Saturday, October 30, 2010

A promise? Or a threat?

"At this moment, I want to brutalize you."

He dreamed about me last night.
The first time he's done that.
Or at least, the first time that he now remembers.

It was a very explicit dream. I doesn't seem appropriate to reveal the details, but I will tell you that he was fucking me.

And my pussy was tight.
Almost blocking him.

The sadist is not easily stopped.

It was a curious thing, really. He had been speaking about dreaming the night before. But he was not the expected dreamer. He has set me up with someone he knows. A musician. A guitarist. One of Daddy's complicated scenarios that will actually be enacted before we qualify for Medicare. Whether it will play out exactly as he wants, I can't say. But I will meet the man, who has been given some sort of sales pitch for me. Without being shown pictures of me crawling naked across the floor.

Or any photos at all.

The man is supposedly very eager to meet me, as is the bartender at the place where the man performs. The sadist anticipates some sort of playful rivalry for me. The idea of which amuses me enormously. I mean, look. The sadist may be (correct that - obviously is) really taken with me, for reasons of his own. But I am not the sort of woman who was normally thought of as unbearably sexy. Some men have thought me cute. But normally, no one gushed over my looks. My hair, yes. But my general appearance? It just didn't happen.

I fear the sadist was very effusive in his praise. But he also told them the truth on one important point - he said I'm around 60. He also said I have red hair, and I know that for some guys that's a real turn-on. But still. Think of it. They are all excited about meeting (and, they hope, fucking) a woman in her early 60s.


Anyway, last night Daddy declared "Tonight he will dream of you." In fact, he expected that I, salivating at the thought of our meeting, would simultaneously dream of the musician.

Actually, I wasn't in a very sexy mood. I have a cold, and Marko is still in the hospital, purring but refusing to eat and still fighting an infection. My general reaction was "Boys will have their fun." So I didn't dream of the musician. No telling whether he dreamed of me.

The sadist, however, did.
Dream of me.
Something approaching a rape dream.
A dream that haunted him all day.

Until he wrote:

"At this moment, I want to brutalize you."

And ordered me to get better.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

A spanking can't fix everything

My big boy needed surgery today.

He eats things.
He's always had this urge to eat things.
Especially plastic.
And tape.
He's compulsive about it.
It's bad enough that he is driven to gnaw on corrugated boxes.
But he'll also pull the tape off them and eat that.

I don't know what he ate this time. He clearly ate some plastic, because he threw it up. He always throws the stuff up. But then he kept throwing up. And not eating. Not drinking. Just lying around looking really miserable. And never coming upstairs.

Finally, today, he had surgery. We thought maybe there was something inside blocking things up. But nothing was found - except that his stomach and gall bladder and liver don't look too good. So the conclusion is that something must have poisoned him. He had started perking up, but much too slowly. And that no eating business is very bad for their livers. Especially for a big boy like Marko.

So now he'll go on antibiotics.
And anti-nausea meds.
And IV fluids till he gets his appetite back.

Of course, there's still the question of my appetite...
I think I lost another pound or two in the last three days.
Not to mention the sleep I've lost.

Or the money.

You know all those people who are holding it together and then suddenly they are without their jobs and without their health and without their homes and without their sanity? I can see how it happens.

Smart, educated, creative, and broke.

But with luck, I'll still have the cats.

And my Daddy.
And I'll still have my Daddy.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Healing my Daddy with my pain

i'm floating.
sweet and soft and yielding,
listening to B.B. King
on my Daddy's Rhapsody account.
He gave me his account name and password.
I can listen to his music.

And yes. Did you notice? i called him Daddy. i may call him Daddy again. He opened his arms and took me back as his sweet and soft and yielding baby girl.

He did that tonight.

It was strange tonight. Ever so strange. He took me to the bar again. It's a neighborhood restaurant and bar very close to my home. i had been there with him once before and then, too, it had been very strange. i don't go to bars in any case. And he was so different there. Like last time. He was amusing himself. Amusing himself with me and with one of the waitresses who serves him as well. But she's different. She's very different from me. And it's a very different sort of relationship. She banters with him. They have fun, and in a way i envied that easiness. i was more like the rabbits in my yard, who freeze when they see me. Especially in the first part of our time there, i could hardly speak, was afraid to speak, just kept thinking "give him what he wants, not what he doesn't want" so mostly just responded "Yes, Sir" and "No, Sir" and after a couple of hours started wondering who he was.

And then a few times i begged him to let me go pee. It wasn't like the other time, when he made me drink a second Coke until i was near to bursting and he was just pushing my obedience, making me feel how he owned my body, until my bladder hurt and when he finally let me go to the ladies' room i almost didn't make it onto the seat before the hot liquid exploded out of me. This time, he was just teasing. And enjoying having me beg. He had ordered me to "tart myself up." Which isn't really possible. i think i'd have to wear a wig and tons of make-up to really look slutty. But he accepts me for who i am, my Daddy does (there it is again... that name... he's my Daddy again...) so just said i should wear something low-cut and unbuttoned as far down as i could. So i wore this little short-sleeved black sweater, which is somewhat low-cut and also skimps on the bottom so he can see my sweet, soft, vulnerable belly which is so pale and inviting that it makes him crazy.

It makes him want me.

And when i had to pee, he made me beg him to let me go. He made me stand in front of him as he sat up on his stool at our high table. i stood in front of him and pressed my tits and belly into his belly, leaning into him and slipping my plea into his ear with my warm, wet tongue.

And then... ah, then, for a moment, it felt better. i felt his body against mine and it felt better and i thought well, i guess the only time i feel close to him while in his presence is when we are doing something sexual.

But i was wrong.
i was confused.
Yes, it's sex.
But it's not.
Or not merely.
It's more.
It's holy communion.

Finally, after about two and a half hours, he sent me home. He would follow shortly. And i came home and fed the cats and brought down the 2 glasses of water (a small one for me and a big one for him) and put out the implements, especially the chain which he had promised he would be using, and then...

And then he was there.
And i told him that his right, front headlight was out.
And then he touched me.
And sent me down to the dungeon.

As always, he had me standing facing the wall, my arms up and spread, my legs slightly parted, my breasts pressed into the 50s era knotty pine, and my butt thrust back towards him. And the moment he pushed himself against me, i felt it.

There was nothing dividing us.
The only wall was in front of me.
He melted into me melting back into him.
He needed me.
He needed what only i could give him.

[i stopped writing. i was there again. feeling it. feeling him. feeling us. feeling how different it was, how beautiful it was, how special it was.]

He hurt me tonight.
Not a lot.
With me it doesn't take a lot.
It was slow and deliberate and he said
come with me
and i did.
He said
do you feel it?
And i did.
i went there with him
and i felt it.
i was there with him.

All he did was take my nipples between his fingers. He took them and pressed and slowly squeezed and pinched and compressed those two little knobs of hard pink flesh that had been whispering at him for 2-1/2 hours from across the table. Taunting him. Slowly, carefully, deliberately, as i looked into his eyes looking back into mine... and the pain built... and it hurt. i told him that it hurt and then it hurt more and i cried out but even before that... i was there. And he said do you feel that? And i did and i said i did and he may have said something else about it but what i really remember...

what i really remember

what i really remember is that he told me that i was healing him.

and i felt it.
and i knew it was true.

and the whole hour he was here
was filled with such an intimacy
that i have
in my life
with anyone else.
and never will.
except with him.

And eventually he was gone.
And now i am his baby girl again.
And i'm floating in a cloud of him.
His smell lingers on my body
and twines through my hair
and shimmers in my nostrils
and dances in and out
of the links of the chain
that is clasped around my neck
and which must remain there
until i go to bed.
Tough luck...

He gave me other gifts as well:
  • i may sleep with the chain in my bed tonight. If i wish
  • i may e-mail him as much as i'd like
  • i may masturbate. Until Monday at noon. as much as i want.
Plus another gift which he didn't have to enumerate. My body's memory of his body melting into mine melting into his. And holding within me the memory of an intimacy that i will never be able to describe.

Thank you, Daddy.
from your very grateful
and very happy
and very soft baby girl.

Everything i am is yours.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

SAD, not sad

I seem to spend an excessive amount of time apologizing, both to my sadistic Master and to my readers. It has been days and days since I posted here. Be assured that I'm not in the midst of some sort of crisis, and the fiend continues to make me very happy - albeit frustrated. His way of responding to major problems is to turn back to early chapters of his plan book and proceed from there at an outrageously slow pace. In fact, it frustrates both of us, but I can't fault him. It is the best way to make sure the foundation isn't crumbling, and to ensure that I have absorbed all my lessons and will be fully committed to whatever goals he has in mind for me.

(And yes, he really does have a written out plan. Which he is continually forced to revise to correct for our tendency to race ahead to fast, followed by a crisis. He is quite correct in allocating blame for his elevated blood pressure to me.)

What makes things trickier now, in all parts of my life, is that the SAD season is setting in. That's Seasonal Affective Disorder, for those of you not familiar with this very real condition stemming from the stupidest of causes: not enough light. Particularly, not enough sunlight, whether due to shortened days or too much cloud cover. I've been aware of having it for about 25 years, from before I knew the condition had a name and a definition. Southeast Michigan is a very bad place to live when you have SAD. It's not at all as bad down here outside of Washington, DC, which is one reason I chose to move here when I was freed from my miserable marriage. Unfortunately, SAD gets worse as you grow older, so after a number of years here the benefits aren't as apparent.

It's particularly hard to get going in the morning these days, as Daylight Savings Time is allowed to go on for at least 3 weeks too long. Supposedly, this was done under pressure from the candy industry. If it stays light longer, more kids can go trick-or-treat later and this longer, meaning bigger candy sales to meet the demand. Though I don't know. With parents being so nervous, the throngs have been reduced to a trickle anyway.

So I'm crawling along, setting my clock a little later, dawdling getting out of bed, and then dragging myself off to Starbuck's (unfortunately, the best nearby option) which somehow allows me to get to work on the job of job hunting in a way that my dining room table cannot manage. But I'm wasting so much time that at the end of the day I'm left with neither hours nor brain cells for blogging or personal correspondence. Even my poetry is hibernating. Maybe things will be better after we change the clocks back and 7 am again looks like what 7 am is supposed to look like.

So. That is my apology for my recent periods of silence. Oh - and I really am quite an expert on SAD and its peculiarities and possible treatments. I do know about light boxes - and have 3 of them. I take all sorts of medications and am being treated by a highly respected and quite brilliant psychopharmacologist, so unless you know of some brilliant new advance that came out in the last couple of weeks, I probably know more about it than you do. I'm sorry to sound snide, I don't mean to. Well, not totally... it's just the situation is frustrating enough without people implying that if I only did the right thing I'd be ok. I have a VERY severe case of it - so bad that I would be clinically depressed for 5 months every year back in Michigan, and would have killed myself except that who has the energy or focus to organize suicide when you've got SAD?

Anyway, I'm not that bad now.
But I'm slow.
And any brain cells I can muster are devoted to
finding a new job
the sadist who anchors my life.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010


He was thinking of me all morning.
He told me so himself.
He was thinking all morning
of the soft, sweet undersides
of my soft, pale breasts.

He was gentle.
Kind and soft and sweet and gentle.

I'd been afraid. All through my period of struggle, as I thought of what would happen if we cleared away the underbrush and thorns, I thought of his return and was afraid. I pictured him in a fury. I've seen him in a fury, the beast broken free, I've felt his fury landing hard against my flesh, hands and cane and the flogger that he broke as he beat me at some time in the past. I feared the hard slaps to my face, feared the bruises he would leave for others to see and wonder about. I feared the marks although, in fact, none of his slaps have ever left betraying bruises.

He knows what he is doing, this man who holds me captive as surely as if I were locked in a cage.

I yearn for the cage.

Not a real one. I suspect it wouldn't match the sense I'm looking for. Longing for. But a cage nevertheless. Tight. Confining. Limits clearly visible. Vulnerability clearly stated as I spend my days naked in his cage, nothing for protection. As if I wanted protection.

It wouldn't matter anyway.
I have no choice.

In truth, I think that neither of us has a choice. There is something mystical in the connection that binds us both. I never had a chance once he found me - but he never had a chance, either. And he knows it. We both know it.

It was a reunion.
A re-union.
A sweet and soft and gentle union.
Mouths and hands and
the sweetest of cocks
and my pussy of velvet,
spreading and flowing
and calling him home.

I love you, Sir.
In truth,
in the fullness of who we are,
I love you.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

The battle to submit to my need to submit

I couldn't sleep well tonight. Are you surprised? I went to bed 1 minute early (I can do that at least), lay there, fidgeted, turned on the light, read a bit of Nick Hornby's Juliet, Naked), relaxed to sleep with both cats cuddled close, only to wake up again around 3-something to pee and then keep my mournful self company with the computer.

I'm wrestling with myself. With myself and my so-called submission. After my quick failure yesterday evening, I wouldn't be surprised if the sadist says he's had enough. He has battled my resistance before. This is nothing new. The incidents may seem small, but they are telling. We spoke the other night of what he considers the crucial point in the movie Secretary, when Mr. Grey gives Lee precise instructions as to what she may eat.

4 peas.

He tells her exactly what he wants and she does it.
Yes, it is arbitrary.
But it is the central point of the relationship.
He tells her what he wants and she does it.
He tells her quite clearly.
It is what HE wants.
And she gives it to him.

It does sound awfully one-sided that way. But it isn't. Because obviously this serves her needs, too. As it does mine. Lee and I both appreciate - no, need - the structure. It makes me feel safe. Even though the sadist scares me - and probably should scare me even more - he makes me feel safe by the scaffolding he has been trying to build around my life. Trying his damnedest, despite my persistent resistance. Resistance that was far greater and more commonplace - both to his will and in other areas of my life - than I realized until now.

Throughout the last 2 years, he often used the same example in explaining the value of getting a submissive to do or accept something unpleasant. To order a person who adores ice cream to eat a whole pint neither teaches, nor enforces, nor proves anything. But each night, as I scurried around in a panic, trying to get the light turned out on time, by the exact minute he had specified, I was reminding myself of the commitment I had made, of the focus of my life, of what I had willingly accepted as being important - to do as he ordered. To give him what he wanted. Which he could count on my doing, whether he was there or not. And when I struggled against making a daily schedule, and keeping to it, something which in fact would be very good for me, I was putting (what I thought were) my own needs above his wishes.

Consistently, I have done those things that I liked, that were convenient, that were pleasurable, that appealed to me, and resisted others that for whatever reason or no reason at all I did not want to do. Not because they were dangerous or stupid or illegal or any other rational reason. But just because I seemed to need to resist. (This is over and above things that I screwed up because of my ADD. That's a whole other problem. But put them all together and they did horrible things for the fiend's blood pressure.)

So why, you may ask, am I suddenly writing all this at what was around 5 o'clock in the morning when I began?

In my early morning resumed insomnia, after playing a few rounds of Addiction Solitaire, I went to check out some of my favorite blogs. And came across this new post from Vesta on the issue of power exchanges (do go read it). The topic is different from mine, as she is discussing the concept of deciding for someone else what is in that person's best interest. But something she said caused a gigantic floodlight to be illuminated in my head. I started a little comment which threatened to become inappropriately long. Here is what I wrote:

Thank you. I find this particularly thought-provoking as I realize how hard it has been over the past 2 years to submit to even the smallest things unless I want to or feel like. Not that these things are bad or unreasonable. It's just that I seem to *need* to resist. Almost on principal.

Which, in fact, is probably exactly what it is. Both in my submission and in other areas of my life - in areas and on issues where it is quite inappropriate.

From what you've said, I suddenly see that I am fighting old battles. My awareness of the battles isn't new - just my awareness of how they are playing out again and again.

Your example of your son and soccer really hit home. You were open to recognizing what he did and didn't want. My parents never were.

This is becoming too long, so I think I'd better continue it over at my place. But thank you ever so much for illuminating things for me. Whether it can save my relationship with the sadist, I don't know. It may be too late. But perhaps it can help me in other ways as I go on with my life.

Where I stopped writing, before deciding to write more fully here in my own place, was as I was getting into a discussion of my mother's blindness to my desires and needs when they conflicted with her own strong opinions. We're not talking life-threatening things here. What did it matter if she let me get the frilly party dress I wanted? The one that would have let me look like the other little girls? What did it matter if I got to take the ballet classes I wanted rather than the modern dance that she felt would be better for me? The interesting point there is that she preferred modern because it was freer, less regimented, less confining, whereas I think something in my little girl's soul knew instinctively that I needed the greater structure of ballet. Certainly, I knew that this was what I wanted to look like. But she never asked me. Never. And I honestly can't remember if I ever spoke up and told her.

So in the end, I think I have ended up with this odd dichotomy. On the one hand, I am still yearning for the structure of ballet. The structure that the sadist keeps trying to impose. On the other hand, I am still fighting for autonomy, resisting the very chains that make me feel safe. The cage I want to crawl into, a small kitten seeking the safety of captivity.

No wonder he has asked again and again if I really want to make a commitment to serving him. And before you all pile on to attack him and how you think he treats me, do believe me when I say that the issue is not this one man. This one sadist. This most remarkable, intelligent, challenging, stimulating, perceptive, awe-inspiring and, yes, dangerous man. The problem is my own. It is getting in my way. I am always fighting authority, as a compulsion, even when it is not necessary. Always needing to assert my own, individualistic view on things, even when it isn't that important. Even when it is counter-productive. Even when it affects my professional life and non-bdsm personal life.

Whatever happens now - and I fear the worst - for my general happiness in so many different things, I need to get this sorted out.

I need to make peace between my own, internal, warring demons.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Doubting my own submission

Sometimes I think I'm not really submissive.

Oh yes, there are all those grand feelings, the romantic statements about being owned and soft and yielding and serving his pleasure and accepting the (very moderate amounts of) pain and being fucked by his friends and all that sort of thing.

But when it comes down to something simple,
a simple order,
a clearly defined limit,
I can't seem to pull it off.

I think too much. I complicate things for myself. I know I should do just this, and then start thinking but no in this situation I'm always supposed to do THAT, so I had better do THAT.

And of course I am wrong.

Utterly wrong.

I think too much and not enough.
I read too fast.
I don't really listen.
My mind races ahead and I get things wrong.

For those of you who would defend me or attack him, I appreciate your thoughts. I appreciate your intentions. But it is clear to me that it is more than just whether or not I can satisfy the demands of the fiend. Demands which really, when it comes down to it, are not that extreme. Demands which I have screwed up again and again. Very simple expectations. Nothing weird or exotic. Write this. Report that. Practice this technique. Remember what I have told you. Remember this position. Remember how I like to have my cock sucked. And is it too much to ask to go to bed at 11:10 rather than at 11:13?

We are not talking anything very exotic here. Just simple demonstrations of obedience that in their preciseness, more than any declarations of devotion, says everything.

But my problem is definitely greater than that. I look back at my life, in school, at different jobs, in conversations, and I see the same problems. Not really listening, or responding to things too fast. Always needing to argue, to protest, to show how clever I am, to want to do it my own way. Totally incapable, when it really doesn't matter, of saying yes. I will. I will do that. I will do that the way you have told me to. And then get it done. On time.

I have screwed up again, with one simple phrase, and wouldn't be surprised if he washed his hands of me. If he decides it wasn't worth the effects on his blood pressure. If I can't do one simple thing right, how can he believe that I am truly as willing to serve him as I say I am.

Am I truly capable of properly serving anyone?
Whether as a submissive or as an employee?

I am in deep despair.

Saturday, October 9, 2010


- Sometime this weekend you will post on your blog the fact that you have displeased me
- at a very inopportune time
- causing me yet another rewrite of your plan (which I am beginning to believe holds me slave more than you)
- and invest yet more time I DON'T FUCKING HAVE
I am including this verbatim texted command from the sadist not to indicate that I am writing this post under protest, but to make it clear how angry and definite he was. For I did, in fact, displease him. More than once. Not deliberately. I would never aim to rile him. My body has met his fury before, and I suspect will meet it again when he decides I am re-trained enough to be ready for a visit.

So I am not writing under protest. In fact, I must learn not to protest. Not to argue. Not to amplify. Not to give him more than he wants. I must learn simple obedience. You would think that after 2 years I would have fully absorbed that lesson. But I lost my way.

There has been, as he terms it, a sunderance. We both felt it. He said it wasn't a question of one of us or the other, but of what lay between us. And in that I think he is most surely right. The connection between us weakened, and the effect that had on each of us made it weaker still until I became conscious of - and distressed by - what he had known for quite some time.

I have already written of his visit a week ago. Of how he had me meet him at the door with the cane, knowing that the order would catapult me into that place from which I had wandered without knowing the way back. I no longer felt his constant presence. I was no longer living every moment in some version of my own particular subspace - that magical other world in which everything was seen and felt through the lens he provided me. I was worried. I had angered him with messages asking if I had done something wrong. It wasn't the lack of messages. There have been times when I've received barely 2 words from him for days but I haven't been distressed because I felt him always with me. I lived in the space he created for me. But I hadn't been feeling that... and I think that led to my not taking his standing orders as seriously. To my not obeying as precisely. And to my not immediately confessing that I had gone to bed 2 minutes after curfew - even though I know that the details of the order are crucial. Being able to obey precisely. Even if the order seems arbitrary.

It is all about obedience.
About details.
About sacrificing myself to his will.

I do know that.
But it wasn't registering.
I had forgotten.
I had lost my way.

I don't know where it began, whether with him or with me or on both sides as a reaction to one thing or another. But I think he felt a lack of commitment on my part - which he interpreted as a lack of commitment to him and to my submission and to the relationship, whereas I was, it is true, becoming lazy and sloppy about obeying perfectly rituals (such as bedtime and scheduling) which I found to be a chore. I think I felt less of his constant presence, because of his disconnect from me, which made me feel less connected and made me lose the sense of urgency about obeying to the last precise detail. Again, I think it was a chain reaction for which I cannot pinpoint a beginning cause. But it happened. It continued. And then this week, because I was in a very bad mood due to this and that and the other thing, it all came out in the open.

I'm not going into the details of why I was so grumpy.
They are irrelevant.
They are irrelevant to my need to obey.
They are irrelevant to my need to think only of what will please him.
They are irrelevant to my need to accept.
To not argue.
To not show how clever I am.

I have been grief stricken. Devastated. Weeping from deep within what I thought was my submissive soul but which obviously had not completely gotten the message. I took these for granted. I took our connection for granted. He does spoil me. He opens up to me on rare and precious occasions and reveals his weaknesses, his pain, his doubts. As we e-mailed back and forth on Friday, he spoke of damage to the mystical aspect of our relationship (while reassuring me that I was too good a cocksucker for him to discard me at the moment.) I'd never thought of it that way - as mystical - but I knew there was something special.

At least he hasn't given up on me. Although I wouldn't blame him if he did. His words made me see clearly so many things. I do always feel the need to add more. To show how clever I am. To rationalize and intellectualize and protest and argue and insist on seeing things my way and that I have sound reasons for my viewpoint whereas he (or anyone else, for that matter) just hasn't taken everything into account or thought it all through in the most sensible and/or creative way. I can be absolutely unbearable.

The most important point of all that is that it doesn't matter if objectively he is right and I am wrong. This relationship is not a democracy. It is not an equal partnership. He is God and I am dust and if he gives a little puff I must let it blow me in the direction he desires. That and nothing more and nothing less.

We e-mailed and texted last night as well as during the day. He is now devoting an excessive and unavailable amount of time to me. Not to mention rewriting the plan. When you remember that he has other other submissives to both direct and enjoy, plus an overly busy life beyond his collection, you can appreciate how justifiably irked he is. Plus I have some suspicions as to the events which he has had to postpone, causing disappointment to people beyond the two of us.

So he has said we will try to rebuild. Slowly. I am back to calling him Sir, which seemed more appropriate at this point even before he required it. This morning was spent getting me to limit myself to three phrases:

Yes, Sir.
No, Sir.
I'm sorry, Sir.

Given how loquacious I am, you can imagine the struggle. But it was good for me. I got the point. And more than that, I felt pushed back down to living at his feet.

Already, on Friday night, he quickly brought me back to what we both refer to as that place. I had lost my way, and was horribly scared and distressed, but he quickly sent me back there. He always knows exactly what to do and say. I was there in an instant and, more important, felt the connection again.

However, as he said, that was the easy part. It will take much more than that for him to feel the same way as he did before.

I do hope he can again feel the same way.

So there we are. I am chastened and subdued and cautious and trying better than my best to be perfectly obedient. I am sitting down in the dungeon, laptop toasting my bare thighs - because he ordered me to spend the evening naked as much as was possible. Ideally, he said:
- you should actually be naked, as much as possible, when involved in any process which concerns me, including thinking
- which I have probably only told you about 1000 times
Which, I had to admit, I didn't remember his ever having told me at all.

So I am naked now. Which makes me feel very vulnerable. Not to mention a little chilly. Which of course makes my damn nipples extra hard and protuberant.

Back to the beginning again.

I did displease him.
And he had the right to be displeased.
And I feel awful at taking for granted everything he has done for me.
All the time he has spent on me.
All the effort he has put into training me and molding me.
And all the joy he has given me...

You may notice that I have added a small statement to the furnishings of the blog, right below my profile. It reads as follows:

Give him what he wants
and NOT
what he doesn't want.

That seems a more than reasonable motto for a submissive poet pet to live by.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Hard times come again once more

It has not been a good week.
On many fronts.
I don't feel like writing.
So I won't.
Not now.
I suppose.


Monday, October 4, 2010

"Meet me at the door with the cane."

Saturday was Daddy's day. A reunion, after my week-long road trip north. And the first time we had been together since he carved his initial into my left butt check with the back of the blade of his green-handled folding knife.

I really didn't know what to expect. It's best not to make assumptions. We have been discussing his multiple facets, and even he doesn't know who will turn up at my door and who will leave at the end.

Would it be my Daddy, with the sweetest, warmest smile any little girl could ever want? Daddy is affectionate and nurturing even when he needs to spank me, or to warn me that if I don't do exactly as I'm told he will do those bad things to me.

Would it be any of the incarnations of my teacher? My mentor? The sadist? All of them would guide me, would lead me through the day's lesson, would require me to administer to his cock's insatiable needs. Each of them would elicit a different honorific, or one after the other, changing as the visit progressed. Such as Sir. Or my Lord. And then usually, these days, flowing back into Daddy unless I have been specifically ordered to call him something else. When I am feeling closest to him, I always call him Daddy.

Or would it be the beast? The beast whose name I know now. The sadist briefly opened the curtains on the beast Friday night a week and a half ago, while I was away. He wrote me about the beast, and some of his adventures, in a way he so rarely allows himself to do but seems to sometimes need to do. I should be horrified by those peeks he gives me, but I end up loving him more.

I end up wanting to cradle his head in my arms and protect him.

I'm a silly girl.
It's not safe to walk trusting into the lion's cage.
Especially when you don't know when he had his last meal.

In any case.

My housemate was going away for the weekend. Leaving early Saturday morning. The fiend would come sometime later that morning.

I love when he comes on the weekend. It usually means he can stay a little longer. Already, since I'm not working, I'm freed from the strict half hour time limit and spared having to rush back to work still carrying the physical, emotional, and endorphic (is that a word?!) effects of his visit, giving up the luxury of wallowing in whatever state he has left me.

I admit to having been a little nervous. What bothered me most was that being away from him, even with e-mails and texts - including one extended texting conversation last that Sunday night as he sat outside on his porch, drinking and listening to music - had left me feeling... How to describe it? Perhaps as if a high were wearing off. Not completely gone, but not so immersed. My feelings were the same, I still loved him and was committed to him and all, but... I think I am always more or less in some version of subspace, but by the time I came home I couldn't find my way back.

And I knew it. The day before I was coming home, he had told me to try not to think about him. Of course, it was impossible to completely avoid thinking about him. But I could declare off limits the long periods of immersing myself in memories and speculation that normally fill much of my day, even while doing other things. Especially since I was needing to give attention to other people.

Perhaps that is why I fell so far out of my permanent residence in subspace. Because I was with other people so much of the time I was away, and needed to interact with them. Normally I spend so much of my time alone that it is easy to live in that place he has established as my home.

The next day, the day after abstaining from thoughts of the fiend, the day I was driving home, I was supposed to feel his pull. And I couldn't do it. I didn't feel it. And driving back, my mind was on all sorts of other things, not letting itself sink back into thoughts of him.

I was uneasy.

He knows everything.
He perceives everything.
From a word that is said,
from a word that is missing,
he knows everything.

he knew I wasn't really there.
I wasn't really back.
I wasn't really curled up
at his feet
in the well of his desk,
thinking of nothing
but being
he wanted me to be.

So that morning,
last Saturday,
the morning of his visit,
he sent the following instructions:
Arrange my chair in front of a TV; turned on, sound low, tuned to the ball game.
Meet me at the door with the cane.

I read his message
and in and instant
I was there.

I was home.

I was home
and I was worried.

Friday, October 1, 2010

Not submissive enough? What then?

sin asked "How do I become more submissive? How do I give him more of what he wants?" - directing her question to "you truly submissive women and men."

This elicited a spate of comments, which are worth reading. Typically, my own comment was rather different from the others - and not, perhaps, what sin was expecting to hear.

Comments, anyone? Not just on what I wrote, but on the issues themselves.
  • What is a "true submissive"?
  • Does such a creature actually exist?
  • What does it mean to be not submissive enough?
  • What can be done about it?
And here is what I had to say:

"True submissives."

I am always leery of labels. But there is no denying that I am inherently very submissive. So I guess I qualify.

But all we can do is speak from our own, personal experiences. There is no one way to be submissive. To feel submissive. And there is no one way for someone to be dominant. There is no One True Road to a satisfying D/s relationship.

But here is what has happened with me. It hasn't just been me pushing myself to change, to yield, to give more, to sink deeper. The sadist has brought me to where I am. He has a plan. A long, detailed, ever growing and evolving plan. For real! It is written down, with specific steps leading to specific goals. In an orderly fashion, he has been exploring different aspects of who I am, what he has seen in me, who he wants me to be with him, what he wants me to do. Sometimes when he visits, it is purely to serve his pleasure. But often his visit is a lesson, part of the process, and he has worked out ahead of time what he will do and what he expects to achieve.

Yes, I work hard for him. Yes, I have grown and changed and also embraced things that were already deep inside me that I never knew were there. Realizing I was his baby girl is a prime example of that. He brought me to the point that I saw it myself - something he had seen when he first discovered me. And it took 2 YEARS to get to that point. If he had just said back then, or even a year ago - "Call me Daddy and be my baby girl", I would have had a very hard time following through.

I am his project.
I am his creation.
He nurtures what I am.
He trains me to please him.
He leads me into degradation.
He makes me flirt with my destruction.
He scares me half to death.
And he makes me yearn for more.

But I don't go there on my own. He shows me the way. And - another important point - he changes the plan when he sees that it isn't working. He complains, but he goes back and rewrites and redirects and slows down and eventually ends up where he wants to be anyway.

So I am not the one making myself more submissive. He does that. And by so doing, makes me want to yield more - and lures me into giving him information that allows him to further tighten the chain around my neck.

PS - I should note that he has well over 30 years experience - as a dom and as a rather extreme sadist. In that time, he has had many submissives and slaves, and currently has 3 others that I know of.