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.