It could have gone either way.
Including really badly.
He had a relapse last night. Sunday night. Some of the nasty thought demons were partying in his brain. Sort of a Best-Of show, featuring favorite fury points from the previous week.
He was almost thinking that maybe he shouldn't see me today. But he decided to go ahead with it. He felt he needed to see me, as the next step in the process.
We took precautions, though.
I was ordered to keep my eyes down.
And I closed my eyes when my head was raised.
He was still afraid of what he might see there.
He was even more afraid of what might not be there.
He said: "You're so beautiful with your eyes closed."
He kept saying how beautiful I was.
He said lots of other things, too, and not all of them were nice. Especially in the very beginning. But then...
I'm not going to give you all the details. This all feels so deeply intimate. Plus there's something else.
It feels more intimate.
Even with the rupture that we are both working to repair.
And yes, he does seem committed to the effort.
Something changed when he admitted to his feelings, even though he didn't come up with a precise word for them beyond what could be termed less than love and more than manipulative disdain. (He wasn't even that specific.) Something changed. A wall came down. I'm sure he has many walls behind that first one. But one wall did come now.
I made love to him today.
I didn't serve him.
I made love to him.
And he felt it.
He felt it in my kisses.
He felt it in my hand,
in my mouth,
as I adored his cock
and gave him the sweet, sweet pleasure
he thought he might never know again.
Oh, he has plenty of people to take care of his needs. But they are not me. And for me, he has special feelings. I know that now. It's real.
We are acting like a couple now.
A couple in pain,
but a couple nevertheless.
And that, I think, will make all the difference in the world.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Signs and portents
We had to ride it out.
He had to ride it out.
He was stuck on a furious bull, condemned to ride until one of them wore down. And for a while, it was unclear which one would survive.
Luckily for both of us, he managed to hold on.
We spent hours chatting today.
Hours.
And even after things smoothed out, he would have kept going.
Except I was exhausted.
I needed to get out.
Away from the computer.
Into the air.
So he let me go - but offered me more time later if I wished.
He calmed down a lot last night. He kept cycling through all the different emotions, but not as fast and not as intensely.
He wasn't cruel today.
He confessed that he had been deliberately cruel before.
The Beast had been party to our previous chats.
He never knew the Beast could type, he said.
It was nearly an apology.
He asked how I was. He hadn't wanted to hear about my feelings before. But now... somehow, through those letters on my laptop, I could hear a gentleness in his voice.
This whole thing has been awful.
The pain on both sides has been nearly unbearable.
And the damage has been real.
There are no guarantees that we will return to where we were.
But we're going to try.
And we've made a lot of progress already.
In some ways, though, we're way ahead. Because he's not hiding. He's not pretending. And I'm not doubting what my eyes and mouth and ears and heart were telling me.
He came as close to a declaration of his feelings as I can expect. He defined them as "somewhere BETWEEN what [he] was admitting and what [I was] hoping/suspecting." Which sounds just about right. Except that I didn't actually think, or even hope, that he full-out loved me. It would have been inconvenient at the very least.
Are you wondering what he thought he had been admitting? He thought he was telegraphing things by saying how I was his special treasure and all that. Men. Feh! Because he kept vaccinating me against believing this meant anything by reminding me that I was one of many, just something he used and could easily through away. (I'm sparing you his really awful metaphor.) Protesting too much. Definitely. But it hurt. A lot. And made me doubt that there was indeed so much more.
He is, as I've said, very vulnerable.
And he carries around hundreds of pounds of armor.
The thing is, now it's out there. It's acknowledged. Directly. Not just by the inference that if I could cause him that much pain he must have cared very much indeed.
I'm not used to people having such strong feelings for me.
I could almost handle his lust and his sadistic urges better than that.
So there it is. A wall has come down. We are in some ways still further apart than we were, but in some ways we are closer. Although he shies away from the word, we are an Us. That feels very different.
That feels very beautiful.
Remember how on Saturday he said he was afraid to see me?
He's talking about coming on Monday.
Tomorrow.
One last thing.
We are going forward very slowly.
Very cautiously.
Or so he says.
I'm not the only one who can be impulsive.
So there are rules.
There are always rules.
I can still address him only as Sir.
And I wasn't allowed to tell him that I loved him.
Until this afternoon, as I said goodbye before going on my walk.
I always cry.
He had to ride it out.
He was stuck on a furious bull, condemned to ride until one of them wore down. And for a while, it was unclear which one would survive.
Luckily for both of us, he managed to hold on.
We spent hours chatting today.
Hours.
And even after things smoothed out, he would have kept going.
Except I was exhausted.
I needed to get out.
Away from the computer.
Into the air.
So he let me go - but offered me more time later if I wished.
He calmed down a lot last night. He kept cycling through all the different emotions, but not as fast and not as intensely.
He wasn't cruel today.
He confessed that he had been deliberately cruel before.
The Beast had been party to our previous chats.
He never knew the Beast could type, he said.
It was nearly an apology.
He asked how I was. He hadn't wanted to hear about my feelings before. But now... somehow, through those letters on my laptop, I could hear a gentleness in his voice.
This whole thing has been awful.
The pain on both sides has been nearly unbearable.
And the damage has been real.
There are no guarantees that we will return to where we were.
But we're going to try.
And we've made a lot of progress already.
In some ways, though, we're way ahead. Because he's not hiding. He's not pretending. And I'm not doubting what my eyes and mouth and ears and heart were telling me.
He came as close to a declaration of his feelings as I can expect. He defined them as "somewhere BETWEEN what [he] was admitting and what [I was] hoping/suspecting." Which sounds just about right. Except that I didn't actually think, or even hope, that he full-out loved me. It would have been inconvenient at the very least.
Are you wondering what he thought he had been admitting? He thought he was telegraphing things by saying how I was his special treasure and all that. Men. Feh! Because he kept vaccinating me against believing this meant anything by reminding me that I was one of many, just something he used and could easily through away. (I'm sparing you his really awful metaphor.) Protesting too much. Definitely. But it hurt. A lot. And made me doubt that there was indeed so much more.
He is, as I've said, very vulnerable.
And he carries around hundreds of pounds of armor.
The thing is, now it's out there. It's acknowledged. Directly. Not just by the inference that if I could cause him that much pain he must have cared very much indeed.
I'm not used to people having such strong feelings for me.
I could almost handle his lust and his sadistic urges better than that.
So there it is. A wall has come down. We are in some ways still further apart than we were, but in some ways we are closer. Although he shies away from the word, we are an Us. That feels very different.
That feels very beautiful.
Remember how on Saturday he said he was afraid to see me?
He's talking about coming on Monday.
Tomorrow.
One last thing.
We are going forward very slowly.
Very cautiously.
Or so he says.
I'm not the only one who can be impulsive.
So there are rules.
There are always rules.
I can still address him only as Sir.
And I wasn't allowed to tell him that I loved him.
Until this afternoon, as I said goodbye before going on my walk.
Him: Do you want to go?I cried.
me: I think so, Sir. I think I need to go for a walk.
I... that thing I'm not allowed to say now.
But I do.
Him: Go ahead
me: I love you.
Him: Good girl
I always cry.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Working for the Beast
I'm writing sadistic porn for the Beast. He likes me, it seems, or perhaps merely enjoys my suffering. So I have been assigned to serve his literary appetites, with the chance that he will put in a good word for me with the sadist.
The story I just sent him was so dark that I almost vomited as I proofread.
Which is no surprise, really.
I've been nauseous most of the day.
We've talked a lot today, the sadist and I
"Talked."
The modern way.
E-mails, texts, long conversations via IM.
He went to see his slave this morning.
It could have been me.
He had the time and it could have been me.
He even thought of that, of visiting me.
He pictured me.
The way I greet him,
standing naked behind the open door
so as not to embarrass the neighbors.
The way I stand against the dungeon wall,
the way I kneel before his chair.
And then...
I can't even describe the horrible, horror movie fantasy that came unbidden into his mind and left him afraid to look at my face. Afraid to look into my eyes. Because last Tuesday, when he looked into my eyes, the way he always looks into my eyes, he didn't find what was usually there. And in some ways I think that hurt him more than anything.
So he didn't come to see me.
He went to see his masochistic slave.
The slave survived - I'm assured he's all right -
and the sadist was somewhat cleansed.
He did a lot of thinking on the drive home.
We took a break, then he e-mailed me that he was sending me 4 more e-mails, which I should read without responding. He would then sign on to IM in 5 minutes. Except it must have been about 10 minutes, because I had time to read the e-mails and then listen to an assigned gut-wrenching song by his favorite singer-songwriter.
One of the e-mails told about the hour he had accidentally spent with the solider Friday night. Back at the bar. They didn't spend the whole time speaking of me. But obviously they did. Speak about me. What a concept.
Two of the e-mails referred to the possibility of never seeing me again.
I felt as if I'd been punched in my pale white belly. Something the sadist in fact likes to do. But he holds himself back with me.
Excuse me.
He has held himself back with me.
No assumptions can be made about the future.
And then we talked.
Instant messaging.
Must have gone on for hours.
So many ups and downs.
So many tears.
But in the end...
He is working on a new plan.
Very cautiously,
very vaguely,
he is working on a new plan.
There are no guarantees.
And so far there are only 2 points.
1. It will take time.
2. Since the stories I write specifically for the beast seem to win myself some support from him, the sadist thinks it would be a good idea to continue that activity. Except for scaring myself with how extreme and dark my imagination can be, I'm glad to be doing it. I hadn't written much in the way of fiction for a long time. And at least this way I feel that I'm doing something when really there is nothing I can do.
The sadist must heal.
He must recover.
The question that came up is whether he will recover from me, or merely from the wound that was inflicted by an arrow coming from my direction. At least, today, he mentioned the possibility that he might be able to consider (even if not believe) the idea that I didn't fire it deliberately. A small step, for sure, not to be given more weight than it deserves, but a generous step nevertheless.
So I wrote him (or, rather, the Beast) a story that makes me want to vomit.
I wrote a poem, too, though it's not quite finished.
And I'm not sure I should send it.
Perhaps I'll post it here instead.
Before I go off to watch one of his all-time favorite movies and then report my reaction, I want to add one caution about what I have been and will be writing about all this and everything else.
Especially about all this.
Be careful about what you assume about him and his reactions and feelings and psychology. What you read is my interpretation. It is not objective. It is filtered through my own weaknesses and emotions and neuroses and faulty memory. In some ways, for him, for any of us, objective truth is irrelevant. All that matters is how we experience the world. That is our reality. His experience of what I did and what I said and what was not in my eyes is his reality. What happens hereafter must proceed from there.
And my eyes?
I do not dispute that something he usually finds was absent from my eyes.
This I cannot dispute.
And therein lies my grief.
The story I just sent him was so dark that I almost vomited as I proofread.
Which is no surprise, really.
I've been nauseous most of the day.
We've talked a lot today, the sadist and I
"Talked."
The modern way.
E-mails, texts, long conversations via IM.
He went to see his slave this morning.
It could have been me.
He had the time and it could have been me.
He even thought of that, of visiting me.
He pictured me.
The way I greet him,
standing naked behind the open door
so as not to embarrass the neighbors.
The way I stand against the dungeon wall,
the way I kneel before his chair.
And then...
I can't even describe the horrible, horror movie fantasy that came unbidden into his mind and left him afraid to look at my face. Afraid to look into my eyes. Because last Tuesday, when he looked into my eyes, the way he always looks into my eyes, he didn't find what was usually there. And in some ways I think that hurt him more than anything.
So he didn't come to see me.
He went to see his masochistic slave.
The slave survived - I'm assured he's all right -
and the sadist was somewhat cleansed.
He did a lot of thinking on the drive home.
We took a break, then he e-mailed me that he was sending me 4 more e-mails, which I should read without responding. He would then sign on to IM in 5 minutes. Except it must have been about 10 minutes, because I had time to read the e-mails and then listen to an assigned gut-wrenching song by his favorite singer-songwriter.
One of the e-mails told about the hour he had accidentally spent with the solider Friday night. Back at the bar. They didn't spend the whole time speaking of me. But obviously they did. Speak about me. What a concept.
Two of the e-mails referred to the possibility of never seeing me again.
I felt as if I'd been punched in my pale white belly. Something the sadist in fact likes to do. But he holds himself back with me.
Excuse me.
He has held himself back with me.
No assumptions can be made about the future.
And then we talked.
Instant messaging.
Must have gone on for hours.
So many ups and downs.
So many tears.
But in the end...
He is working on a new plan.
Very cautiously,
very vaguely,
he is working on a new plan.
There are no guarantees.
And so far there are only 2 points.
1. It will take time.
2. Since the stories I write specifically for the beast seem to win myself some support from him, the sadist thinks it would be a good idea to continue that activity. Except for scaring myself with how extreme and dark my imagination can be, I'm glad to be doing it. I hadn't written much in the way of fiction for a long time. And at least this way I feel that I'm doing something when really there is nothing I can do.
The sadist must heal.
He must recover.
The question that came up is whether he will recover from me, or merely from the wound that was inflicted by an arrow coming from my direction. At least, today, he mentioned the possibility that he might be able to consider (even if not believe) the idea that I didn't fire it deliberately. A small step, for sure, not to be given more weight than it deserves, but a generous step nevertheless.
So I wrote him (or, rather, the Beast) a story that makes me want to vomit.
I wrote a poem, too, though it's not quite finished.
And I'm not sure I should send it.
Perhaps I'll post it here instead.
Before I go off to watch one of his all-time favorite movies and then report my reaction, I want to add one caution about what I have been and will be writing about all this and everything else.
Especially about all this.
Be careful about what you assume about him and his reactions and feelings and psychology. What you read is my interpretation. It is not objective. It is filtered through my own weaknesses and emotions and neuroses and faulty memory. In some ways, for him, for any of us, objective truth is irrelevant. All that matters is how we experience the world. That is our reality. His experience of what I did and what I said and what was not in my eyes is his reality. What happens hereafter must proceed from there.
And my eyes?
I do not dispute that something he usually finds was absent from my eyes.
This I cannot dispute.
And therein lies my grief.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Lost. So much is lost.
I can't wrote anything.
There's too much pain.
On both sides.
And the story -
it keeps changing.
I thought he had feelings for me,
but who knew they were so deep?
I thought he was vulnerable,
but who knew he was so fragile?
It feels as if I destroyed him at some very deep level. And I don't quite know how it happened. I certainly didn't mean to. My heart is ripped to shreds. To find out what what I suspected was true and then to lose it all at the same moment... it's unbearable.
Things looked better for a while.
This afternoon, things looked a little better.
At least he was ready to try,
oh so cautiously, to work our way back.
To something.
To take that chance.
But he's in such pain...
it started up again tonight.
It scares me.
Sometimes it sounds as if he's never felt this deeply before.
Or let himself feel this deeply.
He's had reasons to protect himself.
But oh God, when that armour is pierced...
So I don't know what to say.
But he wanted me to tell you something. To tell it to you and to myself. That he really doesn't care if I have sex with other people. In fact, he wants me to, for various reasons, including that the thought of it arouses him. That anyway I have my own life and he understands that and that yes, it would be a good idea for me to find someone to take care of me in my old age, which he won't be able to do. That all this isn't about that.
I am desperately trying to get him to believe my own avowals.
I will not doubt his statement and I urge you to take it at face value.
In fact, I do believe him.
I think there is something else that happens.
And really, what does it matter, who or what or why. I admit that I was angry at being pushed into something I didn't want to do. But if I was that angry and that disgusted as to want to end it all, I wouldn't have gone ahead and fucked the soldier. There would have been no point.
I love him very much.
I love him in his power
and I love him in his pain.
But he doesn't believe me.
He thinks everything that went before was a lie.
He is convinced of this.
And I fear he will never be able to get past this.
I love him and he is in pain.
He rails that I must be exultant over his pain.
He says you all must be sharing my triumph.
There is no triumph.
He is in pain
and I am in pain
and there is nothing I can do.
Either he will recover enough to deal with it rationally
or he won't.
He's not used to feeling.
He has always protected himself against feeling.
I'm afraid he will never recover.
What a horrible thing to have on my conscience,
whether or not we can ever be together again in any way.
I didn't mean to do it.
But I've done it.
I seem to have broken a heart that he always hid from me,
and I fear I've shredded his soul.
I love him and I've destroyed him and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do.
There's too much pain.
On both sides.
And the story -
it keeps changing.
I thought he had feelings for me,
but who knew they were so deep?
I thought he was vulnerable,
but who knew he was so fragile?
It feels as if I destroyed him at some very deep level. And I don't quite know how it happened. I certainly didn't mean to. My heart is ripped to shreds. To find out what what I suspected was true and then to lose it all at the same moment... it's unbearable.
Things looked better for a while.
This afternoon, things looked a little better.
At least he was ready to try,
oh so cautiously, to work our way back.
To something.
To take that chance.
But he's in such pain...
it started up again tonight.
It scares me.
Sometimes it sounds as if he's never felt this deeply before.
Or let himself feel this deeply.
He's had reasons to protect himself.
But oh God, when that armour is pierced...
So I don't know what to say.
But he wanted me to tell you something. To tell it to you and to myself. That he really doesn't care if I have sex with other people. In fact, he wants me to, for various reasons, including that the thought of it arouses him. That anyway I have my own life and he understands that and that yes, it would be a good idea for me to find someone to take care of me in my old age, which he won't be able to do. That all this isn't about that.
I am desperately trying to get him to believe my own avowals.
I will not doubt his statement and I urge you to take it at face value.
In fact, I do believe him.
I think there is something else that happens.
And really, what does it matter, who or what or why. I admit that I was angry at being pushed into something I didn't want to do. But if I was that angry and that disgusted as to want to end it all, I wouldn't have gone ahead and fucked the soldier. There would have been no point.
I love him very much.
I love him in his power
and I love him in his pain.
But he doesn't believe me.
He thinks everything that went before was a lie.
He is convinced of this.
And I fear he will never be able to get past this.
I love him and he is in pain.
He rails that I must be exultant over his pain.
He says you all must be sharing my triumph.
There is no triumph.
He is in pain
and I am in pain
and there is nothing I can do.
Either he will recover enough to deal with it rationally
or he won't.
He's not used to feeling.
He has always protected himself against feeling.
I'm afraid he will never recover.
What a horrible thing to have on my conscience,
whether or not we can ever be together again in any way.
I didn't mean to do it.
But I've done it.
I seem to have broken a heart that he always hid from me,
and I fear I've shredded his soul.
I love him and I've destroyed him and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Casualties
He's wounded.
Angry.
He says I changed,
that everything changed,
that he could hear it in my written words Sunday morning
and then saw it in my eyes when he was here.
He says I turned away.
It's true I was thrown by things that happened at the bar on Saturday. I wrote that here myself. And its true that I was struggling - and unhappy - with what he wanted me to do. It's true I wasn't usually where I am when he was here. I couldn't get there. I could get to that place. I was struggling and couldn't get there, and yet he said he was proud of me for what I did do. And then I struggled and pushed myself to be here with the solider and make him feel good.
And I did.
I made him feel good.
And had a good time while still feeling all the time that I was doing what the sadist wanted me to.
Doing it because the sadist wanted me to.
I was so proud of myself.
But he was wounded.
Wounded sore.
All that vulnerability I knew was there had been pierced and he was wounded sore and now he thinks it's over and he won't believe me that it's not! Nothing I can say will get through and there's no persuading him.
If I didn't care about him, if I didn't love him, I'd just say fuck you, this isn't worth it, and walk away. Except I do. Stupidly, I do, although he seems to be doing his best to push me away. Which is always my biggest fear, has always been my biggest fear. That he will send me away.
If I'm honest he doesn't like what I say.
And if I'm not honest he doesn't like it either.
I can't win one way or another.
But I am being honest. He just can't believe me. Personally, I think he is feeling his vulnerability and is running scared.
I was so afraid of this. He says it has nothing to do with my fucking the solider on his orders, and certainly my feeling disconcerted started Saturday night. Though much of that did had to do with his insistence that I fuck the guy. Everything is all entwined with everything else. Still, I knew this would happen. Because it has happened before when I've been with someone else, no matter his insisting that it was fine with him and he was happy to know I was fulfilling my destiny to provide men with sexual pleasure and all that crap.
And on top of everything else, I get confused by what he says and sometimes think it's OK when it isn't. But tonight he was having a major hurt tantrum, so there was no denying he was ever so upset.
I can't reason with him.
I was supposed to go away this weekend, to visit my parents, but the weather might be bad - might - so they are wanting me to postpone the trip. I said I would decide Saturday morning, but maybe I'll just say the hell with it and tell them I'm staying down here. Then I'll have time to sort things out with the sadist one way or another. Or try to get stuff done. Between being out so late Saturday, and going to bed late last night and using the whole day yesterday to shop and cook and clean, I am so far behind in getting things done to make up for all the weeks I was sick that it might be a good idea to stay home in any case.
I don't know.
He almost always knows what is going on in my head.
Almost always.
Not this time.
He did see things when he was here.
That is true.
But he's wrong now.
He's wrong.
But he's working so hard to protect himself that he won't let himself believe any more.
There is nothing I can do.
It's all up to him.
And when he gets an idea in his head, he's unshakable.
Angry.
He says I changed,
that everything changed,
that he could hear it in my written words Sunday morning
and then saw it in my eyes when he was here.
He says I turned away.
It's true I was thrown by things that happened at the bar on Saturday. I wrote that here myself. And its true that I was struggling - and unhappy - with what he wanted me to do. It's true I wasn't usually where I am when he was here. I couldn't get there. I could get to that place. I was struggling and couldn't get there, and yet he said he was proud of me for what I did do. And then I struggled and pushed myself to be here with the solider and make him feel good.
And I did.
I made him feel good.
And had a good time while still feeling all the time that I was doing what the sadist wanted me to.
Doing it because the sadist wanted me to.
I was so proud of myself.
But he was wounded.
Wounded sore.
All that vulnerability I knew was there had been pierced and he was wounded sore and now he thinks it's over and he won't believe me that it's not! Nothing I can say will get through and there's no persuading him.
If I didn't care about him, if I didn't love him, I'd just say fuck you, this isn't worth it, and walk away. Except I do. Stupidly, I do, although he seems to be doing his best to push me away. Which is always my biggest fear, has always been my biggest fear. That he will send me away.
If I'm honest he doesn't like what I say.
And if I'm not honest he doesn't like it either.
I can't win one way or another.
But I am being honest. He just can't believe me. Personally, I think he is feeling his vulnerability and is running scared.
I was so afraid of this. He says it has nothing to do with my fucking the solider on his orders, and certainly my feeling disconcerted started Saturday night. Though much of that did had to do with his insistence that I fuck the guy. Everything is all entwined with everything else. Still, I knew this would happen. Because it has happened before when I've been with someone else, no matter his insisting that it was fine with him and he was happy to know I was fulfilling my destiny to provide men with sexual pleasure and all that crap.
And on top of everything else, I get confused by what he says and sometimes think it's OK when it isn't. But tonight he was having a major hurt tantrum, so there was no denying he was ever so upset.
I can't reason with him.
I was supposed to go away this weekend, to visit my parents, but the weather might be bad - might - so they are wanting me to postpone the trip. I said I would decide Saturday morning, but maybe I'll just say the hell with it and tell them I'm staying down here. Then I'll have time to sort things out with the sadist one way or another. Or try to get stuff done. Between being out so late Saturday, and going to bed late last night and using the whole day yesterday to shop and cook and clean, I am so far behind in getting things done to make up for all the weeks I was sick that it might be a good idea to stay home in any case.
I don't know.
He almost always knows what is going on in my head.
Almost always.
Not this time.
He did see things when he was here.
That is true.
But he's wrong now.
He's wrong.
But he's working so hard to protect himself that he won't let himself believe any more.
There is nothing I can do.
It's all up to him.
And when he gets an idea in his head, he's unshakable.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Success
The soldier left a very happy man.
With a very happy cock.
And me?
I was pretty happy, too.
The main problem was that I was afraid the condom would come off. He hadn't brought any, not wanting "to be presumptuous." (He's very sweet and polite, although a little dumb for being so smart - and he is very smart - and a Democrat.) Of course, I have a goodly supply and plenty of Astro-Glide. But the condoms... well, they're normal size. He isn't. Oh my, he isn't.
And I enjoyed his company.
So we'll see each other again.
Two smiling people.
Isn't that nice?
With a very happy cock.
And me?
I was pretty happy, too.
The main problem was that I was afraid the condom would come off. He hadn't brought any, not wanting "to be presumptuous." (He's very sweet and polite, although a little dumb for being so smart - and he is very smart - and a Democrat.) Of course, I have a goodly supply and plenty of Astro-Glide. But the condoms... well, they're normal size. He isn't. Oh my, he isn't.
And I enjoyed his company.
So we'll see each other again.
Two smiling people.
Isn't that nice?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Spreading around my sexual favors
So many ups and downs... so many twists and turns... and more to come.
I started writing one post along the way.
And then stopped as things started changing and evolving.
So maybe a summary will have to do.
Daddy sees me as a sort of "sexual Florence-Nightingale-to-the-world" (his term). I was created to give sexual pleasure. Generously. He really believes this. He thinks it's a crime and a waste for me not to use my talents broadly.
Which is all well and good. And sometimes I almost believe him. Almost. He knows I don't though. not really. And while I do go through these horribly horny spells, when it comes down to it I hold back. Even with these two old friends/lovers who have wanted to have sex again. I turned them down. Partly because I don't want to mess up what we've managed to achieve with our friendships, after some rough spots connected with our former sexual relationships. But partly because I felt so filled with the sadist that I felt I would be only half there with either of the other guys.
Meanwhile, the fiend keeps trying to connect me up with people, without fully registering the possible complications if I end up dating any of them. One of the guys he has in mind he met through business, and has a house that's visible from mine. Which would mean the guy would see Daddy's car in front of my house from time to time. Not cool if he and I were dating.
It's odd, you know. I feel fine with him bringing over who knows what sex fiends to do who knows what awful things to me while he watches and enjoys. But I'm really struggling with the idea of meeting some guys with whom I'll probably enjoy spending time, and with whom I'll probably enjoy having sex - precisely because Daddy does really want me to have sex with them. Because he feels this is what I was meant to do.
It does sound weird, doesn't it?
It's weird.
It's hard.
It's a challenge.
Which so far I have been failing.
Saturday evening, the sadist surprised me by inviting me up to hang out at a bar in his town. [Here were a lot of details that I've chosen to edit out.] Eventually I relaxed and stopped feeling so out of place. And eventually we - well, Daddy first - made the acquaintance of a good looking , lonely young soldier a few stools down the bar from us.
Young like the philosopher.
39.
It was inevitable that Daddy should decide that it was my destiny to relieve the young man of his loneliness and horniness.
Certainly, the soldier was interested in me. Aside from anything else, I was dressed per instructions in a sexy, clingy, very low-cut black sweater. Without a bra. And I'm sweet and sometimes I even agree that I'm beautiful and I was definitely both flirty and kind. And he was lonely. New to town, working at a nearby base, and not wanting to hang out with other military people. A sweet guy.
One of the things that I admire so much about Daddy and that give him so much power over me is that he sees into my head and heart as if I were made of clear glass and running non-stop electronic signs spelling out my every thought and feeling. But this time his vision was clouded. he was drinking. A lot. And while he certainly knew what the soldier wanted, despite the guy's being confused - or maybe not - about my relationship with the fiend - he misread me. Or maybe was just indulging in wishful thinking. he thought we both wanted to go off together. So he kept leaving us alone and then left the bar early (well, not that early, maybe 5-10 minutes before he needed to), intending for me to go home with the guy.
I refused.
The guy was actually very sweet - is actually very sweet - but I just didn't want to. Cautious, I suppose. Which wasn't a stupid thing to be. And just having trouble with it. So I said no, but gave him my number and e-mail address and offered to get together this week. The guy was disappointed, but happy, I think, at the thought of having made contact with someone.
Daddy was angry.
I let him down.
I was not taking seriously his intentions for me.
And rightly enough, he reminded me that we both say that we are not playing. This is for real. Which means sometimes I will be doing things I don't want to do.
As the sadist likes to say, you prove nothing when you order an ice-cream loving submissive to eat ice cream.
There was more about Saturday night.
Daddy was drinking.
A lot.
We were in an environment in which we are usually not together.
He often seemed different from the man I know.
Certainly, we were mostly behaving together in a different way.
It was so odd. Especially in the presence of the soldier, I was teasing in the way I never could be if we were alone. But we were trying not to broadcast our relationship. Fat chance. A few times the soldier asked point blank what our relationship was. He said he saw how I looked at the sadist. How my eyes were on his face all the time. It's hard to hide something like that. It's hard to change something like that. I told him we were just old friends, but I'm not sure he swallowed it.
So.
We each went home to our own homes.
And the next day, and even Monday, I was feeling different. Uncomfortable. A bit estranged. Disconcerted by how Daddy had seemed. There was a vulnerability about him... he seemed to grow shorter... We had two conversations that were rather revealing on his part, which I treasured for their openness, but which also revealed his vulnerability, although that kind I can deal with and love him for.
And he was quite annoyed with me for not going home with the solider.
Still.
Things are moving along with that.
So maybe I'll get to redeem myself.
Or not.
He's a nice guy, the soldier.
hes a sweet guy, and polite and considerate and with more depth than I first thought.
He called me late Sunday afternoon, having waited all day, trying to figure out the right time to call. We talked for 40 minutes. He's coming over on Wednesday (tomorrow as I'm writing). He'll bring a DVD. I'll make dinner. Daddy is assuming we'll end up in bed, that the guy will be all over me after 10 minutes of the movie. But really, the solider is so phenomenally polite and thoughtful that I'll be surprised. But if I wants to fuck me, I'll let him. (And yes, of course, safe sex!!) It could be very sweet.
A few more things.
Yes, he knows that I'm 23 years older than he is. (I wonder how old his mom is...) He asked straight out. Politely, of course. He took me for early 40s. I wonder what he'll think when he sees me in full light?
Daddy was here this morning. After I made him feel ever so good, we talked about the soldier's upcoming visit. Which Daddy fully respects will be a cumming visit. We talked about what to say about our relationship, expanding on an early e-mail discussion. And Daddy gave me a gift. He said that I could say that we were friends with benefits. Or tell even more of the truth if I wished. I doubt I would do that. But I'm so glad that I can say - or at least imply, depending on the situation - that we're involved. That I have an involvement. That he - or anyone - shouldn't assume that I am available to be his girlfriend.
That was such a relief.
Part of me is so afraid of being swallowed up.
I'm already swallowed up.
Swallowed and burnt by digestive juices.
I do think Daddy knew that I needed to be able to say that. And then he went further. He said that if I wanted I could tell the soldier exactly what our relationship was. Now that I don't think I'll do. I think it would shock him. make him uneasy. But if I did, Daddy said, I could tell him that the sadist was here today - and deliberately didn't mark me because he knew I would be seeing the soldier tomorrow.
Now that could be interesting...
I'm afraid to re-read this for editing. I suspect it's much too rambling. So I'll just check for mis-spellings and hit PUBLISH POST. What the hell. I'm living dangerously already.
(Actually, not as dangerously as it might seem. Daddy grilled me on making sure someone knew the soldier was coming over. And of course he knows. And the solider knows he knows, and will see me text Daddy on his arrival. Daddy does take care of me. My only concern is that the guy is so polite that he may not actually try to fuck me. I sure hope he at least tries to kiss me or I'll really be in trouble!)
I started writing one post along the way.
And then stopped as things started changing and evolving.
So maybe a summary will have to do.
Daddy sees me as a sort of "sexual Florence-Nightingale-to-the-world" (his term). I was created to give sexual pleasure. Generously. He really believes this. He thinks it's a crime and a waste for me not to use my talents broadly.
Which is all well and good. And sometimes I almost believe him. Almost. He knows I don't though. not really. And while I do go through these horribly horny spells, when it comes down to it I hold back. Even with these two old friends/lovers who have wanted to have sex again. I turned them down. Partly because I don't want to mess up what we've managed to achieve with our friendships, after some rough spots connected with our former sexual relationships. But partly because I felt so filled with the sadist that I felt I would be only half there with either of the other guys.
Meanwhile, the fiend keeps trying to connect me up with people, without fully registering the possible complications if I end up dating any of them. One of the guys he has in mind he met through business, and has a house that's visible from mine. Which would mean the guy would see Daddy's car in front of my house from time to time. Not cool if he and I were dating.
It's odd, you know. I feel fine with him bringing over who knows what sex fiends to do who knows what awful things to me while he watches and enjoys. But I'm really struggling with the idea of meeting some guys with whom I'll probably enjoy spending time, and with whom I'll probably enjoy having sex - precisely because Daddy does really want me to have sex with them. Because he feels this is what I was meant to do.
It does sound weird, doesn't it?
It's weird.
It's hard.
It's a challenge.
Which so far I have been failing.
Saturday evening, the sadist surprised me by inviting me up to hang out at a bar in his town. [Here were a lot of details that I've chosen to edit out.] Eventually I relaxed and stopped feeling so out of place. And eventually we - well, Daddy first - made the acquaintance of a good looking , lonely young soldier a few stools down the bar from us.
Young like the philosopher.
39.
It was inevitable that Daddy should decide that it was my destiny to relieve the young man of his loneliness and horniness.
Certainly, the soldier was interested in me. Aside from anything else, I was dressed per instructions in a sexy, clingy, very low-cut black sweater. Without a bra. And I'm sweet and sometimes I even agree that I'm beautiful and I was definitely both flirty and kind. And he was lonely. New to town, working at a nearby base, and not wanting to hang out with other military people. A sweet guy.
One of the things that I admire so much about Daddy and that give him so much power over me is that he sees into my head and heart as if I were made of clear glass and running non-stop electronic signs spelling out my every thought and feeling. But this time his vision was clouded. he was drinking. A lot. And while he certainly knew what the soldier wanted, despite the guy's being confused - or maybe not - about my relationship with the fiend - he misread me. Or maybe was just indulging in wishful thinking. he thought we both wanted to go off together. So he kept leaving us alone and then left the bar early (well, not that early, maybe 5-10 minutes before he needed to), intending for me to go home with the guy.
I refused.
The guy was actually very sweet - is actually very sweet - but I just didn't want to. Cautious, I suppose. Which wasn't a stupid thing to be. And just having trouble with it. So I said no, but gave him my number and e-mail address and offered to get together this week. The guy was disappointed, but happy, I think, at the thought of having made contact with someone.
Daddy was angry.
I let him down.
I was not taking seriously his intentions for me.
And rightly enough, he reminded me that we both say that we are not playing. This is for real. Which means sometimes I will be doing things I don't want to do.
As the sadist likes to say, you prove nothing when you order an ice-cream loving submissive to eat ice cream.
There was more about Saturday night.
Daddy was drinking.
A lot.
We were in an environment in which we are usually not together.
He often seemed different from the man I know.
Certainly, we were mostly behaving together in a different way.
It was so odd. Especially in the presence of the soldier, I was teasing in the way I never could be if we were alone. But we were trying not to broadcast our relationship. Fat chance. A few times the soldier asked point blank what our relationship was. He said he saw how I looked at the sadist. How my eyes were on his face all the time. It's hard to hide something like that. It's hard to change something like that. I told him we were just old friends, but I'm not sure he swallowed it.
So.
We each went home to our own homes.
And the next day, and even Monday, I was feeling different. Uncomfortable. A bit estranged. Disconcerted by how Daddy had seemed. There was a vulnerability about him... he seemed to grow shorter... We had two conversations that were rather revealing on his part, which I treasured for their openness, but which also revealed his vulnerability, although that kind I can deal with and love him for.
And he was quite annoyed with me for not going home with the solider.
Still.
Things are moving along with that.
So maybe I'll get to redeem myself.
Or not.
He's a nice guy, the soldier.
hes a sweet guy, and polite and considerate and with more depth than I first thought.
He called me late Sunday afternoon, having waited all day, trying to figure out the right time to call. We talked for 40 minutes. He's coming over on Wednesday (tomorrow as I'm writing). He'll bring a DVD. I'll make dinner. Daddy is assuming we'll end up in bed, that the guy will be all over me after 10 minutes of the movie. But really, the solider is so phenomenally polite and thoughtful that I'll be surprised. But if I wants to fuck me, I'll let him. (And yes, of course, safe sex!!) It could be very sweet.
A few more things.
Yes, he knows that I'm 23 years older than he is. (I wonder how old his mom is...) He asked straight out. Politely, of course. He took me for early 40s. I wonder what he'll think when he sees me in full light?
Daddy was here this morning. After I made him feel ever so good, we talked about the soldier's upcoming visit. Which Daddy fully respects will be a cumming visit. We talked about what to say about our relationship, expanding on an early e-mail discussion. And Daddy gave me a gift. He said that I could say that we were friends with benefits. Or tell even more of the truth if I wished. I doubt I would do that. But I'm so glad that I can say - or at least imply, depending on the situation - that we're involved. That I have an involvement. That he - or anyone - shouldn't assume that I am available to be his girlfriend.
That was such a relief.
Part of me is so afraid of being swallowed up.
I'm already swallowed up.
Swallowed and burnt by digestive juices.
I do think Daddy knew that I needed to be able to say that. And then he went further. He said that if I wanted I could tell the soldier exactly what our relationship was. Now that I don't think I'll do. I think it would shock him. make him uneasy. But if I did, Daddy said, I could tell him that the sadist was here today - and deliberately didn't mark me because he knew I would be seeing the soldier tomorrow.
Now that could be interesting...
I'm afraid to re-read this for editing. I suspect it's much too rambling. So I'll just check for mis-spellings and hit PUBLISH POST. What the hell. I'm living dangerously already.
(Actually, not as dangerously as it might seem. Daddy grilled me on making sure someone knew the soldier was coming over. And of course he knows. And the solider knows he knows, and will see me text Daddy on his arrival. Daddy does take care of me. My only concern is that the guy is so polite that he may not actually try to fuck me. I sure hope he at least tries to kiss me or I'll really be in trouble!)
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Vibrator shopping - suggestions, anyone?
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Tuesday, February 15, 2011
On pain and submission
The pain is subsiding.
Or perhaps settling in.
Or maybe it's just that I've found a more comfortable sitting position.
My mood has been mutating since the sadist's hour and a half visit yesterday. Sorting it out now, I suspect he spent about a third of that time beating me. I'm not really sure. After the first segment, during which he used various implements on my butt as I screamed and wriggled while keeping to my position facing the wall, the torture was interspersed with his enjoyment of my mouth and my attending to the needs of his cock using my hand and the aforementioned oral cavity.
Plus some other stuff.
Much of the last half hour was a period of re-emerging for both of us. We talked about the beast, and about how tempted I am by the beast, and about a new project he wanted to collaborate on. Plus he gave me a copy of a CD with one song he particularly wanted me to hear. Music he shares is always a very special gift. There were instructions on things he wanted me to write about, permission to write here about his visit and the torture, permission to masturbate if I wished (and I did), to be followed immediately by a report, and the gift of an order to sleep with the chain for the next few nights. I don't wear the chain in those cases. I sleep with it in the bed, held close to my body with love and respect. But he did order me to keep the chain around my neck for as long as I was alone in the house after he left.
I loved that.
You might classify all that as a form of aftercare. I think it did us both good, as the time had been very intense for him as well. And there was a short period after he came when I rested my head against his belly and felt owned and safe and drained.
But once he was gone, my mood kept mutating. The high subsided, the pain drowned out most everything else, the sobs that normally follow my masturbatory orgasm were cut short by a phlegm-producing cough, and I became downright crabby. I hurt and I was exhausted, even as I felt transformed and drawn very near to the one who had beaten me.
I thought my various moods made it into last night's post. But reading it over today, I can see they didn't. So I'm sorry for being so grumpy to the people who commented both publicly and privately, offering congratulations and the like for my having had such a satisfactory beating. I thought I had made it clear that I don't like pain!!! Or rather I like a little bit of pain. I love the way he squeezes my nipple and takes me to this special place where we are joined in a way that is more intimate than any sexual union. I like a mild spanking. I like the sensation of being flogged when it hurts a little bit. I like being hurt a little. I don't like being tortured. I found it very hard to tolerate, even though it obviously aroused me. I am not a masochist. I don't need pain.
There was nothing about this that was meant to serve my needs.
It was all about his needs.
A very intense need.
And surrounding it all was the fear that the beast would break loose and take over the action, which could spell disaster for both me and the sadist.
On the other hand, what I did love - what gave me a beautiful pleasure - was knowing that I had given myself willingly to something that is very hard for me. In fact, I wanted him to torture me, because I knew how badly he wanted to and needed to. And because I know how hard he struggles against the evil suggestions that the beast whispers in his ear to let go of his scruples and do to me all those really awful things he holds back from.
Anyway... since most of my readers don't look at the comments, I am posting below much of what I wrote in response to comments on yesterday's post. And please accept my apology for sounding so grumpy. It was my fault. I was in pain and I assumed I had probably only told the sadist. Thank you to those of you who did comment - and for you real masochists out there, I'm sure the level of pain I suffered would have been most inadequate for you.
I'm such a wimp!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Comments:
_sub_girl called me lucky and said "How I miss the torment and pain a strong Sadist is capable of so lovingly applying." She then asked about the unknown implement with which I was whipped.
KellyRed said "Was it worth it? That is the question. Were you able to watch his face? or were you too absorbed in the pain? I would love to be able to watch his face..."
My reply, edited at my whim (mainly for typos), and presented with apologies as needed.
Or perhaps settling in.
Or maybe it's just that I've found a more comfortable sitting position.
My mood has been mutating since the sadist's hour and a half visit yesterday. Sorting it out now, I suspect he spent about a third of that time beating me. I'm not really sure. After the first segment, during which he used various implements on my butt as I screamed and wriggled while keeping to my position facing the wall, the torture was interspersed with his enjoyment of my mouth and my attending to the needs of his cock using my hand and the aforementioned oral cavity.
Plus some other stuff.
Much of the last half hour was a period of re-emerging for both of us. We talked about the beast, and about how tempted I am by the beast, and about a new project he wanted to collaborate on. Plus he gave me a copy of a CD with one song he particularly wanted me to hear. Music he shares is always a very special gift. There were instructions on things he wanted me to write about, permission to write here about his visit and the torture, permission to masturbate if I wished (and I did), to be followed immediately by a report, and the gift of an order to sleep with the chain for the next few nights. I don't wear the chain in those cases. I sleep with it in the bed, held close to my body with love and respect. But he did order me to keep the chain around my neck for as long as I was alone in the house after he left.
I loved that.
You might classify all that as a form of aftercare. I think it did us both good, as the time had been very intense for him as well. And there was a short period after he came when I rested my head against his belly and felt owned and safe and drained.
But once he was gone, my mood kept mutating. The high subsided, the pain drowned out most everything else, the sobs that normally follow my masturbatory orgasm were cut short by a phlegm-producing cough, and I became downright crabby. I hurt and I was exhausted, even as I felt transformed and drawn very near to the one who had beaten me.
I thought my various moods made it into last night's post. But reading it over today, I can see they didn't. So I'm sorry for being so grumpy to the people who commented both publicly and privately, offering congratulations and the like for my having had such a satisfactory beating. I thought I had made it clear that I don't like pain!!! Or rather I like a little bit of pain. I love the way he squeezes my nipple and takes me to this special place where we are joined in a way that is more intimate than any sexual union. I like a mild spanking. I like the sensation of being flogged when it hurts a little bit. I like being hurt a little. I don't like being tortured. I found it very hard to tolerate, even though it obviously aroused me. I am not a masochist. I don't need pain.
There was nothing about this that was meant to serve my needs.
It was all about his needs.
A very intense need.
And surrounding it all was the fear that the beast would break loose and take over the action, which could spell disaster for both me and the sadist.
On the other hand, what I did love - what gave me a beautiful pleasure - was knowing that I had given myself willingly to something that is very hard for me. In fact, I wanted him to torture me, because I knew how badly he wanted to and needed to. And because I know how hard he struggles against the evil suggestions that the beast whispers in his ear to let go of his scruples and do to me all those really awful things he holds back from.
Anyway... since most of my readers don't look at the comments, I am posting below much of what I wrote in response to comments on yesterday's post. And please accept my apology for sounding so grumpy. It was my fault. I was in pain and I assumed I had probably only told the sadist. Thank you to those of you who did comment - and for you real masochists out there, I'm sure the level of pain I suffered would have been most inadequate for you.
I'm such a wimp!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Comments:
_sub_girl called me lucky and said "How I miss the torment and pain a strong Sadist is capable of so lovingly applying." She then asked about the unknown implement with which I was whipped.
KellyRed said "Was it worth it? That is the question. Were you able to watch his face? or were you too absorbed in the pain? I would love to be able to watch his face..."
My reply, edited at my whim (mainly for typos), and presented with apologies as needed.
_sub_girl - I am lucky in general to have such a rich and challenging relationship. I don't know that I would think to call myself lucky to have been beaten. None of it was for me, and I wouldn't call anything about it loving. What does reflect the way he treasures me is how he fights off the urge to hurt me VERY badly. In fact, he doesn't usually allow himself to use me in this way, for fear the beast will take over and inflict such severe harm that it would destroy us both.
Here, too, I am lucky in that he has others whom he can torture most severely, including his masochist slave. I am NOT a masochist, but I am happy when he allows himself to beat me because of the pleasure it gives him and the relief from the pressure of his desires.
I did ask him what he whipped me with. It was nothing more than a pair of speaker cables for his computer. He specifically said I should point out that they were not coaxial cables, and then proceeded to discuss the efficacy of electric wire as an implement. He likes to use everyday objects, although he did have his slave make the flogger for using on me. Through trial and error, it was designed especially to suit my low level of pain tolerance.
Kelly - was it worth it? Oh yes. Except that between the pain and the wind and the cats being restless (probably due to the very high wind), I can't sleep tonight and thus am up replying to your comments.
It was worth it because I gave him what he needed. It was worth it because of the connection it creates. It was worth it because it was another way to show how fully I have given myself to him. And yes, although it hurt a lot (and I do NOT enjoy the pain) it results in an intensity that nothing else can achieve.
I cannot see his face. When he beats me I am standing facing the wall, or down on the ground on knees and forearms, or torso on the futon. Even when he flogged my breasts while I was bound to the chair, he was on standing to the side of me and I was looking straight forward.
I do get to see his face as he hurts me, though. Regularly. I kneel before him, my eyes linked with his, as he squeezes and twists my left nipple with his right thumb and forefinger. This happens every time we are together. He is looking deep inside me, to see how the pain is taking me to that place, and I see how he is seeing into me and how by hurting me he is pulling me to him, joining me with him... oh yes, I just remembered, it happened in another way this time. The chain was clipped tight around my neck the entire length of his visit and long after he left. I was kneeling before him, attending to his cock. He pulled the chain down my back, lodged it in the valley between my ass cheeks and settled it into my pussy, and then pulled up. Hard. This was the one pain I did like and it had an extraordinary effect on me. I had this intense sense of how he possesses me... the words don't do it justice... and it took me to an even deeper place than usual... he saw it in my eyes, and I saw the fierceness and satisfaction in his.
So yes, if for that alone, it was worth it. And it relates to what he has been teaching me since the first time he hurt me in the smallest way. The incredible intimacy between predator and prey.
Except that I am a willing victim, and therefore not a victim at all. I lay myself down on the altar and offer my throat to the knife. (Metaphor. That's a metaphor. The knife is no longer allowed in the house. For my safety.)
Monday, February 14, 2011
Beaten
He wanted to hurt me.
Oh my, how he wanted to hurt me.
He was nearly distraught with needing to hurt me.
He wanted to torture me.
He likes that word.
And it seems appropriate.
He enjoys inflicting pain.
He gets pleasure from inflicting pain.
And he gets special pleasure from inflicting it on me.
He enjoys making me suffer.
He gorges himself on my screams and squirms.
I screamed and squirmed a lot.
I don't know how many times he struck me.
Counting is not a task I've ever been assigned.
There is nothing to distract me from the pain.
He started right in.
No warm up.
He never eases into it.
This isn't a sex game.
There is no point in making it easier for me.
I take my position facing the wall, offering my butt, and he beats me.
The strip of cherry wood he uses as a cane.
The large wooden spoon.
The beautiful bi-color flogger that hurts like hell
when he swings it hard against already sore flesh.
His hand, large and hard and merciless.
And something else.
Something he took out of his bag.
I had no idea what it was.
He whipped me with it.
And it hurt.
It really hurt.
Everything hurt.
Everything still hurts.
A lot.
There are all sorts of marks on my butt. He examined it by the light from the window and noted the bruises and welts and who knows what else. Now I'm in my pyjamas, sitting up in bed, and the pain is even worse than it was earlier.
Plus my nipples are sore.
Sore and red.
He bound me to a straight-back chair and flogged my tits and torso.
Scared the shit out of me.
It actually didn't hurt that much.
But having my tits flogged is so scary that the only way he can really do it is by restraining me, and this was the first time he'd done it. He's actually not into bondage - more important to him is a willing offering, willing suffering no matter what he does.
There is so much more I could say.
About the chain.
About my fear.
About his fierceness.
About the special union that comes from the dance of torture and suffering.
But I'm going to stop now.
I'm not sure that I can go over it again.
Not tonight.
And I'm in a lot of pain.
Perhaps I'll feel better lying on my side...
Oh my, how he wanted to hurt me.
He was nearly distraught with needing to hurt me.
He wanted to torture me.
He likes that word.
And it seems appropriate.
He enjoys inflicting pain.
He gets pleasure from inflicting pain.
And he gets special pleasure from inflicting it on me.
He enjoys making me suffer.
He gorges himself on my screams and squirms.
I screamed and squirmed a lot.
I don't know how many times he struck me.
Counting is not a task I've ever been assigned.
There is nothing to distract me from the pain.
He started right in.
No warm up.
He never eases into it.
This isn't a sex game.
There is no point in making it easier for me.
I take my position facing the wall, offering my butt, and he beats me.
The strip of cherry wood he uses as a cane.
The large wooden spoon.
The beautiful bi-color flogger that hurts like hell
when he swings it hard against already sore flesh.
His hand, large and hard and merciless.
And something else.
Something he took out of his bag.
I had no idea what it was.
He whipped me with it.
And it hurt.
It really hurt.
Everything hurt.
Everything still hurts.
A lot.
There are all sorts of marks on my butt. He examined it by the light from the window and noted the bruises and welts and who knows what else. Now I'm in my pyjamas, sitting up in bed, and the pain is even worse than it was earlier.
Plus my nipples are sore.
Sore and red.
He bound me to a straight-back chair and flogged my tits and torso.
Scared the shit out of me.
It actually didn't hurt that much.
But having my tits flogged is so scary that the only way he can really do it is by restraining me, and this was the first time he'd done it. He's actually not into bondage - more important to him is a willing offering, willing suffering no matter what he does.
There is so much more I could say.
About the chain.
About my fear.
About his fierceness.
About the special union that comes from the dance of torture and suffering.
But I'm going to stop now.
I'm not sure that I can go over it again.
Not tonight.
And I'm in a lot of pain.
Perhaps I'll feel better lying on my side...
Sunday, February 13, 2011
They're writing songs of smut, but not for you
Actually, it wasn't a song but a story. A bit of smut for a Saturday night. I was horny as hell - a hormone storm that struck as my strength was returning.
I was drunk on arousal.
I had an image.
I had a fantasy.
I had a longing.
I wished like hell that the sadist had sent over a gang of men to use his little whore. He always talks about how I was made to give men sexual pleasure. That this was my destiny. I wanted - I needed - a little bit of that destiny right then. I wanted to be fucked, to be flogged, to be sodomized, to be brutalized... not really rape because I'd know he had sent them and that it was my job to please them. Whatever that involved.
Maybe they represented my libido, this trio I envisioned coming to my door. They were my libido and all I wanted - all I needed - was to yield.
Nobody came to the door.
So I wrote instead.
I wrote and wrote - pure impure smut, with all the details.
No shying away from descriptions of what they did to me.
Just the way the sadist likes it.
I wrote for hours, I think. I'm a slow typist, and I do proofread. I wrote and wrote and then I sent it off to him, only regretting that he probably wouldn't read it until this morning.
I was a little worried as to what he'd think. This wasn't one of my artistic pieces. No clever plot line. Just raw sex and perfect submission.
Which seems to be just what he wanted.
Just what he needed.
Because I wasn't the only one with a rising desperate hunger.
The beast has awakened. And while there are others on whom he can feed, there is only one meal he truly wants.
Me.
Dinner will be served tomorrow.
Late Monday morning, to be more precise.
Oh, and the story?
I did ask. Really. I haven't given you a nice long, juicy, sexy, and very raw story in quite a long time. I haven't written anything like that in a long time. So I did ask if I could post it here.
The sadist is a greedy man.
Not to mention possessive.
The beast even more so.
The answer was NO.
Sorry...
I was drunk on arousal.
I had an image.
I had a fantasy.
I had a longing.
I wished like hell that the sadist had sent over a gang of men to use his little whore. He always talks about how I was made to give men sexual pleasure. That this was my destiny. I wanted - I needed - a little bit of that destiny right then. I wanted to be fucked, to be flogged, to be sodomized, to be brutalized... not really rape because I'd know he had sent them and that it was my job to please them. Whatever that involved.
Maybe they represented my libido, this trio I envisioned coming to my door. They were my libido and all I wanted - all I needed - was to yield.
Nobody came to the door.
So I wrote instead.
I wrote and wrote - pure impure smut, with all the details.
No shying away from descriptions of what they did to me.
Just the way the sadist likes it.
I wrote for hours, I think. I'm a slow typist, and I do proofread. I wrote and wrote and then I sent it off to him, only regretting that he probably wouldn't read it until this morning.
I was a little worried as to what he'd think. This wasn't one of my artistic pieces. No clever plot line. Just raw sex and perfect submission.
Which seems to be just what he wanted.
Just what he needed.
Because I wasn't the only one with a rising desperate hunger.
The beast has awakened. And while there are others on whom he can feed, there is only one meal he truly wants.
Me.
Dinner will be served tomorrow.
Late Monday morning, to be more precise.
Oh, and the story?
I did ask. Really. I haven't given you a nice long, juicy, sexy, and very raw story in quite a long time. I haven't written anything like that in a long time. So I did ask if I could post it here.
The sadist is a greedy man.
Not to mention possessive.
The beast even more so.
The answer was NO.
Sorry...
Friday, February 11, 2011
Head over cock, freedom over tyranny
My poor sadist. He missed his weekly visit with his constantly sick little cocksucker. His poet hasn't been very forthcoming, either. That's the problem when you have multiple functions being served by the same member of your stable. These are the days I am so grateful for the other women and men who suck his cock and serve him in assorted other ways.
Still, he's been sounding pretty grumpy about my being out of commission.
Which does make me feel awfully good.
Even though I've still been feeling not so good.
I am getting better.
That main being-sick part is over.
But oh, the lingering effects...
Coughing.
Nose blowing.
Exhaustion.
It's the exhaustion that's the worst.
As I said on Wednesday, Daddy has really had it with my being sick. Not that I can blame him. I've had it, too. The first virus struck on Wednesday, January 5th, as I was emerging from 2 months of assorted misery and life interruption courtesy of Marko's near death, the murder of my car, and Seasonal Affective Disorder. And then, just as I was delighting in an expected return to functionality, illness struck. And struck again. And again. And again.
So yes.
We've both had it with my being sick.
Daddy was getting impatient.
But I was still exhausted.
Luckily, logic managed to trump desire.
The sadist does not visit when I am sick.
And he had to admit, from this morning's status report, that I am still not well.
So the visit was postponed.
To my great relief.
And I spent the day,
this extraordinary day,
sharing the joy of Egyptians
in their glorious freedom
which through peaceful revolution
they won
for
themselves.
Who knows how this will ultimately play out.
But for today.
let us rejoice.
Still, he's been sounding pretty grumpy about my being out of commission.
Which does make me feel awfully good.
Even though I've still been feeling not so good.
I am getting better.
That main being-sick part is over.
But oh, the lingering effects...
Coughing.
Nose blowing.
Exhaustion.
It's the exhaustion that's the worst.
As I said on Wednesday, Daddy has really had it with my being sick. Not that I can blame him. I've had it, too. The first virus struck on Wednesday, January 5th, as I was emerging from 2 months of assorted misery and life interruption courtesy of Marko's near death, the murder of my car, and Seasonal Affective Disorder. And then, just as I was delighting in an expected return to functionality, illness struck. And struck again. And again. And again.
So yes.
We've both had it with my being sick.
Daddy was getting impatient.
But I was still exhausted.
Luckily, logic managed to trump desire.
The sadist does not visit when I am sick.
And he had to admit, from this morning's status report, that I am still not well.
So the visit was postponed.
To my great relief.
And I spent the day,
this extraordinary day,
sharing the joy of Egyptians
in their glorious freedom
which through peaceful revolution
they won
for
themselves.
Who knows how this will ultimately play out.
But for today.
let us rejoice.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Daddy wants what is his
I will be increasing my activity level gradually, Daddy, as the little I did today completely exhausted me.
I love you, Daddy.
And I hope to be stronger soon.
Sick and contagious is one thing. Strength and/or lack of energy is another. I do not intend to delay my next visit until such time as you deign to announce you are full of vim and vigor. I will start looking for an opportunity now. Friday may be possible.
That's that, then.
I only hope I don't cough all over his cock.
PS - happy birthday to me.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
He lets me see inside
I don't know why he does it.
Is it part of the plan?
Or a need to connect?
Manipulation?
Or trust?
He ripped back the curtain again.
Just a little.
He let me see inside
Just a little.
And he did it with such poetry and such nakedness that it hurt.
No, sillies, he didn't say that.
He will never say that.
Even if he felt it, he would never say it.
But he bared... something else.
There were other things, of course.
His latest plans.
His latest schemes.
He's pushing me.
Using me.
Nothing new, that.
To be expected.
You'll hear about it eventually, what he has in mind for me.
Things I will experience.
Things I will do.
I suppose you'll hear about it all.
Eventually.
But not this.
Not what he said.
Not what he wrote.
Not what he feels.
I will not let you see him
that naked.
Is it part of the plan?
Or a need to connect?
Manipulation?
Or trust?
He ripped back the curtain again.
Just a little.
He let me see inside
Just a little.
And he did it with such poetry and such nakedness that it hurt.
No, sillies, he didn't say that.
He will never say that.
Even if he felt it, he would never say it.
But he bared... something else.
There were other things, of course.
His latest plans.
His latest schemes.
He's pushing me.
Using me.
Nothing new, that.
To be expected.
You'll hear about it eventually, what he has in mind for me.
Things I will experience.
Things I will do.
I suppose you'll hear about it all.
Eventually.
But not this.
Not what he said.
Not what he wrote.
Not what he feels.
I will not let you see him
that naked.
Monday, February 7, 2011
He takes care of me
I've been silent.
I've been sick.
Again.
Damn it.
Another virus. Or a relapse of the last one, except with higher fever. I'm utterly disgusted. And I don't like the idea of being sick on my birthday (Wednesday). It seems like a bad omen.
There was a piece on public radio this morning about some people being more genetically prone to getting sick than others are. That's me. The germ magnet. Not only a magnet, but equipped with huge pores through which the germs enter and infect. Ugh.
I was supposed to get together with Evan. First it was postponed due to the snow and my power outage. Then I had a little cold after sleeping in an unheated house for 2 nights. And then I started getting sick again. Not only was I concerned about infecting him; I also just wasn't up for it. Sex with Evan is a glorious thing. And the focus is my pleasure. For many hours and many orgasms. And now I'm afraid he's going to want to give up trying to connect.
Luckily, I did get to serve the sadist last week shortly before I started getting sick again. But Tuesdays are now his most likely day for a visit, and there's no way he'll be here tomorrow. I don't have much energy at all, and he at least is properly cautious about staying away under such circumstances.
But he's my Daddy.
So he takes care of me.
He doesn't goo all over me.
No litany of "poor baby" from my Daddy.
Instead, there is a short list of instructions on how to take care of myself.
Always things I know.
Liquids.
Rest.
That sort of thing.
This time I told him all about the fever. It was quite high. And he reminded me of a magic technique. My mother would have called it a cold compress. He called it a damp, cool washcloth.
Daddy's girl is a very good girl.
Even when she's sick.
So I fetched a dark red washcloth from the linen closet, held it under the running cold water, wrung it out, and positioned it on the creepy, crawly, feverish skin of my pale belly and tits. The first shock of cold was like a torturing strike, making up for the twist to my nipple I'll have to forgo this week. Then I relaxed into it.
When I was done, my temperature was down by 4 points Fahrenheit.
I fell asleep, and awoke to a further drop of a full point.
Isn't my Daddy a wonderful doctor?!
I've been sick.
Again.
Damn it.
Another virus. Or a relapse of the last one, except with higher fever. I'm utterly disgusted. And I don't like the idea of being sick on my birthday (Wednesday). It seems like a bad omen.
There was a piece on public radio this morning about some people being more genetically prone to getting sick than others are. That's me. The germ magnet. Not only a magnet, but equipped with huge pores through which the germs enter and infect. Ugh.
I was supposed to get together with Evan. First it was postponed due to the snow and my power outage. Then I had a little cold after sleeping in an unheated house for 2 nights. And then I started getting sick again. Not only was I concerned about infecting him; I also just wasn't up for it. Sex with Evan is a glorious thing. And the focus is my pleasure. For many hours and many orgasms. And now I'm afraid he's going to want to give up trying to connect.
Luckily, I did get to serve the sadist last week shortly before I started getting sick again. But Tuesdays are now his most likely day for a visit, and there's no way he'll be here tomorrow. I don't have much energy at all, and he at least is properly cautious about staying away under such circumstances.
But he's my Daddy.
So he takes care of me.
He doesn't goo all over me.
No litany of "poor baby" from my Daddy.
Instead, there is a short list of instructions on how to take care of myself.
Always things I know.
Liquids.
Rest.
That sort of thing.
This time I told him all about the fever. It was quite high. And he reminded me of a magic technique. My mother would have called it a cold compress. He called it a damp, cool washcloth.
Daddy's girl is a very good girl.
Even when she's sick.
So I fetched a dark red washcloth from the linen closet, held it under the running cold water, wrung it out, and positioned it on the creepy, crawly, feverish skin of my pale belly and tits. The first shock of cold was like a torturing strike, making up for the twist to my nipple I'll have to forgo this week. Then I relaxed into it.
When I was done, my temperature was down by 4 points Fahrenheit.
I fell asleep, and awoke to a further drop of a full point.
Isn't my Daddy a wonderful doctor?!
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Those words he'll never say
He makes me say them.
Those words he'll never say.
He asks me to say them.
He urges me to say them.
He allows me to say them.
He orders me to say them.
Sometimes he seems to melt.
Sometimes he seems to roar.
Sometimes I think he almost might say them,
those words he'll never say
even if those words were true.
For me they are true,
those words he'll never say.
He knows they are true.
He knew before I did.
And they please him,
those words.
It pleases him,
that sentiment.
And for me
that must be
enough.
Those words he'll never say.
He asks me to say them.
He urges me to say them.
He allows me to say them.
He orders me to say them.
Sometimes he seems to melt.
Sometimes he seems to roar.
Sometimes I think he almost might say them,
those words he'll never say
even if those words were true.
For me they are true,
those words he'll never say.
He knows they are true.
He knew before I did.
And they please him,
those words.
It pleases him,
that sentiment.
And for me
that must be
enough.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Sub-lift
If you had seen him today - if you had seen us today - if you had seen how he touched me and kissed me and oh, how he looked at me - you would never have guessed that he is a certifiable sexual sadist. Unless, of course, you had torn your eyes away from the scene before you and surveyed the implements arrayed on the pale, oversized wooden coffee table from IKEA.
The hardware store length of chain.
The long, jagged-end strip of cherry wood.
The plain wooden spoon.
The blue and brown flogger.
He didn't lay a hand on any of them.
He touched me as if I were the most beautiful creature in the world, his angel, his treasure that he had found and snared. He looked at me with his tender Daddy eyes, while touching me in ways a daddy should never touch his baby girl. And he kissed me...
There are no words for his kisses.
He took me to that place.
That special place.
Normally he looks in my eyes and knows I am not quite there and then takes my left nipple in his right thumb and forefinger and pinches and twists just enough to take me to the top. My nipple is the knob that he adjusts until I am tuned to the station he seeks. And I give him my eyes and he sees deep inside and says "Yes?"
This time he taught me something new. He brought me there with tenderness. With sweet sensual touches. With feeling my body close to his. With the joy of my hand fondling his cock as I knelt before him down on my haunches or up on my knees so he could see my face which he says is beautiful and then could accept the offer of my sweet, warm, giving mouth.
"Do you see?" he said. "I took you there without any pain at all."
He took me there and I never left.
I am still in that place.
He has taken to calling it sub-lift.
Even if you've never heard of sub drop, I'm sure you can pretty rapidly and instinctively figure out what it means. I'm lucky in that I've rarely experienced it, and even then it is more likely the result of a hormone storm. It's when you've been feeling Oh So Wonderful from whatever it is when you are together, and then a few hours later you crash. The drug wears off. The power goes out and in 2 seconds the temperature drops by 60 degrees.
That doesn't usually happen to me.
Even though there is little to no what is usually referred to as aftercare.
Although these days it is different.
He used to just pull his clothes on, perhaps say a word or two, and leave me where I lay or where he ordered me, suddenly alone, in an empty room in any empty house. And almost always that was all right. I was so full of what had been, so full of where I'd been, that it was all right. I'd lie there and swim in it, or give myself to the emotions of the pain and the fright, and I would be all right.
Or I'd have to hop up and put away the tell-tale implements before erasing my nakedness and racing back to the office, always at least 15 minutes late after a mere half hour together. I'd stash away my emotions and hope that nothing showed. The difficulty wasn't so much that he didn't stay with me. Rather, it was not having time to digest it all.
The handful of bad times are more deserving to be called crashes rather than sub drop. They were times when I Reacted Badly. When I Couldn't Handle It."
When he miscalculated.
When he lost control.
When something went wrong.
When it took me days to recover.
To come back.
Eventually, I always did.
But without help.
Should he have helped?
Perhaps.
But maybe not.
He doesn't want to push me into anything. To drag me into anything. To lure me into accepting and understanding what he does and has done. To making me yield to his will.
He wants me to offer myself.
He values that so much more than yielding.
One yields to force.
One offers willingly.
He never explained the reason for the thing he did that horrified me away over 2 years ago. He could have kept me if he'd explained. But he didn't want to keep me that way. After a month apart he came back for me, and after 2 years I suddenly understood what he had done. Why he had done it. The kindness and risk for him that lay behind that voice mail of his slave's appalling screams of pain. It was a warning. This is the danger, it said. You don't want this, it said.
It took me 2 years to understand.
Clarity arrived in an instant.
And then
all I felt
was love.
And in full consciousness, I confirmed my commitment.
I've wandered from the point.
Sub-lift.
The opposite of sub drop.
It's not flying.
I don't think I actually fly.
Not, at least, as I've seen it defined in those books you have to study if you're majoring in BDSM.
I don't lose myself when I'm with the sadist. In fact, he won't let me. How can I serve him, how can I focus on remembering to do all those things he loves me to do, all those things designed to maximize his pleasure, if I'm floating away? I remember how hard he'd work at training me to keep my attention on my job. That first time he slapped my face, and the other times... he seemed to slap me so hard and yet he never left any bruises. Once he took me over his knee and spanked me, hard, not for that long but hard, to remind me not to float away.
I've learned.
Mostly.
But he isn't so harsh now.
So.
I don't fly.
I float.
I go to that place, yet still manage (mostly) to keep my mind on the job and send him into a state of unimaginable pleasure.
I float.
He leaves and I float.
For hours.
For days.
I am thrown open, expansive, as if all the cells in my body have moved apart and his very essence is filling all the spaces in between. I am in some sort of pantheistic ecstasy, in which I am everywhere, he is everywhere, God is everywhere, everything is one large commingled beautiful universe of love and nature and stars and sweet breezes caressing my creamy breast as it shines in the light from the high, north-facing window except that it's his own hand caressing my breast and then spanking my creamy baby bottom as it, too, shines in the light of that north-facing window. And now the cream exhibits just a blush of pink.
And I am his treasure.
And I am his angel.
And I've offered him my life.
I've offered him my soul.
My pleasure comes from pleasing him.
I swear an oath to live to please him.
Not because he asks for it.
But because I must.
Because I do.
I rest my head against his belly in the afterglow of his orgasm and he caresses my shoulder and nothing - nothing - could be more perfect than that moment.
And after a while he is gone.
And yet he remains.
I feel him.
Around me.
In me.
Touching me.
Filling me.
Saturating me.
It's been hours and I'm still floating in a state of perfect peace.
And he writes:
The hardware store length of chain.
The long, jagged-end strip of cherry wood.
The plain wooden spoon.
The blue and brown flogger.
He didn't lay a hand on any of them.
He touched me as if I were the most beautiful creature in the world, his angel, his treasure that he had found and snared. He looked at me with his tender Daddy eyes, while touching me in ways a daddy should never touch his baby girl. And he kissed me...
There are no words for his kisses.
He took me to that place.
That special place.
Normally he looks in my eyes and knows I am not quite there and then takes my left nipple in his right thumb and forefinger and pinches and twists just enough to take me to the top. My nipple is the knob that he adjusts until I am tuned to the station he seeks. And I give him my eyes and he sees deep inside and says "Yes?"
This time he taught me something new. He brought me there with tenderness. With sweet sensual touches. With feeling my body close to his. With the joy of my hand fondling his cock as I knelt before him down on my haunches or up on my knees so he could see my face which he says is beautiful and then could accept the offer of my sweet, warm, giving mouth.
"Do you see?" he said. "I took you there without any pain at all."
He took me there and I never left.
I am still in that place.
He has taken to calling it sub-lift.
Even if you've never heard of sub drop, I'm sure you can pretty rapidly and instinctively figure out what it means. I'm lucky in that I've rarely experienced it, and even then it is more likely the result of a hormone storm. It's when you've been feeling Oh So Wonderful from whatever it is when you are together, and then a few hours later you crash. The drug wears off. The power goes out and in 2 seconds the temperature drops by 60 degrees.
That doesn't usually happen to me.
Even though there is little to no what is usually referred to as aftercare.
Although these days it is different.
He used to just pull his clothes on, perhaps say a word or two, and leave me where I lay or where he ordered me, suddenly alone, in an empty room in any empty house. And almost always that was all right. I was so full of what had been, so full of where I'd been, that it was all right. I'd lie there and swim in it, or give myself to the emotions of the pain and the fright, and I would be all right.
Or I'd have to hop up and put away the tell-tale implements before erasing my nakedness and racing back to the office, always at least 15 minutes late after a mere half hour together. I'd stash away my emotions and hope that nothing showed. The difficulty wasn't so much that he didn't stay with me. Rather, it was not having time to digest it all.
The handful of bad times are more deserving to be called crashes rather than sub drop. They were times when I Reacted Badly. When I Couldn't Handle It."
When he miscalculated.
When he lost control.
When something went wrong.
When it took me days to recover.
To come back.
Eventually, I always did.
But without help.
Should he have helped?
Perhaps.
But maybe not.
He doesn't want to push me into anything. To drag me into anything. To lure me into accepting and understanding what he does and has done. To making me yield to his will.
He wants me to offer myself.
He values that so much more than yielding.
One yields to force.
One offers willingly.
He never explained the reason for the thing he did that horrified me away over 2 years ago. He could have kept me if he'd explained. But he didn't want to keep me that way. After a month apart he came back for me, and after 2 years I suddenly understood what he had done. Why he had done it. The kindness and risk for him that lay behind that voice mail of his slave's appalling screams of pain. It was a warning. This is the danger, it said. You don't want this, it said.
It took me 2 years to understand.
Clarity arrived in an instant.
And then
all I felt
was love.
And in full consciousness, I confirmed my commitment.
I've wandered from the point.
Sub-lift.
The opposite of sub drop.
It's not flying.
I don't think I actually fly.
Not, at least, as I've seen it defined in those books you have to study if you're majoring in BDSM.
I don't lose myself when I'm with the sadist. In fact, he won't let me. How can I serve him, how can I focus on remembering to do all those things he loves me to do, all those things designed to maximize his pleasure, if I'm floating away? I remember how hard he'd work at training me to keep my attention on my job. That first time he slapped my face, and the other times... he seemed to slap me so hard and yet he never left any bruises. Once he took me over his knee and spanked me, hard, not for that long but hard, to remind me not to float away.
I've learned.
Mostly.
But he isn't so harsh now.
So.
I don't fly.
I float.
I go to that place, yet still manage (mostly) to keep my mind on the job and send him into a state of unimaginable pleasure.
I float.
He leaves and I float.
For hours.
For days.
I am thrown open, expansive, as if all the cells in my body have moved apart and his very essence is filling all the spaces in between. I am in some sort of pantheistic ecstasy, in which I am everywhere, he is everywhere, God is everywhere, everything is one large commingled beautiful universe of love and nature and stars and sweet breezes caressing my creamy breast as it shines in the light from the high, north-facing window except that it's his own hand caressing my breast and then spanking my creamy baby bottom as it, too, shines in the light of that north-facing window. And now the cream exhibits just a blush of pink.
And I am his treasure.
And I am his angel.
And I've offered him my life.
I've offered him my soul.
My pleasure comes from pleasing him.
I swear an oath to live to please him.
Not because he asks for it.
But because I must.
Because I do.
I rest my head against his belly in the afterglow of his orgasm and he caresses my shoulder and nothing - nothing - could be more perfect than that moment.
And after a while he is gone.
And yet he remains.
I feel him.
Around me.
In me.
Touching me.
Filling me.
Saturating me.
It's been hours and I'm still floating in a state of perfect peace.
And he writes:
I love you, Daddy.If we could only bottle your sub-lift.I was very pleased with you (and by you) today.Good girl
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