Things are happening

Those were his words.
Things are happening.
When you are a glacier,
a move forward of 2 inches a year counts as things happening.
In my mind, a more accurate phrase would be planning proceeds.

The sadist does love to plan. Times, people, locations, implements, everything must be coordinated, arranged, adjusted, lined up perfectly so at last a gentle puff of air from his oh so kissable lips will set off the action. Writer, director, producer, and actor, my Master takes his time and then fusses if everything hasn't played out to his satisfaction.

With all his talk of sharing me with his friends, it is perhaps surprising that there has been only one encounter so far, and that was a good 8 months ago. That hasn't stopped him from referring to his plans for me, from mentioning that he has been talking to one of my potential playmates (as he calls them), or from dropping hints about the various scenarios he has in mind.

These days, I've been itching for the action to proceed. There was something about my previous experience that fed an intense need to be objectified. Something about being used like that, about the feeling of detachment that accompanied being used merely as a source of sexual gratification, fed a need that I can't quite explain. Of course the aftermath was intensely satisfying, as the sadist was highly aroused from watching his well-trained pet perform, from seeing confirmation of what a valuable asset his poet whore had become, and from knowing that everything I did was out of devotion to him. There are so many routes to the extraordinary intimacy we share, to the ecstatic heights we attain, and his insufficient references to the progress of his plans sets my pussy twitching and my mind conjuring possible scenarios.

The cast of characters seems to be growing, and a potential encounter may be nearing. The men (I think so far they are all men) have varying knowledge of our relationship, which will affect the script as well as whether the fiend will be present. I have changed so much over the years of my training that I am no longer disturbed at the thought of giving myself to someone he dispatches alone to my door as if to a suburban callgirl. The mere thought of it sends me to that place, where all that matters is that I am serving the desires of my Master.

Another scenario seems to involve multiple people, men who understand the nature of our relationship. These men will want to do more than enjoy my willingness to be fucked. A couple of days ago, the sadist referred to a conversation with one of these men, who added some of his own ideas to the developing screenplay. This scares me a little, this idea of another sadist adding his imagination to the plot, but it also arouses me almost painfully.

And why?
Why do I want this so much?
Why do I crave that sense of being crassly used?

Contrast this with my fear of a "real" relationship. There are men now who are showing interest. A man who knew me in elementary school, with whom I had lunch on the way home from my Thanksgiving foray up north. My car salesman, who for no good reason called yet again to see how I liked me car. It's not just my concern about how I would explain my need to have an undefined relationship with another man should something ongoing develop. (It won't happen with the old schoolmate. Not my type.) Something in me feels uncomfortable with their interest. And something in me definitely fears that a relationship would lead to my being swallowed up. My relationship with the sadist feels much safer. Sure, at any time he could lose control and hurt me badly. Sure, he could become so caught up with one of his plans that it escapes his control. It is not unreasonable to have some fears for my physical safety, although in general he is working very hard to protect me so that he doesn't lose me.

But emotionally I feel quite safe.

I know the parameters.
I know the rules.
I know the limits.
I know what I can expect.
I know what will never happen.
He knows that I love him.
I'm not sure what that means to him,
but it arouses him and that,
at least,
is something.

I'm tired.
I'm babbling.
I've said more than I meant to say and less.

Meanwhile, I'm writhing in my chair, rocking back and forth on the leather seat, pushing the hard seam of my black jeans through the crotch of my plain, white, cotton panties so that it rubs against my clitoris and between the folds of my labia and makes me crazy hot as I think of being presented naked to the chosen few of his sadistic friends to hurt and fuck and abuse and humiliate as I keep my eyes locked on the eyes of my Master and cry out that they are hurting me and cry out that I love him while a part of me remains calm and focused as I do what he has trained me to do and endure what he has ordered me to endure and rejoice in being what he wants me to be and delight in being what he says I am.

A thoroughly sexual being,
created to serve the sexual pleasure of others.