Daddy the Pimp

The man is incorrigible.

Although maybe that's not an appropriate word to use for such an innately dominant sadist. You don't try to correct a sadist. Still, I do sometimes wonder whether he has thought everything through.

He can't help telling other men about me.

I know that he strongly believes that my destiny is to provide sexual pleasure. Largely to men, it seems, although he knows my desires are fluid and he himself is omnivorous. I also know that he is extremely aroused by both his fantasies and the reality of watching me serve and being used by other men. So I am never surprised - and mainly amused - by reports of the latest man to whom he has marketed me.

But every so often he gets the urge to play matchmaker.
He can't help himself.
He knows -
or runs into -
a man who might want to date me.
A man who won't, who can't, be told about our relationship.
A man who might want to date me.
Not just fuck me.
And certainly not cane me.

Or at least not as far as Daddy knows.

These men do not get to see any of the pictures or video clips that Daddy carries with him on his phone. These men aren't told that Daddy owns me.

And the sadist doesn't stop to think what might happen if I did start dating any of these guys. How do I phrase my involvement with other people, even without mentioning him by name? How do I deal with my not being ready to give him up for a more standard relationship? How would he deal with my falling in love with someone he couldn't keep from giving me to?

The latest guy?
Daddy met him through his business.
The guy lives within sight of my house.
Jewish.
(Not really a plus - I have this thing for the Irish.)
My age. (But 60 is too old for me.)
Divorced. (Inevitable.)
Government employee. (Around here? Also inevitable.)
Well educated. (But how does he feel about Shakespeare?)

Of course, my own feelings about it are irrelevant.
I'll do whatever the fiend wants.
Until it comes down to hurting someone else.
Unless the guy pisses me off.
Unless the guy tries to smother me.
Unless the guy bores me.
At which point I will extricate myself.

Of course, who knows if it will comes to anything. I've been hearing about all sorts of men and only one has ever actually gotten his hands on my body. I'm starting to think that a lot of these sales pitches - and his telling me about them - have been as much for their current entertainment value as for whatever may come of them.

He loves to plan.

So now he is concocting a plan for me to meet this man whose house I can see from mine but who, being on the next street, I have never met.

A man who really wants to meet me.
A man who says he knows what 60 looks like.

I admit that, like Daddy, I can't wait to see the look on this man's face when he realizes that no, he doesn't really know what 60 looks like.

Not to mention 62.
Which I'll be in a week and a half.

We'll see...

Greetings from the Ice Queen

Please forgive the recent silence. Your devoted correspondent was carried off to a land where all was cold and dark.

51 hours without power.

It finally came back this evening, and the indoor temperature rose 10 degrees F in an hour and a half. All the way up to 57 degrees F.

I had just finished packing up a small bag and was on my way to spend the night with friends who had their power restored around 4:15 early Friday morning. Other friends are camping out there with their cat. Another friend invited those who needed to come for a hot shower, food, and company. I gratefully accepted. It wasn't so much a shower as being able to wash my hair and dry it! And it felt so good to be taken care of...

The cats seemed almost confused when the lights came back on, while I felt less guilty about contemplating leaving them to freeze alone. In the end, I decided to sleep at home.

Meanwhile, the storm which precipitated the power outage caused my rendez-vous with Evan to be postponed. Maybe Sunday afternoon. We'll see...

In the world scheme of things - and even with what some of you are dealing with - this wasn't all that serious. But it was damn uncomfortable.

Now think of the people who are sleeping on the street.

I'm trying to avoid that.
But the thoughts intrude.
And make me feel guilty.

Good night, all.
Stay warm.

Taking naked dictation

I sat there like a character in some sort of perverted version of Mad Men. Or maybe not so perverted. There was certainly plenty of what we now would call sexual harassment back then. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that this happened plenty of times. And only sometimes with the thoroughly willing participation of both parties.

Bring that chair over here.
Facing me.
Take the pad and pen.
Sit down.
Cross your legs.
Sit up straight.

"Like a secretary!" I said.

Yes, baby.
Like a secretary.

And so I took dictation.

There were three points.

1. Exercise
2. Composer
3. Daddy's ear piece
   

Exercise.
Actual physical exercise.

Daddy has never put any pressure on me as far as my body goes. No requirements that I lose weight. Oh, he did eventually order me to shave my pussy hair, having worked up to it slowly so I would be ready to embrace it by the time the day came. And back when I was going to the health club regularly, he did forbid me to harden my stomach muscles. He has this thing about a vulnerable soft belly...

But lately he has been talking about how taken he is with the channel that runs down my back. The one from which he ate his black and white cookie and drank his coffee. He says it is exquisite. But there are certain parts he wants to define a little more clearly. Hence, the required exercises.

The second item was a bit of research, which he requests every so often. In this case it was for a classical composer he heard while driving in that morning. It was an easy project, and even in my post-visit, post-orgasmic floaty state, I found the answer shortly after he left.

And the third item?
That mysterious third request?
No, the sadist does not wear a hearing aid.
He has commissioned a creative piece.
Creative and sensual and submissive and sexual.
A ritual recitation.
Words to slide off my talented tongue
directly into his waiting, trembling ear,
while I fondle my Daddy's throbbing cock.

Our interactions are often quite different from that of most couples, no matter how you define your relationships.

For once he has delineated fairly specifically how he wants the piece constructed. A rare thing for him to do, as he made sure to point out, because he fears he will contaminate the creation. But in this case, he knows what he wants. And he knows his little poet whore can deliver.

And I will.
I always do.

And the training resumes

I'm back in boot camp.
In some ways I suppose I never left.

While it's been a while since the sadist introduced new ways for me to please him, or refined old techniques, or assigned a custom writing project, I am always practicing, always drilling, each time I serve him.

Now, though, as activities resume after a 3 week hiatus due to my illness, he is setting me back to work. The new semester has started. So far this week there has been a 5-day homework assignment to review and expand daily on my cocksucking notes, an order to practice and improve the position in which I welcome his arrival in the dungeon, and preliminary presentation of a piece he wants me to write and then perform in a very specific manner.

There is an extra aspect to the physical practice.
He is not the only one who will be impressed and delighted by my display.
The date for that adventure has still to be set.

Meanwhile, I suddenly heard from Evan.
And I'll be seeing him again on Thursday.
No, wait, let's not be coy about this.
I'll be fucking him again on Thursday.
Lots.

It's been well over a year. We've been in touch occasionally. And we were both interested in repeating a very successful encounter. But he has this odd quirk about wanting me to make initiate arrangements, which doesn't work with someone as submissive and insecure as I am. He wants me to issue an invitation. Which I have a hell of a time doing.

But I did.
I managed to e-mail him last September.
And then didn't hear back until a couple of days ago.
Seems he almost never checks the account he used with me.
Well gee...

However, he did.
And he's still interested.
And I'm still interested.
And the sadist thinks I was made to give sexual pleasure.
So Evan will be here Thursday.

The lovely thing is that while Evan was certainly provided with a quite a lot sexual pleasure (he is quite a fan of my cocksucking prowess), he is also devoted to pleasing his partner.

Very devoted.

I expect to have a lovely few hours together.
And a fair number of orgasms.

What a great way to emerge from my fallow season!

The World's Most Dedicated Server

The following banner ad is currently appearing on my sitemeter page:

Server Pronto >> The World's Most Affordable Dedicated Server
Full Dedicated Servers just $29.95
24x7 customer support

And on the left, a woman with long red hair and come-to-me eyes.

The ads in the past have been connected with things I've been researching. There were weeks and weeks of Honda ads after my old one was destroyed and long past when I bought the new one. The rest of the time I think they are just standard ads, made on the assumption that I'm a normal sitemeter user.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if they've been reading my mail. Or maybe it's just my overactive imagination, always looking for symbolism and metaphor.

Not too long ago, the sadist wrote me about some communication from a former submissive. In the course of the discussion, he referred to his various "servers." Of course, you can now see where this is going - and really, is it that far a stretch? While the ad designers may not have been suggesting a full-scale D/s relationship, it is quite clear they packed the ad with sexual innuendo. Else why the expression of the model and the way she is looking over her shoulder? Why, in fact, that model at all?

In context, I'm not quite sure to what unit of measurement the price refers.
$29.95 per hour?
Per day?
Either way, quite a bargain.
Especially with service available round the clock.

However, there is a 99.999% uptime referenced in the ad which seems to imply service by a different model of server. Although I then think of those ads for a brand of those magic man pills that warns the user to contact his doctor should an erection last more than 4 hours. You'd have to call the doctor for me if any man tried to subject my aging pussy to his 4-hour erection. I'd need a gallon of Astro-Glide to keep my sensitive tissues from being eroded away.

However, that's not the point.
The point is being a dedicated server.
To serve with dedication.
Without question.
Without argument.
With a hunger to learn.
With an eagerness to please.
With a need to please,
with every breath I take.

With a need to please.
With a need to serve.
With love.

Even if it involves accommodating a 4-hour erection.

I had limits once...

I left a comment about limits today on a new blog called Submissive Missions. I checked it out after the writer, Lea, bumped up my little list of Followers from 100 to 101. Not a big number, as some blogs go, just as my daily stats are pretty modest. But I do notice new members, and I'm always curious what they're about.

What pleased me about Lea's blog is that this self-described geeky woman in her late 20s is thoughtful. She's trying to understand - herself, her submission, what others do and think and say - without being either all floaty or hard-lined about it. It's very easy when you're new to think that, because some people claim that this is what this means and this is how that is done, there is only one right way. My own firmly held philosophy is that a D/s relationship is still a relationship, and that the only Right Way is what works for the people involved. If the capitalization thing works for you, then great. If "W/we" looks and feels stupid and clumsy (I'm sure you can tell that's my personal take), don't feel, oh great and powerful Doms, that you have to impose it. If being called a slave, or calling your submissive your slave, feels right, then go for it. Don't worry if the way you are together doesn't conform to some arbitrary checklist of what defines a slave. There is no Bureau of Standards for BDSM.

So I added Lea's blog to the little list on the right in case you want to check it out and give her some support. I feel I should mention that my list is rather arbitrary. It doesn't include all the blogs I regularly read. Some of the blogs are rather dormant, but it's worth delving into out their archives. I mention writers who are thoughtful or challenging or take a different perspective or are particularly creative. And I beg forgiveness from those I don't list. It doesn't mean I don't love you.

Back to limits. Lea's latest post stems from an old post on Intelligent Submission about nipple piercing. I've known that post is there and I've never read it. I won't. I'm so squeamish about the topic that I get all squirmy just thinking about it. And there's a picture. If I were to compile a list of hard limits, needles in nipples would definitely be on there. Unh-unh. No way, Daddy.

The sadist said early on that I could have a safe word if I wanted, but there was no guarantee he would respect it. And he doesn't accept the idea of limits. I remember discussing this with another Dom in the early days, having met him on line the same day I met the philosopher. No safe word. I felt that was absolutely unacceptable, and in many ways I still do. If I were the kind to play, I would sure as hell insist on there being a safe word, and on presenting my list of hard limits. Within a relationship? I think that depends.

A very unsatisfactory answer.

The thing is, I now understand why the fiend said what he did about safe words and limits. I think it is less that he won't abide by them as it is that they would fall before him. And not because he would batter them down. Rather, he would erode them. He does erode them, dripping images that will eat away at the bricks, seep between them and loosen the mortar, inject themselves in my impressionable brain until to my horror I find myself wanting what I previously recoiled from.

Like coming to see the beauty in his dark and evil knife fantasy.

I can do that.
I can let myself see the beauty.
The attraction.
The seduction.

Because, in the end, he sets limits. He treasures me and he protects me. He knows his power. He knows the seductive power of the beast. For all the struggling I do with myself, his own struggles are far worse. I can almost see him, wrestling naked with the beast in a forest clearing under a full moon. To protect me. To protect himself.

And so,
the knife is now left in the car.

A very hard limit.

As for nipple piercing, I have no worries. He seems to almost worship my breasts, speaking today of the contrast between my engorged nipples against the creamy-soft surrounding pillow of my sweet titties (as he has taken to calling them lately). He will clamp them, yes. Eventually. [she shivers] But needles? I don't think so. And no, he does not at all think they would be improved by having them pierced for rings. No way.

Which I'm very relieved to know. Because if he did want to, he would take his time, planting the seed, until I was panting for him to declare the day it would be done.

Closing note: this is just me. This is just him. This is just us. I don't expect it to be the same for anyone else. But what I do appreciate, and one reason why I think he is so exceptional, is that he does take his time. He does slowly train me, educate me, indoctrinate me, so that even though I struggle about certain issues, these struggles stem from basic aspects of my personality which have always been issues for me. Discipline. Obedience. Respect. In trying to get me to do something, to accept something, to be something, he takes his time and he reads me. He never forces me. And if I'm really fighting back, then he backs off to an earlier stage and starts over again, nudging me, prodding me, gently leading me, but never shoving me, so that I end up wanting to be what he had in mind all along.

Cocksucking calls

Two weeks.
It's been two whole weeks.

It's a sign of how sick I've been that I haven't seen the sadist for two whole weeks and only now am I starting to feel a little impatient to see him again.

This virus has sapped me.

I'm starting to go out a bit, but a couple of hours of not very strenuous errands leaves me worn. I suspect my lack of energy would have hampered my performance. And these last few days my mood has been dampened by death in our little community.

He hasn't been pushing me. Of course, he hasn't been well, either. We've been talking, of course, e-mails, songs he sent to ease my grief. To flush out and then ease my grief. He doesn't say much when things outside our relationship are hard for me. A sentence or two. Very matter-of-fact. But somehow he comforts me. Anchors me. Lets me know he is there.

Reminds me that he is there.

I've been distracted these last few days. My mind has been with my community and our shared loss. I think he has known that. He always knows where I am. A word or two will betray me, where no one else would realize that anything was wrong.

Today, this evening, he finally decided that my leave of absence was over. He sent me to review my cocksucking notes. He probably won't be visiting until next Tuesday, but tonight I reviewed my cocksucking notes.

Cocksucking notes? Oh yes. The fiend leaves nothing to chance. Certainly, I have an extraordinary natural talent, but by now you should know that the sadist leaves nothing to chance. He knows what he likes and he makes sure that he gets it. The training he gives is detailed, rigorous, and meticulous. And to be sure I don't forget anything, I was long ago compelled to compile a list of all the things he likes and expects, which I add to as I introduce new favorites.

Oh, he does love the talents of my mouth.

And by next week, he expects to experience them again.

I'd better be as good as he remembers.

Sleep in peace

Someone I know - someone I knew - died last night. I hesitate to call her a friend; as currency that word has lost value lately from casual overuse. We weren't close. We both spent the week at the summer event which is one of the touchstones of my year, and in the normal way of things we would have seen each other - and worked together - at the event I missed last weekend due to a virus and she missed due to being close to death. But we didn't call or write between such events, and she wasn't the first one I looked for on my arrival.

Still, we knew each other.
We shared experiences.
We were part of the same village - a village with no basis in geography.

I find myself wishing I had known her better. Our village has been assembled around her for the past 3 months, not on an actual green but in those modern electronic substitutes of CaringBridge and Facebook. They work well in circumstances such as these. We came together to offer support, and now we are coming together to grieve.

I didn't know her as well as I could have. And now it's too late. And yet, from all the tributes, I feel as if I am getting to know her more - or getting to know of her, at least. Which makes me sadder for missed opportunities.

The lesson keeps coming back, again and again. From the recent insane shooting in Tucson. From this latest cancer death. She wasn't even 50. Her husband is the third man I know who has lost his wife to cancer in the past 9 months.

Take nothing for granted.
Take no one for granted.
Tell people you love them.
Tell them they are important to you.
Notice them.
Spend time with them.
Look at them.
Really look at them.
Sear their images on your brain.

Your whole world could change in any instant.
And then they'd be gone.

I feel...

I feel...
uneasy.

There are new plans.
Hints of unpleasantness.
For me at least.
Committed by one,
savored by the other,
amplified,
if not enjoyed,
by me.

I feel...
queasy.

I've been sick for too long, home this weekend instead of up in Brooklyn with a bunch of close friends and two thousand others. Home with my tea and my cats and my soup, slowly getting better, slowly getting stronger and now... getting hoarser. And a little queasy.

Damn.

Enough already!

I need to feel better
so I can feel pain.
So I can feel vulnerable.
So I can feel...
fear.

I already feel fear.

I feel...
aroused.

Hints are dropped
of nasty things
and my pussy weeps
and my womb erupts
and I tell the truth
and my Daddy says

I know, angel.

And now I want my Daddy to hurt me.
And he knows that, too.

He knows me much too well.

And so I will feel...
whatever he wants me to feel.

Daddy's hand

They come at odd moments, these visions. I lie in my bed, or recline on the couch, still in my nightgown and surrounded by tissues sodden with green mucus, and the vision slips into my unguarded mind.

His hand.

I see it at rest, his hand, settled on his bare knee as I kneel low before him, working my dependable magic with my own hand on his cock. It speaks of strength, this hand. There is strength and confidence and firmness and, yes, tenderness, even vulnerability. Normally, there isn't much time for self-indulgent observation, but clearly I have snatched enough loving glances for the image to have lodged in that large area of my brain devoted to him. It sits there, a photograph shimmering within my cells.

Sometimes, I wish I could reach out and touch it.
Caress it.

Even now, as I sit here under the pale blue afghan knitted for me all those decades ago by my first mother-in-law, I can feel the muscles of my arm trying to extend the palm of my hand towards the top of his. I can feel his skin as he accepts my gentle petting. My touches are tenuous, as I am never sure if these shows of affection are acceptable.

They always are.
He knows what comes with them.
He knows this need I have to reach out to him.
To touch him.
With a hand.
With a word.
To close the gap that separates us,
be it an inch or,
like today,
the changing miles as he goes about his day.

I miss you, Daddy.
Let's both get well very soon.

Well, what did I expect?

It's feeding time at the zoo.

I crouch down to lay Ketzel's bowl of high protein wet food on the tray that keeps stray morsels from populating the floor more than they already do. I stroke her silky soft fur until she has settled into daintily snarfing down her dinner.

I rise to leave for my next stop - feeding Marko down in the dungeon, his chosen domicile. The two-state solution continues.

"Good girl," I say.

She ignores me.

Nothing submissive about my pretty little girl.
But then, she is a cat.

PS - I'm starting to get better. Slowly but definitely. Unfortunately, I fear that Daddy may have it now, but given that it hit him nearly a week after he last visited I can be reassured that he didn't get it from me. Get well, Daddy!

Going steady with my bed

There is nothing sexy about stuffed sinuses. Perhaps they'd be better simmered in pesto sauce and served over wide, flat, tender pasta, both homemade with the freshest ingredients and enough sauce left over for the sadist to pour into the trough of my arched back as I posed on hands and knees declaring "To hell with the carpet!" Mmm... I can feel his tongue lapping the crushed basil and pine nuts off my skin, leaving me redolent of garlic.

And of Him.

But if I had the energy for that,
the energy for something as passive as getting down on my hands and knees,
I wouldn't be spending yet another day
in my bed.
In my nightgown.
Unshowered.
Living on tea and corn bread.

(Trader Joe's has this yummy corn bread mix that I shouldn't eat because it's quite sweet but it is oh so good and I don't have an appetite for much else. Soup. I've been having soup, but not chicken soup because I used up the stash in my freezer months ago and how can I make more when I'm sick which is when I need it?!)

At least I feel vindicated about my decision not to go north for my mom's 90th birthday party. Because I really am quite sick. So now I have to work hard on getting well enough to go up to New York City next Friday for a big event there. (No. Not a kinky event. I don't go to kinky events. I don't play. It's not like that for me. Of course, if Daddy wanted me to go, or wanted to take me, I would obey. But luckily he's not into it either. Note that this is not a judgement statement. We just approach it differently.)

Occasionally, I've thought this would be a nice time to have a slave. Or a wife. Or for the fiend to send one of his other submissives to take care of me. Not that I want company. I just want to be waited on. Even my housemate is away this weekend! And I'm not that good about asking for help. Perhaps (and this occurred to me this very minute) it's because my mother was so smothering, overprotective, and over-concerned that I prefer to be independent. When I do need help, I tend to feel guilty. Oh, I'll ask for favors when it's unavoidable - like a ride to and from a colonoscopy or back from the emergency room. But still, I feel like I'm imposing.

Hmmm... being sick is definitely putting me in a free-associative state.
Listening to the blues is probably sending me there as well.
I think I'll let myself float there for a while.
Floatin' on the blues,
thinkin' of my Daddy...

Time for another nap.

"Keep me apprised of your wherebouts."

It's good to know where your property is. And any responsible Daddy should be aware of what his little girl is up to, no matter what her age in calendar years. But sometimes the sadist is particularly insistent on knowing where I am and where I will be.

I'm never completely sure what is behind this. Sometimes he is clearly trying to plan a visit based on his own changeable schedule. When I'm going away, he wants to know when I will be on the road. He'll give me an assignment, or an image, or music to listen to, with instructions on what to listen for and permission to e-mail him as much as I'd like or even (a special treat) to text him.

But now?
Why now?

I'm sick.
I was going away but now I'm not.
And he still wants to know.
Where am I?
How is my health?

Where am I?!
Where should I be?
I'm sick.
I'm in bed.
I'm in the kitchen making tea.
I'm in the dining room, drinking tea.
I'm on the toilet, pissing away the tea.
What's to know?

Sometimes, I think, perhaps he just wants to know where I am. Sometimes, I think, perhaps he just wants to have that awareness of where I am, how I am, and what I'm doing.

Sometimes, I think, he can't stop thinking about me.
Just as I cannot stop thinking about him.

Poor Baby...

Daddy is a very busy man.
He can't afford to be sick.
And unlike what some men have claimed, he does get sick.
So if I'm sick, no visits until I'm completely well.

Except this time I didn't know I was sick. Well, I wasn't sick yet. But I was getting sick. And now I am sick. Sore throat, elevated temperature, no appetite, creepy-crawly skin...

Two problems.

Problem #1: Tomorrow (Thursday) I was supposed to head up north for my mom's 90th birthday party. The plan was to split the trip, stop half-way at a friend's, arrive at my final destination on Friday afternoon, be there for a family party on Saturday, and head back down on Sunday. Except that this morning I woke up sick and if I don't go my parents will be ever so disappointed and my sister will believe I did it on purpose.

Solution: put off the trip until Friday and hope to be better, at which point I'll drive all the way up at one shot. The question is whether I have the cold that lasts 2-3 days or 2-3 weeks.

Problem #2: I am not supposed to entertain the sadist if I'm sick. Or even not fully well. And given that I am sick today, I was obviously quite contagious yesterday.

Baby feels very guilty.

Solution: there is none. Although I did confess my sin.

Happily, despite all his bluster, my Daddy is a very reasonable man. It wasn't my fault, he said. I couldn't have known. And I should keep him informed of my travel plans.

And now I do feel like a snuggly Baby, happy and cozy and cared for even though there really isn't anything he can do for me.

But it feels like he is.
It feels as if he is warming my soup
and making my tea
and will,
tonight,
tuck me into my bed.

I love you, Daddy.

Some things are not for sharing

I wrote him a new poem today.
A new, little poem.
And you can't have it.

Some poems I write especially to recite to him, as I kneel between his legs, naked and adoring, my eyes embracing his, my hand on his cock, my love kissing his face. Sometimes, after, I ask if I may publish them here. If I may share them with you.

Usually, permission is granted.

Sometimes I don't ask.
Sometimes I don't want to share them.
These poems are a special gift of love,
from deep inside me to deep inside him.

Today, I had no time to ask or not.
You may not give it to them, he said.

I didn't want to anyway.

It's a small poem. Nothing fancy. Nothing deep. Nothing complex. It's very open. And it comes from Daddy's baby. I don't think he's ever had a poem from his baby before. And he wanted to keep it to himself.

He did have a message for you all. He wanted me to say that if you like the words you read here, in simple black letters on a white background, just think how much more impactful it is when delivered directly by the artist. (He didn't add - in a private performance by the naked artist, but he easily could have. He feels very possessive about his little poet, and likes to flaunt his ownership.)

We've been talking lately. Writing. There has been nakedness. Nakedness inside. Everything stripped away. Bleeding pain exposed. I am feeling very close to him. I won't presume to say what he feels. But I know how he touched me.

He sent me down to lie on the opened futon, my pale body on the dark, blood-red sheets. Spread you arms and legs wide, he said. I'm going to hurt your nipples.

Oh, I thought. I hadn't expected the nipple clamps to be ready yet. I thought he would talk about them more, build up my fear and my desire. Yet now...

I went downstairs.
I lay down on the dark sheets,
my limbs spread until I was a giant X.
I lay down and waited.

And yet, surprisingly, I wasn't trembling.
I wasn't afraid.
I was just...
there.
Soft.
Open.
Offered.

He came down.
He sat down beside me on the bed.
He stroked my breasts.
He leaned over and softly,
sweetly,
one by one
took each nipple between his lips.

I kept thinking that he was preparing them for the clamps. But no. He was caressing them. No more than that.

Eventually, he did pinch and twist them. Most of the time, he was more gentle than usual, and even the worst of the assaults, which made me squirm and cry out, had a sweetness and gentleness to them.

He kissed me.
There is no way to convey the beauty of his kisses.
These were utterly without aggression
and...

words are reducing what was transcendent.

My body began to undulate.
He held me to him,
and kissed me
and stroked me.

And then he spanked my pussy.
Over and over, he brought his fingers down on my pussy.
Maybe 2 fingers.
Maybe 3.
Just the right number to fit between my legs.

I gave little cries, and then...
and then I cried out Yes.
A cry,
a statement,
it caught me by surprise and he saw that.
I knew then.
I knew,
and he knew,
that I was saying
This is good.
I want this.
I like this.

He mentioned it later, and said this was today's lesson.
That I liked it.
That I wanted it.
Not just to please him.
To please me.

He gave me that.
He brought me there.

All this time he has been trying to teach me that I don't want it, that I am meant for other things. He would hurt me fiercely, beat me harshly - not that others more used to pain would consider it harsh, but I felt it as that. He was teaching me, warning me, letting me see his darkness, his hunger, warning me against the beast by giving me a glimpse. And sometimes the beast would break through and give me a taste of his true, unmoderated hunger, leaving me with visions of what could be if the beast weren't holding back as part of his plan of seduction.

And now?
Perhaps my Daddy was saying - here.
This is what it can be.
Now that I've cleared away your romantic vision of pain,
here.
Taste this.
A dish with just a little hot pepper. And next time there will be a little more. And the next time after that, a little more yet, though never too much, and I will open my mouth and put out my tongue and reach my head towards him and beg to be fed.

And maybe he thinks that this way we will both be safe.
Maybe he thinks that this way the beast will leave us alone.

I don't know.
I'm speculating.

But that's for the future.
For now...
I am soft and floating and happy and beautiful.

What a lovely way to start the year.

"I want to put nipple clamps on you."

And so it begins.

He was thinking about me last night.
Obsession can go both ways.
We exchanged a few little messages on and off during the evening.
But I know,
I know,
that he was listening to the playlist he compiled for me.
The one that begins with My heart belongs to Daddy.

And this morning.

I sent my morning greeting, with avowals of devotion and schedule for the day.
And then this:

(Time to put this sweet, soft, treasure of yours in the nice, warm shower and wash under those pale, soft, tits...)

He does love the soft underside of my breasts. He doesn't hurt them. He strokes them, relishing their pale, soft vulnerability.

About an hour later came his reply:

I want to put nipple clamps on you.

I was with friends at that point. I was sitting with friends around a table loaded with waffles and eggs and bacon and Westphalian ham and strawberries and raspberries and blueberries and cappucino and so many other wonderful things and suddenly I had this urge to check my phone. Surreptitiously. Under the table. And there was this message.

I want to put nipple clamps on you.

And then I was in two places at once. I was with my friends, in their home, sitting around a table loaded with food in a roomful of windows, bathing in light, and then I was in that place. That other place. A place of surrender and fear and pain and love where I will suffer things I don't want to experience. And will not consider escape.

Once.
I've experienced nipple clamps just once.
With Motorcycle Man.

I was terrified of them. I remember writing about that in comments on the blog that Discerning Dom wrote as the English Gentleman. I learned about pain as the philosopher pinched my nipples. I learned about the difference between erotic pain and real pain as he slowly pinched my nipples between his fingers harder and harder. And this kind of pain I loved. It hurt and it pulled me to it.

There is a passage in my story that was published in Best S/M Erotica Volume 3 which speaks of the sadist's relationship with my nipples:

Like a boy driven to pull the wings off elegant butterflies, your fingers inexorably move to her nipples. A normal man would have fondled her breasts, cupped them, circled his hands gently around them before pressing gently in on the hardening nipples. You are who you are. Like a rabid lobster, you grab each nipple, pinching, digging your nails in, and then twisting them as far as they will go and then one notch farther. She gasps, jerks, and screams, jolted out of her illusion of intimacy into the reality of an intimacy much deeper than she had ever known before you snared her.

But that, at least, has his touch, that direct connection between our bodies, between our eyes, because in the story he is spooning behind her, reaching around to seize her breasts. In truth, till now, he has always wanted my face in front of his, my eyes linked with him, so he could read the pain in my eyes, through my eyes, and rejoice in the intimate union of predator and victim.

It is another form of intercourse.

This, however, will be torture.

He has always wanted to torture me.

I want to put nipple clamps on you.

They scare me, Daddy.

I'm sure they do, my pet. And that excites me, as does the thought of those perfect, soft pink little nipples being bitten into by cold sharp cruel steel. The idea is making me hard.

Daddy?
I'm in that place, Daddy...
Those words...

I know, angel. And precious? Daddy does not mean the specifically-designed-for-play kind of clamps. He means the custom-made, alligator-clips on a chain type. They'll be quite painful when put in place.Daddy will be able to feel the chain against his legs while Baby is blowing him, and then they will be extra painful when he pulls them off his baby girl.

And so it begins.
And so it continues.
Happy new year.