The sadist is my Master.
He owns me.
He owns me in a way
that cannot be contained
by a list
of rules.
He has saturated my cells.
I breathe him.
No matter what I am doing,
no matter where it seems I am,
I am serving him.
My thoughts never leave him.
Day and night.
Every minute of the day.
Every second of the week.
Every inch of the year.
This is my life.
Not just now. Not all of a sudden. There was no big change in behaviour or requirements after he surprised me by stating that I was his slave. It wasn't like he was handing me a diploma. It was a recognition. A welcoming. A statement of fact. Of what already has been but is now, perhaps, more... incorporated into my essence.
24 hours a day.
7 days a week.
This is who I am.
This is what I am.
As I wash my hair.
As I feed the cats.
As I take out the garbage.
As I listen to the news.
As I go to our little, local independent grocery store and eye the raspberries which I never buy because they're so expensive but which I will buy for the night we're spending together in less than 4 weeks.
As I look at those raspberries and feel - truly feel - his sweet, soft, gentle mouth that can also be so cruel eating those delicate berries off my soft, vulnerable body with a tender, affectionate sensuality that is almost harder to bear than pain.
Then,
and then,
and then,
and always,
at the most prosaic of times,
at the most erotic of times,
and at the most holy,
I am his slave.
He is my Master.
And I serve him with my devotion.
Can anything be more "24/7" than that?
Monday, May 30, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
BDSM, Bath and Beyond
Amazing what you can find at Bed, Bath and Beyond.
Except not really.
You would think it's some miniature spanking implement.
But no.
Or at least, I don't think it is...
I'm not sure why they call it a paddle.
I was so disappointed with what I found,
that I only took a brief look, then put it back -
as if I'd been caught looking at a very nasty porn.
In a library.
Weird.
Because all it seemed to be was a
small,
hinged
plastic thing
that opened up to reveal a mirror.
I suppose you could spank someone with it.
But I'd worry about it breaking
and leaving glass splinter souvenirs.
Maybe it comes with a warning label?
Except not really.
You would think it's some miniature spanking implement.
But no.
Or at least, I don't think it is...
I'm not sure why they call it a paddle.
I was so disappointed with what I found,
that I only took a brief look, then put it back -
as if I'd been caught looking at a very nasty porn.
In a library.
Weird.
Because all it seemed to be was a
small,
hinged
plastic thing
that opened up to reveal a mirror.
I suppose you could spank someone with it.
But I'd worry about it breaking
and leaving glass splinter souvenirs.
Maybe it comes with a warning label?
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Making plans
The hotel reservations are made.
I sent him a copy of the confirmation.
I closed the message:
He replied:
My Master is ever so tolerant.
I sent him a copy of the confirmation.
I closed the message:
4 weeks from this Saturday!
-- your bouncing pet. (Oops, pets are $10 extra, my Lord...)
He replied:
I can feel the bounce from here.
My Master is ever so tolerant.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
My Master. His slave.
Wisely, my Master has pulled back from showering me with expressions of his affection. We had both seen how it triggered a neurotic distancing reaction on my part which nearly destroyed the relationship. (We come up with so many ways to threaten our relationship. Probably because everything we do, as the sadist noted yesterday, is so intense. We don't seem to be capable of anything else.)
So no more playlists of romantic songs.
No more...
I can't reduce the way he was into a simple list. And it's too sad to think about their having been locked up. Although not completely. There was, for example, that Goethe quote he sent me. And there is the way he can be with me, a way that is not new but which now I can see for what it is. My confusion is gone, the back and forth between thinking he had feelings for me and thinking I must be believing my own fantasies. It's not a fantasy. He does have those feelings. But, as he put it, that's just not a way it is safe for him to be with me.
But for all he says that our physical relationship is based solely on his deriving pleasure from me, there are times...
On Tuesday, there were times that he felt like a lover. When he lay beside me on the futon, when our bodies spoke to each other in comfort and desire and delight. When I was on my knees beside him after he came, me on my knees with my arms around him and my head in his lap as he sat in his chair and he stroked my head... gently... at length... with such tenderness...
I felt that.
I felt a closeness.
And it didn't make my head do anything weird.
I felt we were lovers.
I felt we were friends.
And I felt - I knew - I know that he truly is my Master in a way that neither of us can define nor do we need to.
It is true.
It is real.
He is my Master.
I am [and I shiver here at the beauty of it] his slave.
These are not words that have been stuck on us.
These are states of being that we have come to.
Don't try to slot them into Master/slave discussions.
It won't work.
We feel that this is what we are.
We know that this is who we are.
It is not a game.
There is not suddenly a new list of duties and rules.
It just
is.
We are.
This post started out with a different title and a different aim. I had called it "My Master, my lover." But you know, I start writing and I never quite know where I'll end up.
Recipe swap, anyone?
So no more playlists of romantic songs.
No more...
I can't reduce the way he was into a simple list. And it's too sad to think about their having been locked up. Although not completely. There was, for example, that Goethe quote he sent me. And there is the way he can be with me, a way that is not new but which now I can see for what it is. My confusion is gone, the back and forth between thinking he had feelings for me and thinking I must be believing my own fantasies. It's not a fantasy. He does have those feelings. But, as he put it, that's just not a way it is safe for him to be with me.
But for all he says that our physical relationship is based solely on his deriving pleasure from me, there are times...
On Tuesday, there were times that he felt like a lover. When he lay beside me on the futon, when our bodies spoke to each other in comfort and desire and delight. When I was on my knees beside him after he came, me on my knees with my arms around him and my head in his lap as he sat in his chair and he stroked my head... gently... at length... with such tenderness...
I felt that.
I felt a closeness.
And it didn't make my head do anything weird.
I felt we were lovers.
I felt we were friends.
And I felt - I knew - I know that he truly is my Master in a way that neither of us can define nor do we need to.
It is true.
It is real.
He is my Master.
I am [and I shiver here at the beauty of it] his slave.
These are not words that have been stuck on us.
These are states of being that we have come to.
Don't try to slot them into Master/slave discussions.
It won't work.
We feel that this is what we are.
We know that this is who we are.
It is not a game.
There is not suddenly a new list of duties and rules.
It just
is.
We are.
This post started out with a different title and a different aim. I had called it "My Master, my lover." But you know, I start writing and I never quite know where I'll end up.
Recipe swap, anyone?
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Dominance and domesticity
A Tuesday.
As usual on a Tuesday, my Master's work schedule has him within a very few miles of my home. We have fallen into a pattern now. He does what he can to keep a few hours open for a visit. Conceivably, he could be here as early as shortly after 10 am, but he is more likely to arrive anywhere between 11 and 1:30.
And then he stays.
No more snatched half hours like when I was working and would run home to strip off my clothes, suck his cock, clear away the tell-tale traces of our meeting, pull my clothes back on and dash back to the office, eating a sandwich as I drove the mile and a half and arriving always late and always not quite there at all. Not to mention that it often hurt to sit.
Not very satisfactory.
Although maybe it fit where we were at the time.
It accentuated the primacy of my service, despite the inconvenience.
Now, though, in our third year, even given all our struggles - or perhaps because of them - we are comfortable with each other. So he comes and spends hours and eats lunch and cums before he goes.
What is there to say about a day such as today? Certainly I could recite this detail and that.
How he ordered me to touch myself for the longest time, sitting before him, while he watched - watched my face, not my pussy, watched me arouse myself for his pleasure...
How he spent the weekend obsessing over my belly, until a vision of it all soft and pale and round kept him awake much of the night, and how he found a way to pose me lying back over a mound of pillow and afghan so that I approximated the image that had haunted him... and how I kept my belly all soft and yielding despite my fear that he would hurt me and how he really didn't hurt me there at all.
How for the first time he didn't tell me I could eat after he had lunched on the beautiful, delicious, and horribly healthy salad I made for him as usual. How I vaguely noted that fact but didn't really care.
How he came and spent hours even though he had some work to do, which he managed to somehow accomplish while I sat naked before him, touching myself per his order, and then fondling his cock, although every few minutes he had to stop and lean over and enjoy my mouth with the sweetest, gentlest, and most erotic kisses you could possibly imagine. No phone calls while I sucked his cock, though. Not this time. He sent me upstairs to get lunch while he made his phone calls. Probably just as well.
It was so comfortable having him down in the dungeon, working, making his phone calls, while I puttered around upstairs, putting the finishing touches on the salad, all the while naked and with the long chain of his ownership clipped tight around my neck and wound round it again and again in a hard and heavy and very welcome reminder of his ownership.
So many little things.
So many lovely little things.
And in the end, after he came in my mouth, which he doesn't usually do, I sat at his feet with my head against his belly and he stroked my hair, so sweetly, so gently, for the longest time, and with such affection...
And the walls of the room swelled with our happiness.
As usual on a Tuesday, my Master's work schedule has him within a very few miles of my home. We have fallen into a pattern now. He does what he can to keep a few hours open for a visit. Conceivably, he could be here as early as shortly after 10 am, but he is more likely to arrive anywhere between 11 and 1:30.
And then he stays.
No more snatched half hours like when I was working and would run home to strip off my clothes, suck his cock, clear away the tell-tale traces of our meeting, pull my clothes back on and dash back to the office, eating a sandwich as I drove the mile and a half and arriving always late and always not quite there at all. Not to mention that it often hurt to sit.
Not very satisfactory.
Although maybe it fit where we were at the time.
It accentuated the primacy of my service, despite the inconvenience.
Now, though, in our third year, even given all our struggles - or perhaps because of them - we are comfortable with each other. So he comes and spends hours and eats lunch and cums before he goes.
What is there to say about a day such as today? Certainly I could recite this detail and that.
How he ordered me to touch myself for the longest time, sitting before him, while he watched - watched my face, not my pussy, watched me arouse myself for his pleasure...
How he spent the weekend obsessing over my belly, until a vision of it all soft and pale and round kept him awake much of the night, and how he found a way to pose me lying back over a mound of pillow and afghan so that I approximated the image that had haunted him... and how I kept my belly all soft and yielding despite my fear that he would hurt me and how he really didn't hurt me there at all.
How for the first time he didn't tell me I could eat after he had lunched on the beautiful, delicious, and horribly healthy salad I made for him as usual. How I vaguely noted that fact but didn't really care.
How he came and spent hours even though he had some work to do, which he managed to somehow accomplish while I sat naked before him, touching myself per his order, and then fondling his cock, although every few minutes he had to stop and lean over and enjoy my mouth with the sweetest, gentlest, and most erotic kisses you could possibly imagine. No phone calls while I sucked his cock, though. Not this time. He sent me upstairs to get lunch while he made his phone calls. Probably just as well.
It was so comfortable having him down in the dungeon, working, making his phone calls, while I puttered around upstairs, putting the finishing touches on the salad, all the while naked and with the long chain of his ownership clipped tight around my neck and wound round it again and again in a hard and heavy and very welcome reminder of his ownership.
So many little things.
So many lovely little things.
And in the end, after he came in my mouth, which he doesn't usually do, I sat at his feet with my head against his belly and he stroked my hair, so sweetly, so gently, for the longest time, and with such affection...
And the walls of the room swelled with our happiness.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
I serve. He pays.
I remember when I was very stubborn about not letting men pay for me. I remember back in the 70s, between marriages, planning a trip down to DC from Boston to spend the weekend with a guy I had fucked in a little patch of woods near his parents' house because I was turned on by his boots. Now that was a mistake.
But that's another story.
I've made lots of mistakes.
Anyway, he had invited me down to visit, which meant a plane trip. Which he offered to pay for. He was quite insistent. I was more so. This was the 70s. A fierce feminism was rampant, the kind that comes from just having had your eyes opened. And I was right to stand my ground. He wanted to acquire me, stuff me into a predetermined mold. He was on the look-out for a Jewish girl to marry.
I'm glad I escaped the trap.
It didn't take long.
Now, I'm more open-minded about accepting money. About allowing someone pay for me. Partly, it's a practical matter. A healthy, practical outlook learned from my mother (though she didn't realize it) as, with a faraway look and the idealist's emotional catch in her voice, she answered my question "Mom, what's the Communist Manifesto?" with "From each according to his ability, to each according to his need."
Seems like a reasonable way to live.
Especially when you're unemployed.
Which all sounds very cold and opportunistic, but in fact I do believe that. Even when I'm not on the receiving end. We have a responsibility to take care of each other. And if we don't, we'll end up paying one way or another in any case. But let's not get into politics now. OK?
I've learned that if someone wants to pay for me, I can accept gracefully and not feel swallowed up. Sometimes, of course, it's wise not to accept. It's an instinctive thing. You know when you need to stand your ground. And sometimes it feels really good when you know you'll split the bill. There's an easy comfort to it.
And then there is the sadist.
He pays for things.
For all sorts of reasons.
It feels like a very open-handed, generous gesture. He tells me to go to a restaurant and says he will pay, partly because he knows I can't really afford it, partly to make what I will taste and hear there a gift, and partly because it creates an odd sort of date, one during which we are only together courtesy of our smart phones. He likes to be generous, and he can afford it.
Sometimes, it is because he is my Master,
and it's the appropriate thing to do.
I belong to him.
I am serving him.
And he makes the arrangements that make it possible.
We didn't get to spend Friday night together after all. The activity that would have made it possible was, in the end, arranged in a way that made it not at all possible. But we are looking forward to a repeat of the night we spent together 11 months ago. The night in the room with white linens, which I never did fully tell you about. A weekend at the end of June.
That time, he gave me a fistful of cash. It covered the hotel room, my gas, my food, a case of water, a bottle of champagne (still keeping cold in the bottom of my fridge), with some twenties left over to make me feel owned and taken care of.
I was very grateful for the left-over cash.
I did not feel cheapened.
I did not feel bought.
I did not feel like a whore.
I felt...
... soft.
Very soft
and very owned
and very, very happy.
But that's another story.
I've made lots of mistakes.
Anyway, he had invited me down to visit, which meant a plane trip. Which he offered to pay for. He was quite insistent. I was more so. This was the 70s. A fierce feminism was rampant, the kind that comes from just having had your eyes opened. And I was right to stand my ground. He wanted to acquire me, stuff me into a predetermined mold. He was on the look-out for a Jewish girl to marry.
I'm glad I escaped the trap.
It didn't take long.
Now, I'm more open-minded about accepting money. About allowing someone pay for me. Partly, it's a practical matter. A healthy, practical outlook learned from my mother (though she didn't realize it) as, with a faraway look and the idealist's emotional catch in her voice, she answered my question "Mom, what's the Communist Manifesto?" with "From each according to his ability, to each according to his need."
Seems like a reasonable way to live.
Especially when you're unemployed.
Which all sounds very cold and opportunistic, but in fact I do believe that. Even when I'm not on the receiving end. We have a responsibility to take care of each other. And if we don't, we'll end up paying one way or another in any case. But let's not get into politics now. OK?
I've learned that if someone wants to pay for me, I can accept gracefully and not feel swallowed up. Sometimes, of course, it's wise not to accept. It's an instinctive thing. You know when you need to stand your ground. And sometimes it feels really good when you know you'll split the bill. There's an easy comfort to it.
And then there is the sadist.
He pays for things.
For all sorts of reasons.
It feels like a very open-handed, generous gesture. He tells me to go to a restaurant and says he will pay, partly because he knows I can't really afford it, partly to make what I will taste and hear there a gift, and partly because it creates an odd sort of date, one during which we are only together courtesy of our smart phones. He likes to be generous, and he can afford it.
Sometimes, it is because he is my Master,
and it's the appropriate thing to do.
I belong to him.
I am serving him.
And he makes the arrangements that make it possible.
We didn't get to spend Friday night together after all. The activity that would have made it possible was, in the end, arranged in a way that made it not at all possible. But we are looking forward to a repeat of the night we spent together 11 months ago. The night in the room with white linens, which I never did fully tell you about. A weekend at the end of June.
That time, he gave me a fistful of cash. It covered the hotel room, my gas, my food, a case of water, a bottle of champagne (still keeping cold in the bottom of my fridge), with some twenties left over to make me feel owned and taken care of.
I was very grateful for the left-over cash.
I did not feel cheapened.
I did not feel bought.
I did not feel like a whore.
I felt...
... soft.
Very soft
and very owned
and very, very happy.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
It's not all sex and spankings
A little present I received from my Master, who is torturing himself by reading Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther. We all have our own notions of pleasure.
The accompanying note included this: "Is there any point at all in my warning you not to take every word as a message? Yes there are some touch-points (that's why I sent it) but try not to get nuts, OK?"
I'm afraid he was offended when I confessed to laughing at the line about her being a few years older, but I laughed only because this, for sure, applies to us.
His favorite line? The one ending:
The accompanying note included this: "Is there any point at all in my warning you not to take every word as a message? Yes there are some touch-points (that's why I sent it) but try not to get nuts, OK?"
But she has been mine. I possessed that heart, that noble soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more than I really was, because I was all that I could be. Good heavens! Did then a single power of my soul remain inexercised? In her presence did I not display to its full extent, that mysterious feeling with which my heart embraces nature? Was not our intercourse a perpetual web of the finest emotions, of the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in their very eccentricity bore the stamp of genius? Alas, the few years by which she was my senior brought her to the grave before me. Never can I forget her firm mind or heavenly patience.
I'm afraid he was offended when I confessed to laughing at the line about her being a few years older, but I laughed only because this, for sure, applies to us.
His favorite line? The one ending:
their very eccentricity bore the stamp of genius
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Forced masturbation; the torture of pleasure (2)
Continued from yesterday's post, a slightly edited version of the day's correspondence; day devoted to orgasm-less masturbation, every 2 hours. An activity meant to submerge me in my service as my Master's sex slave.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am feeling chained by this schedule, my Lord. The frequency of my duties pulls on my leash every 2 hours. I both resent and crave it and, most of all, feel your ownership.
This time, my Lord, I pulled off my jeans and left them lying on the floor by my bed. Only my plain white cotton panties were pushed down below my knees as I lay in the bed. My body knew what it wanted. What it needed. I felt its desperation. It wasn't content to passively receive the vibrations. First my need commanded my hand to move the little device back and forth over my clit. Then it ordered my body to thrust back and forth under the silicone, seizing the stimulation it craved while knowing that its real desire would go unfulfilled.
For the first time today, I wanted to shove the instrument of your torment inside me. I reached down to spread my lips and came across the Tampax string. Oh well... Yet another stage in the torture.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm feeling crazed, my Lord.
Desperate.
Imprisoned.
Frantic.
Tortured.
That pleases you.
Doesn't it, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Please, my Lord. May I use an edited version of my reports, plus your initial assignment, in a blog post? Not the [xxx] part, though. That's private. Thank you, my Master.)
My Master.
Yes.
Very much that.
You are exercising your power today, my Lord.
Reminding me of how powerless I am.
Reminding me that everything I do - everything - is for you.
Reminding me how I rejoice in my suffering as you choke me with your chain.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[As the signal arrived for the next masturbation session]
Again?!
Already??!!!
Yes, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You may [post the reports], but make sure you give me a special session of torment for the next one.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[sent from my cell phone as I was masturbating]
Torment.
Right now, my Lord.
I've wedged the little vibrator between my legs.
Between my lips.
The tip is making my anus buzz.
I see nothing but scenes of torture...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My eyes are glazed with the pain of pleasure of pain of pleasure... I'm no longer sure where one leaves off and the other begins... it's a wave... flowing.... a stream of pleasure and pain pouring from my womb, propelled in a green river as the pump contracts with sharp stabs...
"Beg me, my pet."
Your words are sweet, gentle, honey tinged with poison.
"Please, my Lord..."
I can barely get out the words.
"Please, please, may I cum? Please may I cum... for you..."
"And what will you give me if I let you cum, my pet?"
"Everything, my Lord. Everything and more."
You seize the chain clasped tightly around my neck and drag me to the coffee table. You shove a pillow under my belly and tightly bind my wrists and ankles to the table legs.
I hear the match strike.
I smell the sulphur.
I sniff the singeing of the wick, the melting of the wax.
I see you take a paper clip from your pocket.
I watch you bend it.
I observe your hand close around the pliers.
I watch the thin metal rise in the air and approach the candle flame.
I do not look away as the silver turns to red.
I breathe deeply and and give thanks for my unbearable arousal.
I gasp as you press the tiny brand against my butt cheek.
I feel the tears rise in my throat.
I do not yet see the tiny letter you have seared into my skin.
But I know it is there.
I cry with pain and joy.
I forget about cumming.
I belong to you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My pussy lips are red and swollen, my Lord.
They hurt.
I am stunned and dazed, my Lord.
For you, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now you may post.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you, my Lord.
And thank you for allowing me to distract you all day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Time for another round, my Lord.
My pussy now exists only for you.
And so I suffer more pleasure.
All for you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My body is desperate to cum, my Lord.
My brain is firing wildly.
Image after image bounced off the walls of my mind.
You force me to live like this for the rest of my life.
Every 2 hours for the rest of my life.
I am restrained and touched and prodded and bombarded with stimuli.
You take me to the casino, controlling a vibrator embedded in my pussy. At first you administer pulses here and there but soon it is going non-stop and I'm wriggling and moaning as you scold me for not concentrating on the craps game.
We are up in the hotel room.
The one at the casino.
Or the one with white linens.
The images move swiftly.
I'm on my belly.
Or bent over.
You flog me.
Cane me.
Beat me with the hairbrush.
The pain isn't in the images.
I don't relive the pain.
I just see you.
And the implement
coming down on my butt.
And then man after man
using me
fucking me
from behind
always from behind
ramming his cock into my poor abused butt hole.
My body and mind have joined forces, my Lord, to say how much I need to cum.
I know it won't make any difference, my Lord.
I know it is forbidden.
The next time I touch myself, my Lord, we will be watching The Borgias together.
And you will feel my agony...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And so, my Lord.
The last time.
I reclined back on my pillows as I watched The Borgias from my bed. Naked, the chain clipped tight around my left ankle, the butt plug firmly in place - all these things as they still are. I was distracted, my Lord. The phone rang twice during the first half hour - calls from my parents that I didn't answer as they very belatedly returned my call from earlier in the evening. I was distracted. I searched for the sense of you with me and I couldn't find you.
The warning came at 10:25. The 5 minute warning to once again touch the pussy you hold captive for my torment and your pleasure. I held the little purple vibrator in my hand until the 5 minutes passed, then turned it on and settled it gently against my tired tissues.
Tired.
My pussy was tired.
My pussy was tired and the armies were preparing for war.
This time, the little device didn't make me crazy.
Instead, it settled me down.
It calmed my distraction.
It brought me home to you.
I belong to you, my Lord.
I belong to you, my Master.
I am yours in a way that is far greater than these titles,
these modes of address,
these rituals of my devotion can possibly convey.
I am deeply and truly yours, my Lord.
My Master.
We are both, perhaps, slaves to that.
I love you, my Lord.
And my body yearns for yours.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am feeling chained by this schedule, my Lord. The frequency of my duties pulls on my leash every 2 hours. I both resent and crave it and, most of all, feel your ownership.
This time, my Lord, I pulled off my jeans and left them lying on the floor by my bed. Only my plain white cotton panties were pushed down below my knees as I lay in the bed. My body knew what it wanted. What it needed. I felt its desperation. It wasn't content to passively receive the vibrations. First my need commanded my hand to move the little device back and forth over my clit. Then it ordered my body to thrust back and forth under the silicone, seizing the stimulation it craved while knowing that its real desire would go unfulfilled.
For the first time today, I wanted to shove the instrument of your torment inside me. I reached down to spread my lips and came across the Tampax string. Oh well... Yet another stage in the torture.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm feeling crazed, my Lord.
Desperate.
Imprisoned.
Frantic.
Tortured.
That pleases you.
Doesn't it, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Please, my Lord. May I use an edited version of my reports, plus your initial assignment, in a blog post? Not the [xxx] part, though. That's private. Thank you, my Master.)
My Master.
Yes.
Very much that.
You are exercising your power today, my Lord.
Reminding me of how powerless I am.
Reminding me that everything I do - everything - is for you.
Reminding me how I rejoice in my suffering as you choke me with your chain.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[As the signal arrived for the next masturbation session]
Again?!
Already??!!!
Yes, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You may [post the reports], but make sure you give me a special session of torment for the next one.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[sent from my cell phone as I was masturbating]
Torment.
Right now, my Lord.
I've wedged the little vibrator between my legs.
Between my lips.
The tip is making my anus buzz.
I see nothing but scenes of torture...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My eyes are glazed with the pain of pleasure of pain of pleasure... I'm no longer sure where one leaves off and the other begins... it's a wave... flowing.... a stream of pleasure and pain pouring from my womb, propelled in a green river as the pump contracts with sharp stabs...
"Beg me, my pet."
Your words are sweet, gentle, honey tinged with poison.
"Please, my Lord..."
I can barely get out the words.
"Please, please, may I cum? Please may I cum... for you..."
"And what will you give me if I let you cum, my pet?"
"Everything, my Lord. Everything and more."
You seize the chain clasped tightly around my neck and drag me to the coffee table. You shove a pillow under my belly and tightly bind my wrists and ankles to the table legs.
I hear the match strike.
I smell the sulphur.
I sniff the singeing of the wick, the melting of the wax.
I see you take a paper clip from your pocket.
I watch you bend it.
I observe your hand close around the pliers.
I watch the thin metal rise in the air and approach the candle flame.
I do not look away as the silver turns to red.
I breathe deeply and and give thanks for my unbearable arousal.
I gasp as you press the tiny brand against my butt cheek.
I feel the tears rise in my throat.
I do not yet see the tiny letter you have seared into my skin.
But I know it is there.
I cry with pain and joy.
I forget about cumming.
I belong to you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My pussy lips are red and swollen, my Lord.
They hurt.
I am stunned and dazed, my Lord.
For you, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now you may post.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you, my Lord.
And thank you for allowing me to distract you all day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Time for another round, my Lord.
My pussy now exists only for you.
And so I suffer more pleasure.
All for you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My body is desperate to cum, my Lord.
My brain is firing wildly.
Image after image bounced off the walls of my mind.
You force me to live like this for the rest of my life.
Every 2 hours for the rest of my life.
I am restrained and touched and prodded and bombarded with stimuli.
You take me to the casino, controlling a vibrator embedded in my pussy. At first you administer pulses here and there but soon it is going non-stop and I'm wriggling and moaning as you scold me for not concentrating on the craps game.
We are up in the hotel room.
The one at the casino.
Or the one with white linens.
The images move swiftly.
I'm on my belly.
Or bent over.
You flog me.
Cane me.
Beat me with the hairbrush.
The pain isn't in the images.
I don't relive the pain.
I just see you.
And the implement
coming down on my butt.
And then man after man
using me
fucking me
from behind
always from behind
ramming his cock into my poor abused butt hole.
My body and mind have joined forces, my Lord, to say how much I need to cum.
I know it won't make any difference, my Lord.
I know it is forbidden.
The next time I touch myself, my Lord, we will be watching The Borgias together.
And you will feel my agony...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And so, my Lord.
The last time.
I reclined back on my pillows as I watched The Borgias from my bed. Naked, the chain clipped tight around my left ankle, the butt plug firmly in place - all these things as they still are. I was distracted, my Lord. The phone rang twice during the first half hour - calls from my parents that I didn't answer as they very belatedly returned my call from earlier in the evening. I was distracted. I searched for the sense of you with me and I couldn't find you.
The warning came at 10:25. The 5 minute warning to once again touch the pussy you hold captive for my torment and your pleasure. I held the little purple vibrator in my hand until the 5 minutes passed, then turned it on and settled it gently against my tired tissues.
Tired.
My pussy was tired.
My pussy was tired and the armies were preparing for war.
This time, the little device didn't make me crazy.
Instead, it settled me down.
It calmed my distraction.
It brought me home to you.
I belong to you, my Lord.
I belong to you, my Master.
I am yours in a way that is far greater than these titles,
these modes of address,
these rituals of my devotion can possibly convey.
I am deeply and truly yours, my Lord.
My Master.
We are both, perhaps, slaves to that.
I love you, my Lord.
And my body yearns for yours.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Forced masturbation; the torture of pleasure (1)
A slightly edited transcript of an activity still in progress.
Touch pussy.
Think of the reaction of anyone who saw it!
"Hi, mom. How has your week been? Anything new?"
"Nothing new. We're OK. And what have you been doing, hon?"
"Touching myself every 2 hours, mom. You know how you caught me touching myself when I was a very, very little girl? And told me not to? Just like that. Every 2 hours. Cause I'm a sex slave, mom. Isn't that nice?"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm still making little whimpering noises...
I started a few minutes late, my Lord, as I had to go to the bathroom. Then I came into the bedroom and, rather than stripping, pushed back the blanket and top sheet, lay down on the bed and pushed my jeans and panties down to my ankles. I selected the little purple Meany mini-vibe and held it lightly to my clitoris while it buzzed at the lowest setting.
Oh, my Lord...
I felt restrained, because of the jeans and panties around my ankles and because you were watching me and because I knew I wasn't allowed to cum... and oh... and then I called out your name. It just came out like this...
Daddy... *
and then I started whimpering and then I said aloud "ohhh... it's so good..." and the light vibrations were just perfect and I felt you watching me, my Lord, and I whimpered and it felt like torture... sweet pleasurable painful torture... and my womb is contracting and it hurts and feels so good and you are very cruel and I will feel like this all day and now aren't you very aroused and I will torture you today as you are torturing me, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am quite pleased, my pet.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you, my Lord.
That is my job.
To please you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Such sweet suffering, my Lord.
As I prepared to stop, I wondered which would be worse: to stop or to go on and and on?
I imagined being forced to continue for an hour, for two, for more, with never a hope of release.
I used the little Meany again, my cruel Master, as it was so successful last time. Again I slipped into the bed with my jeans and plain white cotton panties pushed down to my ankles. This time I pulled up the blanket, restraining myself even more. I had a flash image of being inside some perverted MRI machine, surrounded by technology and clean hard surfaces, required to hold perfectly still as I was subjected to assorted sexual stimuli.
The little vibrator removes the personal element. I don't feel my fingers on swelling tissues. Some foreign body is bombarding me with vibrations. I submit, my Lord, and moan, and whimper, and contract, and wrestle with the need to go higher.
I obey, my Lord.
No cumming for your pet.
The pleasure of my pleasure is yours alone.
(Do you watch the clock, my Lord? Is my schedule now on your schedule? Every two hours, does your cock swell with my clit as I suffer for you? Do you hear my whimpers, my Lord? Do you want me?)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I hear you, my pet.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[she smiles, wriggles, and flows]
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You found a good way to combat my silence**, my Lord.
As well as to provide structure to a floaty day.
Not to mention amusement for yourself, my Lord.
Distraction.
Diversion.
Arousal.
The girl cat is moaning in her sleep. Perhaps she is dreaming of being petted.
Right this moment.
Now.
I feel you touching me...
to be continued...
* since our last series of meltdowns, I am currently not allowed to address him as Daddy.
** my current course of progesterone has made me uncharacteristically quiet, partly as a response to the medication and partly a precaution to avoid saying things while under its influence that my Master would find "crazy making." He appreciates the caution but is unnerved by the silence.
I want you to stay in contact with my pussy today. If you read this before you get out of bed, play with it a little, just to awaken it. Make a schedule and send it to me. Just a few minutes every couple of hours. Then, throughout the day touch and stimulate. Use devices if you like. You will not be able to float as I have been instructing you, letting whatever happens happen, because you may not cum, so you must remain a bit vigilant. Today you are my sex slave, preparing for your Master. Behave in that mode.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Good morning, my Lord.
I woke up, sort of, slowly, feeling you near, feeling us in a hotel room, not wanting to wake up, not wanting to leave that feeling of being with you... I crawled into your bed... I snuggled up to you... our bodies were soft and open and melding and wanting... comfortable... happy...
I am pussy, my Lord.
I am yours.
I will do and be as you desire.
All day...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Every 2 hours, my Lord.
12:30
2:30
4:30
6:30
8:30
and 10:30 as we are watching The Borgias, my Lord.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I couldn't help laughing, my Lord, as I made the entries in my Google calendar. Just think! Every 2 hours, with a 5 minute warning:~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Good morning, my Lord.
I woke up, sort of, slowly, feeling you near, feeling us in a hotel room, not wanting to wake up, not wanting to leave that feeling of being with you... I crawled into your bed... I snuggled up to you... our bodies were soft and open and melding and wanting... comfortable... happy...
I am pussy, my Lord.
I am yours.
I will do and be as you desire.
All day...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Every 2 hours, my Lord.
12:30
2:30
4:30
6:30
8:30
and 10:30 as we are watching The Borgias, my Lord.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Touch pussy.
Think of the reaction of anyone who saw it!
"Hi, mom. How has your week been? Anything new?"
"Nothing new. We're OK. And what have you been doing, hon?"
"Touching myself every 2 hours, mom. You know how you caught me touching myself when I was a very, very little girl? And told me not to? Just like that. Every 2 hours. Cause I'm a sex slave, mom. Isn't that nice?"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm still making little whimpering noises...
I started a few minutes late, my Lord, as I had to go to the bathroom. Then I came into the bedroom and, rather than stripping, pushed back the blanket and top sheet, lay down on the bed and pushed my jeans and panties down to my ankles. I selected the little purple Meany mini-vibe and held it lightly to my clitoris while it buzzed at the lowest setting.
Oh, my Lord...
I felt restrained, because of the jeans and panties around my ankles and because you were watching me and because I knew I wasn't allowed to cum... and oh... and then I called out your name. It just came out like this...
Daddy... *
and then I started whimpering and then I said aloud "ohhh... it's so good..." and the light vibrations were just perfect and I felt you watching me, my Lord, and I whimpered and it felt like torture... sweet pleasurable painful torture... and my womb is contracting and it hurts and feels so good and you are very cruel and I will feel like this all day and now aren't you very aroused and I will torture you today as you are torturing me, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am quite pleased, my pet.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you, my Lord.
That is my job.
To please you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Such sweet suffering, my Lord.
As I prepared to stop, I wondered which would be worse: to stop or to go on and and on?
I imagined being forced to continue for an hour, for two, for more, with never a hope of release.
I used the little Meany again, my cruel Master, as it was so successful last time. Again I slipped into the bed with my jeans and plain white cotton panties pushed down to my ankles. This time I pulled up the blanket, restraining myself even more. I had a flash image of being inside some perverted MRI machine, surrounded by technology and clean hard surfaces, required to hold perfectly still as I was subjected to assorted sexual stimuli.
The little vibrator removes the personal element. I don't feel my fingers on swelling tissues. Some foreign body is bombarding me with vibrations. I submit, my Lord, and moan, and whimper, and contract, and wrestle with the need to go higher.
I obey, my Lord.
No cumming for your pet.
The pleasure of my pleasure is yours alone.
(Do you watch the clock, my Lord? Is my schedule now on your schedule? Every two hours, does your cock swell with my clit as I suffer for you? Do you hear my whimpers, my Lord? Do you want me?)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I hear you, my pet.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[she smiles, wriggles, and flows]
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You found a good way to combat my silence**, my Lord.
As well as to provide structure to a floaty day.
Not to mention amusement for yourself, my Lord.
Distraction.
Diversion.
Arousal.
The girl cat is moaning in her sleep. Perhaps she is dreaming of being petted.
Right this moment.
Now.
I feel you touching me...
to be continued...
* since our last series of meltdowns, I am currently not allowed to address him as Daddy.
** my current course of progesterone has made me uncharacteristically quiet, partly as a response to the medication and partly a precaution to avoid saying things while under its influence that my Master would find "crazy making." He appreciates the caution but is unnerved by the silence.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Unexpected company
What is there to say about love
except that it is.
Convenient or not
it arrives at your door
and stays
or not.
One way or another,
ghosts of footprints
always remain.
The first 2 lines were inspired by the film "A Single Man."
except that it is.
Convenient or not
it arrives at your door
and stays
or not.
One way or another,
ghosts of footprints
always remain.
The first 2 lines were inspired by the film "A Single Man."
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Simply sweet & slightly sadistic
Such a lovely, leisurely lunch my Lord enjoyed yesterday. He dined on my salad and my body, each clearly beneficial for both his physical and mental health. The salad was rich with all sorts of vegetables, include those sweet and crunchy little Persian cucumbers you can find at Trader Joe's. Plus there was the usual side dish of pitted Kalamata olives and grape tomatoes, which he most sensuously placed on and ate off my back and, for a change, off my front as well.
The sadist is truly the sexiest man I have ever known, on so many levels, although he always gives me this skeptical look when I say so. It's true, though. For one thing, there are his amazing kisses... Damn. I knew it. All I had to do was mention his kisses, and I started to float off into a reverie of memories... He has the most amazing mouth, my Master, even when the beast takes charge and his teeth emerge from behind his soft and tender lips...
As with everything he wants and does and needs, the sadist is very specific with his preferences and instructions. Which, of course, is perfectly reasonable. After all, everything I do is for his pleasure. I exist for his pleasure. (I do believe this. Everything in my crazy, frustrating, often unsatisfying life was leading me to the moment when he found me and started freeing me from my inner chains so that in his chain I am now a pleasing, useful, and beautiful wholly owned creature.)
Where was I?
Ah, yes.
Learning to do things his way.
For his pleasure.
He has the most extraordinary kisses.
But most of the time, we don't kiss.
We don't kiss.
Rather,
I offer my mouth
and he enjoys it.
I offer it for his use and pleasure.
And it must be offered in a very specific manner.
He taught me this fairly early on.
Back in the first month, perhaps.
One day, suddenly, out of nowhere, he kissed me. He'd never done it before. And then, suddenly, he did. Why? Because he thought he'd enjoy it. One of his main guiding principles. He thought he'd enjoy it, and he did. Over and over again, he has enjoyed my mouth. But he had to teach me how to be enjoyed.
I must make my mouth available.
Without his asking.
I must part my lips.
I must make my mouth soft and yielding.
And I must extend my tongue.
That tongue must go out just the right amount.
It's like I'm a waitress
and I'm bringing out the platter from the kitchen.
And then he commences to dine.
We are not kissing.
He is enjoying.
Exploring.
Tasting.
Devouring.
Caressing.
Biting.
Which sounds really weird.
Very passive on my part.
Except it's not.
It's delicious.
It's sweet.
It's passionate.
Very intimate.
Very.
Two admissions, though. Maybe three. I am, it seems, incapable of being completely passive. I'm sure there is always at least a hint of my kissing back in our interactions. I manage to restrain most of my impulses, but a tiny bit often breaks through the mental shackles. And I know I don't make my mouth as soft as it should be, although that is something I've been concentrating on lately and I've made good progress there. But that's not the worst. And that's not why I am writing this post, which I was ordered to write.
I forget about sticking out my tongue.
I really shouldn't forget about sticking out my tongue. It's standard operating procedure. It's part of the basic instructions, given to me as soon as he realized how much he enjoyed kissing me - meaning after the very first kiss. The problem is - while it all feels wonderful while he is enjoying my mouth, sticking my tongue out feels very... weird? Ugly? Clumsy? Lacking in grace? I can't come up with the right word to describe what it feels like... unnatural, maybe. And when my mouth is open - not just parted but really open although not too open... it's a three bears sort of thing... it already feels like my tongue has been stuck out although in fact it is still firmly inside my mouth.
So my tongue doesn't always get stuck out.
And yesterday, it wasn't stuck out.
Not for the first time.
So all of a sudden, I was being spanked.
Correction spanking.
The spoon, I think.
And the strip of wood he uses as a cane.
And the jagged, pointy end of the strip of wood,
with which he poked at my left tit,
leaving a small, dark bruise.
All this hurt. Not like the other spanking, which came after he got me very aroused so that I felt the impact each time his palm landed on my butt, each time with greater force, but felt no pain whatsoever. None. Rien. Nada. It amazes me every single time.
And the beating for correction? Yes, I learned my lesson. Especially since, while I was on my hands and knees on the bed, with butt raised, he had me write down
Which I have done.
What was nice about this little beating for correction was that, unlike the horrible long excruciating punishment beating of a few weeks ago, my Master did enjoy it. He admitted that. He admitted that he was glad to have had an excuse to hurt me. So that's good. I'm glad he had a little outlet for his sadistic urges, although I'm sorry - I'm always sorry - that I can't manage to remember everything I should.
All in all, though, it was a delightful, happy visit on a beautiful sunny day. As usual, my mouth was worshiping his cock on and off during the entire two hours. He does love the way I attend to his cock. In fact, he commented - and suggested I could pass on to you - that "[my] mouth is the most intelligent pussy in the world." Isn't that sweet?
My pussy was allotted some pleasure time as well. It was a multi-purpose exercise. I was adoring his cock with my right hand and touching myself with my left hand... a surprisingly intimate activity, to the extent that at one point my finger in my pussy seemed to transform into his cock stroking me just inside those lips...
It's also a great challenge to my poor, addled brain, as I must concentrate on 2 things at once. I can't neglect his cock and I can't neglect myself, all while I'm becoming more and more aroused... The other purpose of which was to prepare me for my continuing training in connecting pain and pleasure.
And then he started saying things...
The philosopher used to say things.
We'd be on the phone
or he'd be here
and he'd say those things that he knew would make me cum.
He'd talk about what he would do to me.
About how he would hurt me.
About how the cane would come down hard on my butt.
The cane which still hangs in my closet.
Just as I say things to my Master,
to arouse his mind as well as his body.
My Master says things to me now.
He sees my eyes change and he starts to say things.
About how he wants to hurt me.
About how he will eventually do whatever he wants to me.
He is training me, I think I said.
He is making me ready.
No, he said.
He will do whatever he wants to me
even before I am ready.
I was very close to cumming.
He didn't let me cum.
Which isn't a problem.
My satisfaction comes from his pleasure.
From giving him pleasure.
And, finally, from making him cum.
Really!
Although he did say that I could masturbate after.
And I did.
As I went to sleep.
I touched myself.
Just with my fingers.
I found myself thinking of nasty things being done to me.
By a friend he had mentioned.
And then I came.
For years and years, I used thoughts of awful things being done to me to help me cum. For years, for decades, I've had these fantasies. Except now I know they could happen for real.
One more thing. Every so often, he checked his phone for a text he was expecting, something he almost never does. Finally, it came, and he wanted to forward it to his boss. He just couldn't get it to work, though - maybe because I was sucking on his cock at the time? Finally, he decided he'd have to call, after much joking between us about such an eventuality. He stood over me as I knelt before him, inserted his most delicious and very precious cock in my mouth, and placed the call while I sucked away. He feared he sounded like an idiot during the call. I don't know how he usually sounds on business calls, but he seemed all right to me. Can't imagine how he did it.
And now it is a sweet, happy, laughing memory for us to share of another lovely lunch together - sexy, sensuous, and slightly sadistic.
All with my new purple Bootie shoved up my ass.
The sadist is truly the sexiest man I have ever known, on so many levels, although he always gives me this skeptical look when I say so. It's true, though. For one thing, there are his amazing kisses... Damn. I knew it. All I had to do was mention his kisses, and I started to float off into a reverie of memories... He has the most amazing mouth, my Master, even when the beast takes charge and his teeth emerge from behind his soft and tender lips...
As with everything he wants and does and needs, the sadist is very specific with his preferences and instructions. Which, of course, is perfectly reasonable. After all, everything I do is for his pleasure. I exist for his pleasure. (I do believe this. Everything in my crazy, frustrating, often unsatisfying life was leading me to the moment when he found me and started freeing me from my inner chains so that in his chain I am now a pleasing, useful, and beautiful wholly owned creature.)
Where was I?
Ah, yes.
Learning to do things his way.
For his pleasure.
He has the most extraordinary kisses.
But most of the time, we don't kiss.
We don't kiss.
Rather,
I offer my mouth
and he enjoys it.
I offer it for his use and pleasure.
And it must be offered in a very specific manner.
He taught me this fairly early on.
Back in the first month, perhaps.
One day, suddenly, out of nowhere, he kissed me. He'd never done it before. And then, suddenly, he did. Why? Because he thought he'd enjoy it. One of his main guiding principles. He thought he'd enjoy it, and he did. Over and over again, he has enjoyed my mouth. But he had to teach me how to be enjoyed.
I must make my mouth available.
Without his asking.
I must part my lips.
I must make my mouth soft and yielding.
And I must extend my tongue.
That tongue must go out just the right amount.
It's like I'm a waitress
and I'm bringing out the platter from the kitchen.
And then he commences to dine.
We are not kissing.
He is enjoying.
Exploring.
Tasting.
Devouring.
Caressing.
Biting.
Which sounds really weird.
Very passive on my part.
Except it's not.
It's delicious.
It's sweet.
It's passionate.
Very intimate.
Very.
Two admissions, though. Maybe three. I am, it seems, incapable of being completely passive. I'm sure there is always at least a hint of my kissing back in our interactions. I manage to restrain most of my impulses, but a tiny bit often breaks through the mental shackles. And I know I don't make my mouth as soft as it should be, although that is something I've been concentrating on lately and I've made good progress there. But that's not the worst. And that's not why I am writing this post, which I was ordered to write.
I forget about sticking out my tongue.
I really shouldn't forget about sticking out my tongue. It's standard operating procedure. It's part of the basic instructions, given to me as soon as he realized how much he enjoyed kissing me - meaning after the very first kiss. The problem is - while it all feels wonderful while he is enjoying my mouth, sticking my tongue out feels very... weird? Ugly? Clumsy? Lacking in grace? I can't come up with the right word to describe what it feels like... unnatural, maybe. And when my mouth is open - not just parted but really open although not too open... it's a three bears sort of thing... it already feels like my tongue has been stuck out although in fact it is still firmly inside my mouth.
So my tongue doesn't always get stuck out.
And yesterday, it wasn't stuck out.
Not for the first time.
So all of a sudden, I was being spanked.
Correction spanking.
The spoon, I think.
And the strip of wood he uses as a cane.
And the jagged, pointy end of the strip of wood,
with which he poked at my left tit,
leaving a small, dark bruise.
All this hurt. Not like the other spanking, which came after he got me very aroused so that I felt the impact each time his palm landed on my butt, each time with greater force, but felt no pain whatsoever. None. Rien. Nada. It amazes me every single time.
And the beating for correction? Yes, I learned my lesson. Especially since, while I was on my hands and knees on the bed, with butt raised, he had me write down
I haven't been offering my tongue.And after that he told me that I was to write about it here.
Remember!
Which I have done.
What was nice about this little beating for correction was that, unlike the horrible long excruciating punishment beating of a few weeks ago, my Master did enjoy it. He admitted that. He admitted that he was glad to have had an excuse to hurt me. So that's good. I'm glad he had a little outlet for his sadistic urges, although I'm sorry - I'm always sorry - that I can't manage to remember everything I should.
All in all, though, it was a delightful, happy visit on a beautiful sunny day. As usual, my mouth was worshiping his cock on and off during the entire two hours. He does love the way I attend to his cock. In fact, he commented - and suggested I could pass on to you - that "[my] mouth is the most intelligent pussy in the world." Isn't that sweet?
My pussy was allotted some pleasure time as well. It was a multi-purpose exercise. I was adoring his cock with my right hand and touching myself with my left hand... a surprisingly intimate activity, to the extent that at one point my finger in my pussy seemed to transform into his cock stroking me just inside those lips...
It's also a great challenge to my poor, addled brain, as I must concentrate on 2 things at once. I can't neglect his cock and I can't neglect myself, all while I'm becoming more and more aroused... The other purpose of which was to prepare me for my continuing training in connecting pain and pleasure.
And then he started saying things...
The philosopher used to say things.
We'd be on the phone
or he'd be here
and he'd say those things that he knew would make me cum.
He'd talk about what he would do to me.
About how he would hurt me.
About how the cane would come down hard on my butt.
The cane which still hangs in my closet.
Just as I say things to my Master,
to arouse his mind as well as his body.
My Master says things to me now.
He sees my eyes change and he starts to say things.
About how he wants to hurt me.
About how he will eventually do whatever he wants to me.
He is training me, I think I said.
He is making me ready.
No, he said.
He will do whatever he wants to me
even before I am ready.
I was very close to cumming.
He didn't let me cum.
Which isn't a problem.
My satisfaction comes from his pleasure.
From giving him pleasure.
And, finally, from making him cum.
Really!
Although he did say that I could masturbate after.
And I did.
As I went to sleep.
I touched myself.
Just with my fingers.
I found myself thinking of nasty things being done to me.
By a friend he had mentioned.
And then I came.
For years and years, I used thoughts of awful things being done to me to help me cum. For years, for decades, I've had these fantasies. Except now I know they could happen for real.
One more thing. Every so often, he checked his phone for a text he was expecting, something he almost never does. Finally, it came, and he wanted to forward it to his boss. He just couldn't get it to work, though - maybe because I was sucking on his cock at the time? Finally, he decided he'd have to call, after much joking between us about such an eventuality. He stood over me as I knelt before him, inserted his most delicious and very precious cock in my mouth, and placed the call while I sucked away. He feared he sounded like an idiot during the call. I don't know how he usually sounds on business calls, but he seemed all right to me. Can't imagine how he did it.
And now it is a sweet, happy, laughing memory for us to share of another lovely lunch together - sexy, sensuous, and slightly sadistic.
All with my new purple Bootie shoved up my ass.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Masturbation mania (6) - submitting to the Fun Factory Bootie
As you can see from the photograph, responses to part 1 of my adventures with the Bootie butt plug inspired me to boil my little purple pal. Afterwards, I figured that I shouldn't have worried about the pot remaining suitable for cooking, as it would have been sterilized by the boiling. I ended up tossing in the other plug as well - although neither was betraying any hint of unwelcome perfume.
I only wish I had cleaned the stove first. Oh well. At least my butt plugs are spotless, even if my kitchen isn't.
Towards the end of yesterday's post, I gave a first hint of how my use of and intense reaction to the Bootie affected the sadist. I'll rewind my story a bit and then go on from there, as his response led to what happened to me the following day - and is why, a week later, my body still displays spots of green.
We were e-mailing back and forth during the hours of anal invasion.
me:
What do you want to do to me, my Lord?
Right now?
If I were naked before you right now?
Invaded and chained....
He:
Violate and degrade you.
me:
yes, my Lord.
i feel very small now, my Lord...
... and subdued.
a small, subdued, whimpering pet...
He:
I am going to take a brief nap now, and dream of degrading you. Keep the plug in until I awake.
And later, after his nap, after he ordered me to remove the plug:
He:
You will have it available for me when I visit. You may not use it unless authorized by me.
me:
Yes, my Lord.
You are sounding very stern, my Lord.
Hard.
Commanding.
You have gone to a certain place, also, I think...
He:
I have, my pet. And I may remain there until Tuesday.
me:
oh.
i see, my Lord.
from the thought of a butt plug, my Lord?
or rather, from the thought of my little butt hole being violated?
He:
All of it, including your reactions, have fueled my fire.
The beast was awake and on the prowl.
And it came to pass just as he predicted. His hunger didn't abate, and I felt the beast breathing on my neck all through Monday. I was prepared to be hurt. And I knew he would want to use the butt plug. The difference, though, was that, rather than being punished, I would be serving his sadistic side, which I don't often get to do because of how he protects me from his worst. And I didn't suffer his worst. Not at all. He continued to protect me, and for that I am always grateful.
I won't go into all the details of what he did that day, as they don't really relate to this review. What is important to note is the major impact (ahem...) this particular item had on both of us.
I've said that we don't play, and that is true. Everything we do is very real, very much an integral part of our relationship, even as there are things done and endured for my Master's pleasure. However, some of our interactions are more light-hearted than others. I don't feel it is inappropriate to refer to my vibrators as sex toys. But I just can't see calling this butt plug a toy of any sort.
And yes, he did whack at my butt with the cane.
He flogged me and spanked me
and twisted my nipples.
Some of that hurt like hell.
Some of it came after he aroused me
and was part of his new project
to forge a link between pleasure and pain.
Then I felt the impact
but it didn't hurt
and I begged for more.
Except for when he spanked my inner thigh.
That hurt like hell,
arousal or no.
He'll remember that for sure...
But back to the butt plug.
He ordered me to bring it to him.
To lube it up and bring it to him.
I slathered it with lube, remembering how it had hurt going in when I inserted it, and afraid of how it would feel when he rammed it through my little hole. I probably put on too much, because it wasn't quite as securely inside me as it had been on Sunday.
He ordered me down on the floor before him, on my hands and knees. He didn't insert the plug. He shoved it in. I think it took him but one false try before he got it inside me. Easier for someone else to do it, as he wasn't holding back in response to the immediate feedback of discomfort.
My memory becomes a little fuzzy here, but perhaps it was right after this that he started fucking my ass with the little hunk of purple silicone. Or, to use my Master's preferred terminology, butt fucking me. And here we hit one of the few weaknesses in the Bootie. It's great as a butt plug, it's great for long-term wear. It's comfortable yet... inspiring, and it stays solidly in. But because of the curve, it's not that good for butt fucking. Still. Nothing's perfect. And the sadist did a pretty good job with it anyway.
I was still on my hands and knees before him, the plug being moved back and forth in my ass, when suddenly he shoved two fingers into my pussy. Now I was being fucked in two holes at once.
Coldly.
Purposefully.
I was aroused as hell.
And I started feeling...
demeaned.
It surprised me.
I should be used to ambivalence by now.
I told him.
I told him how I felt.
Aroused and demeaned.
Humiliated by what felt like an old fantasy.
A fantasy we shared.
I'm starting to float away now as I recall it... what it felt like... and what it brought to mind... being forced down on one strange guy's cock while another one fucked me in the ass. Friends of his. While he watch and enjoyed seeing me used. Objectified...
Very powerful.
And then he had me where he wanted me.
Dripping wet.
Time for the next activity.
That's when he spanked me.
Harder and harder
and it didn't even hurt
but only made me want more.
There were other things that afternoon. But this is supposed to be a butt plug review. So I'll leave it there. Except to say that he allowed me to leave the butt plug in as long as I wanted and I only removed it because I really needed to poop.
I do love the Bootie.
I really do the Bootie.
And I think it will contribute to many more intense adventures for me and my beloved, sadistic Master.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Masturbation mania (5) - testing the Fun Factory Bootie
What can you say about a little curved piece of purple silicone?
I love it.
I love love love it.
I cannot imagine a better butt plug.
I cannot imagine a better butt plug than Fun Factory's Bootie.
Well yes, I know, I should modify that with my usual disclaimer that, whether holding forth on sex toys or relationships, I can only speak for myself. It may be that the shape or size of your ass hole and the canal beyond are such that the bulbous tip and curved body of the Bootie won't suit you. But for me - oh my goodness. Just what I needed.
Butt plugs get to me on a very deep level. There's something very primal about them. As soon as one goes in, it sends me to that place...
My prior experience was very limited. I have one sweet little purple butt plug that the philosopher got for me. The Tantus Little Flirt. It's actually a very nice starter plug, long and thin with a slim end for easy insertion. I had 2 main problems with it. The end was so slim that it tended to bend out of the way when I tried to force it into my tight little puckered orifice. And the bulge in the middle wasn't quite big enough to keep it from slipping out. This was a definite concern as I considered the sadist's plans for me.
From perhaps the day after he found me, my Master has spoken of a particular public outing he intends to take me on. Recently, he said he wanted me wearing a butt plug as well as my dress that buttons (or unbuttons) from top to bottom. No panties, of course. Meaning it would be wise to have a butt plug that wouldn't pop out as I walked across the stone floor.
So when my contact at EdenFantasys asked what I wanted to be sent to review this month, I was pretty strongly inclined towards a butt plug. The sadist firmly agreed. And everything I read about the Bootie made me think it could be the solution to my problem.
As usual with the items I've been receiving from EdenFantasys, my new toy attracted little interest from the cats. Not enough plastic. Ketzel did enjoy the cardboard shipping box from the US Postal Service, as well as the paper stuffing.
But I had to sweet talk Marko into posing long enough for me to take some shots of him with the Bootie in its little box, which has a form-fitting plastic container inside the cardboard display carton.
As you can see, the Bootie is both adorable and unusual, with its bulbous tip and curious curve. Not as easy to spot is the design of the base, which is both curved and tapered to fit comfortably between any set of butt cheeks, which is one of the features that makes it ideal for long wear. However, as I eyed this cutest addition to my growing toy collection, I started to be concerned about that bulbous head. Would I really be able to get it through my tiny hole? I remembered the problems the Irishman had jamming his cock up my ass, and started to get decidedly nervous.
The package arrived on Saturday, April 30. The next morning, as the sadist and I were exchanging e-mails, he suddenly asked after it.
me: I can try it today if you wish, my Lord. It's an unusual shape, and somewhat daunting, as the insertion end is rather large and rounded...
He: Yes, I would like you to try it. Send me a report, of course.
me: Of course, my Lord. [...] May I wait an hour or two, Sir? [...] Perhaps I could wear the smaller butt plug a bit before inserting the new one, my Lord? It is suddenly making me very nervous...
Of course, he denied my request. I was given an hour. I arranged for e-mail reminders.
me: The first butt plug reminder just arrived, my Lord.And then it was time.
I suppose I have to start preparing myself...
Picture it, my Lord.
The large, purple bulb
forcing its way into the little, brown puckered hole,
before continuing past the sphinctral guards...
The little moans of discomfort...
The pleasure at being invaded and possessed.
And all for you, my Lord.
All for you, my Owner and Master.
I will share with you now my experience with the Bootie on that day, and tomorrow will tell you about how the sadist abused me with it 2 days later.
The following comes from my e-mails to the fiend, with a few comments from him:
Which he did.
me: First I said Ow.
Then I said Wow...
It hurt going in, my Lord.
It definitely hurt going in.
My tight little anus was very resistant.
And the end is very bulbous.
I was becoming worried it wouldn't make it
despite all the K-Y
and then suddenly -
POP.
And it was in.
At which point... it's perfect, my Lord. Just perfect. The way it curves keeps it perfectly embedded, and the base is beautifully designed to nestle between the cheeks. Definitely - and thoughtfully - designed for extended wear.
As for how it actually feels - I think it will take a while for me to find the right words for how a butt plug makes me feel, my Lord. Especially this one, which fits so perfectly. It's very intense... my ass is a highly erogenous zone, my Lord... the plug is stuffed into my little butt hole but I feel it in my womb... and... it makes me feel short of breath, my Lord.
No.
Not quite right.
It takes my breath away.
A tightness in my chest...
as if my whole body were gasping...
I feel very aroused, my Lord.
And very submissive.
[...]
I eased myself into a lying down position on the couch, my Lord. And... The effect... Suddenly very powerful...
He: Leave it in until further notice
me: Yes, my Lord.
And thank you.
I feel even closer to you, my Lord... Chained and aroused and tortured and serving... All at the same time...
He: Detail the pain of insertion, as I may be placing it in you myself on occasion.
me: It just wouldn't go in, my Lord.
My anus was closed up tight.
And I'm used to sticking things up there,
as I take migraine meds in the form of suppositories.
I rarely need them now, which is good,
but I always found the act of insertion to be very pleasurable.
I'm having trouble describing what inserting the butt plug felt like... it was irritating, in a painful way... the discomfort was right at the point of desired entry, and I really was afraid it wouldn't go in. I think, my Lord, that the little hole had to be brought to realize it had to submit. The thing wasn't going away. And then suddenly - POP. It was just like that. It went in. And then it didn't hurt at all.
Talking about it is making me very aware of its presence, my Lord - arousing me again - making me feel a certain measure of discomfort... and pressure... especially as now I am sitting up on the couch, cross-legged, with the computer on my lap, so I'm increasing the pressure.
There's also the question of angle, my Lord. You'll see... there's this curve...
You will enjoy raping me with it, won't you, my Lord...
It keeps making me think of being tortured, my Lord.
Especially of being flogged.
He: With the butt plug in place, and locked in the chain I think you need a mark to complete your serving dress.
me: What do you want to do to me, my Lord?
Right now?
If I were naked before you right now?
Invaded and chained....
He: Violate and degrade you.
Two days later.
That first day, my first experience with the Bootie, the plug was in for around 4 hours or so before I received permission to remove it.
me: I felt a certain sadness as I went to remove it, my Lord.And now it is time for me to put it in again. Because we will be watching The Borgias together. Miles apart, but together. I will be, as always, naked, with the chain clipped tight around my left ankle. But since the Sunday I've just described, I must also wear the butt plug.
And then cried OW! as I pulled it out.
It hurt coming out, my Lord.
Though not as much as when I tried to get it in.
And now I feel weepy...
He: You will have it available for me when I visit. You may not use it unless authorized by me.
I watch feeling very owned, very contained, and very constrained.
And he feels me kneeling beside him:
naked, chained, and invaded.
Lovely.
Note: being silicone, the Bootie may be used with water soluble lubricants only. Clean-up is very easy, as you can wash it with soap and water, and it may also be boiled. But... well, I have a housemate, and besides... do any of you readers boil your butt plugs? And if so, do you have a dedicated pot for that function? I can't see boiling the Bootie and then using the same little pot for making a hard-boiled egg.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Impetuous, capricious, and tantrum prone: sounds like a dom I know...
Being as I am, living as I do, loving whom I do, gives me a somewhat different perspective on the world. A slightly skewed eye. An oddly prismatic lens.
I started reading with lust this review of a glorious production of King Lear starring Derek Jacobi, which is currently (and oh too briefly) playing at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. The lust was due to an intense desire to seethe play; I was almost glad to read that performances are pretty much sold out, as I haven't been in a traveling mood lately and likely wouldn't make the trip up to New York anyway.
But then I hit a paragraph that made me nearly smirk. Hmm, I thought. This sounds familiar.
King Lear as dom?
I started reading with lust this review of a glorious production of King Lear starring Derek Jacobi, which is currently (and oh too briefly) playing at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. The lust was due to an intense desire to seethe play; I was almost glad to read that performances are pretty much sold out, as I haven't been in a traveling mood lately and likely wouldn't make the trip up to New York anyway.
But then I hit a paragraph that made me nearly smirk. Hmm, I thought. This sounds familiar.
To be a king, as it’s presented here, is to be utterly indulged, to have your every whim gratified on the spot. Patience is, for Lear, the opposite of a virtue, at least as we see him in the opening scene, when he announces his intention of turning over his kingdom to his three daughters. He is as impetuous, capricious and, when crossed, as tantrum prone as a child who has never heard the word no.
King Lear as dom?
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Poetic pervert at work
I'm supposed to remember that everything I do is in service of my Lord, and that I need to keep doing things to please him. Like writing. I'm supposed to have something to recite for him every time he visits, but I'd been letting that slide lately. I was just lucky that he hadn't been asking for anything. However, my recent recitation of the Shakespeare sonnet reminded him. Plus my writing was what drew him to me in the first place. My being a champion cocksucker was an unexpected feature that was not in the original specs.
So.
Poems.
I have a hard time writing poems purely because the schedule says "In this time slot you must write a poem." Yeah, right. Write. Not likely. I need to be inspired. An image needs to invade my brain. The March of the Metaphors, armed and dangerous. Marauding soldiers, raping my brain, until 9 hours later I give birth to a poem.
Otherwise, it's a case of artificial insemination.
Not anywhere near as much pleasure in that.
Except so many times there is the initial inspiration, followed by a few lines, and then it goes dormant. More like a plant in winter than a baby. Every so often I have to go back out to the greenhouse and sweet talk those little poetic seedlings, hoping I can lure them into sprouting a few new leaves.
I started something today.
Four lines of iambic pentameter.
Subject: bruises.
It needs encouragement.
My bruises, on the other hand, are doing just fine. They don't even look that bad, although they do still hurt. Which has its pluses and minuses. Given that I wasn't beaten in punishment, only for his pleasure and to teach me about pleasure and pain, it hurts physically but not emotionally. In fact, the sadist is sorry that there is persistent pain, which I find rather sweet. Me, I think back on Tuesday with nothing but happiness.
It's never just sex, you know.
Even when it would seem to be just sex.
It's explorations of intimacy,
making our way down the path
defined by his ownership
and paved by my submission.
And it's always poetry.
Especially when I go down on the floor on my hands and knees and he eats a line of pitted Kalamata olives and halved grape tomatoes from the trough running down my back over the length of my spine. His lips are soft and sweet and sensuous as he presses them against my skin and nibbles the morsels of food off my body. It's hard not to swoon, like some romantic heroine.
Tables don't swoon.
And they rarely moan with pleasure.
I'll bet his lips could make a table moan...
So.
Poems.
I have a hard time writing poems purely because the schedule says "In this time slot you must write a poem." Yeah, right. Write. Not likely. I need to be inspired. An image needs to invade my brain. The March of the Metaphors, armed and dangerous. Marauding soldiers, raping my brain, until 9 hours later I give birth to a poem.
Otherwise, it's a case of artificial insemination.
Not anywhere near as much pleasure in that.
Except so many times there is the initial inspiration, followed by a few lines, and then it goes dormant. More like a plant in winter than a baby. Every so often I have to go back out to the greenhouse and sweet talk those little poetic seedlings, hoping I can lure them into sprouting a few new leaves.
I started something today.
Four lines of iambic pentameter.
Subject: bruises.
It needs encouragement.
My bruises, on the other hand, are doing just fine. They don't even look that bad, although they do still hurt. Which has its pluses and minuses. Given that I wasn't beaten in punishment, only for his pleasure and to teach me about pleasure and pain, it hurts physically but not emotionally. In fact, the sadist is sorry that there is persistent pain, which I find rather sweet. Me, I think back on Tuesday with nothing but happiness.
It's never just sex, you know.
Even when it would seem to be just sex.
It's explorations of intimacy,
making our way down the path
defined by his ownership
and paved by my submission.
And it's always poetry.
Especially when I go down on the floor on my hands and knees and he eats a line of pitted Kalamata olives and halved grape tomatoes from the trough running down my back over the length of my spine. His lips are soft and sweet and sensuous as he presses them against my skin and nibbles the morsels of food off my body. It's hard not to swoon, like some romantic heroine.
Tables don't swoon.
And they rarely moan with pleasure.
I'll bet his lips could make a table moan...
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Breasts offered like canapes
I received the following from my dear friend jcn. My response was:
Partly because it was too good not to share.
Partly so you could read about a situation quite different from mine.
And partly because
Enjoy.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I have to admit, I came home in a terrible mood. I had been promised things - (he has been preoccupied, as I said) - which had not come to pass. I had remained good-humored about it for days, and then awakened on Tuesday morning with what felt like a full blown sinus infection, aching joints, and a desk with enough work on it for 10 hours, instead of the 6 in which I now have to complete it. And, I am the primary receptionist, which means that all my work is interrupted, constantly, by the need to answer the phone, and find answers for customers.
I am going to put this up as a guest post. I don't think there is anything you need to remove for privacy, but you might want to double check.So here it is.
And you're right.
I'm not asking.
I am stating.
Partly because it was too good not to share.
Partly so you could read about a situation quite different from mine.
And partly because
- I'm tired
- I have a migraine
- and my butt hurts.
Enjoy.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I have to admit, I came home in a terrible mood. I had been promised things - (he has been preoccupied, as I said) - which had not come to pass. I had remained good-humored about it for days, and then awakened on Tuesday morning with what felt like a full blown sinus infection, aching joints, and a desk with enough work on it for 10 hours, instead of the 6 in which I now have to complete it. And, I am the primary receptionist, which means that all my work is interrupted, constantly, by the need to answer the phone, and find answers for customers.
By the time I drove home, I was in termagant mode, attitude with a capital A, feeling as if concrete had been poured into my nasal passages, pure nasty. And I walked in, and he had hung up the lead from the discreet ring on the beam in the living room, and placed my stool under it - and I was resentful and horribly pissed off. The arrogance! (Well, yes, I do know that's the point of D/s, but the 24/7 brand has its disadvantages, as well as its good points.)
Anyway, I bitched, though ostensibly pleasantly, and we sat and had green tea - (my personal miracle cure for almost everything; I love the Japanese powdered cha beyond words, despite its acknowledged bitterness) - and talked about what was preoccupying him. And then about my resentment. And about the entire roller-coaster of the previous 15 months.
And I started to feel better.
And when he said (and I'm certain it was manipulative, as he admitted it, afterwards) "Well, maybe this isn't a good day for this...", I said, only slightly grudgingly, "I think we should carpe diem, and all that."
And we figured out dinner, and I took the longest bath, and came out, dressed for action, as it were, and he kept talking about Other Things, and I rubbed feet, and then, he gave me That Look, and the voices in my head took over. I knelt, and smiled - my very best, most charming smile - and murmured, "I don't do this as often as I should..." and watched his slow, very tender smile grow in response to mine.
And I begged, very prettily, for the pleasure and privilege of serving him. I begged for pain - as it pleased him, and in his own good time - and for the joy of submitting to him.
And he was going to beat me, but then my mouth took over, and he ended up taking (unawares) a page from the book you and the fiend are writing, and twisted my left nipple to the point where I simply dissolved, his cock all the way down my throat and breathing, for a miracle, perfectly possible despite this welcome obstacle, and he moaned and sighed and clutched my shoulders (he loves to stand while I suck his cock), and kept twisting, and came somewhere halfway down my esophagus, and it was the best ever.
And now, this morning, I feel healed and healthy and energetic and happy, and I'm slightly swollen and wet, and that lead is still hanging in the living room, and I can only hope the Jehovah's Witnesses, (with whom he conducts frequent and friendly though fractious discussions of the relative good points of Buddhism and JWism), don't choose today to visit.
Oh. And the tawse is still out, and the very heavy, studded leather belt, and the damned, pretty, blue and white buggy whip that stings like a motha, and I have a feeling that he, dilatory memory and all, will recall me kneeling, breasts proffered like canapes, and begging for pain, as it would please him to give it to me...
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Hugging the pain to myself
And then he came
with a mighty cum
and said it was the best service
my mouth had ever given
which is saying quite a lot.
And then I lay my head on his lap
and he stroked my hair
and I swam in his ownership
and embraced the pain
that I was only then
truly starting to feel.
And I felt very close to him.
He is
my
Master.
And I am content.
with a mighty cum
and said it was the best service
my mouth had ever given
which is saying quite a lot.
And then I lay my head on his lap
and he stroked my hair
and I swam in his ownership
and embraced the pain
that I was only then
truly starting to feel.
And I felt very close to him.
He is
my
Master.
And I am content.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The beast breaks loose
When hanging out with a predator, always keep one eye in the back of your head.
Things had been so beautifully intense the last few days.
Not that they aren't always intense.
In one way or another.
But these few days it was in the beautiful way.
Sensual, sexual, and very intimate.
Intense longing.
Intense arousal.
He called my surprising (to him) delight in certain music "endearing."
Lovely.
We e-mailed a bit this morning. It felt as if we were spending the Sunday morning together. He said how the sweet, sexy messages I had sent him last night pleased him. I wrote about the music I was listening to on his Rhapsody account, and the article I was reading in the Sunday New York Times. (Kenneth Branagh as director of a big budget summer movie. In 3-D yet!) He updated me about a possible night together in a few weeks.
And then he said: "I read your email about the butt plug but can't seem to find it again. Have you tried it yet? Are you planning to do anything with it today?"
The new butt plug.
My latest sample for review from EdenFantasys.
It arrived yesterday.
Which I reminded him.
And asked if he wanted me to try it today.
He did.
So I did.
It...
affected me.
As I reported.
Which...
affected him.
Through the letters on the screen, I could hear his voice.
It changed.
It became hard.
Hungry.
Controlling.
A hand closing around my neck.
He had gone to his other place, it seemed.
"I have, my pet. And I may remain there until Tuesday."
I feel the hot breath of the beast on my neck...
Things had been so beautifully intense the last few days.
Not that they aren't always intense.
In one way or another.
But these few days it was in the beautiful way.
Sensual, sexual, and very intimate.
Intense longing.
Intense arousal.
He called my surprising (to him) delight in certain music "endearing."
Lovely.
We e-mailed a bit this morning. It felt as if we were spending the Sunday morning together. He said how the sweet, sexy messages I had sent him last night pleased him. I wrote about the music I was listening to on his Rhapsody account, and the article I was reading in the Sunday New York Times. (Kenneth Branagh as director of a big budget summer movie. In 3-D yet!) He updated me about a possible night together in a few weeks.
And then he said: "I read your email about the butt plug but can't seem to find it again. Have you tried it yet? Are you planning to do anything with it today?"
The new butt plug.
My latest sample for review from EdenFantasys.
It arrived yesterday.
Which I reminded him.
And asked if he wanted me to try it today.
He did.
So I did.
It...
affected me.
As I reported.
Which...
affected him.
Through the letters on the screen, I could hear his voice.
It changed.
It became hard.
Hungry.
Controlling.
A hand closing around my neck.
He had gone to his other place, it seemed.
"I have, my pet. And I may remain there until Tuesday."
I feel the hot breath of the beast on my neck...
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