Thursday, April 29, 2010

Private property

Look at me.
Survey that which is yours.
What do you notice first?
Pale skin, freckle-flecked,
eyes raised, defying shyness
or twinkling with seductive glee.
Flowing hair, impossibly red,
loose at your command.
Insistent tits, hardened tips
atop the gentle curves.
That belly, roundly singing siren
songs you wish you didn't hear.
Best
not
to mention
the belly.
But nestled close below are lips
that pout and wiggle from their nest,
a glistening drop of sweetened wine
dangling from their tongue.
You turn me round
and pull me close.
Eyes are not enough.
The time has come for touch.
Pull me hard against you as
you fondle what is yours.
I belong to you alone.
Capitalism does have its advantages.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Soft and sweet and slightly spanked

He gave me a gift today.
My Master gave me a gift.

I should have been the one giving him a gift.
And perhaps I did.
Perhaps I did.
But oh, that sweet, sweet gift he gave to me.

He allowed me to float.
He allowed me to melt.
He allowed me to give myself to the emotions that rise to the surface as I serve him and love him and offer my body and yield to his torments and pleasure his penis with mouth and tongue and teeth and lips.

Normally, this is not permitted.
Normally, I must focus on the task at hand.
At hand and mouth and tongue and teeth and lips.

I must focus on his pleasure, and any floating joy that comes from my task must be suppressed if it threatens to distract me from my work. Of course I may enjoy what I am doing. How could I not enjoy the...

I'm having trouble writing. I think about how serving him makes me feel and I'm having trouble writing. My body is remembering his body, my softness is remembering his softness, my sweetness recalls his sweetness, and I can't concentrate to write.

And that is why I'm not allowed to float as I settle down before him on my haunches and do such things to him that will... his exclamations of pleasure... the look in his eyes...

He said I could blog about it.
When he left, he gave me my assignment
and then said I might blog about his visit.
And I started writing it out in my head.
It was halfway done before I sat down.
And then when I started to write,
when I started to recall it,
started to relive it,

how he touched me so gently
before cutting my airflow
just enough to make me gurgle

how I gave him a new poem
with a sparkle in my eye
as I fondled his cock,
each line eliciting
another note of pleasure

how he spanked me
so gently
only, perhaps, to see my ass turn pink.
only, perhaps, to make him think
of what he'd really like to do
to make me scream and writhe and plead
as he marked me as his own.

So sweet.
So gentle.
Even when he took my breath
even when he stopped the air...

I'm getting lost again.

And I looked in his eyes
and he invited me
and things happened
worlds opened
and I felt
expansion
and beauty
and infinity
and things that I cannot describe.
There are no words.
And I pressed my head against his chest
and knew I was home.

I belong to him.
This is not a metaphor.
This is not a construct.
This is not some game we act out
with rules set by others
and a number tattooed on my butt.
This is what is.
I belong to him.
And he makes me whole.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Searching for fun on a Saturday night

Oh my, what enticing options craigslist affords!

Here I am, horny and depressed and largely deprived of Masterly messages since sometime Friday afternoon. Silence descended without warning, although he did leave me with clear direction for my weekend activities. I am to devote myself to my health (meaning energetic physical activity), home organization (making my study an inviting place to work), and my newest writing project, which is exciting, ambitious, and utterly daunting. A large project under my legal name, with the added terror of joining a writing group composed of real writers. Published people. Journalists and such. To provided added support and critiques as I go forward on my new project. For better or worse, a friend belongs to it, so I suppose she will keep me from chickening out. On the other hand, that just makes me more unlikely to mention what I have been doing over the last few years to sharpen my skills.

Of course, most important of all, I have the support of the sadist, mixed with perhaps a measure of awe. Which makes me uneasy.

But for now, it is all prep work.

And the aforementioned depression which has nothing to do with his temporary silence. The depression comes from the last phone call I fielded at work Friday afternoon, which was long and distressing and that's all I'm going to say about that.

Because I'd rather talk about sex. The last few days I've been wishing with every drop of honey in my cunt that the sadist would suddenly announce that he was on his way over followed by a parade of cars, each containing a horny, dominant, and somewhat sadistic creature who wanted to hurt me and fuck me. I don't ask much.

Of course, being submissive, with my own desires not officially part of the equation, I don't ask at all.

[she sighs in resignation]

I don't say this often, but I could really use a spanking.
It would clear out the depression.
It wouldn't clear out the horniness.
Although in some way it would.

I don't actually cum per se after suffering my Master's assaults and serving his needs, except the end effect is nearly the same. I am cleansed. I become more centered again. Peaceful. Floating and yet more focused. The desperate need subsides, sinks back in, and feeds my soul and my creativity.

Instead, my pussy is flogging itself, slashing at itself with thin, biting, metal-tipped lashes, leaving a need that I am not allowed to relieve and leading to fantasies of rape and torture. I needed to masturbate last night to help me get to sleep, and again in the middle of the night when the cats woke me up, but with that not an option I touched myself with words instead of my fingers, fucking myself with scenarios of suffering rather than the blue and yellow vibrator that was a gift from the philosopher.

And yet I want more.

So I turned to craigslist.

No, I won't really contact anyone. My tasks are too many to allow myself the time-consuming luxury of amusing myself with the creatures on line who claim to be doms. My Master... I doubt there are many others who could give me what he does.

Still, I riffle through the offerings.

Let's see. Here's one:

I'm looking for a woman who needs a good spanking, someone who enjoys the sting of a paddle, whip, flogger or hand. I'm real and you should be too. Descretion is assured.

Now he does get points for saying "who needs" instead of "that needs", and I am heartily reassured that he is real and not a hologram. I doubt the latter would deliver a spanking with the force I need. But then he blows it with "descretion." You don't have a chance at my ass if you can't be bothered to proofread.

Here's another one:

Have you been having nasty thoughts about boys again? Did you hike up your skirt and let them play with your little pussy? Did you suck on their big, hard cocks?

Tell Daddy all about it while I give you the punishment you deserve.

SWM, 6', 195, safe, sane, ddf, not bad looking. Over 25 only. Put spanking in subject line. Cannot host.

Unfortunately, I've never been into that Daddy-little girl thing. And that "not bad looking" thing makes me doubt he has the kind of domly self-confidence I would need. So scratch that one. Besides, he's 56, which is a little old for me...

Now this one I need to share complete with the subject line because it is just so deliciously pathetic:

wanna get wild an kinky?? - m4w - 45

any wild lady who like to get laid like to be oraly satisfied to give and receive emailme and lets talk about it be safe and discret noBS NSA I can host or hotel or your place weathever makes more confortable and meet in a safe public place over a drink or coffe and talk about it

OK. I'm a literary snob.
Not even literary.
Not even a snob.
Well, ok. A snob.
But a realist.
I know what snares me.
What stimulates me.
What makes me totally incapable of resisting.
And I don't care how big a fucking cock you have,
if you can't fuck me with your brain
you'll just put me to sleep.

Of course, there is this one (new ones are popping up every second, it seems. Lots of needs on a Saturday night.)

Bondage - m4w - 45 (Washington, DC)



I'm a safe, sensible, attractive professional white male, 5'10, 175 lbs, brown hair, brown eyes, very fit, single (never married.) I'm looking for a discreet submissive woman for regular, intense S&M sessions. I'm very verbal and passionate.

Inexperienced is welcome. I'm not looking for a one-night stand and please don't spam with your web cam solicitations.

Now if I were actually looking for something ongoing I might try this one, but as frustrated as I may be tonight I know I already have what I want. Besides, I find I like them a bit heavier. I want to be physically dominated. Crushed. Have no doubt as to who is in charge of whom.

And anyway, I'm not actually going to contact anyone. I just want distraction.

Anybody want to send a comment that will make me flood my panties? Now that doesn't make me sound much like a poet, does it... Just one horny "older lady."

Like hell.

One horny redhead
wet as hell
wanting to be spanked and fucked
wanting to be teased
wanting to be amused.

I'm tired of doing all the work.
Write me an ad.
Post it here.
Make me want to submit to you.
Let your fantasies go.
Male or female.

(My Master says some day he'll bring a woman to use me. Maybe I would have been more successful as a lesbian if I'd met up with the right dominant woman.)

Amuse me.
Seduce me.
At least in our heads.

And for God's sake
PROOFREAD!

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Sweet and cruel

This post is part of a private message from the dear, delightful woman who comments here as jcn. We met through this blog, and quickly bonded over our shared love for words and obsession with smart, sadistic, Irish men. We are close in age, volubility, and submissiveness. However, her years of experience far exceed mine, and she is married to her Master while I am not.

She asked me a question, and given that I am struggling with a migraine today - which seems to have shorted out a few wires to my brain, I decided to toss her question over to you. I do hope you will treat us to some long, thoughtful responses.

Or else come over and do delicious things to my naked body. The endorphins might help cut through the migraine fog. Or at least distract me.

So, my new question is one I posed previously, to wit, Why is it that sadists, or at least OUR sadists, have cornered the market on a particular, perhaps unrecognizable to vanilla people, form of sweetness, of romance, of recognition? I think DD [Discerning Dom] touched on it with his post on intimacy - (I'm terrified of responding to anyone else's posts, as I know I'll end up in correspondences for which I have - no time! Gee, where have I heard THAT before?) - but it is odd, is it not? I look at men who give their wives toaster ovens, and think, Oh, God. I'd die of misery in that kind of relationship!

Is it our need to walk on an edge? What we do is recognize and formalize a fact of physics - he is stronger, larger, overpowering, all-encompassing. We place ourselves in danger every time we get naked and make ourselves available. And that is immutable. It would be true if we were pure vanilla - (unless we had teeny-tiny lovers, which never worked for me!) - and cannot be ignored. So, all we do, as I see it, is give this fact a context. And in so doing, we lay ourselves wide open to any and all outcomes. Which attracts these predators, and further pushes our buttons, and there we go...

BUT - and this is a very big but - it only works, for me, with intellect, and humor, and charm and charisma, with the flow going BOTH ways, with sweetness woven into the pain so the two are indistinguishable. And what is it about these large, mean, fallen-away-Catholics that makes them appreciate the vulnerability, acknowledge it in a way other men never do, and even while using it, while pushing it (us?) as far as possible, manage to create a web of gentleness, even as the flogger or crop or cane is hissing and we are squeaking?

Your thoughts?

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Pollen and kisses and tears

Europe has volcanic ash.
Here we have the pollen.
Our world has turned to green.
Green powder coats my once red car.
Do the med schools teach
a cure for green lung?
I cough, and my voice
drops yet another octave.
It's husky, sexy perhaps,
though the sadist likes
a high, breathy sound.
There's not much breath
when he squeezes my throat
with his large, strong hand.
I gasp that my life is his.
And when I can, I speak
of the knife. He was here today,
an overlong lunch where my lips
and his cock made the meal.
I'm still drunk on his kisses,
a lazy cliche, but sometimes
the truth can be trite. Kisses,
a spanking I knew I had earned,
a punishment welcomed with tears of relief.
His lips,
his cock,
a drink from his mouth,
all the usual,
all the beautiful,
tender and intimate,
even the pain seemed
so tender and intimate.
I'm happy.
I'm floating.
And sometimes my joy
can bring nothing
but tears.
Taste them.
Save them.
They will sweeten your tea.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Safeword

I don't have a safeword.

The sadist said I can have one if I want, but there's no guarantee it would do anything. Now he says he wants me to tell him when it hurts. To say "You're hurting me!" To beg him to stop if I can't take any more. He probably won't listen, but he wants me to beg.

The truth is - he protects me.
He protects me from himself.
He can be extremely sadistic,
but he protects me from that.
Perhaps even more than he needs to.
I think he is afraid of losing me
if he loses control
and goes too far.

Earlier in our relationship, the first time he gave me a glimpse into what he could inflict and before he told me he wants to hear me beg him to stop, I almost did. I almost begged him to stop. He was torturing my nipples. Just with his fingers. He likes the direct infliction of pain. He likes to feel me squirming away from him. He was being very cruel - for me, at least - and I was moaning "please..."

"Please, what, my pet?"

"Please..."

God, it hurt,
but I wanted to give him what he wanted,
he wanted me to offer,
he wanted me to yield,
I don't know how I pulled it out of me...

"Please, Sir... please... hurt me more..."

My body tries to use a safe word. My body is terrified of his flogging my breasts. He orders me to keep my arms spread but on their own they move over my breasts to protect me. He says he'll have to tied me down, tight, in order to really hurt them. Meanwhile, each time my arm would cross, he would spread it back in position.

The time he shared me with another man, he had t.o.m sit behind me on the bed and hold my arms open while he flogged my breasts. But mainly he aimed the lashes above and below my nipples, so that I suffered fear more than physical pain.

This man who says there are no limits is trying his damnedest to keep limits in place to protect me. He seems to wield my safeword himself.

Originally left as an overlong comment on DL's toy's post safeword.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Denuded

It was 3 weeks ago that I first shaved my cunt. I was rather leery about it. My doom had been hanging over my head for months, ever since my Master announced that he might have me shave. I knew how my skin behaved. I knew how easily irritated it was. I used to clip the hair very close for the philosopher, who was more easily persuaded to let me off the razor hook than the sadist was. I knew from that how arousing it was to feel my panties - or, better yet, the crotch of my jeans - passing over the unprotected skin and the even more unprotected female bits now that they were no longer cushioned by my little red curls. Still, I was worried about irritation. I was worried about cutting myself.

I was worried about the itch.

I know my own skin.
I did cut myself.
It looked all red and irritated.
And it itched like hell.

Still, what my Master wants, my Master gets. And there's a feeling I get from obedience... especially when I'm doing something I was not all that happy about in the first place. And I was surprised to find that I liked how it looked. It did not look at all pre-pubescent. It did not look at all like the cunt of some would-be porn star. It looked like me. My very own pussy. Solid and sensuous with those floppy inner lips hanging down between the generous outer ones. And the curls? They had become pretty scraggly with age. It was no great loss.

But the whole shaving ritual took a very long time. After all, I had read up on how to make it as smooth and painless as possible. The first time that included clipping everything close, but now, at least, that was no longer necessary. Still, there was the long, soaking bath first, to soften everything up.

It was a little over a week until I found time for the aforementioned bath and second shave. Again, it yielded irritation and bumples. That seemed to be my lot. I only hoped that in time my skin would accept its fate and the hairs would give up their lives without protest.

Between one thing and another, I didn't find time for my shaving bath last weekend. The hair kept on growing. It's not that it was that long. And when my Master was here on Monday (he has been here so often lately!), he didn't complain about the returning lawn.

But I knew.

And then, there was the itch.
Oh my god, was it itching!
And I am sorely lacking in the self-control department.

So I would scratch and scratch and that would just make it itch more, and it turned red and irritated and I thought helvete! - which is a much more serious swear word in Swedish than it is in English. If it's going to be red and irritated I might as well shave.

I was desperate. And had no time for a bath. So this morning I shaved in the shower. Quickly and cautiously. With the same blade I had used last time, nearly 2 weeks before.

And guess what!
Almost no irritation!
And the itch is gone!!

I suddenly think I know what the difference was. I used this Bikini Zone stuff each time, so that wasn't it - and in fact, needed more the first 2 times than this morning. And you would think not having a fresh blade would have made it worse.

But being short on time, and lacking the luxury of the shower, meant that the razor passed over my delicate skin less often. And maybe that's why the skin was less irritated. Which means I can shave in the shower every few days and not worry about fitting in a bath and always have a nice smooth pussy ready for when my Master announces as I'm leaving the house for work that he might be able to pay me a lunchtime visit that very afternoon.

I think I love my naked cunt.
I love feeling his eyes on it.
I love feeling him caress it.
I even in some way love having him flog it.

Because it gives him pleasure.
It represents my vulnerability.

And I want him to know that I am holding nothing back.

I belong to you, my Master.
I love you.
And everything I am is yours.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

What if it were your cunt being offered up?

He has planted the seed in me.
Spring had a hand in it as well.

Suddenly, this evening, came this fierce desire for him to bring more men to use me.

One, two, even three.
Not gentle men.
Insistent men.
Greedy men.
Brutal men.

It must be the spring...

But you know, it could happen one day. The urge today was fantasy, born of the spring fever that always seizes me this time of year. But I know that my adventure with t.o.m a couple of weeks ago was just an introduction. I also suspect that my Master is molding me, leading me, brainwashing me to prepare me for more extreme adventures to come. He treasures me too much to risk sacrificing what we have by plunging me into an episode for which I am not ready.

And I also know that my accounts here and here and here of my introduction to being shared were colored by my feelings for my Master and by the floating happiness that is always a result of knowing that I've pleased him plus the beautiful intimacy of our time together. Did it color your own perception of what happened? Some man I had met once on the phone being brought to my house to spank me and flog me and play with my nipples and plunge his cock into my cunt from behind as if I were an anonymous hole?

Can you imagine submitting to that yourself?
Can you imagine requiring your own pet/submissive/slave/whatever to submit to the same?
To not just submit but to do her best to charm and please this stranger?
Would it excite you to submit?
Or frighten you?
Would it excite you to watch?
Would you want to be forced?
Would you want her to suffer?

Do you think your attitude has changed from reading my description of my own adventure?

How do you feel when I speculate that the next time it happens might not be as sweet?

Reality is not necessarily the same as fantasy.

These are real questions and I'm looking forward to your honest comments.

And now, good night.
My curfew looms.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Caning and cumming and kissing and cocksucking

The title says it all, really.
And yet it doesn't, really.
A surprise Friday evening visit.
His cock in my mouth for 30 minutes.
A very happy cock...

And kisses... there is no point in rhapsodizing over his kisses because... well, first of all there is no way to properly describe them and second of all I start drifting away when I remember them. And you must understand that I am quite a serious fan of kissing, with very high standards. If he paid me a visit and did nothing but kiss me I would be transported. Does that give you some idea?

The cocksucking... I've written about this before. I'm a natural. I am very, very good. World class. Very creative. Very... um... stimulating. In the other post, I speak of being trained to do some good old basics in addition to all the heavy moan-inducing stuff that I really should patent. Well, lately there hasn't been much demand for the classics. He is quite happy with a steady diet of the chef's specialties. I feel very gratified and appreciated and... treasured.

My butt hurts.
He caned me.
He caned me very high up on my generous ass.
He had me thrust said ass up as I bent over his cock.
He thus had a perfect view over my curtain of red hair to the dark red welts on a field of pink from my having previously been spanked as I bent over the bed reading the French translation I had made of m own poem Surrender.

I was aching to be caned.
I needed to be caned.

It was that same odd dichotomy. I don't "need" the pain the way a masochist might. I certainly don't like the pain. And the pain from being whacked with that strip of wood is particularly hard to bear, even now when he holds back so much. For such a very extreme sadist, he is being awfully gentle with me...

So no. I don't like being caned. But I love having been caned. I love the way my flesh reverberates from the blows like a bell that has been struck by an external clapper. I think any of you who have ever been caned knows what I mean... how the vibrations travel down through you, down through the muscles, and then builds and swells and blossoms into pain that continues for days. You move, you sit, you stand, you gently touch the spot with your fingers, and the pain is always there, worse in the aggregate than the momentary slash of the attack. But oh, what a beautiful pain it is! It speaks to my obedience, it speaks to my submission, it speaks to my acceptance, it speaks to my vulnerability, and to how it never occurs to me... it truly never occurs to me not to yield to whatever he does to me. He takes me wherever he wants to go, and both the journey and the destination are always more exciting, more beautiful, and more fulfilling that I could ever possibly have imagined.

Besides, to have found out later that I was caned for aesthetic reasons... how can I not love such a man?

And in the end, he rewarded me.

He gave me the rare gift of an orgasm.

I lay back on the bed after he left and reached down to my cunt and found it was very swollen and sloppy wet. And I decided it was a waste to save my gift for later. So I lay there and gathered up the effluence with my fingers and stroked my clitoris and the inside of those swollen lips and took my time as if I were fondling his cock rather than myself. I gave myself to the sensuous beauty that filled our room, inhaling his beautiful, natural scent that now clung to my body. I drifted in contentment and love, submission and adoration, and such a sense of security that I felt embraced even as I lay there alone on the bed.

It doesn't matter what name one might give to whatever he feels towards me. I will not speculate, I will not make things up that aren't there. He treasures me. That I know for sure. And the way he treats his treasure, the way he takes care of me, the way he mentors me, the way he respects me, the way he admires me even as he controls me and hurts me and bends me to his purpose... he gives me more in so many ways than any of the people who have ever claimed to love me.

And so I came.

And whether it was due to the state of my emotions, or the level of arousal, or the gradual springtime decease in my psychotropic meds, or any other unsuspected factor, I came in a way I haven't for a while.

I think I have mentioned before that my normally quite cataclysmic orgasms (when I am allowed them) have become somewhat muted over the last few years. Again, I'm not sure of the cause, but suspect it is a combination of age and meds. My precious, rationed orgasms are muted and different. The explosion comes mainly from the chest up, an outpouring of sobs and tears, with little or no pelvic involvement.

Not this time.

There wasn't a major earthquake in my womb,
but seismic activity was definitely detected.

A beautiful gift.

And I have been glowing ever since.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Che soave zeffiretto

He said I may blog about my breath.
He was here today, and as he prepared to leave
he said I might blog about my breath.
And only about my breath.

He said... I can't quite read my own handwriting, what I scrawled after he was gone so I would remember exactly except I was in another place... he said something like he had other attractions he meant to focus on today but it became about my breath. It's always about my breath...

And he gave me a little escape clause.

"If you don't understand, say that you don't understand."

Which is true.
I don't quite understand.

He has had a thing about my breath since very early on. My breath. My voice. My voice which I never had thought of as very breathy, and frankly I don't think it was very breathy. But he changes me. He has been changing me all along.

I think it was nervousness.
I think it was awe.

Around 19 months ago (imagine that), very soon after we met through the kind auspices of FetLife, he called me. Or had me leave him a voice mail. Honestly, everything is rather fuzzy today. And my voice went up and was soft and somewhat breathy and I always had this problem with positioning the phone so that he often couldn't distinguish my words but just got this voice. This breathy voice. And it made him crazy. And then it was just my breath...

He would allow me to touch, he would allow me to cum, but I had to cum for him in a voice mail. And he would hear my breathing, my gasping, the pitch going higher, the air rushing through my throat as I came closer and closer and then I would cum and sob and there would be these deep inhalations with little vocalizations behind... he would say my voice was killing him... but it was my breath... the breath behind and within the voice...

It belongs to him, he said today. And he has shown me that it belongs to him. But that has changed, too. He used to take it as a sadist does, in a show of power. I always gave it willingly, with love in my eyes, as he would close his large hand around my throat, as he tightened his grip and blocked my airways... but there was a roughness to it. A flavor of violence. He was strangling me. I would struggle even as I trusted. Even as I surrendered. But lately, and today...

He wasn't taking my breath.
My breath belongs to him.
He held it in his hands like a baby bird,
he pressed his finger against that magic off button in my throat,
but only enough to show that it belonged to him.
Only enough to show how much he... treasures it.

And do I understand?
Do I understand his obsession.
Do I understand his passion?
Maybe.
I'm not sure.
Some of it,
perhaps.

He loves beautiful things. He loves beauty in so many forms... and my breath...I don't know why it entrances him so... my breath... my voice... I hear it now, you know. The breathiness. Because my voice has changed. The breathiness has taken up residence. And I hear it at shul, when I sing... I hear the breathiness and I know I am changing... being changed... becoming more of the things that please him most. Not deliberately. It is just happening.

Perhaps because he is guiding me towards being who I really am.

And my breath?
Aside from its aesthetic value?

I think it has to do with vulnerability.
With pure, unguarded being.
With an essence that is just
there
And with my life
given freely
placed in his hands
whispered in his ear
offered to that one finger
pressing
softly
as my eyes say I love him
and my lips say I love him
and my hand says I love him
and my gasps say I love him
and this time
today
he took just enough breath
to say that I belong to him.

I'm probably all wrong, of course. I don't really understand. But I'm sitting here now in front of my laptop, knowing that I've utterly failed in understanding and making you understand. And I sit here and listen to my breathing, and suddenly (this is true, this isn't me trying to be all clever and artsy)... suddenly it sounds different. Suddenly I can hear it. I can hear my breath and it is so exquisitely beautiful, and honest and unprotected and generous and it glides out my nose and sighs from my throat and then floats gently between my lips and I am hearing it in a way I never did before.

This is my breath, this gentle breeze, and it belongs to my Master - who like any true artist, enables me to see things in ways I never did before.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Spanking and flogging and caning, oh my! (Further adventures in being shared)

As previously referred to here and here, last weekend my sadistic Master fulfilled his [promise? threat?] to give me to another man for his sexual pleasure. Note the construction of the previous sentence. It is a bit equivocal whose sexual pleasure is being referred to. Which is perfectly appropriate. For while I was being given as a gift to another, to be used as he wished, and with the expectation that I would do my best to maximize that man's pleasure, we all three of us were quite clear that the person whose pleasure was ultimately being served was my Master.

Our Master.

You see, the other man (t.o.m) is also a member of the sadist's stable of submissives.

It was a curious situation. I was a reward of sorts, a gift to show the sadist's gratitude to t.o.m for some service far beyond the call of duty. It created a very curious collection of hierarchies, all existing simultaneously. On the one hand you could say that I was being objectified as mere property that could be shared with another as my Master wished. And because t.o.m was using me, that put him above me as well. (Actually, behind me, as I was bent over and he was repeatedly driving his cock into my admittedly wet cunt.)

On the other hand, because I was being given as a reward, as a gift, as a special treat, it was clear that the sadist, our Master, views me as something special. Someone special. In giving t.o.m a tour of my noteworthy features, he referred to me as his "current project", which seemingly makes me sound like no more than the latest in a long line. Now I don't know what t.o.m was hearing, but the sadist was very clearly sending me messages underneath the words that pointed out the delights offered by my nipples and the frustrations incurred in trying to train an artist:

You are my angel.
You are my pet.
You are my treasure.
You are smart
you are sexy
you are beautiful
and I am very, very proud of you.

So even though I was still scared that he was planning on brutally flogging my breasts while I was tied down and helpless, my general mood became light and happy and grateful for the chance to prove myself. And thus, I did not feel that I was at the bottom of the heap. I felt empowered. Isn't that odd? I did not feel like a disembodied hole, I did not feel like a whore, I did not feel like a rape victim, despite the fact that I used those words during the time I was serving t.o.m, in hopes they would excite his desire.

I am so used to knowing exactly what to say and what to do to please my Master that it was a little tricky serving someone for whose specific proclivities I had not been trained. Still, he did seem to enjoy me. And most important of all, for both of us, my Master most definitely enjoyed observing and directing t.o.m's use of me.

So what about the spanking and flogging and caning referred to in the title?

There was a fair amount of it. At least of the spanking and flogging as well as some beating with a leather strap of some sort of which I had only a quick view before being bound belly down by my ankles. But as I mentioned previously, my sadistic Master - who likes to tell me that I cannot count on his protection, which is true because one can never swear that the beast won't one day get the upper hand - my sadistic Master does his best to protect me. He does his best to stay away when the beast is fully rampant. He designed the flogger so he could bring it down hard on my body and yet not do too much damage. And he told t.o.m to take it easy with me. That I don't have a high tolerance for pain. That I am not a masochist. Which is all very true. A little goes a long way. So while my ass was quite reddened over a period of time by t.o.m's hand and then by his application of my beautiful flogger, most of the time it didn't hurt very much. Still, it obviously did have an effect on me, as my pussy opened and swelled and moistened.

I'll admit it.

I did like being probed and poked.
I did like having my nipples played with.
I did like being tied down to the bed.
I did like being fucked.

What I am not sure of is how I would have felt if t.o.m, too, were a sadist. And if my Master had given him the go-ahead to use me as harshly as he wished. And if my Master had decided he wanted this to be a different sort of experience for me. If he had wanted me to be humiliated. If he had wanted to leave me in pain. He has all sorts of plans for me, the curriculum he has designed is long and detailed and progressive, with very clear goals along the way. Clear to him, anyway.

However, I suspect the sadist knows me well enough by now (better, I admit, than I know myself) that he won't expose me to an experience before he knows I am ready. And perhaps that is one reason why I trust him so much. He will take me places I never knew I could go, but he will have me wanting to go there by the time I arrive.

There is more to be said about spanking and flogging, including the flogging of my tits. For yes, the sadist did flog my tits. While I was restrained. But you'll have to come back another time for that story.

Still, that leaves the caning.
Or the suspected caning.
I still haven't received confirmation on that.

But after t.o.m left and then a while later, after my Master left, having thrown himself on me and fucked me and cum in my mouth and other beautiful things and given me water to drink from his hand in the most... giving way he has ever done before... after he left and I fell asleep on the bed - on our bed in our dungeon bedroom - and I eventually woke up and went upstairs... I looked at my butt in the mirror. It was still reddened from the spanking and flogging and strapping... and I saw 2 cane welts. I am sure they were cane welts.

I didn't exactly remember being caned. Except possibly, at one point, when the sadist was demonstrating how I need to be reminded to stay focused on the job at hand (in that case, t.o.m's cock being the job literally in my hand), and I felt two blows to my buttocks, one on each cheek, which at the time I took to be very sharp spanks. And which now I suspect were relatively gentle strikes of the cane. And I looked at the welts and sighed with happiness at the thought that I had my Master's marks on me.

Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for teaching me what a joy it is to serve you.
I will willingly serve you in any way you wish
in obedience and submission and love.

Cherry Blossom Haiku I



Cherry blossom snow
buries my proffered belly.
You flog it away.



Written for my beloved sadistic Master
and posted here with his permission.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

One cunt, open for business

Perhaps it's the full moon, only slightly trimmed. Perhaps it's the spring, and the carpet of cherry blossoms forming outside my window. Whatever the reason, my hormones are on a rampage, my womb is convulsing, and my pussy is pulsing in time with the universe as it sings its song of life.

Here I go again.

I need to be fucked.

My Master was just here!
On Wednesday he was here.
It was just the two of us,
it was all about the two of us,
sweet and gentle,
tender and loving,
kisses and caresses...

and I have to stop thinking about it or I will be lost in moist memories and never make it to bed. Let alone finish this post.

So really, I should be quite satisfied, especially as he allowed me to cum on Saturday. That should last me for another month or so. No?

I don't even care about cumming.
I just need to be fucked.

Once again, I see that line of men, patiently waiting. Well, maybe not so patiently, but certainly waiting. They wait and they watch, as one by one they each take their turn. I am bent over the bed, legs slightly spread. One of the sadist's other submissives stands at the door, handing out condoms as each man enters, watching to be sure the little stockings are correctly unrolled onto the already erect and straining cocks.

I am bent over the bed,
legs slightly spread.

I am bent over the bed, legs slightly spread, cunt hot, cunt wet, cunt still tight even when it is all over and ten horny men have pounded my hungry pussy.

And they do.
Pound.
From behind.
They enter my cunt.
They enter my ass.
Their pelvises leave bruises on my butt.
They take their time.
Thank God they take their time.
They fuck me till I lose track of time.
Nothing exists but cunt and cocks.
And my Master.
Always and forever
there is my Master.
Watching.
Observing.
Encouraging.
Singing my praises.

Sometimes, between cocks, he takes the flogger to my ass, to my thighs, to my happily used cunt, bringing the falls up between my legs and striking my tender clitoris as hard as one can with such a sweet weapon, making sure I don't forget that he is there and that he owns me.

There is no way I can forget.
I will never forget.

And when my minyan of marauders have all emptied their scrotums (or should I say "scrota"?), they thank him for their generosity and stagger out the door.

Leaving just the two of us.
It is always about the two of us.
I sink to the floor.
I crawl to his chair
where he awaits me like
some eastern potentate.
And I take him in my mouth
and I love him with my mouth
and I love him with my tongue
and I love him with my teeth
And I love him.

[she sighs...]

There.
That helped.
Time for bed.
No orgasm.
But still
I am
a happy
loving horny
pet.

And so,
good night.