Wish I could make that headline sound like some kinky and particularly disgusting form of torture, but no. Creative as he is, the sadist's brain didn't cook up this one. It's just a cold. The kind that feels like a faucet opened all the way, sending not a drip but a hard, steady stream of thin snot rushing from my head down through my nasal passages and out through my now sore-from-blowing nostrils.
Oh woe is me.
I'm prone to getting this particular cold this time of year.
I just hope I wasn't already contagious when Daddy was here Tuesday.
I'm not supposed to give him my colds.
Just imagine the spanking I would get if I did?!
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
Pain on the horizon
It has been promised.
It has been decreed.
Tomorrow he will arrive.
He will stride into the house.
He will stride into my bedroom.
He will settle on the bed
with his back against the headboard.
He will take me across his lap,
my naked belly pressed against his fully-clothed lap.
And then,
for his pleasure,
because he wants to,
because he wants me,
He will spank me.
Hard.
Sometimes a spanking is another form of embrace.
It has been decreed.
Tomorrow he will arrive.
He will stride into the house.
He will stride into my bedroom.
He will settle on the bed
with his back against the headboard.
He will take me across his lap,
my naked belly pressed against his fully-clothed lap.
And then,
for his pleasure,
because he wants to,
because he wants me,
He will spank me.
Hard.
Sometimes a spanking is another form of embrace.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
"You're higher than a kite!"
He tasted all the flavours of my tears today.
He wanted me to tell you that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written last Tuesday, after a truly sweet and long time together. I meant to write more, but it somehow never happened. He soothed and banished my grief and fears over the changes to come, with reassurances in words and kisses and especially in his eyes that nothing of what we are will be lost. And there was his hand and the belt and even the nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane along with the kisses and the words in his eyes and then his fingers on my pussy and the belt on my pussy and it was all wonderful and close and rich and I'm happy but it's too soon after the solstice for my brain to have kicked back in again so this is all you get. And I know that today he is thinking of me. His poet. His pet. His sweet little girl.
Who was, in fact, higher than a kite.
As he said.
And today?
For me, a good movie and way too much Chinese food lie ahead.
With the lighting of the menorah on the restaurant table.
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate.
However you celebrate.
With love.
Always love.
o.g.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Happy Chanukah!
And yes, we did celebrate. After all, Chanukah is the Festival of Lights, and my eyes were shining and my ass was glowing by the time he left. His eyes were shining, too, and the most beautiful smile lit his face.
More details tomorrow.
But I go into work tomorrow and must go to bed early.
For now, this:
He is changing things around in his schedule.
We will still see each other regularly.
He won't let my place in his life slip away.
I belong to him.
And I am blissfully happy.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
So there's good news and bad news
Everything is complicated.
Always.
Complicated.
The good news is clear enough.
I've gotten a job!!
Good work,
lousy money,
reasonable benefits,
GREAT holiday schedule.
And a very short commute.
Although not as short as my last job.
And there's the problem.
Anyone remember what happened with my last job?
Anyone remember
my Tuesday lunches?
When it wasn't sandwiches that filled my mouth?
I would race home,
strip off my clothes,
pop open the futon,
lay out the implements,
and greet him naked at the door.
Invariably, I was late getting back to the office.
But at least our snatched half hours were feasible.
And then I was laid off.
And our trysts stretched to one hour.
Two.
Even three hours now and then.
Every week.
Every Wednesday.
Until his schedule changed.
Then it was every Tuesday.
And now?
Not possible.
I won't be far from home.
But not close enough for a weekly lunchtime quickie.
And besides.
Now we're spoiled.
Very spoiled.
We've eaten of the fruit.
Such sweet fruit.
Sweet and tart and slightly poisonous,
leaving our lips hot and soft and moist
and red-stained with desire.
We're spoiled.
And I worry about how things might change
when the intensity of frequency is lost.
The sadist orders me not to worry.
And says he is already contemplating options.
Considering ways to make up for our missed Tuesdays.
So I try to have faith
and then smile
and remember
that this man who owns me
body and soul
always gets
whatever he wants.
Always.
Complicated.
The good news is clear enough.
I've gotten a job!!
Good work,
lousy money,
reasonable benefits,
GREAT holiday schedule.
And a very short commute.
Although not as short as my last job.
And there's the problem.
Anyone remember what happened with my last job?
Anyone remember
my Tuesday lunches?
When it wasn't sandwiches that filled my mouth?
I would race home,
strip off my clothes,
pop open the futon,
lay out the implements,
and greet him naked at the door.
Invariably, I was late getting back to the office.
But at least our snatched half hours were feasible.
And then I was laid off.
And our trysts stretched to one hour.
Two.
Even three hours now and then.
Every week.
Every Wednesday.
Until his schedule changed.
Then it was every Tuesday.
And now?
Not possible.
I won't be far from home.
But not close enough for a weekly lunchtime quickie.
And besides.
Now we're spoiled.
Very spoiled.
We've eaten of the fruit.
Such sweet fruit.
Sweet and tart and slightly poisonous,
leaving our lips hot and soft and moist
and red-stained with desire.
We're spoiled.
And I worry about how things might change
when the intensity of frequency is lost.
The sadist orders me not to worry.
And says he is already contemplating options.
Considering ways to make up for our missed Tuesdays.
So I try to have faith
and then smile
and remember
that this man who owns me
body and soul
always gets
whatever he wants.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
I suck the sadist's mental cock as motorcade delays blowjob
He was stuck in front of the White House.
He was on his way to get his cock sucked
and he was stuck in front of the White House.
We get that here in DC.
Motorcades and helicopters,
police escorts and unexpected traffic.
I hear about a speech in the Rose Garden and I can feel it happening, 9 miles down the road. The reporter comments on the weather but I already know what it is, I only have to look out the window and I know we're under the same sun, the same clouds, the same threat of economic disaster.
He had projected an arrival between noon and 1 pm. Last week he was held up by rain-delayed traffic. Today was clear and cold, bright sun smiling down on a city preparing for Christmas as the unemployed try for a second year to sneak a couple of gifts into their struggling budgets. The sun was shining. Anything seemed possible.
Surely, today, he'll have plenty of time to enjoy the services of his devoted pet?
Not so fast.
In fact, not fast at all.
At 12:55, he projects a 1:20 arrival.
Ha.
Five minutes later, everything stops.
1:15.
He's been stuck at the same light near the White House for 15 minutes.
People start getting out of their cars.
At least we can text.
Illegal for him but what the hell.
He certainly isn't going anywhere.
Poor Daddy. Too bad your pet isn't with you. Though maybe not a good place to have your cock sucked in the car.
I check out the Washington Post on line. The sadist reports a motorcade. I eventually figure out that Obama must be coming back from a speech to campaign workers at a nearby hotel. At 1:25, cars start moving again.
Poor Daddy indeed. If he wasn't stressed out before, he surely must be now. The visit will have to be cut short. Again. Sometimes it seems as if we are being punished for the luxury of that perfect hotel night. We're being charged for it, forced to pay it back, minute for minute.
Still, there are ways I can serve him in absentia.
Not with my hand.
Not with my mouth.
But with my mind.
My pussy mind.
I'll lick and suck him with my mind.
Feel my tits pressing into your belly. Feel my belly pressing against your cock. I am with you, Sir. Breathe deeply and you will smell me.
My tongue whispers in your ear. I am waiting. I am always waiting. I live in standby mode, a little red light on the tip of my clit signalling readiness.
My pale butt cheeks rise before your eyes, blocking the view of cars and politicians. You feel yourself being sucked into my tight moaning butt hole.
You feel me on the seat beside you. Touch yourself, you say. Reach under your dress to your soft bare pussy and touch yourself for me.
Taste yourself, you say. Taste how you melt from knowing you are mine.
Touch me, you say. Run your fingers over my cock as it groans within my jeans.
Suck me, you say. Imagine away these bucket seats. Spread your obedient body across the bench seat and fasten your sweet soft mouth on my demanding dick.
Show your bare ass to the waiting cars and the now distracted Secret Service. Brighten their day. Give them food for torrid dreams. Let them dream. You are mine.
Are you moving yet, Daddy?
Thank you, Sir. I await. Twitching.
If you must be stuck in traffic, it's good to have a reliable stress reliever waiting at the end of the trip.
I am very reliable.
And when he left me, he felt very good indeed.
It was the least I could do.
As for me -
I get to masturbate tonight.
Daddy had the pleasure of giving me the spanking I needed.
And he gnawed into my neck a beautiful mark.
Good thing it's cold enough for turtleneck sweaters!
He was on his way to get his cock sucked
and he was stuck in front of the White House.
We get that here in DC.
Motorcades and helicopters,
police escorts and unexpected traffic.
I hear about a speech in the Rose Garden and I can feel it happening, 9 miles down the road. The reporter comments on the weather but I already know what it is, I only have to look out the window and I know we're under the same sun, the same clouds, the same threat of economic disaster.
He had projected an arrival between noon and 1 pm. Last week he was held up by rain-delayed traffic. Today was clear and cold, bright sun smiling down on a city preparing for Christmas as the unemployed try for a second year to sneak a couple of gifts into their struggling budgets. The sun was shining. Anything seemed possible.
Surely, today, he'll have plenty of time to enjoy the services of his devoted pet?
Not so fast.
In fact, not fast at all.
At 12:55, he projects a 1:20 arrival.
Ha.
Five minutes later, everything stops.
1:15.
He's been stuck at the same light near the White House for 15 minutes.
People start getting out of their cars.
At least we can text.
Illegal for him but what the hell.
He certainly isn't going anywhere.
Poor Daddy. Too bad your pet isn't with you. Though maybe not a good place to have your cock sucked in the car.
I check out the Washington Post on line. The sadist reports a motorcade. I eventually figure out that Obama must be coming back from a speech to campaign workers at a nearby hotel. At 1:25, cars start moving again.
Poor Daddy indeed. If he wasn't stressed out before, he surely must be now. The visit will have to be cut short. Again. Sometimes it seems as if we are being punished for the luxury of that perfect hotel night. We're being charged for it, forced to pay it back, minute for minute.
Still, there are ways I can serve him in absentia.
Not with my hand.
Not with my mouth.
But with my mind.
My pussy mind.
I'll lick and suck him with my mind.
Feel my tits pressing into your belly. Feel my belly pressing against your cock. I am with you, Sir. Breathe deeply and you will smell me.
My tongue whispers in your ear. I am waiting. I am always waiting. I live in standby mode, a little red light on the tip of my clit signalling readiness.
My pale butt cheeks rise before your eyes, blocking the view of cars and politicians. You feel yourself being sucked into my tight moaning butt hole.
You feel me on the seat beside you. Touch yourself, you say. Reach under your dress to your soft bare pussy and touch yourself for me.
Taste yourself, you say. Taste how you melt from knowing you are mine.
Touch me, you say. Run your fingers over my cock as it groans within my jeans.
Suck me, you say. Imagine away these bucket seats. Spread your obedient body across the bench seat and fasten your sweet soft mouth on my demanding dick.
Show your bare ass to the waiting cars and the now distracted Secret Service. Brighten their day. Give them food for torrid dreams. Let them dream. You are mine.
Are you moving yet, Daddy?
Eta 2:00.
Thank you, Sir. I await. Twitching.
If you must be stuck in traffic, it's good to have a reliable stress reliever waiting at the end of the trip.
I am very reliable.
And when he left me, he felt very good indeed.
It was the least I could do.
As for me -
I get to masturbate tonight.
Daddy had the pleasure of giving me the spanking I needed.
And he gnawed into my neck a beautiful mark.
Good thing it's cold enough for turtleneck sweaters!
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Surrender
In the end, it was nothing more than hubris.
Why should I surpass Odysseus
in managing to flee my fate?
I bragged.
Sure, I'm sluggish.
Yes, I'm eating all the wrong things
and plenty thereof.
Me and the squirrels outside my window.
Fattening ourselves up for winter survival.
But no depression.
Not me.
Not this year.
Ha!
Like the sadist himself, SAD is a predator, watching his prey, gauging vulnerability, watching for the little drops of blood left like breadcrumbs by the unseeing victim, complacent in her seeming safety from the worst of his tortures. He plays with her, swatting her across the floor, leaving little scratches while holding back from the last hard blow to the head before sinking his teeth into her jugular.
He knows just the right spot.
He pierces it year after year,
sucking out her soul,
deadening her eyes.
He knows she'll rise again in Spring.
But the wounds never wholly heal.
And unlike the cats
who mourn the loss of each mouse killed,
he knows he'll have his favorite prey
to play with once again come Fall.
Year
after year
after year.
The Solstice can't come soon enough.
Why should I surpass Odysseus
in managing to flee my fate?
I bragged.
Sure, I'm sluggish.
Yes, I'm eating all the wrong things
and plenty thereof.
Me and the squirrels outside my window.
Fattening ourselves up for winter survival.
But no depression.
Not me.
Not this year.
Ha!
Like the sadist himself, SAD is a predator, watching his prey, gauging vulnerability, watching for the little drops of blood left like breadcrumbs by the unseeing victim, complacent in her seeming safety from the worst of his tortures. He plays with her, swatting her across the floor, leaving little scratches while holding back from the last hard blow to the head before sinking his teeth into her jugular.
He knows just the right spot.
He pierces it year after year,
sucking out her soul,
deadening her eyes.
He knows she'll rise again in Spring.
But the wounds never wholly heal.
And unlike the cats
who mourn the loss of each mouse killed,
he knows he'll have his favorite prey
to play with once again come Fall.
Year
after year
after year.
The Solstice can't come soon enough.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Strangled
I've lost my voice.
Oh, not physically.
Mentally.
I'm being strangled by SAD.
Strangled... the sadist had his hand very tight around my neck last Tuesday. After I had made my confession. After he had whipped me with his belt as I was down on my hands and knees on the futon, every part of me draped in my nun's habit.
Every part of me but my reddening butt, now adorned with the stripes of pain and penance left by his belt.
It was after that.
As I knelt before him to serve his pleasure.
After I had stripped off the pieces of the habit.
Slowly stripped off the black and the white and the yards of black.
Stripping before his eyes.
Letting the long dress drop to my feet.
Revealing my nakedness beneath.
I was naked in so many ways.
But I digress.
I'd much rather be strangled by his large, firm hand.
It somehow makes me feel safe as it circles my throat.
As I hear myself gasp for air.
Or gurgle.
This time I was gurgling.
Being strangled by SAD does not make me feel safe.
I am its prisoner.
And not in a good way.
There is no affection in its stranglehold.
And I return none.
You might say there is intimacy, as we live close together for a few months each year. We are so close that when SAD moves in I see everything through its eyes. And even when it isn't here, I feel it looming. Breathing on my neck. When it finally leaves, its soft seductive voice breathes into my ear: "I'll be back." And I know it will.
Yes, its voice is seductive.
It draws me down into sleep.
Sleep from which I never quite awaken.
Sleep.
Stupor.
A mind that is dulled by the shortened days.
Even today, when the sun was dancing.
Laughing.
Beckoning.
Come! it smiled.
Come out and play with me.
But I lay on the couch as if drugged.
I lay there with Ketzel on my belly.
And I slept like a cat.
Perhaps today that was from hormones.
Could be.
They play games with me,
coming and going so fast that I sense no cycle.
But whatever it was,
I lost another day.
Still, I should be grateful. The SAD held off, and didn't fully move in until now. Except for the sabotage of grey skies, it should start moving out by the end of the month. At first it will move out slowly. A fork one day, then a pile of towels, eventually a box of books. But it will move out. Until suddenly, in March or April, I'll be unbearably bouncy.
My manic season is short.
But I love it.
My compensation prize.
For now, though, I'm dulled and sleepy, soft and vulnerable, struggling to get through the day, and excited only by thoughts of the sadist and his kisses and the leather belt which now hangs in the closet with the belts that I wear.
I think of the leather belt.
I feel its tail gently whipping my pussy.
I feel its weight landing hard and sharp on my ass.
And I ponder the teasing morsels the sadist is feeding me about a plan which seems to be drawing nearer to being realized.
A plan?
What plan, you wonder.
Ha!
The sadist isn't the only one who can tease, you know.
Oh, not physically.
Mentally.
I'm being strangled by SAD.
Strangled... the sadist had his hand very tight around my neck last Tuesday. After I had made my confession. After he had whipped me with his belt as I was down on my hands and knees on the futon, every part of me draped in my nun's habit.
Every part of me but my reddening butt, now adorned with the stripes of pain and penance left by his belt.
It was after that.
As I knelt before him to serve his pleasure.
After I had stripped off the pieces of the habit.
Slowly stripped off the black and the white and the yards of black.
Stripping before his eyes.
Letting the long dress drop to my feet.
Revealing my nakedness beneath.
I was naked in so many ways.
But I digress.
I'd much rather be strangled by his large, firm hand.
It somehow makes me feel safe as it circles my throat.
As I hear myself gasp for air.
Or gurgle.
This time I was gurgling.
Being strangled by SAD does not make me feel safe.
I am its prisoner.
And not in a good way.
There is no affection in its stranglehold.
And I return none.
You might say there is intimacy, as we live close together for a few months each year. We are so close that when SAD moves in I see everything through its eyes. And even when it isn't here, I feel it looming. Breathing on my neck. When it finally leaves, its soft seductive voice breathes into my ear: "I'll be back." And I know it will.
Yes, its voice is seductive.
It draws me down into sleep.
Sleep from which I never quite awaken.
Sleep.
Stupor.
A mind that is dulled by the shortened days.
Even today, when the sun was dancing.
Laughing.
Beckoning.
Come! it smiled.
Come out and play with me.
But I lay on the couch as if drugged.
I lay there with Ketzel on my belly.
And I slept like a cat.
Perhaps today that was from hormones.
Could be.
They play games with me,
coming and going so fast that I sense no cycle.
But whatever it was,
I lost another day.
Still, I should be grateful. The SAD held off, and didn't fully move in until now. Except for the sabotage of grey skies, it should start moving out by the end of the month. At first it will move out slowly. A fork one day, then a pile of towels, eventually a box of books. But it will move out. Until suddenly, in March or April, I'll be unbearably bouncy.
My manic season is short.
But I love it.
My compensation prize.
For now, though, I'm dulled and sleepy, soft and vulnerable, struggling to get through the day, and excited only by thoughts of the sadist and his kisses and the leather belt which now hangs in the closet with the belts that I wear.
I think of the leather belt.
I feel its tail gently whipping my pussy.
I feel its weight landing hard and sharp on my ass.
And I ponder the teasing morsels the sadist is feeding me about a plan which seems to be drawing nearer to being realized.
A plan?
What plan, you wonder.
Ha!
The sadist isn't the only one who can tease, you know.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Daddy's nun fetish
The sadist has a thing for nuns.
I've known about it almost as long as I've known him.
Since maybe a day or two after he found me.
Nuns.
I'm a naive thing.
I didn't know people had nun fetishes.
People probably have fetishes about everything.
Anyway.
It fascinated me.
Intrigued me.
To be swathed in a full nun's habit.
To be innocent.
Maybe.
Bent over.
Butt exposed.
Soft white buttocks whipped.
To be despoiled.
Raped.
I absorbed his fantasies into myself.
And I wanted to please him.
I've always wanted to please him.
So pretty early on, I decided I would somehow have to get my hands on a nun's habit. Get my soft white Jewess body into a nun's habit. Note: I hate that word. Jewess. It feels dehumanizing. But it turns the sadist on. And I play to his desires. His fetishes. Which gets us back to the nuns. The habit. Where the hell was I going to get a nun's habit? A real one?
And then I mentioned it to one of you. She used to comment as jcn and now has a profile but I can't remember what name she uses. Anyway, she said she had a friend who was a nun who was trying on the case. And then someone came into where she works and asked if anyone could use a nun's costume. A good one.
That was this summer.
Today, the sadist got to see it.
With me in it.
And then not in it.
I've said that we don't "play." We don't role play either. There are different aspects to our relationship, to how we are with each other, to the needs we serve for each other. Emotional needs. Sexual needs.
This.
Me in the nun's habit.
What he did to me.
It was the closest to role play as we've ever gotten.
But it was more than that. Far more. Oh yes. You could call it a scene. A scenario. But it was also a ritual. A ritual we both needed. I was to make confession. To think, to search, to self-examine. To open. To offer.
Confession.
Penance.
Absolution.
This morning, as I finished compiling the list, it suddenly hit me.
All my failings.
All my faults.
All my weaknesses.
I was devastated.
Distraught.
And later, as I began to read it to him,
swathed in the very convincing
and totally obscuring
nun's habit,
I started to cry.
And sob.
It was a true confession.
From the heart.
When he talked to me about it beforehand, while I was away for Thanksgiving, he reassured me that it was just a fine-tuning. Not an engine replacement. Not preparation to trade me in for a newer model. And he was right. I did need this. Not that I needed reminding of my faults and failings. I haven't forgotten them. I never forgot them. But every so often I need to face them. Especially the ones that involve sins against the sadist. Whom I serve and whom I love. For both reasons, my failings are unacceptable.
To me.
Far more than to him, it turns out.
I confessed and I sobbed.
He comforted me.
Reassured me.
Stroked my back.
Eventually, he did punish me.
I needed that, too.
He almost didn't punish me, he said.
Because I have an interview in a few days.
He didn't want to do anything that might make it too uncomfortable for me.
But he couldn't keep from doing it.
I was too hot in that nun's habit.
And I needed it.
It cleansed me.
The thing is, the sadist is not one of those Doms I sometimes read about who need to tear down their subs. His bigger concern is that he thinks I'm amazing. beautiful. Brilliant. His treasure. And I have a hard time swallowing it. And that makes him more angry than just about anything.
I'd been afraid of the coming punishment. I wanted to do penance, but was afraid he would beat me with that nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane. Which is what he usually uses for punishment. It hurts like hell. And it's a nasty sot of pain. It scares me.
But he didn't.
He didn't cane me.
And he didn't flog me,
which would have been appropriate.
He whipped me
With his belt.
I kind of like being whipped with a belt. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be for my pleasure. And it didn't feel like that. It was supposed to cleanse me of my grief and my guilt. And thus be something I could embrace. It wasn't an angry beating. And... punishment seems like something external. Something imposed. Whereas penance... you offer to do it. It's a cleansing pain, a cleansing suffering. And the belt... the choice of the belt over the cane... it felt loving.
I told him that.
Assuring him that "loving" was not implying that other, related word.
He understood.
And did not protest my characterization.
A loving whipping to cleanse me of my sins and my guilt.
A firm, loving whipping,
his belt landing on my soft, bare, proffered bottom
as I posed on the futon on my hands and knees,
everything but my reddening butt swathed in black
and my head and hair buried beneath the veil.
There was more, of course. It was happy and beautiful and fierce and we had to struggle to keep the beast under control. It was close sometimes. I'd been afraid he'd be there. Because of the nun. And he was there. I saw him in my Daddy's eyes. I felt his hand tight around my neck. And he was dangerously close when later, for his pleasure, Daddy whipped my pussy.
With the belt.
He left the belt with me.
He'll be whipping me with it again.
He'll be buckling it around my neck again.
He'll wrap it around my neck and pull me to him
as he lies back on the futon
while I kneel between his legs
sucking his happy cock.
The nun will be back, too.
I've known about it almost as long as I've known him.
Since maybe a day or two after he found me.
Nuns.
I'm a naive thing.
I didn't know people had nun fetishes.
People probably have fetishes about everything.
Anyway.
It fascinated me.
Intrigued me.
To be swathed in a full nun's habit.
To be innocent.
Maybe.
Bent over.
Butt exposed.
Soft white buttocks whipped.
To be despoiled.
Raped.
I absorbed his fantasies into myself.
And I wanted to please him.
I've always wanted to please him.
So pretty early on, I decided I would somehow have to get my hands on a nun's habit. Get my soft white Jewess body into a nun's habit. Note: I hate that word. Jewess. It feels dehumanizing. But it turns the sadist on. And I play to his desires. His fetishes. Which gets us back to the nuns. The habit. Where the hell was I going to get a nun's habit? A real one?
And then I mentioned it to one of you. She used to comment as jcn and now has a profile but I can't remember what name she uses. Anyway, she said she had a friend who was a nun who was trying on the case. And then someone came into where she works and asked if anyone could use a nun's costume. A good one.
That was this summer.
Today, the sadist got to see it.
With me in it.
And then not in it.
I've said that we don't "play." We don't role play either. There are different aspects to our relationship, to how we are with each other, to the needs we serve for each other. Emotional needs. Sexual needs.
This.
Me in the nun's habit.
What he did to me.
It was the closest to role play as we've ever gotten.
But it was more than that. Far more. Oh yes. You could call it a scene. A scenario. But it was also a ritual. A ritual we both needed. I was to make confession. To think, to search, to self-examine. To open. To offer.
Confession.
Penance.
Absolution.
This morning, as I finished compiling the list, it suddenly hit me.
All my failings.
All my faults.
All my weaknesses.
I was devastated.
Distraught.
And later, as I began to read it to him,
swathed in the very convincing
and totally obscuring
nun's habit,
I started to cry.
And sob.
It was a true confession.
From the heart.
When he talked to me about it beforehand, while I was away for Thanksgiving, he reassured me that it was just a fine-tuning. Not an engine replacement. Not preparation to trade me in for a newer model. And he was right. I did need this. Not that I needed reminding of my faults and failings. I haven't forgotten them. I never forgot them. But every so often I need to face them. Especially the ones that involve sins against the sadist. Whom I serve and whom I love. For both reasons, my failings are unacceptable.
To me.
Far more than to him, it turns out.
I confessed and I sobbed.
He comforted me.
Reassured me.
Stroked my back.
Eventually, he did punish me.
I needed that, too.
He almost didn't punish me, he said.
Because I have an interview in a few days.
He didn't want to do anything that might make it too uncomfortable for me.
But he couldn't keep from doing it.
I was too hot in that nun's habit.
And I needed it.
It cleansed me.
The thing is, the sadist is not one of those Doms I sometimes read about who need to tear down their subs. His bigger concern is that he thinks I'm amazing. beautiful. Brilliant. His treasure. And I have a hard time swallowing it. And that makes him more angry than just about anything.
I'd been afraid of the coming punishment. I wanted to do penance, but was afraid he would beat me with that nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane. Which is what he usually uses for punishment. It hurts like hell. And it's a nasty sot of pain. It scares me.
But he didn't.
He didn't cane me.
And he didn't flog me,
which would have been appropriate.
He whipped me
With his belt.
I kind of like being whipped with a belt. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be for my pleasure. And it didn't feel like that. It was supposed to cleanse me of my grief and my guilt. And thus be something I could embrace. It wasn't an angry beating. And... punishment seems like something external. Something imposed. Whereas penance... you offer to do it. It's a cleansing pain, a cleansing suffering. And the belt... the choice of the belt over the cane... it felt loving.
I told him that.
Assuring him that "loving" was not implying that other, related word.
He understood.
And did not protest my characterization.
A loving whipping to cleanse me of my sins and my guilt.
A firm, loving whipping,
his belt landing on my soft, bare, proffered bottom
as I posed on the futon on my hands and knees,
everything but my reddening butt swathed in black
and my head and hair buried beneath the veil.
There was more, of course. It was happy and beautiful and fierce and we had to struggle to keep the beast under control. It was close sometimes. I'd been afraid he'd be there. Because of the nun. And he was there. I saw him in my Daddy's eyes. I felt his hand tight around my neck. And he was dangerously close when later, for his pleasure, Daddy whipped my pussy.
With the belt.
He left the belt with me.
He'll be whipping me with it again.
He'll be buckling it around my neck again.
He'll wrap it around my neck and pull me to him
as he lies back on the futon
while I kneel between his legs
sucking his happy cock.
The nun will be back, too.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Home again, home again, jiggedy jog
Reporting in, having survived far too many hours in Thanksgiving traffic, 4 nights with my parents, and a cold, dry turkey that my father's normally sensible cousin insisted on bringing up to Connecticut from Brooklyn.
My stuffing and gravy were great.
I suspect Ketzel peed somewhere she shouldn't have while I was gone, but I'm not sure where and am too tired to sniff out the exact spot. More important is that they gave me a warm and loving welcome, acting as if they hadn't eaten in a week, which is their way of saying they missed me and needed reassurance of my love.
Having not seen the sadist on our usual Tuesday earlier in the week, I will be especially thankful to be reunited with him this coming Tuesday. Don't know how much he'll allow me to tell you about what he has planned, but the preparations have been intense. I do try to remind him - every single time - that a trip to see my parents is not a happy thing, and that any added pressing of sensitive buttons is bound to unleash a heavy emotional reaction. Luckily, after triggering in me a spell of depression, he offered something akin to an apology - at least for him - and reassured me that the ritual he has planned does not in fact contain any risk of my being traded in for a new model. Great relief and outpouring of gratitude and affection.
Hot Jazz Saturday Night (WAMU-FM) is now playing I Can't Give You Anything but Love. For a sadist, of course, that won't do. He requires service. Obedience. Unquestioning submission.
Luckily, he enjoys my struggles.
And does treasure me.
So I'm safe.
For now.
But tired.
So enough for tonight.
Hope you all had a happy Thanksgiving - or at least a good weekend.
My stuffing and gravy were great.
I suspect Ketzel peed somewhere she shouldn't have while I was gone, but I'm not sure where and am too tired to sniff out the exact spot. More important is that they gave me a warm and loving welcome, acting as if they hadn't eaten in a week, which is their way of saying they missed me and needed reassurance of my love.
Having not seen the sadist on our usual Tuesday earlier in the week, I will be especially thankful to be reunited with him this coming Tuesday. Don't know how much he'll allow me to tell you about what he has planned, but the preparations have been intense. I do try to remind him - every single time - that a trip to see my parents is not a happy thing, and that any added pressing of sensitive buttons is bound to unleash a heavy emotional reaction. Luckily, after triggering in me a spell of depression, he offered something akin to an apology - at least for him - and reassured me that the ritual he has planned does not in fact contain any risk of my being traded in for a new model. Great relief and outpouring of gratitude and affection.
Hot Jazz Saturday Night (WAMU-FM) is now playing I Can't Give You Anything but Love. For a sadist, of course, that won't do. He requires service. Obedience. Unquestioning submission.
Luckily, he enjoys my struggles.
And does treasure me.
So I'm safe.
For now.
But tired.
So enough for tonight.
Hope you all had a happy Thanksgiving - or at least a good weekend.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Heading north
Packing.
Making cranberry orange relish.
Spending a little quality time with the cats.
Downloading more tunes he introduced me to.
I have my instructions.
An assignment.
Things to think about.
A musical touchstone.
A theme.
Messages to send.
When and how to send them.
A theme.
A focus.
Service.
And a rich and scary ritual when I return.
When we reunite.
On the Tuesday.
In a week.
Reunion.
Punishment.
Recommitment.
And in between?
630 miles round trip.
And no cats.
What's a house without cats?!
Back home Saturday night.
Happy Thanksgiving, you guys.
Even if this is not your holiday,
it's good to take time to be thankful.
Me?
I am very thankful indeed.
Making cranberry orange relish.
Spending a little quality time with the cats.
Downloading more tunes he introduced me to.
I have my instructions.
An assignment.
Things to think about.
A musical touchstone.
A theme.
Messages to send.
When and how to send them.
A theme.
A focus.
Service.
And a rich and scary ritual when I return.
When we reunite.
On the Tuesday.
In a week.
Reunion.
Punishment.
Recommitment.
And in between?
630 miles round trip.
And no cats.
What's a house without cats?!
Back home Saturday night.
Happy Thanksgiving, you guys.
Even if this is not your holiday,
it's good to take time to be thankful.
Me?
I am very thankful indeed.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Separation anxiety
I haven't even left yet, and I'm already sad.
I guess because it's a double loss.
There will be the distance.
And I'm leaving on Tuesday.
Tuesday.
My usual day of service.
Tuesday is blowjob day.
Oh, he probably gets sucked off on other days as well. Not to mention the days he gets to whack away at someone's butt. But on Tuesdays...
His cock is happily ensconced in his pet's mouth.
Except this Tuesday.
Not this Tuesday.
This Tuesday his pet will be on the road.
Driving north.
Driving.
Driving and sitting in traffic.
Along with far too many other people.
Heading home to a home that was never my home.
But that's a whole other story.
For now, all I feel is the distance.
Absence and distance.
Its nonsensical, of course. It's not as if we saw each other all the time. Why should it make a difference if we're 10 miles or 30 miles or 300 miles apart. E-mail is e-mail, right?
Not right.
I feel the distance.
I can physically feel the distance.
I can already feel the distance as it will grow on Tuesday.
And it hurts.
Even now, it hurts.
I'll miss you, Daddy!
I miss you already...
I guess because it's a double loss.
There will be the distance.
And I'm leaving on Tuesday.
Tuesday.
My usual day of service.
Tuesday is blowjob day.
Oh, he probably gets sucked off on other days as well. Not to mention the days he gets to whack away at someone's butt. But on Tuesdays...
His cock is happily ensconced in his pet's mouth.
Except this Tuesday.
Not this Tuesday.
This Tuesday his pet will be on the road.
Driving north.
Driving.
Driving and sitting in traffic.
Along with far too many other people.
Heading home to a home that was never my home.
But that's a whole other story.
For now, all I feel is the distance.
Absence and distance.
Its nonsensical, of course. It's not as if we saw each other all the time. Why should it make a difference if we're 10 miles or 30 miles or 300 miles apart. E-mail is e-mail, right?
Not right.
I feel the distance.
I can physically feel the distance.
I can already feel the distance as it will grow on Tuesday.
And it hurts.
Even now, it hurts.
I'll miss you, Daddy!
I miss you already...
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Another special, secret nothing
Special.
Very special.
And secret.
Which is the wrong word.
Private.
That's the right word.
More and more I've been wanting to keep things private.
And again, that's the wrong choice of word.
Not keep things private.
They are private.
They are already private.
They are a reflection of our relationship.
Like his taking me away with him to the casino.
Although what we did there, how we were there, was not at all shocking. But it seems almost easier to write about the really kinky stuff, the sadist as sadist, floggers and belts and strips of wood landing on my pale, reddening butt, than about smiles and laughs and shared dinners.
The inner intimacies cradle the true nakedness.
Very special.
And secret.
Which is the wrong word.
Private.
That's the right word.
More and more I've been wanting to keep things private.
And again, that's the wrong choice of word.
Not keep things private.
They are private.
They are already private.
They are a reflection of our relationship.
Like his taking me away with him to the casino.
Although what we did there, how we were there, was not at all shocking. But it seems almost easier to write about the really kinky stuff, the sadist as sadist, floggers and belts and strips of wood landing on my pale, reddening butt, than about smiles and laughs and shared dinners.
The inner intimacies cradle the true nakedness.
Friday, November 18, 2011
"Come here, my pet."
It hits me every time.
I see a reference to pets and I startle.
Just a little.
A moment of translation
from what the sign means
to what I am.
Today it was from the cat food.
The words stamped on the can of kitty tuna:
PET FOOD ONLY.
As if pets were some lesser creatures.
I am his pet.
I am his treasure.
And yet I am forbidden.
Probably a good idea.
But still...
What if we had driven together out to the casino?
What if I had begged for a pee stop?
Would he have obeyed the sign
and taken me from the car on the end of the chain?
Would he have made me pee in the designated area?
Would I have tottered through it on my black spike heels?
Would I have been naked except for the shoes?
It was a warm day after all...
You see what happens?
My imagination escapes me.
Leashes can be useful at times...
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Sweet, sexy, and submissive: they still like me!
I admit it.
I've been waiting.
Watching.
Wondering.
Do they still like me?
[a suspenseful pause]
Yup.
It seems they do.
I'm back on the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers.
And I was moved up to #15.
Of course, the title is a misnomer. I'm not claiming to be the 15th best sex blogger out there. Or any sort of "Best" sex blogger. The most I'll say is that I'm a good blogger, somewhat outside the usual variety of sex bloggers, with fans who nominated me and members of the judging panel who liked me. Which I'm not sneering at.
Hell, I'm real happy about it.
You know what submissives are like.
We crave approval.
Submissive bloggers are probably even worse.
This award is like a giant GOOD GIRL plastered all over the Internet.
Which reminds me of a thought I had earlier today:
Why is it always my gay male friends who are telling me they love me?
They make me feel good and all, but...
well, you know...
Nope.
Put that away.
Not gonna happen.
Back to business.
Which means giving a huge thanks to Rori
and the rest of the judges
and those of you who nominated me.
And to the sadist
who makes my life
extraordinary.
I love you, Daddy.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>
Here is the whole list.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2011.
Please take some time to visit a few bloggers who are new to you.
I especially point you to Joan Price, who at #14 is just above me. She, too, is over 60, and is dealing directly with issues of sex and aging. She does what I don't. Maybe we're a good pairing. I mostly act as if age is irrelevant. I feel young, I look (relatively young), the sadist makes me feel young, even in my non-kinky life I try to push that confusing number out of my mind.
62.
I'm 62.
That does not compute.
Joan, though, faces it head on.
She says yes, we've aged.
But don't let that stop you.
Be aware of how your body has changed.
Be good to it.
But still enjoy it.
Enjoy sex.
Enjoy relationships.
And learn what you need to so you can enjoy them more.
In light of that, check out this post: Things You'll Never Hear Him Say When He Sees You Naked. It applies to anyone who doesn't look like a model. Not to mention those of you who look amazing but can't see or accept that. And make sure to read all the comments. Including the one from me.
And now, for The List.
I've been waiting.
Watching.
Wondering.
Do they still like me?
[a suspenseful pause]
Yup.
It seems they do.
I'm back on the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers.
And I was moved up to #15.
Of course, the title is a misnomer. I'm not claiming to be the 15th best sex blogger out there. Or any sort of "Best" sex blogger. The most I'll say is that I'm a good blogger, somewhat outside the usual variety of sex bloggers, with fans who nominated me and members of the judging panel who liked me. Which I'm not sneering at.
Hell, I'm real happy about it.
You know what submissives are like.
We crave approval.
Submissive bloggers are probably even worse.
This award is like a giant GOOD GIRL plastered all over the Internet.
Which reminds me of a thought I had earlier today:
Why is it always my gay male friends who are telling me they love me?
They make me feel good and all, but...
well, you know...
Nope.
Put that away.
Not gonna happen.
Back to business.
Which means giving a huge thanks to Rori
and the rest of the judges
and those of you who nominated me.
And to the sadist
who makes my life
extraordinary.
I love you, Daddy.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>
Here is the whole list.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2011.
Please take some time to visit a few bloggers who are new to you.
I especially point you to Joan Price, who at #14 is just above me. She, too, is over 60, and is dealing directly with issues of sex and aging. She does what I don't. Maybe we're a good pairing. I mostly act as if age is irrelevant. I feel young, I look (relatively young), the sadist makes me feel young, even in my non-kinky life I try to push that confusing number out of my mind.
62.
I'm 62.
That does not compute.
Joan, though, faces it head on.
She says yes, we've aged.
But don't let that stop you.
Be aware of how your body has changed.
Be good to it.
But still enjoy it.
Enjoy sex.
Enjoy relationships.
And learn what you need to so you can enjoy them more.
In light of that, check out this post: Things You'll Never Hear Him Say When He Sees You Naked. It applies to anyone who doesn't look like a model. Not to mention those of you who look amazing but can't see or accept that. And make sure to read all the comments. Including the one from me.
And now, for The List.
- Guy New York (@quickiesnewyork) and The Dirty Gentleman from Quickies in New York
- Charlotte Times (@charlotte_times) from The Life and Charlotte Times
- Kendra Holliday (@TBK365 and @beautifulkind) from The Beautiful Kind
- Amie Wee (@crevicecanyon) from Crevice Canyon
- Riff Dog from Ashley and Me
- Catherine Toyooka (@Catcoaches) from Sex Spoken Here: Secrets of a Sexuality Educator
- Vineyard Road (@vineyardroad) from Vineyard Road
- David (@DavidinVegas) from A View from the Top
- Quizzical Pussy (@quizzicalpussy) from Quizzical Pussy
- Athol Kay from Married Man Sex Life
- Dick and Jane from Dick-n-Jane
- EA (@easilyaroused) from Easily Aroused
- Axe (@unspeakableaxe) from Unspeakable Axe
- Joan Price (@JoanPrice) from Naked at Our Age – Better Than I Ever Expect
- Oatmeal Girl (@oatmeal_girl) from Submission & Metaphor
- Dark Gracie (@darkgracie) from Dark Gracie
- Mistress Lilyana (@MistressLilyana) from Mistress Lilyana
- Kyle Jones (@butchtastickyle) from Butchtastic
- Cheeky Minx (@LoveHateSexCake) from Love Hate Sex Cake
- Adam from The Mind of a Married Man
- Dr. Marty Klein (@drmartyklein) from Sexual Intelligence
- Lady Pandorah (@ladypandorah) from Lady Pandorah’s Sanctuary
- Holly (@pervocracy) from The Pervocracy
- Brooke from Puppy Tales
- Lady Dragonfly (@miladydragonfly) from Lady Dragonfly
- nilla (@swirlednilla) from Vanillamom’s Blog
- Wilhelmina Wang (@wilhelminawang) from Heartbreak Nymphomania
- Holden (@packingvocals) from Packing Vocals
- 25 Things from 25 Things About My Sexuality
- Thumper (@thumperMN) from Denying Thumber
- Kake (@poeticerotica) from Poetic Erotica
- Lucas (@top2bottom) from Top to Bottom
- Ms. Diane D from Bi and Large – Cuckolding with a Twist
- Betty Dodson and Carlin Ross (@dodsonandross) from Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross – Sex Information Online
- Kat (@shackledkat) from Prowling with Kat
- The Gentle Nibbles Writing Team (@gentlenibbles) from Gentle Nibbles
- Pandora (@pandorablake) from Spanked, Not Silenced
- Molly (@mollysdailykiss) from Molly’s Daily Kiss
- Vixen from Secrets of a Blue-Eyed Vixen
- DDD from Dick Dyke Dick
- Jade (@piecesofjade) from Pieces of Jade
- Jiz Lee (@jizlee) from Jiz Lee
- Sin from Finding My Submission
- Kris from The Phone Courtesan
- SapioSlut from SapioSlut
- Rockin’ (@RockinwithaCock) from Light Switch
- Rachael (@rabbitwhite) from Rachel Rabbit White
- Neo Dom Tom from A Bedroom Dom
- Daisy Danger (@daisydanger) from The True Life Sex Adventures of Daisy Danger
- Violet & Rye (@UCAppetites) from Uncommon Appetites
- Kaya from Under His Hand
- Lilith (@lilith9465) from Lilith Land
- Lady Grinning Soul (@LadyGrinSoul) from Lady Grinning Soul
- Septimus from Dirty Art by Septimus
- Roxy (@sroxy) from Uncommon Curiosity
- Anakin (@AnakinDarth) and Padme (@padmeamidala) from Journey to the Darkside
- Dr. Charlie Glickman (@charlieglickman) from Adult Sexuality Education
- Lily from theblackleatherbelt
- Arabella (@askarabella) from Bombshells & Rockstars
- SN from Peel It Off!
- Bre from Owned, Collared, Loved
- Adriana Ravenlust from Of Sex and Love
- Delilah (@definingdelilah) from Defining Delilah
- Arthur and Annabelle (@lustandconfused) from Lust and Confused
- Lorelei (@suggestive) from Suggestive Tongue
- Kitty Stryker from PurrVersatility
- Mollena (@Mollena) from The Perverted Negress
- Naughty Lexi from Exploits of Lexi
- Karen Blue (@kissinbluekaren) from Kissing Blue Karen
- Arti (@ArtiAbsinthium) from Absinthe Cocktail
- Figleaf (@talkingfigleaf) from Real Adult Sex
- Miranda and Aarron from The Swingers Attic
- Blacksilk (@BlacksilkBlog) from Blacksilk’s Boudoir
- Violet (@violetscreaming) from Screaming Violet
- Ferns (@Ferns__) from Domme Chronicles
- SlipperyWhnWhet (@SlipperyWhnWhet) from A Slut’s Memoir
- Fruit Taster (@fruittaster) from Fruits of Libido
- Mrs. Discontented (@DiscontentedMrs) from Mrs. Discontented
- Aisha from Being Aisha
- Ruby Ryder from Pegging Paradise
- Chrystal Bougon from Better Sex Radio
- Lipstick Lori (@lipsticklori) from Rarely Wears Lipstick
- CarrieAnn (@CarrieAnn_) from A View from the Floor
- Dangerous Lilly (@dangerouslilly) from This Could Be Dangerous
- Electronic Doll (@electronic_doll) from Post Modern Sleaze
- Jerome from Let’s Talk About Sex
- Dusk (@dusk_in_chains) from Dusk (in chains)
- Innocent Loverboy (@innocentlb) from Innocent Loverboy
- RHS from The Redheaded Slut
- Violet Blue (@violetblue) from Tiny Nibbles
- Amy (@AnalAmy) from Anal Amy
- Curvaceous Dee (@curvaceousdee) from Curvaceous Dee
- Jason Stotts (@Jstotts) from Erosophia
- Mistress Kay (@mistress_kay) from Kinky World
- Viemoira from Cavern of the Beast
- Lucid (@lucidobsession) from Lucid Obsession
- ♀ & sss (@sweatshopsissy) from Sweat Shop Sissy
- Kat from She Makes the Rules
- Yummy from Sexual Adventures of a Married Woman
- YOU! – As always, I want to leave a place on this list for ALL the awesome sex bloggers out there! So please leave a comment on Between My Sheetswith your name/URL to tell us about your sexy blog.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
He whipped my butt with his belt
He did.
Today.
For the first time.
He whipped my pale soft bottom with his belt.
I was lying on my belly on the futon.
Soft and pale - and naked, of course.
I'm naked when I greet him at the door.
I lay on my belly while he took off his clothes. I felt him lay the belt across my naked back. I knew it was his belt. Even before he asked "What did I lay on you, my pet?" And I knew then that he was going to whip me with it.
Belts.
I have a thing for belts.
For being beaten by a belt.
The philosopher would use his belt on me.
And it figured heavily in my fantasies.
But the sadist had never used it.
Until now.
An hour or so ago.
He didn't use it that hard.
He whipped me.
My buttocks.
The tops of my thighs.
It hurt.
But not that bad.
And it thrilled me.
It aroused me.
Just the words...
He whipped me with his belt.
I felt the stripes.
Even after he stopped.
It felt as if the whipping went on and on
even after he stopped.
My pussy is pulsing like mad now.
I 'm glad he said I could masturbate.
I'm going back down to the dungeon
to lie on the futon
to think about the belt
to relive the whipping
to hold a buzzing silicone-coated creature against my clit
before thrusting it up inside me
moaning
writhing
cumming
remembering
how he put the tip of the belt in my mouth
and then the side of the belt in my mouth
as if a leather bit for a horse
and he he didn't wrap it around my neck
except I felt it being wrapped around my neck
and the end threaded through the metal buckle
and the loop pulled snugly around my throat
as if it were a collar
and I wished it were a collar
and then he did order me down
with my head on the floor between his feet
and I could hear him gather up the belt
and fold it over
and silently I begged him
as I prepared for the pain
and knew how soft it would make me
soft for his pleasure
soft for his use
and there was no need for begging
as he whipped my soft, marked butt,
his angel's soft pale butt,
with his supple leather belt.
Today.
For the first time.
He whipped my pale soft bottom with his belt.
I was lying on my belly on the futon.
Soft and pale - and naked, of course.
I'm naked when I greet him at the door.
I lay on my belly while he took off his clothes. I felt him lay the belt across my naked back. I knew it was his belt. Even before he asked "What did I lay on you, my pet?" And I knew then that he was going to whip me with it.
Belts.
I have a thing for belts.
For being beaten by a belt.
The philosopher would use his belt on me.
And it figured heavily in my fantasies.
But the sadist had never used it.
Until now.
An hour or so ago.
He didn't use it that hard.
He whipped me.
My buttocks.
The tops of my thighs.
It hurt.
But not that bad.
And it thrilled me.
It aroused me.
Just the words...
He whipped me with his belt.
I felt the stripes.
Even after he stopped.
It felt as if the whipping went on and on
even after he stopped.
My pussy is pulsing like mad now.
I 'm glad he said I could masturbate.
I'm going back down to the dungeon
to lie on the futon
to think about the belt
to relive the whipping
to hold a buzzing silicone-coated creature against my clit
before thrusting it up inside me
moaning
writhing
cumming
remembering
how he put the tip of the belt in my mouth
and then the side of the belt in my mouth
as if a leather bit for a horse
and he he didn't wrap it around my neck
except I felt it being wrapped around my neck
and the end threaded through the metal buckle
and the loop pulled snugly around my throat
as if it were a collar
and I wished it were a collar
and then he did order me down
with my head on the floor between his feet
and I could hear him gather up the belt
and fold it over
and silently I begged him
as I prepared for the pain
and knew how soft it would make me
soft for his pleasure
soft for his use
and there was no need for begging
as he whipped my soft, marked butt,
his angel's soft pale butt,
with his supple leather belt.
This film sucks!
I'm just wondering, though. Did you look at my blog? Or just get me off last year's list of top sex bloggers?
There it was. Another request for my expert opinion. Usually they want me to link to their miserable site, or put up a banner, or review a sex toy. submission & metaphor is not a vibrator review blog. I get one a month from EdenFantasys - and wow. Did I get a bang out of the latest one! If life stays stable I should have the review on that one ready by the end of the weekend.
I also don't post ads.
The only ad is the one for the anthology containing my story.
Anyone looking at my blog can tell that I don't post ads.
So when they ask, I think they haven't bothered looking.
This one definitely sounded like they hadn't bothered looking. The message began:
Hey Oatmeal Girl,Our firm is working on a new movie, “Hollywood Sex Wars,” which basically chronicles the superficial Hollywood dating scene in a humorous and raunchy way. We’d love to send you a copy in hopes that you might write a quick blog about it. Whether you love it or hate it, we’d love to get your thoughts on the movie.About the movie:“Hollywood Sex Wars” is an unapologetic, comedic satire of the 20-something’s single life.[...]
OK.
Stop right there.
This is when I wondered if she had even looked at the blog.
I'm 62-years old.
I'm a poet.
I live in metaphors.
Do I sound like someone who would appreciate this sort of thing?
She said they had checked out my blog. That they wanted a variety of opinions on it. And she added:
[...] this film is raunchy and fun; purely entertainment, but we would love to get a variety of opinions and thoughts about it, so we’re reaching out to many different film reviewers and bloggers for their thoughts.
OK, I thought. I like fun. I like raunchiness. My facility with double entendres can make the toughest man blush. And if nothing else, it will give me something to be snarky about. So sure. Send it.
I must have been feeling really desperate for blog material.
Especially as I agreed to it even after watching the trailer.
What was I thinking?!
Not much, obviously.
So yes, the DVD arrived, while S-- was here, and I whisked away the envelope to be sure he didn't see the contents. I was embarrassed to have it in the house. (Unlike the sweet little DVD of vintage erotica I bought a few years ago for the enjoyment of the philosopher and me. Lovely, that one. I wish I knew what I did with it...)
Friday night I watched it.
Hollywood Sex Wars.
It was not fun.
Not at all fun.
There was one good thing about it.
The DVD was in letterbox format.
I really appreciate letterbox format.
It transfers the film to your TV while respecting the director's artistic intent.
Artistic intent?
This?
Ha!
OK.
Scrap that.
Let me back up.
And let me try to be fair.
When I told the sadist about my new little project, he replied with the following:
I think your perspective will be valuable to them, as long as you keep in mind their goal. Movies, or any art form really, can only be judged fairly on its own terms. A participative watcher/reader/listener/consumer will meet the auteur at least halfway, entering his world, but if he then breaks his own rules, negative criticism is appropriate.
I always take the sadist's opinions seriously, and he did make a good point here. Though I do think that using the word auteur in this case is stretching it a bit.
So ok.
What was their goal?
Making money.
And from whom?
14-year old boys maybe?
I dunno.
I'm just speculating here.
Who would be satisfied with
inane dialogue,
cartoon characters,
minimal plot,
and sophomoric sex obsession?
13-year old boys?
I wouldn't know.
They do get rewarded with lots of naked tits.
Naked, pumped up, silicone-filled tits.
Ugly.
Not soft and sweet like mine...
So if that is all the "auteur" was after, he succeeded.
And who can fault him for wanting to make money?
For wanting to be one of the 1%?
And I'll bet the 14-year old bloggers are giving him a great review.
As for me?
Here are excerpts from my real-time notes:
Cannot relate to this whatsoever.
Probably meant only for men.
Boring and superficial.
Antisemitic.
Supposed to be satirical, but just boring.
So bad it was depressing.
And not even porn!
Not only wasn't it arousing; it was anti-arousing.
If I'd paid for it, I'd want my money back.
Since I didn't, I want my time back.
After it was done, I switched to a powerful old episode of Law & Order. It was called "Mushrooms" and featured brilliant performances by S. Epatha Merkerson and Regina Taylor. I was grateful for spending an hour with quality.
(If you really want to find out more, the official website is www.HollywoodSexWars.com. Don't say I didn't warn you.)
Addendum: I do need to give the writer one bit of well-earned credit. And it's an important one. In the only scene that has any sense of honesty, there's a firm lesson - delivered as a lesson - on the importance of safe sex. I hope the 14-year old boys pay attention before returning to the bouncing boobs.
Addendum: I do need to give the writer one bit of well-earned credit. And it's an important one. In the only scene that has any sense of honesty, there's a firm lesson - delivered as a lesson - on the importance of safe sex. I hope the 14-year old boys pay attention before returning to the bouncing boobs.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
On my own but never alone.
I've enjoyed the last few days.
I've enjoyed being on my own.
Because being on my own means being with the fiend.
Not that I've been hanging out at home alone. It's been a busy time. I stayed home Friday night and now I can't even remember what I did. I was very tired. I think I went to bed early. And earned Daddy's praise by waking up early on Saturday.
I do love earning Daddy's praise.
He was so pleased that he phoned me from his car.
He almost never phones me.
It was a special treat for both of us.
I love my Daddy's voice.
He ordered me out for a nice long walk on Saturday. I got air and exercise and sunshine and lots of pictures of fall foliage. Happy pet. And happy Daddy. Because as usual I sent him messages from along the trail.
I'm walking briskly, Daddy.
On the trail by the creek.
People are out with their kids and their pets.
The pets are leashed.
As am I, Daddy.
I took a lot of pictures.
I was very happy.
Daddy was happy.
He didn't reply but I knew he was happy.
He loves being with me on my walks.
A housewarming party later.
Followed by a project I'll report on in a few days.
This morning he allowed me to masturbate.
Checking out a new sex toy.
Yum.
He let me cum.
I'll report soon on that, too.
Daddy, of course, got his report in real time.
Lucky Daddy.
Lucky, aroused Daddy.
The rest of the day.
Brunch.
Home.
Nap.
Supper with friends.
And always.
Always.
I felt him with me.
I felt soft and warm and sweet and happy
and he was with me.
Always with me.
Happy Daddy.
Happy pet.
Friday, November 11, 2011
The multiplication of pleasure
An old lover was in town this week.
S--
He spent two nights in my bed.
Per order of the sadist.
Our sexual relationship had ended a couple of years ago. S--'s decision. He "realized" he could no longer have sex without a love relationship. Interesting - and a big reversal for him. A year later he reversed again, but I turned him down - partly because I was afraid it might screw up our friendship relationship but mostly because I was completely absorbed with the sadist.
The sadist, however, was not happy.
He says I was born to provide sexual pleasure.
He wants me to have sex with other men.
He wants me to focus on their pleasure.
He wants what I do to reflect what I've learned serving him.
He wants me to feel that in the act I am serving him.
And then he wants a complete report.
Because it arouses him to think of his pet slut serving other men at his command. This isn't a cuckolding thing, because he is always in control. What I do is in obedience to him - especially since it's not necessarily something I am always comfortable with. What finally changed things for me was when I really understood that it would be arousing for him. Something clicked, and then I was fine.
So I felt his eyes on me, as if he were standing over the bed watching S-- make a delicious meal out of my pussy. Delicious for S-- and delicious for me and properly arousing for the sadist.
Everyone ended up happy.
Check back for more details.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.
Life has me busy.
PS - when the sadist was here last Tuesday, he deliberately made sure not to mark me. He thought it would be impolite, knowing that the next night I would be with S--. On the other hand, he was also tempted to be sure to mark me. His mark of ownership. But good manners prevailed.
S--
He spent two nights in my bed.
Per order of the sadist.
Our sexual relationship had ended a couple of years ago. S--'s decision. He "realized" he could no longer have sex without a love relationship. Interesting - and a big reversal for him. A year later he reversed again, but I turned him down - partly because I was afraid it might screw up our friendship relationship but mostly because I was completely absorbed with the sadist.
The sadist, however, was not happy.
He says I was born to provide sexual pleasure.
He wants me to have sex with other men.
He wants me to focus on their pleasure.
He wants what I do to reflect what I've learned serving him.
He wants me to feel that in the act I am serving him.
And then he wants a complete report.
Because it arouses him to think of his pet slut serving other men at his command. This isn't a cuckolding thing, because he is always in control. What I do is in obedience to him - especially since it's not necessarily something I am always comfortable with. What finally changed things for me was when I really understood that it would be arousing for him. Something clicked, and then I was fine.
So I felt his eyes on me, as if he were standing over the bed watching S-- make a delicious meal out of my pussy. Delicious for S-- and delicious for me and properly arousing for the sadist.
Everyone ended up happy.
Check back for more details.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.
Life has me busy.
PS - when the sadist was here last Tuesday, he deliberately made sure not to mark me. He thought it would be impolite, knowing that the next night I would be with S--. On the other hand, he was also tempted to be sure to mark me. His mark of ownership. But good manners prevailed.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Casino sunset
Greedily, the sunset filled the sky,
painting marks of pink and rose
on everything it washed.
Squashed against the chilling glass,
my pale tits blushed in fervid light,
mimicking the hot spanked butt
that ached to take your cock.
Written for the sadist
and offered by him for publication,
it was recited as I knelt naked before him,
serving his pleasure.
painting marks of pink and rose
on everything it washed.
Squashed against the chilling glass,
my pale tits blushed in fervid light,
mimicking the hot spanked butt
that ached to take your cock.
Written for the sadist
and offered by him for publication,
it was recited as I knelt naked before him,
serving his pleasure.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
More on that love thing
And the conversation continues across blog lines.
I began this post while watching Once Upon a Time.
Prince Charming.
Love at first sight.
All that.
It was not love at first sight with my demon muse.
Not even love at first message.
I laughed at his first message.
I laughed and was intrigued.
Intellectually stimulated.
Trapped, of course.
He knows how to do that.
He knew what I was and knew what bait to use.
But love?
It took me by surprise.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you for the comments left here and on sin's original post, as well as to sin and others for their follow-up posts. This is an important topic to explore, and it's important to see the various perspectives.
Damn.
Snow White just saved Prince Charming's life.
I'm embarrassed by the warmth I feel and the tears that flow.
I know most of you didn't read the comments here, so I'll share and address them now. swan was the first. I can always count on her for an intelligent and analytical approach. Analytical and and incisive. You can read her own post on the topic over at her place. Part of her comment to my post was this:
"it is hard to describe the sort of love"
We have a word.
We use it as a convention.
Love.
We say it but we don't all mean the same thing.
And we can't really describe what we do mean.
What we do feel.
What I felt for the fiend,
what I called "love"
when it grabbed my head and forced me to look in its eyes,
was not what I felt for the philosopher,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #2,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #1
or for the woman who broke my silly, vulnerable heart.
And the love I felt for the sadist 3 years ago
was not the same as what I feel now.
I don't think I would ever have called it romantic love.
It is what it is.
Which does complicate the conversation.
I'm grateful that at least he knows what it is.
And accepts it.
Values it.
Appreciates it.
Even if he doesn't return it in the same currency.
Which brings us to Florida Dom's very valid question:
The thing is, I don't experience it as holding back his love.
We are - all of us - what we are.
We feel what we feel.
We order our lives in a way that makes sense to us.
I know that I am important to him.
I know that I add to his life.
There is a connection...
And then there's this.
Between when we met and when everything fell apart, ex-hubby #2 and I were together for 20 years. I thought he loved me. He said he loved me. Hell, he married me! And never - never once in all those years - did I ever feel the kind of connection I have had, in all its various incarnations, with the sadist.
Never did I feel he was really thinking about me.
Never did I feel he really knew me.
Never did I feel he really cared about me.
Even at his most objectifying, the sadist has always made me feel more respected, more valued, and more treasured than my ex-husband ever did. Ever. Even during what were supposedly the good years.
The lack of the word "love" is trivial compared to that.
I'll come back to this. Meanwhile, do check out the full comments on yesterday's post, including a long one from mamacrow - who should not apologize for its length. Her input is welcome - and that post began with my own over-long comment on sin's original post - which you might want to read if you haven't already, as well as sin's follow-up post and with all the comments and sfp's post on the matter as well.
And please - do leave your thoughts here as well.
However long they may be.
I love the conversation.
I began this post while watching Once Upon a Time.
Prince Charming.
Love at first sight.
All that.
It was not love at first sight with my demon muse.
Not even love at first message.
I laughed at his first message.
I laughed and was intrigued.
Intellectually stimulated.
Trapped, of course.
He knows how to do that.
He knew what I was and knew what bait to use.
But love?
It took me by surprise.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you for the comments left here and on sin's original post, as well as to sin and others for their follow-up posts. This is an important topic to explore, and it's important to see the various perspectives.
Damn.
Snow White just saved Prince Charming's life.
I'm embarrassed by the warmth I feel and the tears that flow.
I know most of you didn't read the comments here, so I'll share and address them now. swan was the first. I can always count on her for an intelligent and analytical approach. Analytical and and incisive. You can read her own post on the topic over at her place. Part of her comment to my post was this:
I also think that it is hard to describe the sort of love that arises out of and alongside D/s because our culture is so attached to the fairy tale version of happily ever after treacle sweet imitation that the messy, difficult, rough and tumble of human animal emotion and attachment doesn't even have words most of the time...
"it is hard to describe the sort of love"
We have a word.
We use it as a convention.
Love.
We say it but we don't all mean the same thing.
And we can't really describe what we do mean.
What we do feel.
What I felt for the fiend,
what I called "love"
when it grabbed my head and forced me to look in its eyes,
was not what I felt for the philosopher,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #2,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #1
or for the woman who broke my silly, vulnerable heart.
And the love I felt for the sadist 3 years ago
was not the same as what I feel now.
I don't think I would ever have called it romantic love.
It is what it is.
Which does complicate the conversation.
I'm grateful that at least he knows what it is.
And accepts it.
Values it.
Appreciates it.
Even if he doesn't return it in the same currency.
Which brings us to Florida Dom's very valid question:
You explained the situation very well, but am curious how you are dealing with it. Is it difficult for you that he is holding back his love or do you accept that is the way it is?
The thing is, I don't experience it as holding back his love.
We are - all of us - what we are.
We feel what we feel.
We order our lives in a way that makes sense to us.
I know that I am important to him.
I know that I add to his life.
There is a connection...
And then there's this.
Between when we met and when everything fell apart, ex-hubby #2 and I were together for 20 years. I thought he loved me. He said he loved me. Hell, he married me! And never - never once in all those years - did I ever feel the kind of connection I have had, in all its various incarnations, with the sadist.
Never did I feel he was really thinking about me.
Never did I feel he really knew me.
Never did I feel he really cared about me.
Even at his most objectifying, the sadist has always made me feel more respected, more valued, and more treasured than my ex-husband ever did. Ever. Even during what were supposedly the good years.
The lack of the word "love" is trivial compared to that.
I'll come back to this. Meanwhile, do check out the full comments on yesterday's post, including a long one from mamacrow - who should not apologize for its length. Her input is welcome - and that post began with my own over-long comment on sin's original post - which you might want to read if you haven't already, as well as sin's follow-up post and with all the comments and sfp's post on the matter as well.
And please - do leave your thoughts here as well.
However long they may be.
I love the conversation.
Friday, November 4, 2011
D/s and love - like a horse and carriage?
With her latest post, called Love, sin has started another of those discussions she's so good at inspiring. The first few lines present the question:
As usual, my comment was much too long, so I decided to be efficient and reprint it here (slightly edited) as my own post. Maybe a few of you will even comment in here? In any case, do follow the link to sin's place and add your voice to the discussion. Because of course I don't believe there is one right answer, and I am always interested in knowing how other people solve the equations of life and love.
Here's how it has played out for me and the sadist:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A rich topic, sin.
I don't think D/s HAS to mean love. But I'm not surprised that it so often ends up that way. It requires such nakedness, such intimacy - far deeper than the mere physical. For it to really work, so much has to be revealed on both sides.
Plus you're dealing with such basic needs. Acceptance. Approval. Again, on both sides. Because doesn't the sub's obedience imply a non-judgmental acceptance of the dom's darkest fantasies?
When the sadist first approached me, and for about the first month and a half, I never expected I would end up loving him. I was excited, I was enthralled, I was obsessed. But not in love. It was the connection beyond D/s that did it: literature, music, a general enjoyment of intelligence... I was almost outraged when I saw it happening. He just laughed. He said I'd been in love with him all along.
And the sadist? His feelings for me are deep and unnamed - except in the negative. Deep but not love. Was it inevitable? I'm not his only sub, and his relationships with the others are each very different. Sometimes I think that what happened with me caught him by surprise. I think it did to an extent, but only perhaps in its intensity. It seems he knew when he spotted me on Fetlife that this would be something else. From early on, he called me his complication.
But the sadist is very good at compartmentalizing. And maybe that's what a dom must be to hold back the love. That - and blessed with a talent for coldly regarding a sub as no more than a source of amusement.
I'm curious to hear from more doms on this.
Does D/s mean I love you?
It sounds like a simple question. No D/s doesn't necessarily mean love, though it can.
As usual, my comment was much too long, so I decided to be efficient and reprint it here (slightly edited) as my own post. Maybe a few of you will even comment in here? In any case, do follow the link to sin's place and add your voice to the discussion. Because of course I don't believe there is one right answer, and I am always interested in knowing how other people solve the equations of life and love.
Here's how it has played out for me and the sadist:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A rich topic, sin.
I don't think D/s HAS to mean love. But I'm not surprised that it so often ends up that way. It requires such nakedness, such intimacy - far deeper than the mere physical. For it to really work, so much has to be revealed on both sides.
Plus you're dealing with such basic needs. Acceptance. Approval. Again, on both sides. Because doesn't the sub's obedience imply a non-judgmental acceptance of the dom's darkest fantasies?
When the sadist first approached me, and for about the first month and a half, I never expected I would end up loving him. I was excited, I was enthralled, I was obsessed. But not in love. It was the connection beyond D/s that did it: literature, music, a general enjoyment of intelligence... I was almost outraged when I saw it happening. He just laughed. He said I'd been in love with him all along.
And the sadist? His feelings for me are deep and unnamed - except in the negative. Deep but not love. Was it inevitable? I'm not his only sub, and his relationships with the others are each very different. Sometimes I think that what happened with me caught him by surprise. I think it did to an extent, but only perhaps in its intensity. It seems he knew when he spotted me on Fetlife that this would be something else. From early on, he called me his complication.
But the sadist is very good at compartmentalizing. And maybe that's what a dom must be to hold back the love. That - and blessed with a talent for coldly regarding a sub as no more than a source of amusement.
I'm curious to hear from more doms on this.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Betting on the shoes - and winning
It was the shoes.
The shoes did it.
Those black spike-heeled shoes.
Of course, the shoes couldn't do it all on their own. The whole point of the shoes was to show off my extraordinary calves. The sadist is absolutely smitten with my calves - and really, they have always been very shapely. It's nice to have them appreciated.
Nearly everything was perfect.
Very close to perfect and no major catastrophes.
Although there wasn't any major tension hanging over this tryst, I think we both knew how important it was for things to go well. The last one left me shaken, the previous one was ill-advised, and the first one, though basically glorious, showed my tendency to miss details. This one was just for us. Just for him and just for us. Not tagged on to something else into which he was squeezing me.
Two things strayed from perfection.
One was my dress.
He had it in mind that I'd be wearing a Little Black Dress.
That's what he was picturing.
And I ended up in a soft green sweater dress.
A lovely dress.
Soft.
Short.
Swingy.
Embracing my tits.
Defining my hips.
Lingering above my knees.
But he was disappointed.
Next time, I'll be in black.
I've already begun the hunt.
The other flaw was that we didn't have as much time as we'd hoped. Work kept him into the afternoon on Tuesday, and he had to leave at 9 am on Wednesday. That was particularly annoying as check-out wasn't till noon. But we made the best of it.
And then there were the shoes.
And my calves.
The normal plan is for me to book the room, arrive early, prepare myself, the bed, the lights, and other details, and then wait. I text him the room number as soon as I've checked in, and then wait. I wait for him to come up to the room.
But this hotel presented a complication.
You couldn't ride the elevator up to the rooms without a key card.
You needed the card to select a floor.
The sadist wouldn't have a card.
New plan.
He texts his arrival.
I wait for him in the lobby, just inside the doors.
When I see him, I turn and walk towards the elevators.
Slowly.
Of necessity, slowly.
I'm not used to walking in any sort of heel, let alone spikes.
I feel him following me.
Watching me.
His eyes on my body.
On my butt.
On my calves.
Especially on my calves.
I know that other people are probably watching me, too. As does he. I stand out. It's a beautiful, marble lobby, but I'm the only one who looks worthy of being there. The only one nicely dressed. Casinos aren't what they used to be. Or what I imagine they used to be. I'd never been to one before. I was sort of wishing for Monte Carlo.
So I walked to the elevators
with the sadist following,
his eyes on my calves,
and his cock aimed at my butt hole.
We were off to a good start.
The shoes did it.
Those black spike-heeled shoes.
Of course, the shoes couldn't do it all on their own. The whole point of the shoes was to show off my extraordinary calves. The sadist is absolutely smitten with my calves - and really, they have always been very shapely. It's nice to have them appreciated.
Nearly everything was perfect.
Very close to perfect and no major catastrophes.
Although there wasn't any major tension hanging over this tryst, I think we both knew how important it was for things to go well. The last one left me shaken, the previous one was ill-advised, and the first one, though basically glorious, showed my tendency to miss details. This one was just for us. Just for him and just for us. Not tagged on to something else into which he was squeezing me.
Two things strayed from perfection.
One was my dress.
He had it in mind that I'd be wearing a Little Black Dress.
That's what he was picturing.
And I ended up in a soft green sweater dress.
A lovely dress.
Soft.
Short.
Swingy.
Embracing my tits.
Defining my hips.
Lingering above my knees.
But he was disappointed.
Next time, I'll be in black.
I've already begun the hunt.
The other flaw was that we didn't have as much time as we'd hoped. Work kept him into the afternoon on Tuesday, and he had to leave at 9 am on Wednesday. That was particularly annoying as check-out wasn't till noon. But we made the best of it.
And then there were the shoes.
And my calves.
The normal plan is for me to book the room, arrive early, prepare myself, the bed, the lights, and other details, and then wait. I text him the room number as soon as I've checked in, and then wait. I wait for him to come up to the room.
But this hotel presented a complication.
You couldn't ride the elevator up to the rooms without a key card.
You needed the card to select a floor.
The sadist wouldn't have a card.
New plan.
He texts his arrival.
I wait for him in the lobby, just inside the doors.
When I see him, I turn and walk towards the elevators.
Slowly.
Of necessity, slowly.
I'm not used to walking in any sort of heel, let alone spikes.
I feel him following me.
Watching me.
His eyes on my body.
On my butt.
On my calves.
Especially on my calves.
I know that other people are probably watching me, too. As does he. I stand out. It's a beautiful, marble lobby, but I'm the only one who looks worthy of being there. The only one nicely dressed. Casinos aren't what they used to be. Or what I imagine they used to be. I'd never been to one before. I was sort of wishing for Monte Carlo.
So I walked to the elevators
with the sadist following,
his eyes on my calves,
and his cock aimed at my butt hole.
We were off to a good start.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Perfect. Just perfect.
Floating.
Still smiling.
But I know I owe you something.
Let's make this a group effort.
Maybe you guys can supply the captions?
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
He took me away with him
I'm away tonight.
We are away tonight.
We are away together.
And we'll be together all night long.
The title says he took me away with him, although that's not quite accurate. He didn't physically take me away. What with differing schedules and points of origin, we couldn't travel together. A pity, that. Though I expect the intensity would have been nearly unbearable.
So we will have met.
A few hours from home.
At a hotel.
With a casino.
I've never been to a casino before.
I love it when he takes me out of my comfort zone.
I wrote this Monday night. A day ahead of when you're reading it. So I don't know what will have happened. I'm assuming - hoping - that all has gone smoothly. Our on-time departures. Not too much traffic. The reservation. My room preparations. His arrival. My greeting.
Me,
serving him a drink,
wearing
a black bra,
black panties,
and
(here it comes)
black spike heels.
Not one of the pairs I got cheap at the thrift store. Turns out they looked like the right size but were way too small. So I went shopping and got a proper pair at Payless Shoes for just $20 with heels around the same height but much skinnier. I think he'll like them better. And they fit better. Plus I did get gel inserts to ease the torture.
I think he'll be pleased at the sight of me.
Men do have their fantasies.
Then dinner.
And the casino.
And after...
Maybe, when I get home, I'll tell you about after.
Then again,
maybe not.
Why don't you write the story?
We are away tonight.
We are away together.
And we'll be together all night long.
The title says he took me away with him, although that's not quite accurate. He didn't physically take me away. What with differing schedules and points of origin, we couldn't travel together. A pity, that. Though I expect the intensity would have been nearly unbearable.
So we will have met.
A few hours from home.
At a hotel.
With a casino.
I've never been to a casino before.
I love it when he takes me out of my comfort zone.
I wrote this Monday night. A day ahead of when you're reading it. So I don't know what will have happened. I'm assuming - hoping - that all has gone smoothly. Our on-time departures. Not too much traffic. The reservation. My room preparations. His arrival. My greeting.
Me,
serving him a drink,
wearing
a black bra,
black panties,
and
(here it comes)
black spike heels.
Not one of the pairs I got cheap at the thrift store. Turns out they looked like the right size but were way too small. So I went shopping and got a proper pair at Payless Shoes for just $20 with heels around the same height but much skinnier. I think he'll like them better. And they fit better. Plus I did get gel inserts to ease the torture.
I think he'll be pleased at the sight of me.
Men do have their fantasies.
Then dinner.
And the casino.
And after...
Maybe, when I get home, I'll tell you about after.
Then again,
maybe not.
Why don't you write the story?
Monday, October 31, 2011
Masturbation mania (15) - Kiki purrs and o.g. cums
I love being efficient.
I'm not efficient very often, but when I am I'm very pleased with myself.
As you know, the sadist owns my orgasms.
Among other things.
I may only masturbate, not to mention cum, with his permission.
And then he expects a report.
Written.
With details.
Just saying:
I rubbed,
I came,
I cried,
I slept
isn't enough.
So when I test new sex toys, I end up with an account of the experience written either in the heat of the experience or else right after. I arouse the insatiable fiend and make notes for my review at the same time. Clever, no?
Here, then, are excerpts from my reports to the sadist on the two tests I ran on Kiki from PicoBong, LELO's new "youth-oriented", attractively priced line of sex toys. (As an example of the pricing, EdenFantasys sells Kiki for $39.95, whereas they sell LELO's rechargeable Siri for $98.99. Both have multiple vibration patterns on top of a few levels of straight buzz. Both are silicone. Part of Siri's extra cost is likely from being rechargeable, and I suspect it is stronger, given that Kiki runs on a single AAA battery. Plus, as you can see from the above picture, Kiki is really small. Get a little satin pouch for it (Siri already comes with one), and you could easily keep it tucked in your bag for emergencies.
A couple of functional notes before the sexy stuff. I previously learned that even clitoral vibrators benefit from a touch of lube. But given my desperate arousal and fuzzy post-service mental state when I embarked on my first trial run, I forgot that I wouldn't be inserting Kiki and doused her with too much AstroGlide. I think that reduced her effectiveness. The second time I was more careful, and Kiki brought me to an orgasm on her own.
The controls are seemingly simple and obvious, but I found that they don't lie quite where my finger wants them to be. There are just 2 buttons, which you can see in the picture above and can feel with your finger. However, they are in line with the word PicoBong, and I sometimes had to run my finger down the indented design to the right spot and then push a bit hard. you also have to read the instructions carefully and then count your way through the vibration levels so you know when to press and hold the (+) button in order to shift to the different patterns. The first time, I never did make it into the patterns. I suspect that with use I'll get better at it, but for a start it was a bit of nuisance, especially the time I removed the vibrator from my clit to check the placement of my finger.
Still, overall, I'm very fond of the little thing. Gentle, cute, and quiet are good for me. And she certainly works beautifully as an appetizer.
Here, then, are my lab reports, as written for the sadist.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
October 18
I feel unbelievably soft right now, Daddy. So now I'm going to masturbate... with the softness... feeling you still here on the bed... next to me... stroking me... watching me... feeling me tremble next to you... watching my calves stiffen with the arousal... my hair spread out on the pillow...
[...]
And I did masturbate, Daddy. Not long after you left. So that you would still be with me.
You are with me even now, Daddy.
I feel so close to you.
[ . . . ]
I just had to haul myself back from soft memories.
So yes, I masturbated.
Gently.
I pulled back the covers and lay down all soft and naked on the blue sheet and lubed up my cute little new pink toy. It's the sweetest little thing (named Kiki), but I'll have to give it another trial at least before writing the review as I forgot the trick to getting it to switch to the different patterns. You have to bring it all the way up to the top vibration level and then hold the + button down for 2 seconds. The problem was I didn't get it all the way up to the top level, and didn't realize I hadn't.
It's very quiet, Daddy, and very gentle, which is just what I wanted. It doesn't make my poor little clitoris go numb, which some vibrators do. And when that happens, using your fingers after just doesn't work. But this one was gentle, and the thought of how it looks made me feel happy, and thoughts of you made me happy. And then I switched back to my fingers, rubbing my clit which was now all wet from pussy juices and from lube... and I thought of you spanking me and then I came. Not a huge orgasm, Daddy, but a nice orgasm. Just right for today. And then I took a gentle nap.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
October 28
Awake after a short post-orgasmic nap.
I set the timer, Daddy, to be sure I didn't sleep too long.
Thank you so much for letting me masturbate, Daddy! Your poor pussy was so aroused [from an event we had been discussing] that I came very fast, even though my new little toy isn't very strong. But I like it, Daddy. I love the velvety texture, and how the tip is flat so it presses perfectly on your little girl's clit. Plus it's so quiet! Which is at least partly connected to not being very strong. But it did the job, Daddy, because I was already so aroused, so I had a first little orgasm very fast, even before I made it to the fancy vibration patterns.
I did think about being your toy, Daddy. Which made me even more aroused. And this time I didn't put too much lube on my little pink toy, so the friction was just right. It's so small and quiet I could easily carry it in a little purse, Daddy, in case of emergency...
So I had one little orgasm, Daddy, but didn't cry and wasn't ready to stop. So I switched to the big black vibrator that feels so good inside [the Sinfonia]. I lubed that up and slipped it in and used it to do Kegel exercises around. And then I fucked myself with it while it was buzzing away, knowing that I'm your pussy and I was created to be used, to be fucked, and this vibrator is perfect for fucking myself, Daddy, being shaped sort of like a curved ice cream cone, except velvety smooth and elegantly black. So I slid it in and out of me, and then took it out and pressed the buzzing tip against my clit and came again. Though again, Daddy, not a giant body shaking orgasm. And no crying.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And so it was.
So when I'm feeling particularly sweet and soft and pink, I just might reach for Kiki. because there's something about her, some indefinable personality, that makes me want to say "Come, Kiki. Come kiss my clit."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
