"You can tell your blog fans whatever you'd like about this," he said, nearly sneering as he referred to you all. He likes to denigrate my readers, but his vanity can't help wanting you to know about him.
"You can tell them whatever you'd like. They'll probably be glad to hear that I hurt you. It's boring to hear about people being happy."
That wasn't his exact word. "Happy." I can't remember his exact word. But it was the same basic idea. A blog without drama, without heartache, without stunning scenes of torture and degradation, without struggles... Oh my goodness, we submissive do have our struggles.
I too, of course, have my struggles. And we do have our misunderstandings, and sometimes he takes me a little faster than I can handle, and I take a few days to recover my equilibrium while he decides, in most dramatic fashion, that he must rewind the tape of my progress by months and months. He does love to strut the stage, does my beloved sadist.
I really do love him.
He's a very complex man
and I love him in very complex ways.
And every so often he gives me yet another reason.
The odd thing is that I had just been mulling over the same issue. It is almost 4 years since I came face-to-face with my submission, although at first I denied it was real. It is over 2 years since the sadist found me, and began teaching me what submission really is. What it really can be. What I really am and what I really can be. Until I am learning that I have gone beyond submission.
What I offer him is surrender.
But really, it can be very boring to write about - and certainly boring to read about. So I'm not driven to write that often any more. There's not that much to say.
I awoke thinking of him.
I sent him a "Good morning, Daddy" message.
I thought of him as the warm water ran down my body.
I thought of him as I ate my breakfast, watching for a reply.
I thought of him as I tried to be productive.
He does want me to be productive.
I thought of him as I listened to playlists he compiled just for me.
I thought of him as his message arrived.
I became very wet when his message arrived.
And even when I wasn't consciously thinking of him,
I was always,
thinking of him.
I could report the same thing every single day,
whether he visited or not.
Whether he gave me a special assignment or not.
Whether he filled my Inbox or said not a word.
And we would all be bored.
The living of it isn't boring.
But the writing of it would be.
Not to mention the reading.
Today though... He clipped the chain snugly around my neck as I knelt naked before him. He doesn't avail himself of the chain all that much, although he played with it regularly the first month or so that I spent in his service, and it was the first item he brought me. "This is a chain," he said at the time. "It is not a collar." And it really is a chain. A length of cold, hard, heavy metal chain from the hardware store. Nothing special about it. No heart-shaped locks, no furry pink leather, just plain ordinary utilitarian chain.
He clasped it snugly around my neck and wrapped the other end around his fist and pulled it tight against my throat and things started to go fuzzy and I breathed deeply through my nose and something happened.
I went to that place.
But it was a different place this time.
Something had shifted.
I can't quite put it into words.
It was beyond words.
It had something to do with how owned I felt.
Owned in a different way.
Does that make sense?
And his right hand was near my left nipple
and I said Hurt me,
just as he took my nipple
between his thumb and forefinger
He hurt me.
Not all that much.
Because what had happened, what I can't accurately put into words, was that suddenly I felt that I was indeed his slave, and that part of my being his slave was that he would hurt me... not the way he hurts the madly masochistic creature who bears the title of his slave. But still... there was this sense... I needed him to hurt me.
And he did.
I'm sure he sensed what had happened.
I'm sure he knew what had gone through me.
He always does.
He looks into my eyes as he hurts me
and he sees
But he had already planned what he would do.
He always does plan ahead,
although sometimes his passion gets the best of him.
This time, though...
He ordered me to collect from the table
and the nasty strip of cherry wood he uses as a cane.
I arrayed them on the shaggy red rug next to his chair and then set to my usual tasks of sucking his cock and surrendering my mouth to his kisses. A tough life, that. His kisses...
Eventually, he ordered me down into position. He attacked my proffered butt with each implement as well as with his hand. I think that my tolerance has decreased, because really, he didn't hurt me all that badly. I wasn't even positive that he had actually caned me and wondered if perhaps he hadn't just used the spoon again. Only later, when I saw the welts on a ground of pink, did I know for sure the cane had struck.
My tolerance was low, and it was a while before I reminded myself to make an effort to hold position as I wriggled and cried out and declared that he was hurting me - which he was, but also he really likes me to say that he is hurting me. And then finally he stopped, and was pleased to hear that my bottom was stinging and burning.
Later he asked how long my trip north would take, as I head to my parents for Thanksgiving. 7 hours, I over-estimated, allowing for traffic and lots of pee stops.
"One of the reasons for your treatment," he said, "was so that during your 7 hours you'll remember me."
At that moment, I wished he had beat me harder.
Not that I need any help in remembering him.
I will be wrapped in his web every mile of the trip.
And the web will be as hard and cold and beautiful as chain.