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.
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.
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...