Late night communion

Such a soft and sleepy pet.
He kept me up late last night.
Listening to music.

He e-mailed past midnight,
and didn't seem surprised to find me up.

I sent him a poem at around half past midnight.
He responded over an hour later.
And was not surprised to find me up.

He'd been thinking about me all evening.
I'd felt his presence all evening.
I'd felt his presence as I listened to a CD he'd given me.
Meaningful music he had given me.
Songs that made me cry for so many reasons...

I listened and cried and listened again and wrote a poem that he said (at 1:41 in the morning) was the most honest thing I'd ever written. And we e-mailed until past 2, and listened to one song almost simultaneously, and he reassured me that now everything was ok and it was a good thing I hadn't listened before, when we were having one or another of our storms...

Still, I awoke with swollen eyes.
Though probably from allergies as much as from crying.
And he said reassuring things this morning and I know we are ok.

We're ok and I'm glad I finally listened to the songs, which are meaningful to him. And I listened now because I know that we are ok.

We
are.

And there is something so strong between us...
no matter how different we are -
no matter how unsuited for any relationship other than what we have -
that the bond cannot break.

No matter what pot holes we hit on the road we are traveling, nothing can stop us. We always find a way to repair the car. We can't bear to leave it sitting there.

We never
ever
run out of gas.

If there is any danger at all,
it's that we'll overheat.

Because damn.
We sure are hot.

The making of a masochist

I hate that word.
Masochist
It sounds so
clinical.

There's a chance that, one day, someone will apply that word to me.

Me, I prefer the word sensualist.

I don't think the sadist expects to make me into what he would think of as a masochist. But he has taken me by the hand and begun to lead me down that beautiful, dangerous path to that place where pleasure and pain are intertwined.

He's not usually one to go in for warm-ups. Usually, when he wants to hurt me, it is either for punishment or for his pleasure. In either case, warming up my butt doesn't figure into his plans.

This time was different.
This time the whole point was to go gradually.
The old frog in the pot of warming water trick.

I can't remember the exact order of things.
But I know I was already somewhat in that place.

I was ordered into position down on the floor. My ass was offered. He started with the wooden spoon. He tapped it very lightly, then a little harder, slowly increasing, probably reaching something that would have had me squirming if he had started off that way. Next came the flogger. It seemed as if he was whipping me with some energy, but it didn't hurt. It was just that wonderful flogging sensation, not the pain he has previously managed to inflict with a flogger that had been specifically designed not to hurt very much.

Then the cane.
Again, lightly at first.
And never very hard.
Though who knows?
Anyway, he said he just wanted to make my butt pink.
He likes to look at my rosy bottom
as I kneel before him,
ass in the air,
sucking his cock.

It was later that the real lesson commenced.
Again, I was kneeling before him.
The chain was wrapped tight around my neck
as it had been since soon after he arrived.
My right hand jerked his cock.
My left hand caressed my pussy.
Did he only use his hand?
Or the spoon, too?
He spanked me.
Gently to start.
Then harder.
And harder.
It hurt.
But never really hurt.
Even when it should have hurt.
It never really hurt.

When the spanking stopped, my butt kept ringing.

It was wonderful.

At the end, I was begging for more...
The door was open, and beyond lay dark sunshine.

Take me there, my Lord.
Take me there with you.

Lead me to that place where I will kneel at your feet and beg you to do those awful things that you dream of doing to me. The ones that wake you in the middle of the night...

Of love and poetry and chains

I gave him a gift.
A very special gift.

In a way, it was no more than was expected of me. Expect that what is normally expected of me is not that expected any more. Although when it suddenly is, I had better be prepared.

Longtime readers - there may be a few of you left - may remember that what first drew the sadist to me was "my mind", as glimpsed in my FetLife profile. Relative newcomers, or those in need of a refresher course, can read my first mention of the sadist in this post from late August of 2008 for a little introduction, and then go on from there a bit to get a taste for our early days.

Briefly, he thought I'd be his own little Anaïs Nin, his personal porn producer. He did come see me not longer after accepting me into his service. "You're beautiful!" he said, as if surprised - when it was I who was truly was surprised since no one had ever said that to me before.

He took to calling me his complication.
One day he kissed me.
Because he thought it would be pleasurable.

He decided he was correct in his judgment.

Anyway.
Back to My Mind.

He expects me to write for him.
Poems.
Stories.
Bits to make him hot.
And bits to stimulate his mind.

This is a man who reads Shakespeare and James Joyce's Ulysses during free minutes in his work day. And no, he is not by any means an academician. Just a smart man with a love of beauty.

Not only does he expect me to write for him, and suck his cock and make him lunch while trying not to be too crazy-making. I'm also supposed to be prepared to recite for him.

You know.
By heart?
At every visit.
A poem.
One of mine.

I've learned something very interesting along the way. Just because you've written something yourself doesn't mean it will be easy to memorize. Damn, I worked hard trying to brand some of those poems into my brain! Of course, at my advancing age, such projects are supposed to be beneficial, so I shouldn't complain. And as I practiced the poems aloud, I found words and lines that didn't flow as well when spoken as they did in my head. A great editing technique!

Though I've been lazy lately.
Not writing much poetry lately.
Nor stories.
Blame sturm und drang and winter.

Yeah.
Right.
Excuses.

April 23rd is Shakespeare's birthday. I was a theatre major centuries ago, with a passion for Shakespeare. That's what I really wanted to do. Shakespeare.

I got married instead.
Before finishing college.
But I've always remembered that April 23rd was William Shakespeare's birthday.
Except this year I forgot.

Hooray for Prairie Home Companion!
They featured various people
reading various Shakespeare sonnets
with varying degrees of artistry
but always with sincerity.

I e-mailed the sadist, admitting my embarrassment at having forgotten the Bard's birthday, and (after much research) including a carefully chosen sonnet. Beginning:

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:

He replied with thanks, deeming it lovely, but claiming to have trumped me with reference to a different sonnet.

I had him beat, of course - which is not a comfortable situation to admit to when dealing with one's Master, and a sadistic one at that. But given his respect for My Mind, he took it well. Because of course I knew of the sonnet he cited. And in case I hadn't, PHC had kindly included it in their little sonnet salute. But it seemed rather obvious, so I chose to show off my (newly acquired) in-depth knowledge of the collection.

Still, it's a beautiful and meaningful piece, and more so as I spent considerable time with it. Which I did. I memorized the damn thing, dear readers. In less than 3 days I committed it to memory and practiced different line readings until it was smooth and beautiful and artistic and moving and heartfelt and - he did love it so!

And the chains?

I was wrapped around in his heavy steel chain when I offered him my gift. It was drawn tightly round and round my neck, then up under my beautiful bare tits. And I knelt before him as he sat forward in his chair and he recognized the sonnet right away and his face was a garden of smiles growing more beautiful and happy with each word.

And later
after lunch
he began
our journey
into the pleasure
of pain.

Oh.
You wanted the sonnet?
I suppose there are some of you who haven't already guessed.
It's #57.
Worth knowing.
Worth sharing.
Worth learning.
And all about love.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

Masturbation mania (4) - enjoying the Fun Factory Meany

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Masturbation mania (3) - testing the Fun Factory Meany

It's small.
It's squooshy.
It's quiet.
It's lavender.

It's the Meany, my new mini-vibrator from Fun Factory, courtesy of my friends at EdenFantasys, the on-line seller of so-called Adult Toys who supply me with masturbatory goodies in exchange for uncensored reviews.

I'm quite fond of the Meany, although I'm not completely sure why.



The cats, however, had absolutely no interest in the Meany, a tribute to the minimal amount of plastic involved in the packaging. I had to work very hard to get this photo, which I pursued only out of fairness and a sense of balance. After all, the other vibrators I've reviewed had their portraits taken with the cats! I may have to give up that part of the project if I keep getting sent sex toys made by manufacturers with a concern for the environment.

As I said, the Meany is small.
Very small.
It's barely 6" from the pliable curved tip to the end of the black plastic cap.
And that includes the controls, which are on the soft silicone part.



At times, I would shove the whole thing up inside me and just leave it there on its own, rumbling away. I had to reach into my pussy if I wanted to change the setting. Happily, I never had to worry about it getting lost. While it stayed inside quite happily, I could easily eject it with a good squeeze of my muscles. It did eventually become quite warm, which I assume was from my body heat.

Like the Siena Symphony, the Meany is made of silicone, giving it a sort of velvety texture and making it very easy to clean. But a special feature of the Meany is that the tip is squooshy, reminding me of a real penis. It's sort of flexible, which seems just so cute! In fact, the Meany in general seems cute. Sweet. Yummy. A pleasure pet.

But not mean at all.

So here's the thing.
To me, it's darling.
But if you're after something
big and hard
and fierce and nasty,
the Meany is not your guy.

It is very quiet. In fact, at first hearing, it struck me as significantly quieter than the Symphony, although Eden rates them both the same at 2 bees out of 5. I was surprised, when I finally compared them buzz to buzz, to find that at the loudest settings they were, in fact, the same. Which is quiet. I turned them on and left the room and even right outside my door heard barely a thing. And inside me?

A pussy provides excellent insulation.
Something sound engineers might want to investigate further.

Like the Symphony, the Meany is billed as a G-spot vibrator, what with the curved tip and all. I experimented with angles, to see what effect it would have. At times it did unleash sensations that were... different. Deeply internal, up into my womb, and not something I can really describe. In fact, if any of you readers feel like leaving comments on your own G-spot sensations, I'd be most grateful. I have a lot to learn.

I always have a lot to learn.

Perhaps one reason I like the Meany so much is precisely because it isn't over-strong. It's not beating up on my cunt. I can let it run and run and my clitoris doesn't feel numb after. And it's comfortable. My main complaint about the Symphony is that it's rather big for me. The Meany feels lovely inside me. Despite my age, I do have a tight little pussy! If you like to feel more full, or have a more generous cave than I do, you probably want something fatter and longer.

There are 10 settings, controlled by a pair of buttons that take you up and down through the options. The buttons sometimes seemed a little fussy, and at times, especially with the device fully inserted, I accidentally changed the setting when all I meant to do was adjust the creature's position. The patterns are lovely, though, albeit not as creative as those on the Symphony. Mostly you get different intensities of straight vibrations; once you reach the maximum strength, three are 3 pulsing programs, which also build in power.

I'm having a very hard time writing this review.
I wonder if it shows?
Because here I am describing this and that feature.
The things that charm me.
The things that might leave others dissatisfied.
But really, it's all very subjective.
Just as I immediately knew I wanted mine to be lavender
and never considered the one in black.
Just as any lover,
and/or any penis,
might charm me
and might leave you cold
or angry
or frustrated.

You can't write a completely dispassionate and scientific review about either a lover or a vibrator, and for some reason I'm feeling that most of all with this one.

This vibrator, that is.

So come back tomorrow for the pulse-by-pulse comments I sent the sadist as I tested the Meany, both before and after the severe punishment beating he gave me. Because yes. A couple of days after he beat my pussy with the large wooden spoon, he ordered me to masturbate with my sweet little lavender vibrator, to make sure my poor, bruised pussy still worked.

It did.
Work.
It worked just fine.

"True bdsm"?

One reason I started this blog is that I kept leaving comments on other people's blogs that were much too long for politeness. Having this space kept me under control for a while. Well, mostly... But lately my muzzle has been slipping.

My most recent sin in that area occurred just today in response to a post on cassie's blog: ...with a sense of pride. The post, called True bdsm, refers to a discussion the Greek submissive cassie had with a Dom, also Greek but not her own.

We mostly agreed that what we do (always r/l) should first and foremost be fun. We Dominate or submit because we like to Dominate or submit. We like to give or receive pain. We like to humiliate or be humiliated. We like to explore our limits and new forms of play. We like to control or we like to serve. We are sadists or masochists and like discipline and bondage.

I do hope you will go read all of what she has to say, and any comments. It's the least I can do for disagreeing so heartily and taking so much room to do it.

And of course I disagreed. I suspect I disagree with most people about what bdsm "means", or what it "should be." You will probably recognize my oft repeated points in my comment, which I'm reprinting below.

I sometimes wonder how different my outlook would be if I lived with the sadist - although if we did spend more time together I (we both) doubt the relationship would last long. In many ways, we are very different, and in terms of regular life we just wouldn't fit. But more than that, I think I would OD on such a rich and intoxicating brew. Still, I do not stop being his when we are not physically together or in any other form of communication, and we are constantly working to find ways to increase my awareness and obedience. To that extent, I could say that I live as his 24/7, thought obviously it is very different from dealing with laundry, kids, car repairs in the context of any variation on a bdsm relationship.

All that said, here is my response. I humbly invite your own comments. Please feel free to disagree with me as much as I disagreed with cassie and her Dom friend, and to take as much space as you wish to do so. My view is my own, derived from my own limited experience as lived on my own isolated mountaintop, and I'm eager to hear your own take on the matter.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

An interesting question, cassie, although one to which I'm inclined to give what might be called a non-answer. Because I don't think one should even try to define "true" bdsm.

Even in religion, there is no one true faith. Oh, the Vatican or various denominations of the various religions (see? already there is multiplicity), may say this is what you must believe and this is how you must worship. But invariably that will change over time, in a few years or decades or centuries. Groups will splinter off as they think they have received The Word.

There is no Vatican for the Church of BDSM. No chief wonder-working rabbi.

My own view is that bdsm is first and foremost a relationship. And everything else follows from that. Even for those who "play" - which my Master and I don't - it is still a relationship. The way 2 or more people choose to interact.

Beyond that, addressing your statement that first and foremost bdsm is fun - I can speak only for myself, although I suspect it applies to my Master the sadist as well. For me, first and foremost, submission is a NEED. It is a deep and integral part of who I am. And everything else follows from there. And my Master? He is dominant. And he is a sadist. He just is. And he has a NEED, sometimes insurmountable and almost suffocating, to inflict pain. At that level, I wouldn't call it fun at all. Not for him and not for his victim.

Now, he is embarking, very cautiously, on the project of training me to connect pleasure and pain. Not simply to enable him to hurt me more than he has without destroying the relationship, but because through the sharing of his sadism and my suffering we will achieve a depth of intimacy that can be reached in no other way.

But that's us.
I wouldn't think of speaking for anyone else.

Vibrators - they're everywhere!

Just imagine.

Before long, vibrators could be on display with chewing gum and People Magazine and the other impulse purchases trying to tease the money out of your pocket as you wait in the check-out line.

Yes.
It's true.
According to this article in the New York Times, vibrators have gone mainstream.

I remember the first one I bought. It was my contribution to the orgasmatron we were building in my office. The business represented manufacturer's of electronic components, but expanded to include what was called "systems furniture." This was back in the late 70s. I wasn't quite 30, and must have looked 19 or younger. Perhaps we were all stoned - or maybe merely bored - when we decided to convert the freestanding metal closet into a pleasure pod. I'm not sure why I was assigned to buy the active ingredient; certainly I had never done such a thing before.

The whole task was intensely embarrassing. I went down to the appropriate section of Boston (a highly inappropriate section of Boston, in fact). I can't imagine actually asking for the thing. I must have just wandered around, trying to look inconspicuous, trying not to blush, until I came across the necessary object.

We put a mirror on the ceiling. We papered the walls with a patterned wrapping paper in Victorian whore-house red. We posted centerfolds from Playgirl magazine and then attached the vibrator so that it projected from the back wall at an appropriate (again, in fact highly inappropriate) angle. Oh, and we put a big red light on top of the closet.

It's a good thing no potential customers ever came to the office to see the sample closet for computer components. Then again, things were rather wild back then. Maybe it would have helped the sale.

I was the only "girl" there who never fucked any of the male sales reps.

I never do fit in where I work.

The vibrator.
It was hard and plastic and noisy.
No lavender silicone back then.
No multiplicity of speeds and patterns.

If my friends at EdenFantasys have one, I can't find it. Which is probably just as well. Unless you're really into it for nostalgia's sake, it has nothing to recommend it.

Speaking of recommendations, I expect to be posting a new vibrator review this weekend, as the aforementioned folks at EdenFantasys sent me another present. It was this device that the sadist used - on the day of the severe punishment beating (from which bruises still remain) - to start educating me in the interaction of pleasure and pain.

But.
Back to my first vibrator.

I kept it for decades, moving with it from one state to another and packing it away whenever I lived abroad. No, of course I didn't show it to ex-hubby #2 or any of my lovers! The idea of admitting to masturbating was too embarrassing to contemplate, let alone telling them that I stuck this unappealing moon rocket of plastic up my... did I even call it anything? I really don't think I said either pussy or cunt.

And in fact, I almost never used it. Because it was in fact unappealing. As I've said, I rarely come from penetration. It was more of a novelty. A guilty secret. Oh, it did stimulate me, and there were a very few times over the years that I pulled it out. But very rarely.

And now?
My goodness, I'm becoming the vibrator queen!
A new one every month!
Using it for the pleasure of my Master.

He likes to watch my face. He likes to hear my moans. He reminds me not to strain, not tor each for it, just to concentrate on my pussy and the sensations... and to remember, to always remember, that it is all in fact for his pleasure.

Damn, I'm getting turned on.
And there's no orgasm on the schedule.
Perhaps I can have one more trial this weekend.
Just to help me write the review, of course.
In the interest of science.

I think I need a cold shower.
Or a piece of vibrating silicone up my pussy.

Sigh...

Oh well.

Do go read the Times article. And until you do, here are two of my favorite paragraphs. Things are definitely a lot more open now!

Assessing the vibrator’s current ubiquity, Dr. [Laura] Berman said, “Women are getting less and less caught up on an unrealistic and puritanical vision of what a good girl is. When they can embrace their self-stimulation, they can take ownership of their sexuality.”

Men interviewed proclaimed themselves not only unthreatened by the addition of accessories to their partners’ sex lives, but downright enthusiastic. Jeremy, 31, a content strategist in the entertainment business who lives in New York and wanted his last name omitted for privacy, said, “From my perspective, a woman who has thoroughly explored her own body, both alone and with or without whichever toys she finds interesting, makes for a significantly better lover.”

He really is my Master now

Last time, he beat the shit out of me.
This time he kissed my breath away.

I could say just that.
No more.
And that would be correct.
As far as it goes.
And it would leave out everything.

He came for lunch, as he always does these days. Long, leisurely visits of 2-1/2 hours or more. But this time, there was something extra on the agenda.

I have a problem.
I have ADD.
Made worse by perimenopause, I suspect.
Which is more a description than an excuse,
and makes me a lot less effective that I should be,
and frustrates the hell out of the sadist.

Because I lose focus.
I forget the prime directive.
I forget to ALWAYS think of him.
First and foremost and always.

Sometimes I get lost in the pleasure of his kisses, or of sucking his cock (I do love to suck his cock), and I forget to focus on his pleasure. More dangerously, I forget to think carefully about everything I say before I let it slip from my mouth. I absolutely cannot allow myself the luxury of ADD's typical impulsiveness. Very bad.

As we both recovered from last week's serious beating, the beating that was so much worse than he wanted to deliver, we discussed where I was and what might be and whether it would, in fact, have any lasting effect. So I asked for something like a mantra, something I could say daily - 3 times a day - to remind me of my duty and to help me focus.

He said he would think about.

And he came back with the most phenomenal gift.
It was a gift.
It was transformative.
It was a ceremony of dedication and commitment.
A very serious ritual of commitment.
A consecration to his service.

Not something to undertake lightly.

He based the first part very closely on a Catholic ritual, although the part I am to say 3 times daily he wrote himself. Catholics are very good at ritual, and our current shared obsession with watching The Borgias gives it an extra meaning. But it is far more than that - which is what took my breath away.

He gave me so much more than a mantra. In some ways, it felt more serious than the two times I took my marriage vows. I felt that first part, and its thrice daily reaffirmation, as a very serious and conscious dedication to serving him.

To being his.

All that I am.
Without reserve.
His possession and property.

And it begins "O Master."

A while back, quite a while back, after certain significant advances in my training and understanding, he said that he was my Master. He was my Master, although I am not his slave. For a period of time, I used that word - slave - and he didn't stop me, because he knew that it meant something to me. A giving. But he knew - we both knew - that I was not and would not be his slave.

He talked about that again as we discussed what he gave me. And he made a very clear statement which he did want to convey here.

He thought I might have been questioning his use of "Master" although in fact I wasn't. He reminded me that we didn't use it much, while mentioning his onetime explanation that he was my master the way a virtuoso masters a fine instrument. Then he went on:

[...] but I felt it was appropriate here. I am your Master. The reason why we have never done the Master/slave thing is because in almost all cases it is untrue, inaccurate, a misnomer. The very idea that a "slave" could set limits, express preferences is ludicrous. Therefore that would fall into the realm of play and we know where we stand in that regard.

I have said that before.
We do not play.
This is very serious.
This is for real.

He said that being his slave was not something I should see as some "higher level" I might aspire to and that "we are beyond that."

He told me I could write about what happened today.
And I will.
To a point.
But I don't want to share the text he gave me.
The text I used to consecrate myself to his service.
To him.
Another of those things that feels too personal.

But I will tell you this.
As I knelt up before him
and read the words of the consecration
and then recited from memory
the words with which I will declare -
will remind myself -
three times daily
that I am totally his,
something happened.
Something changed.

Everything was different.
I was different.
Together we were different,
except it was what was always waiting to be.

It was what one would wish for, after baptism or from a bar or bat mitzvah, for example. A change. A true change. An inner transformation. And so it was.

And now I must try to always hold this feeling with me.
So I never forget.
So I never slip up.
So I always remember who and what I am.
Totally and truly his.
Not a slave.
But daily and hourly and now and forever
with every breath and every thought
again and again
consecrating myself
to be truly and totally his.

Beat me till I know how much you want me

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Because he says so

Friday nights, we each have our own rituals.
I go to shul.
He goes to bars.

I like going to shul.
I love ritual.
God?
I'm not so sure...
I was raised a third generation Jewish atheist.
Joining a synagogue is a great way to rebel when your parents are atheists.

I love my synagogue.
They don't care how you were brought up.
They don't care if you keep kosher or not.
They don't care if you can't swear to believing in God.
And I find lots to think about.

The prayers, though... the psalms... the blessings and proclamations of devotion... are you surprised that instead of thinking of a god of uncertain existence I'm thinking of the sadist?

I learn a lot when I go to shul.
About Judaism.
About the world.
About what's important.
About our responsibility to make the world a better place.
And about my relationship with the sadist.

Sometimes, the things I learn seem particularly apt.
So I come home and tell him what I learned.
Like last Friday night.
Last night.
When it dealt with pure obedience.

Our rabbi spoke on the thoughts of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev about the week's Torah portion. There are two words for what God expects us to do. Chukim and mishpatim. The latter are commandments for which one can see the reason. Like not killing. But chukim are the ones you do just because God says so.

These get done first.

And why?

To get us in the right state of mind for doing the other ones.

As I wrote in my message to the sadist:

Kind or like putting us in that place, my Lord.
A place of obedience.
Of submission.
Of dedication.

I poked around the web and, not surprisingly, found lots of commentary on the matter. So here, for your further contemplation, is an excerpt from the The Velveteen Rabbi. It's worth going to the full article; you'll find much that relates to submission.

To pure obedience.

Think of Secretary.
And the four peas.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Levi Yitzchak writes:

In our world, it appears to us as if we were created to engage in the things of this world. But in truth, that is not the case. The primary reason that we were created was so that we might come to recognize the unity of the Holy Blessed One...

That is the sense of "This is the law of the Torah:" there are mitzvot that reason compels us to perform. When we do them, we do not sense so strongly that we are performing them because the Creator commanded these mitzvot. That is why the Blessed Creator gave us commandments that reason does not comprehend. When we do them, we more readily recognize that we do them only because of God's commandment.

It's easy to understand why ethical commandments are important. How we treat one another matters. But ritual commandments, especially ones (like the red heifer) which don't make much sense -- those can be harder to cherish. For Levi Yitzchak, the illogic of a chok (a commandment which can't be made to fit our sensible paradigm) is precisely what makes it important. In accepting the chukim, we accept the "yoke of heaven" and acknowledge God's sovereignty.

There's something beautiful about that. It affirms that there are things in this vast universe which are beyond our comprehension and beyond our control. That life isn't all about us. [...] All of our strivings and disagreements and philosophical ruminations are not the point. Performing chukim has an impact on our spiritual awareness. They're devotional practices, not intellectual exercises. [ . . . ]

"Today we are all Jews by choice," writes Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi. "The old understanding of being commanded was of commandments handed down the mountain, of an authority beaming down on us from above. Today any sense of commandment must come from within, from inside us. Can we feel commanded without feeling coerced?" [...]

Chukim [...] are the deepest level of mitzvah, and the hardest level to understand. The root of the word is one which denotes "engraved" -- these are the proverbial rules carved in stone. As Reb Zalman notes:

In order to reveal an engraved message, the medium of transmission must give up something of itself: this is what the chipping-out process of engraving entails. And the medium of transmission here is us. More than the other types of mitzvot, the chukim ask for a higher level of surrender to a will that is not our own.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A higher level of surrender to a will that is not our own.

Obey.
Just obey.
As an act of devotion.
As an act of dedication.
And to remember that he rules you.

"I'll beat the shit out of you until you learn"

He hurt me.
A lot.
But then I hurt him.
So I suppose that's fair.

If only we all had such a direct, physical way to respond to those who hurt us emotionally.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And that, aside from a few jotted notes, was as much as I wrote on Tuesday about the sadist's visit.

And sadistic it was.
Sadistic and cruel and painful and deserved.

He did beat the shit out of me.
Well, maybe some of you wouldn't have felt it as such.
But for me?
Definitely.
And I'm still in pain.

He beat me again and again with the strip of cherry wood he uses as a cane. There are impressive bruises forming on both butt cheeks, with noticeable swelling on the right one. He scratched his initial into the soft, pale skin of my belly with the tines of the fork from the delicious and healthy salad lunch I prepared for him. He went over and over on the same spot, scraping, digging, marking. There are bruises there, too, as well as remaining marks from the fork.

He beat my pussy.
I lay on my back with my head hanging over the end of the bed
and he beat my pussy.
My head hung over the end of the bed
and I sucked his cock
and he beat my pussy.
Hard.
Repeatedly.
Not with my lovely flogger.
But with the wooden spoon.
The back of the wooden spoon
smashing down again and again
so that bruises have formed there, too.
He beat the shit out of my pussy
and it hurt like hell
and after a while I could not keep my legs open
and he kept beating me
and I was told "No frozen peas."

He abused me emotionally.
He said so himself.
He deliberately said things to hurt me
and he did hurt me
and I deserved it
because of how I hurt him.

And now?
We're talking.
He's trying to help me.
He's being cautious,
convinced that if he is too nice to me
I'll see him as weak
and lose respect.
I don't think it's that.
Or maybe mostly not that.
I don't know any more.
I'm not liking myself all that much.
Yesterday I hated myself.
I'm seeing things...

But we are talking.
I'm trying to understand.
Trying to learn.
Not because he beat the shit out of me.
But because I belong to him.
And because I love him.
And because the only way I want to live is on the end of his chain.

Untitled

Barbs at 20 paces, tips
dipped in our own blood,
we raise pain-filled goblets,
swapping poisoned quaffs.
Anger-fired eyes stab
each tumbling tear.
Caress and slap dance
a bitter do-si-do until
the music stops.
We dress our wounds
and then,
fondling our addiction,
return each time for one more tune.

People who live in glass bodies shouldn't think they can hide anything

He sees right through me.
He knows everything.
He hears my thoughts
as if I put them on his mp3 player
to shout out in his car.

Last Tuesday, he was here.
Last Tuesday, but a few days after our shared Friday night.
Last Tuesday, when I wrote of my doubts:

Why do I keep believing that I'm not worthy
and that anyone who thinks that I am
must not be worth loving?

Why do I feel that it threatens the imbalance of power which works for us, which binds us, which exalts us, and which makes us happy?

I tempered that a little. I toned down the surges of power, the flashes of detachment, that came to me as I served him and made me want to shake my head and clear away the blasphemy.

I was scared.
I was worried.
I was suddenly seeing him differently.

And he knew.

Damn it, he knew!

I don't know how much comes from an innate awareness, and how much from decades of manipulating those who have served him, and how much from a knowledge of me acquired through two and a half years of pleasure and frustration. Whatever the source of his uncanny powers of perception, he sees it all.

Everything.

And that explains Saturday's post, and his assertion that we had to pull back from the way we had been over the last few weeks. He didn't deny his affection for me. He was both sad and angry that he couldn't enjoy me that way any more. But he knew what it did to me. He...

It's all too personal, the things he said.
And all too correct.
What it comes down to, in the end, is my lousy self-image.
How I continue to doubt my own worth.
How I do always pull back from anyone who really wants me.

Oh, it was fine when he was being all sternly dominant, demanding I serve him and suck him, write for him and worship him. The pull of the chain, no matter how many miles separated us. I did think there was something more there but, as long as he never declared it, his affection was the big question mark that just made the chain even stronger, tightening it around my neck and jerking it deeper into my flowing cunt.

But once he admitted it, once we went into romantic mode - and you don't need to be in love to act romantic; admiring affection can trigger it quite nicely - there was a shift in the balance of power. There was a layer of mutuality. Most of the time it was beautiful, sweet, passionate, intense. But yes, every so often I could feel myself pulling away. I was viewing him as another of those men who wanted me when I had no interest in them.

And I was horrified.
Here
suddenly
in the midst of something so beautiful,
affection
manifesting more sweetly
than any supposed love I'd known before...
It scared the shit out of me.
And I could only hope it would pass.

But he felt it.
He knew it.
And in his wisdom, he knew he had to stop it.
Or we would lose everything.

So no more romantic song exchanges.
No more...
I'm starting to cry again.

At least he granted my wish to return to calling him "my Lord." Sticking with only "Sir" was too hard. And we continue to share and fan an obsession with the miniseries The Borgias. He has ordered me to watch naked, with the chain clipped around my left ankle. We watch together, even at a distance. He feels me there with him. It fires our desire and imagination and there I can feel the sweetness still.

I know it will slip out of its bonds, his affection for me. Just as the beast breaks loose from its cage. And I am assured that the affection is still there, in all its warmth. But he can't risk our being together like that.

Because he knows the danger.
He knows what it does to me.
And after days of his insisting that this was how it must be,
he finally found a way to make me see.

It was devastating.
But I saw.

It's hard to recover from a lifetime of self-doubt.
Even with someone who works so hard to make me believe in myself.

I wish he could truly heal me.

Only then would he be able to enjoy me in the beautiful, special way we were with each other for those glorious couple of weeks.

I'll just have to try harder.
He deserves that at least.

I'll just keep trying harder and harder.
Because I am his.
And he deserves all of me.

Undulations

Things are always changing.
Shifting.
Reversing.
Reverting.

Or so it seems.

I have to learn not to worry.
Our life is a wave, not an arrow.
There are cycles, and nothing is ever gone for good.
D/s is, after all a dynamic.
And so it is.
Dynamic.

He worries.
He panics.
He imagines things.

He goes all sweet and soft and smiling and then convinces himself that he can't be strict and mushy too. So suddenly it's No. Can't be like this. No more Mr. Romantic Guy. It's giving you ideas. It's affecting your performance. And you may only call me Sir.

Considering how we'd been for the last couple of weeks, this came as a great shock. A hard smack that sent me crashing to the ground.

Within a few days, he was going soft.
Providing structure but professing his obsessions.
Clearly happy at my request to call him my Lord again.

I need to have faith.
It's never all lost.
We are what we are.
We cannot help ourselves.
We cannot resist desire.
We cannot resist fate.

Breathless

We take each other's breath away.

He takes mine with his hand around my throat.
I take his with my beauty.

Which do you think scares me more?

I am not used to people being smitten with me.
I accept his assertions that I am beautiful.
I look in the mirror and yes, I can say that I'm beautiful.
Not in the way that models are, or movie stars.
But yes, I can see it.

And yes, I know that I'm smart and funny and sparkling and talented - and that for some reason he brings out versions of all that without the oddities that make me incomprehensible to so many. It feels extraordinary to be seen and understood and appreciated and whatever it is that he feels for me in lieu of love though these days I'm starting to wonder.

But he's smitten with me.

I'm not used to people being smitten with me.
I'm not used to people looking at me the way he does.
Smiling with happiness the way he does because we are now a We.
Sending me lists of romantic songs he thinks I'll enjoy.
Saying he wants me to watch the Borgias
because he'll be watching it at the same time
and the sexy young thing being fucked by the Pope
has god damned red hair
and she's making him crazy.

I love him and I get so scared.
He closes his hand around my throat
and I get scared of the power I have.
It comes in little flashes.
I snap out of my loving, submissive haze
and I wonder: who is this man?
And then it's over.
And I'm swimming again in the sweet warm pool of our union.

I'm 62 years old.
I've been married twice.
Nobody has ever treated me like this,
even those who claimed to love me.

It's beautiful.
It's amazing.
It's extraordinary.

Why do I keep believing that I'm not worthy
and that anyone who thinks that I am
must not be worth loving?

Why do I feel that it threatens the imbalance of power which works for us, which binds us, which exalts us, and which makes us happy?

I need to accept.
There is a balance.
We admire each other.
We love each other.
Love.
The word that must stand in for whatever else.
We are grateful to each other.

But when it comes down to it,
he owns me.

He
just
does.

So I'll focus on that,
I'll hang on to that,
I can understand that,
and I'll concentrate on the pull of his chain around my neck.

Love can make things very complicated.

Masturbation mania (2) - enjoying the Siena Symphony

There is a significant difference between testing vibrators and testing, say, refrigerators. A fringe benefit. The process can make you feel really, really good. Oh, I'm sure there are some people who get all tingly when they check out the storage capacity of a new refrigerator, but can it really be quite the same as serious evaluations of Adult Toys?

Yesterday I posted a fairly dispassionate and generally positive review of the Siena Symphony, a vibrator sent to me by the kind people at EdenFantasys in exchange for my writing and posting an honest evaluation. Obviously, though, I didn't give you the whole story. So today will be much more subjective - and probably more arousing. At least I hope it's more arousing! I think it's utterly appropriate to be turned on by a sex toy review, don't you?

I tried out the Symphony on three separate occasions.

The first time, I used it only to stimulate my clitoris, which is normally how I masturbate. Except that normally I only use my fingers. I don't know when I switched to just my fingers. As a child I would rub myself with the palm of my right hand, or rather the flattened underside of my four fingers above my palm. Sometimes I would do what I called playing horsie, which had me lying on my belly, my pillow between my legs, riding it back and forth... oh that did feel good. But I think I must have discontinued that technique by the time I was around 8. And I remember teaching my little sister how to do it. I wonder if she remembers that?

So I don't usually masturbate with outside assistance. Though I must admit that having the Symphony will make it much more likely that I will in the future. I'm so efficient with my fingers, and usually so desperate those times when I'm allowed to masturbate, that I go charging ahead and don't take the time to linger over the pleasure.

As I mentioned yesterday, that first time I went through the ten vibration speeds and patterns in an unsystematic way. I knew, though, that I'd have to go back and sort them out. On that day, the more unusual patterns got me worked up and then I used the straight vibrations to finish myself off. I didn't insert my purple pal at all. And I didn't fantasize, which is unusual for me; I just focused on the vibrations.

My notes say that I had a great orgasm. But it wasn't hugely physical - I wasn't aware of a rush of contractions in my womb. That happens sometimes, especially this time of year, when I'm still taking a fairly huge dose of antidepressants for the SAD. I suspect that age has something to do with it as well. But there was no denying that it was an orgasm, and a badly needed one at that, what with all the stress around my father's surgery (he's doing fine now, and learning to accept the slow voyage toward full recovery). Plus I was full of other emotions, as the sadist and I moved toward and beyond a full and beautiful reconciliation. All this was released by my collaboration with my new lavender friend. I came, then rolled over onto my side and sobbed out loud "Daddy..." wondering, as the word came out, whom I was really addressing, and knowing that first and foremost I was calling to the man who owns me and shows me a happiness I never thought I'd know.

My second outing with the Symphony was a command performance. The sadist wanted to watch me use it. And so I did - a floor show following the salad during last week's long, lunchtime visit.

I forget at times that Daddy often appreciates things differently from other people. I assumed that he would be turned on by watching the vibrator moving in and out of my pussy, especially as he ordered me down on the floor with my feet pointing toward him as he sat in the Eames chair. But then he ordered me to get the pillow off the futon, and to prop myself up so he could see my face as I gave myself pleasure.

I asked if he would be willing to comment on his experience of my experience, and he kindly provided the following:

I rarely looked at the device and/or your pussy. For one thing, your hand and wrist obscured any vision of much else, and then, frankly, pussies, visually, don't really do much for me. Never have. They're just sort of there. Or, since they are an opening, not there. An absence of there, with a bit of window dressing. The rest of your body, however, was another matter. Very pleasing to observe the arching and jerking, and to watch as you drifted in and out of awareness of your surroundings, including me. And always the breathing; shallow and deep, shrill and guttural.

Those were my impressions, in addition to what I said at the time about maybe suggesting a bit of pre-game practice to familiarize oneself with the different settings.

So yes, in its effect on me, my Master gives the Symphony high marks. (You can read more about that visit here.)

The third trial was conducted on Sunday, which found me in a particularly rich and loving state of mind.

There is something you must remember. When I masturbate, it is never for me. And when I masturbate to provide material for a review, that is not the only or even the greatest purpose for the activity. I touch myself for my Master, my Daddy, the sweet sadistic man who owns me and makes my life beautiful. My pleasure is all for his pleasure, and my orgasms are his as well. I touch myself only with his permission, and must report on the experience afterwards. Sometimes I will leave him my orgasm as a voice mail, so he can enjoy it again and again.

This time, last Sunday, he was home as I settled down in my lab. So I reported to him as the experiment progressed. You would think it would inhibit my responses, what with annotating the different stimulation patterns on my yellow pad of paper and then settling the computer on my lap to give him a buzz-by-buzz description of events. But instead, it brought him into the room and heightened my response.

In the interest of science, he has allowed me to share with you my real-time report:

There.

The trials are about to commence.

Pet naked?
Check.

Bath mat under butt to absorb slipped and leaked lube?
Check.

Device at hand?
Check.

Box top available with diagrams of the ten vibratory patterns?
Check.

Astro-Glide?
Check.
Baby doesn't want to risk pussy irritation from too much friction.

Pen and lined yellow pad for taking notes?
Check.

Oh, Daddy, if only you were sitting here in a white lab coat, to observe and take notes and direct the action... I will put you there, Daddy. I will put you there beside the bed. Because everything I do is for you.

See me, Daddy.
See me...

~~~

First pattern tested, Daddy. The strongest plain vibration. I am trying to remain detached and scientific, checking and identifying each pattern, observing my responses, making notes, before settling down - and in - to what can truly be termed masturbation.

But I'm already... well, the truth is it's not just from the vibrator, Daddy. My pussy was feeling tingly but as soon as I started writing you the contractions began and now they're just getting worse. Because we know, of course, that it's not a purely physical response.

Is it, Daddy...

And now I feel you looking at me... and touching me... and how much of that was triggered by vibrating silicone and how much by your nearness as my fingers make contact with the keys...

~~~~~

Expansion of the image, Sir.

An additional operative is required.

Experimental subject (your pet) on the surface of your choosing, though what I saw was a plain bed with iron headboard painted white, like an old-fashioned hospital bed in those old movies. Subject naked and unrestrained, except for cold steel chain fastened snugly around her neck and attached to headboard - not so much for restraint as to remind subject that she is indeed owned property and that the proceedings are not designed for her pleasure.

You, of course, direct the proceedings. But there is a third party, Sir. Your assistant. This person stands over the subject, applying the device per your instructions, so that subject's participation can be pure and limited to reactions. Subject's head is raised - or perhaps the whole head end of the bed is raised, to facilitate observation, and assistant is often scolded for inadvertently blocking your view.

The poor assistant becomes quite aroused, Sir, but you deny any relief unless at some point it would serve your pleasure.

You might perhaps enjoy making a film of the experiment, to capture the sights and sounds... the sounds, Sir... I do think you would enjoy the sounds...

~~~~~

I'm sure I would enjoy that, my pet.

~~~~~

mmm... momentarily... computer on lap... vibrator between legs, positioned along length of slit but not inserted, operating in strong bursts... there as an element of torture to this, Daddy... I almost left all my typos to show what it is doing to me... one more pattern to try and then I will proceed to insertion...

Daddy?

I wish you could see my face, Daddy... and hear my whimpers... one of the main things I'm learning from this is not to push but to give myself to the sensations... let them work their way in and do their thing... they end up having much more power than I would expect from first pulse...

Beautiful and painful... which tends to translate to fantasies of pain...

~~~~~

My cock wants you.

~~~~~

[Later]

mmm... I'm glad your cock wants me, Daddy.

I'm fighting my way out of my post-orgasmic stupor... had a lovely nap... a lovely orgasm... for you, Daddy... as I rose towards it, I was wishing I could have given it to you in a voice mail...except that changes it, Daddy. I become aware... and concerned about timing... when to call... worried I won't in fact cum once I do call.. or that I will cum too soon or too late...

Anyway, Daddy, it was for you whether you saw and heard it or not. As I grew very close... and it was a lovely, gradual, unforced build-up... oh, and speaking of your cock, Daddy love, I realized this vibrator is a lovely device for Kegel exercises... anyway.... mmm... I could have slept all afternoon and slept much longer than I meant to... oh where was I?... so floaty, Daddy... as I was getting close I said (to myself? aloud? I'm honestly not sure) Hurt me, Daddy.... and then I rose even closer and I said Don't hurt me, Daddy! Please, don't hurt me... and then I came.

mmm... feeling so relaxed... and a little squirmy and flirty and young and you're my Daddy and my life and I love you... and I should take a shower now...

I love you.
I do.

And I feel your fingers closing, clamping onto my nipples...

So.
I'd say the Symphony did a very good job.
Wouldn't you?

And now, on to the next.
I'll be getting another toy soon for this month's review.
(This review is really last month's review but I got an extension due to family illness.)

The next toy will be another of their G-spot Vibrators, so I can do a comparison test while learning more about that elusive part of my interior.

Again, thanks to EdenFantasys for inviting me into their program, and to the sadist for allowing me to participate. It really has been a lot of fun, both the testing and the writing. And most important of all, it has given pleasure to the sadist, who gives so much pleasure to me.

Masturbation mania (1) - testing the Siena Symphony

Beautiful.
As weird as it may appear in photos, the Siena Symphony is simply beautiful.

But let me back up.

As noted in this post weeks and weeks ago, I was one of a number of sex bloggers recently approached by EdenFantasys, an online seller of so-called Adult Toys. I liked their website, which I had already encountered (again, see the previous post for more details) and decided to accept their offer of free toys in exchange for reviews and links.

I chose the Siena Symphony, one of their G-spot Vibrators, because it was just plain weird. Not clumsy weird. Not awkward. Just... different. Not trying to look like something it wasn't.

In the end, I decided that it is beautiful.
In its own simple way, it is beautiful.
And once you realize that it is a product of Danish design, it all makes sense.
Elegant, modern, well-thought out...

My only regret was that family demands made it impossible for me to properly test it until now. So not only am I late in fulfilling my responsibility to EdenFantasys, but I was missing a great opportunity to get around the strict control that the sadist maintains over my orgasms. (I did, of course, obtain permission from him to participate in this program. He rightfully assumed that it would contribute to his pleasure as well as to mine. And we all know whose pleasure is the only one that counts in this relationship. Theoretically, anyway.)

In the end, I conducted 3 tests of the beautiful creature, under different conditions. The middle test was held last Tuesday, and was a demonstration for the sadist of the Symphony's effects on his pet. His comments, along with other more subjective reports, will be in tomorrow's post. Today's report will be a scientific examination, based on experiments conducted in my lab (pictured above).

The first thing I noticed was the lack of excess packing material. The shipping box wasn't outrageously bigger than the manufacturer's box, and the latter is a good place to keep the Symphony when not in use. I had hoped to get a picture of the cats exploring the latest member of the family; their meager interest is testimony to the lack of plastic in the package. Thanks to both the manufacturer and EdensFantasys on that!

In addition to storage, the box provides a handy representation of the 10 vibration patterns, which was very useful as I conducted my lab tests. With this and any multi-patterned toy, it's a good idea to take some time for systematic exploration. The first time I tried the Symphony, my trip through the patterns was more haphazard and I didn't get as much benefit from them.

I love the feel of the vibrator in my hand. It has a nice heft to it, feeling solid and well-made. And the silicone is almost velvety in texture. It cleans up easily, and I appreciated knowing that I wouldn't have to use it with a condom. Good thing that, considering its creative design.

The Symphony comes in 2 colors: a sweet pink and a soft lavender. I'm generally inclined towards purple, and the philosopher always liked me in pink so I still feel rather sensitive about that color. Lavender it was, then, and I was delighted with my choice.

I must admit to having been a little worried about the width of it. I'm not into having fat things in my cunt, be they real live penises or silicone substitutes. And this looked fat. I was happily surprised at how comfortable it felt inside me, especially given its unusual shape. Today's lab tests showed that the combination of shape and width makes the Symphony ideal for doing Kegel exercises, which the sadist urges me to practice. Unlike with other insertion toys, I found that it stayed wedged inside me while I squeezed my muscles around it without my having to hold it in place with my hand - which meant I could sit up in bed pulsing away with my pussy while e-mailing the sadist about what I was doing and feeling.

Time now to turn the creature on.

A slight negative here. I found it to be a bit loud, although EdenFantasys rates it only 2 bees out of a possible 5. I meant to turn it on and go into the other room to see how far the buzz carries, but forgot to. Still, I'm sure it's a lot quieter than other vibrators.

The other thing to note is that it is not the strongest vibrator out there. If you want to really blast your way to an orgasm, this is not your baby, and there were times that I wished it had a bit more oomph. The handy rating chart on the website gives the Symphony 4 vrooms out of 5. It's clearly a very solid, powerful motor, though, and the vibrations spread throughout the device (as the sadist insists on calling it).

And for me there are advantages to its not being overly strong. My sometime complaint about vibrators is that they can sort of numb my clit, which I don't find to be a pleasant sensation. But today, as I explored the various settings, I allowed them to work their magic on me. And magic it was. I yielded to the patterns the way I yield to the sadist. I didn't strain, I didn't push, I didn't reach for the orgasm. I just allowed myself to feel, and ended up with both a delicious symphony (yes, really) of sensuality and a slow rise to a deliciously satisfying orgasm.

oatmeal girl was reduced to mush.

And this despite the rather disruptive need to make notes along the way, not to mention e-mailing the sadist.

Uh-oh... just thinking about this afternoon's playtime is unleashing ripples of pleasure. All on its own, my womb is demonstrating its own pattern of pulsation, and my pussy is swelling and dripping. A bonus!

One more comment and I'll wrap up today's post. Come back tomorrow for a more subjective analysis, including the sadist's comments on my performance last Tuesday and excerpts from my messages to him during my time in the lab today.

The Symphony is promoted as a G-spot and clitoral vibrator. I'm not that experienced with G-spot work. In fact, it was the philosopher who taught me, via e-mail, how to find it and stimulate it! I did experiment with assorted internal positions today, and sometimes did sense something very special and different going on. But I never felt that I was taking full advantage of that aspect of the device. I'm looking forward to conducting further experiments. On the other hand, the unusual shape gave me many ways to induce pleasure via external stimulation, including laying the concave curve along my slit, with the tip heading in the direction of my little butt hole. Very nice...

I was quite happy with how the Symphony felt inside me. Quite happy indeed. For just plain fucking myself, I'd still like something similar to my now defunct FunFactory friend. But for a positively delicious (and not so often granted) session of sensual pleasure, and to provide me (meaning to provide the sadist, whether in attendance or not) with a most satisfying orgasm, I'll be happily returning to the Symphony.

Thank you, EdenFantasys!

Don't forget to come back tomorrow for Part 2, which will be less scientific and, I hope, more arousing.

Love and desire defeat common sense

You may blog about this, he said.
Was that last night or this morning?
Where did one begin and the other end?
Thank you, I said, not sure that I wanted to.

How should I tell the story?
What can I say that would give you a peek at the beauty?
And do I really want to share...
what we had,
how we were,
how we loved.

As our relationship has catapulted into a far greater intimacy than we ever could have imagined, I have found myself less and less willing to include others in our memories.

Oh, it's easy enough to tell the bare facts.
Which are these.

A Friday night.
We each have our vices.
I go to shul.
He goes to bars.

Sometimes I stay home and we exchange e-mails and texts as he roams his town under an hour from here. At times I have written reams of pornography for him. Episodic tales, spread over messages, designed for his desires and urges and needs. Sometimes he'll text me again when he gets home, his tongue and fingers loosened by alcohol.

Six weeks ago, he invited me up to hang out with him. Which eventually precipitated the worst crisis we ever had in the two and a half years we've known each other. The worst crisis along with the most welcome avowal on his part.

That he...
has feelings for me.
Let's keep it at that.
Strong feelings, it is clear,
though not granted the name of love.
Still.
Feelings.
Powerful feelings.
I've seen them on his his face...

We made it through the crisis, again and again, thinking we had survived the worst and then hitting another stretch of rapids. It was horrible. It was scorching. It left us beaten and bleeding.

It left us a couple.

Make no mistake.
It is still very much a D/s relationship.
And the Beast still poses very grave dangers.
In fact, he was the one who saved things.
He fought for me.
He didn't want to let me go.

But oh, how different it is when a thick stone wall has been demolished. The sadist's declaration of feelings was the trumpet blast that took down our own wall of Jericho and granted us the truest form of intercourse, far more intimate than can be achieved by cock and pussy alone.

Still.
That night, that weekend, that week, hangs over us.
The fear is always there.

Yesterday afternoon, we were exchanging thoughts about music. As suppertime approached, I asked if he'd be going carousing, commenting that I would probably go to services. And I did mean to go to services. I have friends at the shul, the rituals calm me, and I hadn't left the house all day. Aggravation over the parental situation had been making both my sister and me violently nuts all week.

I did mean to go to shul.
I did.
I wanted to go.
I wanted to get out.

But I didn't want to be away from him.
Even if being together meant no more than an electronic connection.

"Are you out carousing, Daddy?" I asked, after describing my plans.

"I am. So you may communicate if you want. Or worship here."

See?
There's the problem.
He says things and I don't always understand them.
He thinks they're clear
and I don't always realize that I've misunderstood.

I'm trying to be better about admitting that I don't know what the hell he is saying. When I realize I don't know what he's saying. In this case, it took a good 15 minutes before another confusing statement led me to say "I don't understand, Sir."

Immediately followed by:

Oh, wait.
By "worship here" did you mean where you are, Daddy?

He did.

This was followed by a few volleys on what a stupid idea that probably was and how badly we wanted to be with each other. Finally, he gave me instructions.

Until around 9:30 or so, it was a very odd sort of date. Or it would be for anyone but us. He sent me to a favorite haunt of us for dinner. He would pay, but I would be there alone. There were reasons for the choice of restaurant and for my solitude.

But we were never apart. Even during the drive up, when I was so good until almost the end about not texting or even looking at the texts that came from him. But once at my destination, the conversation flew.

What to say now...

I'll leave it at this.
We shouldn't have been there together.
In the end, we were there together.

And after that, we were somewhere else.
Together.
Very together.

For when he joined me at the restaurant, he had in his pocket a key.
Or,
to be more precise,
a key card.
For a room.
Picked up on the way over.

And eventually, that is where we went.
I followed him.
We parked.
We entered the room.

I don't think I'll tell you anything more.
Except that there was great joy and great wonder and great pleasure.
And that by the time he had to leave, he hadn't had enough.

"I want you to spend the night here," he said.
"I'll be back in the morning," he said.
"Wait for me."

He left around 1:30 in the morning. Could it really have been so early? I checked the time on our texts and that seems to be about right.

I slept little.
He slept even less.
We felt each other all night.
And at 10 am he returned.

By 10:45 I was on my way home.

I guess I'm glad I wrote this after all. Inadequate as it is. Words cannot capture the longing, the desire, the passion, the love on my side and the undefined intense emotions on his which surrounded us that evening, that night, that morning.

Last night.
This morning.

And tonight?
Can you hear it in my voice?
Can you see into my eyes?
Can you sense my trembling?

Joy.
Love.
The pain of longing.
And the lingering sense
of his body
exchanging cells with mine
until now we are one.