sucking fucktoy.
I am his research assistant
and his private pornographer,
his singer and his x-rated model,
and yes,
with all that,
I am Daddy's baby girl.
Daddy's Pussy.
He does to me things that a daddy isn't supposed to do to his baby girl.
And I want him to.
Mostly...
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Daddy (2)
So let's see.
Where were we when we left off?
Ah, yes.
Learning to play craps.
His teaching me.
My delight.
My message:
And his reply:
Yes.
That's as far as we got.
So let's continue.
By then, it was the next day.
The next afternoon.
And that evening I wrote:
And the next morning, as I prepared to drive back down to DC:
And then I got up and had breakfast and packed and was on my way.
The trip took much longer than it might have, because at long rest stops I was sending him messages, and reading his, and at one point phoned - as he had instructed me to - and left him an incredibly intense voice mail... I wish I had the text of it, but I do remember that it burst out of me. I was elsewhere. Completely elsewhere. In touch with something I had never wallowed in before. I was his little girl, being used by his friends in ways a little girl shouldn't be used... I don't even know what age I was... I still don't know what age I was.
This is not something sweet and acceptable.
It is not something carefully thought out to be sweet and acceptable.
It just is.
And the only way I can deal with what is within us is to separate it from reality.
This is not outside world reality.
This has nothing to do with the evil that is in the world.
The evil to which children are subjected.
It is just...
I don't know what it is.
I push evil realities out of my head
and embrace what feels - for me - for us -
right and true.
One side of what for us is right and true.
To continue.
After the phone call, he e-mailed the following, which I read at a rest stop:
Struggling, transformed, shaking, I replied:
It is hard for me to go back to those days and those messages. The feelings were very intense and very scary. In a way, I don't want to be writing about it. And yet I must, or I can't write at all. Because this is why I couldn't return to the story of the night in the hotel. Suddenly everything had changed, and I wasn't who I was when that weekend happened.
Although that's not true, either. There were things that happened that night we were together... the hairbrush... a certain gentleness in his manner towards me... I felt a difference and I didn't know what it was.
It was this.
Daddy was already in the room.
Why, you may wonder, did I wait so long to write this?
Obviously, because he wouldn't let me until now. There was more for me to learn, to understand, to accept. I continued to be confused about who I am and what had happened to all those other things he said I was. Finally, so very recently, it became clear - and he gave me permission to tell you about all this:
And so, I hope, I have.
Where were we when we left off?
Ah, yes.
Learning to play craps.
His teaching me.
My delight.
My message:
[...] Last night, I started understanding the draw of the Daddy thing. Which made me very uncomfortable. But there you were, teaching me about something very "grown up", me being wide-eyed, excited, delighted at having this special time with you. Especially when I won at the end! I felt myself looking up at you as I wriggled and grinned and laughed and looked up into your eyes for approval and then, then, heard you say those special words.
"Good girl."
Plus other personal things, Sir, which don't interest you.
In any case, my Lord, it was very disconcerting to realize this, and I'd probably be happier if it went away. Or at least just be an aspect that is underneath as my demon mentor leads me through his vices. [...]
And his reply:
We will explore the Daddy thing a bit on your return.What "other personal things"? Surrender them to me, so that I may use them in your debasement.
Yes.
That's as far as we got.
So let's continue.
My relationship with my father, Sir. You are much more attentive to me than he was when I was growing up. And with the craps... There you were, teaching me about something you enjoy, finding a way to make me part of it, to include me, to make it into a part of our relationship... No matter what your real goal, my Lord, that is how I experienced it.
By then, it was the next day.
The next afternoon.
And that evening I wrote:
I am nervous as to what you mean to do in exploring the Daddy thing, Sir... but also think it has been waiting there for us and know that I will learn a lot - and certainly both suffer and grow - from whatever projects you undertake in that regard. I crave your control and guidance, and I treasure the care and attention and, yes, even the correction you shower on me.Whatever you wish, I will submit to your plans and do your bidding.I am your pet, and I adore you.
And the next morning, as I prepared to drive back down to DC:
Last night, here, I was very aroused the whole time, [...] wondering about your planned Daddy explorations. I think what has such power for me in that is the submission to the authority figure and images of punishment and molestation. My contractions are coming very hard now, Sir. And last night it was a huge struggle not to masturbate.
I was good, though.
And then I got up and had breakfast and packed and was on my way.
The trip took much longer than it might have, because at long rest stops I was sending him messages, and reading his, and at one point phoned - as he had instructed me to - and left him an incredibly intense voice mail... I wish I had the text of it, but I do remember that it burst out of me. I was elsewhere. Completely elsewhere. In touch with something I had never wallowed in before. I was his little girl, being used by his friends in ways a little girl shouldn't be used... I don't even know what age I was... I still don't know what age I was.
This is not something sweet and acceptable.
It is not something carefully thought out to be sweet and acceptable.
It just is.
And the only way I can deal with what is within us is to separate it from reality.
This is not outside world reality.
This has nothing to do with the evil that is in the world.
The evil to which children are subjected.
It is just...
I don't know what it is.
I push evil realities out of my head
and embrace what feels - for me - for us -
right and true.
One side of what for us is right and true.
To continue.
After the phone call, he e-mailed the following, which I read at a rest stop:
You are right, my pet. Of course the Daddy thing has always been there.There are reasons it has been left to distill, but now the time has come. You will call me Daddy.
And that feels right to you, doesn't it, angel? You have struggled over what to call me; Master, Lord, il Maestro and others. But this puts you in that place doesn't it, my precious? Deep in that place, and holds you there.What you don't realize is that I am going to make you fully go there. Age play, the Daddy thing, and like interactions don't have to get too specific, too personal. They can be done in a generic manner and still be amusing. But that's not what's in store for you. I know there have been times when you wished you could give me all of what I need, and felt jealous of those who did, who could. How ironic then that this, what you hide, what you deny ( and by the way, BECAUSE you hide, you deny) is the way in which you will offer me an extreme that none other can. Your phone message poured out of you with a life of it's own, as if you were vomiting a bile you had held your whole life and now were finally giving vent. The tears I constantly tell you I want, my pet? From this I will get them.
Struggling, transformed, shaking, I replied:
So you have been waiting all this time, Daddy? Waiting for the right moment? Knowing that eventually I would myself reveal that it was the right moment?
And when you beat me with the hairbrush, Daddy? Did you feel what was happening to me? As you punished your little girl who tries so hard to be good and was so devastated when she was not, could you feel it coming closer to the surface?
I think that the return of Sir as a form of address also pulled me to you, Daddy.
(A woman just walked by with her daughter, maybe 10 years old, saying "There's your daddy." I finally made it to Delaware, Daddy, and am stopped at the new welcome center. There was a long back-up for the beach exit. Think, Daddy, of taking your vulnerable little girl to the beach. Think what you could accomplish with a full week to work in.)
I am so aroused, Daddy, that it hurts and embarrasses me. And it frightens me. I don't know what it will mean. I do know that I belong to you now in an even deeper way than before. And that whatever it will mean for me, you will wallow in the pleasure of every moment.
Teach me, Daddy! Teach me how to please you in those special ways only I can do for you!
It is hard for me to go back to those days and those messages. The feelings were very intense and very scary. In a way, I don't want to be writing about it. And yet I must, or I can't write at all. Because this is why I couldn't return to the story of the night in the hotel. Suddenly everything had changed, and I wasn't who I was when that weekend happened.
Although that's not true, either. There were things that happened that night we were together... the hairbrush... a certain gentleness in his manner towards me... I felt a difference and I didn't know what it was.
It was this.
Daddy was already in the room.
Why, you may wonder, did I wait so long to write this?
Obviously, because he wouldn't let me until now. There was more for me to learn, to understand, to accept. I continued to be confused about who I am and what had happened to all those other things he said I was. Finally, so very recently, it became clear - and he gave me permission to tell you about all this:
Only if you stress that though Daddy's Pussy may be your default mode, and the one in which you feel most comfortable, most natural, it is but one of the facets which I may access for my pleasure.
And so, I hope, I have.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Daddy (1)
He wanted to teach me to play craps. He has this plan. Well, he has so many plans. Plans, fantasies, schemes, chapters in the ongoing saga of my life as his poet and pet and whore and slave and property and treasure and collection of holes to offer to his friends. I have been and am all that.
All that and more.
For of course there is more.
Identities I have glimpsed but wasn't ready to see.
An identity he wanted me to discover for myself.
Right then, though, what he wanted was to teach me to play craps. Because he is planning on taking me to a casino. And there... well, don't expect me to tell you everything ahead of time. Just know that part of the script involves my knowing how to play.
So we had a nice long IM chat about some basic techniques, and he sent me to a free on-line craps game. Like craps solitaire. And then he ordered me to play, with little rewards and penalties along the way, plus a promised outcome, depending on how I did:
Just reading his words again sends my pussy into paroxysms of twitching.
So I played as he taught me, keeping a running IM commentary going even though he was no longer on line. And oh my goodness, I was so pleased with myself! I did very well and in the end I earned the right to masturbate and cum. Isn't that delicious!
And all this the night before I was to drive up north to visit my parents. So it was important that my playing not run too late so I wouldn't be all tired for driving or haggard and crabby for visiting. But I won and it didn't take too long and oh my goodness, I did have such fun! And I don't normally go in for gambling, although it is one of the sadist's many vices.
Anyway. I won. And I sent him a message with a copy of the running commentary. And the next morning came back a message saying that he was very pleased with me, to which he added some hints on what would be happening if I had been playing for real, which I was to consider during the drive. A drive which was to be peppered with text and e-mail and phone messages.
I sent him one last e-mail before driving away.
An e-mail which revealed a crack in my blindness to the truth of who I am.
The truth of another piece of who I am.
To which he replied:
But in the end, there was more exploration even before I came back.
More exploration, and a lot more messages.
to be continued...
NOTE: click on Comments to read and join the conversation about Daddy-little girl relationships.
All that and more.
For of course there is more.
Identities I have glimpsed but wasn't ready to see.
An identity he wanted me to discover for myself.
Right then, though, what he wanted was to teach me to play craps. Because he is planning on taking me to a casino. And there... well, don't expect me to tell you everything ahead of time. Just know that part of the script involves my knowing how to play.
So we had a nice long IM chat about some basic techniques, and he sent me to a free on-line craps game. Like craps solitaire. And then he ordered me to play, with little rewards and penalties along the way, plus a promised outcome, depending on how I did:
so, your task
I'm going to bed, as I have a huge day tomorrow
you close the window then re-open it, so you start again at a 1000 balance
continue as I have showed you
including the rewards
if your balance gets below 900 report to me and I will administer a punishment upon my next visit
if you get over 1100 you may masturbate to climax
Just reading his words again sends my pussy into paroxysms of twitching.
So I played as he taught me, keeping a running IM commentary going even though he was no longer on line. And oh my goodness, I was so pleased with myself! I did very well and in the end I earned the right to masturbate and cum. Isn't that delicious!
And all this the night before I was to drive up north to visit my parents. So it was important that my playing not run too late so I wouldn't be all tired for driving or haggard and crabby for visiting. But I won and it didn't take too long and oh my goodness, I did have such fun! And I don't normally go in for gambling, although it is one of the sadist's many vices.
Anyway. I won. And I sent him a message with a copy of the running commentary. And the next morning came back a message saying that he was very pleased with me, to which he added some hints on what would be happening if I had been playing for real, which I was to consider during the drive. A drive which was to be peppered with text and e-mail and phone messages.
I sent him one last e-mail before driving away.
An e-mail which revealed a crack in my blindness to the truth of who I am.
The truth of another piece of who I am.
Oh thank you, my Lord! I am so happy to have pleased you. I did have fun.
And yes, my Master, I had already started imagining my debut - at a real casino? The extent to which I felt out of my element at [the bar] is nothing compared to how lost and nervous - and fascinated - I will feel at the casino. (Or are we talking about a local party that you will assemble?)
I had an odd sensation last night, Sir, and it makes me rather uncomfortable to admit it. Do you remember that short period during which you became fascinated with my plain white panties and I gave you stories of me as a high school girl coming to your study? You would bend me over your large desk, push up my skirt, press yourself against my butt, and spank me. We neither of us had been into this sort of thing but for a while we played with it.
Last night, I started understanding the draw of the Daddy thing. Which made me very uncomfortable. But there you were, teaching me about something very "grown up", me being wide-eyed, excited, delighted at having this special time with you. Especially when I won at the end! I felt myself looking up at you as I wriggled and grinned and laughed and looked up into your eyes for approval and then, then, heard you say those special words.
"Good girl."
Plus other personal things, Sir, which don't interest you.
In any case, my Lord, it was very disconcerting to realize this, and I'd probably be happier if it went away. Or at least just be an aspect that is underneath as my demon mentor leads me through his vices.
Oh, and yes, My Lord, I did masturbate last night. It was late so I didn't take a huge amount of time. But oh, it was delicious! I think you opened something that afternoon in your car. [I never did tell you all about what happened in his car... --o.g.] This wasn't as huge, and oddly I barely cried. But it was an intensely clitoral orgasm, spasming again and again as I kept touching even after coming the first time. I haven't had one like that in ages.
Alas, I can't linger over this message as I need to dress and eat and assemble last items and leave.
Thank you so much for giving me ways to have you with me on my trip, my Master.
I love you.
And I am yours.
To which he replied:
We will explore the Daddy thing a bit on your return.What "other personal things"? Surrender them to me, so that I may use them in your debasement.
But in the end, there was more exploration even before I came back.
More exploration, and a lot more messages.
to be continued...
NOTE: click on Comments to read and join the conversation about Daddy-little girl relationships.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Crawling into the new year
I've been silent.
I've been absent.
I've been moody.
I've been stuck.
I can't say specifically what the problem has been, as I've been beset by a whole host of plagues. [Oops. Wrong Holiday.] If nothing else, the combination of a protracted allergy attack and my bimonthly course of progesterone has deadened my brain and sapped my will. I'm not suffering too much at the moment, so thought I really should stop by and assure you all that I am still alive.
I've been doing that a lot lately.
One of the annoying things about it all is that I have had so much to write about - and even some thoughts on the subjects. Rosh Hashanah has come and gone, leaving us in the Days of Awe - a time for intense contemplation and introspection. The two days of services are usually a fertile time, but between the coughing and snuffling and the supposedly non-soporific allergy pills and the thick fog that progesterone always deposits in my brain and the moodiness caused by all of that and more, I didn't end up making a whole lot of little notes in the small book I always carry with me on orders from the man who owns and controls me.
But the allergies are a little less awful for now, and the progesterone will be stopped in another few days, so there is hope for the restoration of functionality. And the sadist visited me last Wednesday morning, sending me into the new year with the sweet memory of his cock in my mouth and his groans of pleasure in my ear.
My training proceeds. I am learning a lot. There was a major advance late in July, which I am hoping he will finally allow me to share with you. And speaking of sharing... it sounds as if the fiend will soon be giving himself the pleasure of watching his little whore be thoroughly, deeply, and roughly be used by a succession of horny men to whom he has preached my delights - or perhaps shown videos of my proffered tits and wriggling ass. Not to mention photos and films of me crawling. He does love watching me crawl... or perhaps one could better describe the action as dragging myself along the floor like a dehydrated traveler lost in the desert pulling herself towards an oasis that had better not be a mirage. Just so do I drag myself towards the reward of his cock.
It is also possible that he will bring more than one man at a time. Two or three perhaps. He likes the idea of watching all my holes being filled. He is horribly aroused at the thought of my being degraded and despoiled and held down while having my ass raped. Oddly, by now it is something I long for, too. Not just as a fantasy, but as impending reality. I want to be taken and hurt and objectified, all to show him how obedient I am, and how devoted to whatever will please him and cause him to harden and to lust so that when they are done with me he will be ravenous with desire and fall on me like the starving beast he is.
And whatever they do to me, whatever he does to me, whatever I am made to suffer and endure, I will rejoice as I scream and weep and I will look up at him and see the pleasure and pride in his eyes and I will moan "I love you..." as one cock after another invades me from behind.
Meanwhile, that still leaves topics unaddressed. But while I wasn't up to writing here, I did leave some comments on other people's blogs on various issues, so if you wish you are welcome to chase me down elsewhere:
I've been absent.
I've been moody.
I've been stuck.
I can't say specifically what the problem has been, as I've been beset by a whole host of plagues. [Oops. Wrong Holiday.] If nothing else, the combination of a protracted allergy attack and my bimonthly course of progesterone has deadened my brain and sapped my will. I'm not suffering too much at the moment, so thought I really should stop by and assure you all that I am still alive.
I've been doing that a lot lately.
One of the annoying things about it all is that I have had so much to write about - and even some thoughts on the subjects. Rosh Hashanah has come and gone, leaving us in the Days of Awe - a time for intense contemplation and introspection. The two days of services are usually a fertile time, but between the coughing and snuffling and the supposedly non-soporific allergy pills and the thick fog that progesterone always deposits in my brain and the moodiness caused by all of that and more, I didn't end up making a whole lot of little notes in the small book I always carry with me on orders from the man who owns and controls me.
But the allergies are a little less awful for now, and the progesterone will be stopped in another few days, so there is hope for the restoration of functionality. And the sadist visited me last Wednesday morning, sending me into the new year with the sweet memory of his cock in my mouth and his groans of pleasure in my ear.
My training proceeds. I am learning a lot. There was a major advance late in July, which I am hoping he will finally allow me to share with you. And speaking of sharing... it sounds as if the fiend will soon be giving himself the pleasure of watching his little whore be thoroughly, deeply, and roughly be used by a succession of horny men to whom he has preached my delights - or perhaps shown videos of my proffered tits and wriggling ass. Not to mention photos and films of me crawling. He does love watching me crawl... or perhaps one could better describe the action as dragging myself along the floor like a dehydrated traveler lost in the desert pulling herself towards an oasis that had better not be a mirage. Just so do I drag myself towards the reward of his cock.
It is also possible that he will bring more than one man at a time. Two or three perhaps. He likes the idea of watching all my holes being filled. He is horribly aroused at the thought of my being degraded and despoiled and held down while having my ass raped. Oddly, by now it is something I long for, too. Not just as a fantasy, but as impending reality. I want to be taken and hurt and objectified, all to show him how obedient I am, and how devoted to whatever will please him and cause him to harden and to lust so that when they are done with me he will be ravenous with desire and fall on me like the starving beast he is.
And whatever they do to me, whatever he does to me, whatever I am made to suffer and endure, I will rejoice as I scream and weep and I will look up at him and see the pleasure and pride in his eyes and I will moan "I love you..." as one cock after another invades me from behind.
Meanwhile, that still leaves topics unaddressed. But while I wasn't up to writing here, I did leave some comments on other people's blogs on various issues, so if you wish you are welcome to chase me down elsewhere:
- On Rosh Hashanah and my tendency to think of my Lord the sadist rather than the Lord our God when reading prayers, go to this post on sin's blog finding my submission.
- On yet another anniversary of the attacks on September 11, go here at A View from the Top.
- And I was sure there was a third one that was relevant, but can't remember it now, so these two will have to do.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Reporting in
Back from vacation.
Tired and happy.
Doing laundry.
Learning and growing.
Love and submission.
Given that I am unemployed, life is remarkably good.
Tired and happy.
Doing laundry.
Learning and growing.
Love and submission.
Given that I am unemployed, life is remarkably good.
Friday, September 3, 2010
A milestone - this weekend, 2 years ago
In 2008, on Monday, the first day of September, which in that year was Labor Day in the United States, the following e-mail conversation occurred:
please, sir.
please.
from my groveling place on the floor before you.
will you let me come to you and show my obedience?
will you use me as you desire?
and if i please you
will you take me to serve you?
Of course, my pet. You must know, you must feel in your heart there was never any doubt. A connoisseur like myself pass up a rare jewel like you? Come on.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
In 4 sentences
I went to my writers group today.
The assignment was:
Write a complete story
in 4 sentences.
Including dialogue.
This is what I wrote.
The assignment was:
Write a complete story
in 4 sentences.
Including dialogue.
This is what I wrote.
She looked up, burnt by eyes cutting through her chain mail suit of defenses and bullshit.They didn't get it.
"Why me?" she pleaded.
"Because I can," he said.
"Call me Ellie," she said, as she scrambled to follow him out of the café, leaving behind her life and her laptop.
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