Relationships are like cocksucking - Part 1 of 2

Really!
I'm not trying to be funny.
Well, OK.
I am trying to be funny.
But not merely funny.

A relationship is like sucking cock.
No one size fits all,
be it your parents' relationship
or BDSM
or teenagers just finding their way.
We can read books,
talk to our friends,
pore over advice columns,
but in the end
all we have
is us.

All you have is that cock in your mouth which could be much too long or unusually short or so fat you could choke on it or so thin it could wriggle down your throat like a worm. You can study all the basic techniques but in the end it's what he likes combined with what you can do and the fantasies you can trigger and your own sparks of creativity.

My Master trained me very carefully before he allowed me to start sucking. Clear descriptions of what he likes, suggested exercises to practice by myself, very direct and directive feedback on my performance - and for his pains, he has the services of one of the best damn cocksuckers in the world.

For him.
And his other subs can probably say pretty much the same thing.

But only for him.

I was good before we met. Before the training started. I could give you testimonials. Now I'm even better. But I would never claim that any other cock would experience the same level of satisfaction as his does. Especially not the first time round. When he brings his friends to fuck me, to use me, which is definitely under discussion, I will work very hard to please them as much as I please him. But I'll have to do a lot of experimenting. Improvising. Reading the signs. Listening to their grunts.

Learning to suck cock is not like studying an arithmetic textbook.
There is no one right answer
and there is no one right way to get there.
Same thing with relationships.
All relationships.

Which brings us back to BDSM.
And what my long-time readers are probably sick of hearing me say.
D/s
M/s
S & M

It's pure BS if you think you can say
a Master is like this,
a sub must do that,
a slave is one who,
a Dom has to be.

A D/s relationship (for example) is still just a relationship.
What matters is how the parties see it.
What matters is what works for you.

There.
Got that out of the way.

There were some lengthy comments in response to yesterday's post: My Master's mea culpa. I really like lengthy comments. I like the thought that goes into them, and I like that people care enough to take the time to write that much. I'm very grateful for everything that was said.

But I also know that most people don't read the comments. And I only ended up replying to the first one. So 1) if you follow the link from the title in the previous paragraph, you'll get the post with all the comments in full; and 2) here are excerpts from each one, with some measure of response from me. I do hope that the conversation continues! I don't claim to be perfect. I don't claim to know all. I certainly don't claim to know what's right for the rest of you. But I have been serving the sadist for just 2 months shy of 3 years, and while obviously neither of us has all the answers I do think I know a whole lot about who and what we are.

Still, I can always use some help. And writing and discussing here, as well as some private conversations, have been a great help in getting me through the last few days back to feeling grounded again. And I do feel grounded again. I see it in perspective. I am not walking away. What we have is too good, and we have worked too hard for it. We'll get through this and keep on working to build on what we have.

And now, the comments.

Sophia Anne is a sub and a relative newcomer to this space. This was her first comment, and I really appreciate her speaking up. She started off with "perhaps I have no business posting this comment when I don't know your full story." Everyone is free to comment, but it's true that some sorts of comments are more appropriate when you know more about the people involved. She warned me abut the danger of abuse, which is a good and fair warning. What I was aware of at the time was exactly that. It didn't feel like sadistic behaviour that was too much for me to deal with. It felt like irrational, drunken abuse. And that scared me. But note that this was the first time in nearly 3 years that I have felt like that.

She then went on:

Safe and loving doms channel their sadism into ways that will not cause serious harm and in ways that are also beneficial to the sub, i.e. meeting her masochistic and emotional needs without going too far. In other words, they practice self-control.

As I said in my direct reply, the sadist, my sadist, has never claimed to be safe. In fact, he has warned me again and again that he is not safe. This has always been a very serious warning, and is testament to the way he treasures me. [I'm deliberately not using the word "loving." Not every dom(me) loves his or her sub, but they can still be caring and responsible.] The fiend is not just sadistic. He is a sadist. A real one. I do know this. He has never claimed otherwise. He cannot always completely control himself but continues to work very hard to protect me. You cannot imagine what this entails. It's far more serious than my swearing off ice cream because I'm on the edge of being diabetic. And damn, it's summer and I really want some ice cream!

Also, while he does meet my needs far more than any other, safer person I've ever been involved with, including my 2 ex-husbands even when things were good [were things ever really good with #2?], the ultimate focus of the relationship is to serve his needs. Period. Luckily for me, building up my self-respect and self-image, teaching me that I am beautiful, and encouraging my creativity all serve his own needs. I have grown and healed in very real ways in his ownership. I am very, very fortunate. These were my real needs. To be given structure. To be directed. To be appreciated. I am not in fact a masochist, although he has been teaching me about pain, and the beautiful intimacy that comes from the shared experience of causing pain and suffering it.

I am not trying to "have my masochistic needs met." If that's all I wanted then yes, there are plenty of people who would oblige me. Who would "play with me." But we do not play. This is not a game. It is a serious, exquisite connection with a man who has been training and guiding and using submissives and slaves for decades. Longer than some of my readers have been alive. It does feel as if your comment was meant largely as a general statement. But it's a good idea to do a little research into a specific circumstance before implying that someone has not earned the right to call himself Master. The ones I really worry about are the ones who demand you call them that right away, long before the relationship warrants it. I also worry about one-size-fits-all doms, who expect every "sub" and "slave" to serve them in the same way, who have the same expectations of each person in their care, without bothering to learn what it is they have acquired and then respond to the unique capabilities and characteristics of their property. You shouldn't try to make a Mini Cooper perform like a Jaguar.

But even the best driver occasionally goes too fast.
And cracks up the car.
Even a treasured car.
So you check yourself and the vehicle for damages,
berate yourself,
patch both of you up,
and learn from your mistakes.

I'm going to jump over the next couple of readers and slip ahead to Master Roger. He is Sophia Anne's master and can be found writing on the same blog.

He wrote:

This may or may not help but I suggest you improve your acting skills. Try reading "An Actor Prepares" by Stanislavsky.

You say that inflicting pain gives your Master pleasure, but what aspect is it that pleases him the most?

Is it doing actual physical damage to you or is it hearing you scream and cry and beg?

If it is the latter I believe you could save your skin and increase your Master's pleasure by becoming more verbal and expressive when taking his punishment.

Don't wait to be in extreme pain before you protest. Pretend to be in more pain than you actually are.
Yes, you are acting, but the purpose of your performance is to give your Master the experience he seeks without more harm than necessary to yourself.

Actually, having been trained in the theatre, I have read Stanislavsky and studied his techniques. As far back as high school, which was a long time ago.

As for the suggestion that I fake my suffering, I'll let reader jcn have the first word, as she put it so eloquently:

Master Roger suggests feigning pain, but all that I understand of the fiend, all that is written about him here, screams that he would have an unholy fit if he thought you were FAKING shit! And despite the fact that I'm a pain slut, I wouldn't want to be around the sadist when he was having a fit!

My Master always knows when I am lying.
Or not even full out lying.
I don't lie.
But fooling myself.
Thinking I understand something, or feel it, when I don't yet.
He is a true Master of what he does.
He has an uncanny ability to read people.
So he would know if I were acting.
And there's no way he would accept it.

However, Master Roger is right about his wanting to know that he is hurting me. But he wants the truth of it. Because - again - we're not playing. It's not just ooh, lets have some hot S&M sex and I'll whack at your butt and it'll make me hard and I'll cum with a bang.

It's the intimacy of it.
What flows between the sadist and his victim.
And sometimes, all it takes is the smallest thing.
He takes my nipple between two fingers
as I give him my eyes
and he sees what happens in those eyes
as he squeezes
just enough
to cause the merest amount of pain.
It doesn't take much with me.
I'm not a masochist.
And he sees the change in my eyes.
Something flows between our eyes.
We both open
and I give him everything and more
and he takes everything and more
but oh...
I get so much, too.

Never has a cock fucking a pussy achieved that level of intimacy.
Never.

You can't get that if you're acting.

This is way too long for one post, so I will finish tomorrow. And I do owe you guys a sex toy review! But here is one more quote from Master Roger:

Your role as a slave is to please your Master. Being a good actress is merely on [sic] more skill a good slave should have to facilitate pleasing her Master.

This gets back to my opening statement and my constant insistence that there is no official policy as to what defines any sort of BDSM - or any - relationship. No one has the authority to say this is what a sub or slave is or is supposed to do.

My role as a slave is what my Master says it is.
The skills *I* need as his slave are what he demands of me.
It's a question of who I am,
what my special talents are,
what desires I raise in him,
and what is between us.
What our unique relationship is.

I would be out of his life pretty fast if he thought I was acting.
Our relationship is based on honesty.

I'm sorry if it sounded as if I was picking on either of you, but the areas you both hit are things I feel pretty fiercely about. For my relationship. With my Master. On top of my general aversion to the idea of BDSM having set rules and definitions. As I said to Sophia Anne, there is no kinky Bureau of Standards to say how we may use certain terms and how we must conduct our relationships.

All relationships are hard.
Everyone fucks up sooner or later.

The emotional pain I suffered at the hands of my second husband without his ever striking me was far worse, and far more destructive, than anything my truly loved Master has ever done to me. And ex-hubby #2 never apologized. He didn't care at all. He barely noticed me.

Who was the real self-centered sadist?

I'll address the rest of the comments tomorrow - and please add new ones!

Meanwhile, please forgive this last bit of self-indulgence.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

My Master's mea culpa

There are things I haven't said about our long night together. There are always things I leave out, of course. But this I left out deliberately. Because I wasn't ready to talk about it yet.

I'm still not ready to talk about it.
But it comes down to this.
He is always fighting his desire to hurt me.
It's a constant struggle.

He didn't do very well on Saturday night.
He scared me.
And other things.

I've been struggling with it. And as the visible bruises have slowly healed, the inner ones have... well, not quite healed, but they were no longer hurting all the time.

And then tonight, he spoke directly to what happened for the first time. Because he's afraid for my safety.

We go through this periodically.
We're not just talking someone who has fun with Dick & Jane & spanking.
My Master is a full-fledged sadist.
He has a compulsion to cause pain.
And he has a special compulsion to hurt me.

Even as he wants to protect me from harm.

So every so often he advises me to get out while I can.

I'm a little more inclined this time to give his advice serious consideration. Except I just can't. I can't walk away. I think of safety measures we can initiate, circumstances under which we should not be together. I think of what we are like together, what we do for each other, what he has done for me.

I think of how empty my life would be without him.

Sure, he has manipulated me.

I don't need his admission to know that.

But I can also feel what is real.

So I can't give up trying.

Trying to find a way to continue.

To keep me from being seriously hurt.

To keep him from being too frustrated.

To keep us from giving up something very special.

He gave me a gift, though.

He gave me a gift tonight.

He admitted that things got out of control Saturday night.

And he took full responsibility.

Something he very rarely does.

In fact, I'm not sure he has ever said it was all his fault.

Of course, my Master is very good at what he does.

His mea culpa could just be another attempt at manipulation.

If so

[she sighs helplessly]

he succeeded once again.

PS - there's a bit of a lively discussion going on in the Comments. Do check it out - and join in!

Secreterial services

Sometimes, you have to make a special effort to provide the kind of service that a hard-working businessman requires. Sometimes, you have to perform tasks for which most secretarial schools do not provide training.

Luckily, I received my training at an academy with exceptional course offerings.

Today, I served as my Master's table.
Or perhaps, to be more accurate, his desk.

He arrived early.
Shortly after 10 am.
He arrived early, with work he could do from here.
His satellite office.
He checked his e-mail and worked on Excel
while I fondled his cock.
He made phone calls and sounded professional
while I sucked his cock.

He did surprisingly well. I tried very hard to distract him, but somehow - I don't know how - he stayed on topic and managed not to groan while I sucked his cock and he talked on the phone.

Then he ordered me into position on the floor before him, as he sat enthroned in the Eames chair. With my delectable, already pink butt facing towards him and as close as possible, I went down on the carpet on forearms and knees. As instructed, I wiggled back closer still, with my legs under the chair and my irresistible butt angled up higher. I remembered the feel of the champagne running through the channel on my back, and his soft lips as he slurped the tiny tingling bubbles off my skin.

But that was last Saturday.
Today I served a more prosaic purpose.
Today I was no more than a table,
holding his notebook computer as he read and typed.

I was a table.

I thought of the old joke:
"Make me a malted."
"Poof! You're a malted."

I thought of the old folksong.
Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor.
But I wasn't a pallet.
I was a desk.
I was a table.

The rounded perfection of my butt cheeks, normally such an asset, were in this case a bit problematic. My Master made note, but didn't really complain. He did his work.

Then I sucked his cock.
And served his pleasure in other ways.
After which I served him lunch.
And then,
finally,
after a good three hours of my ministrations,
he allowed me to make him cum.

Which he did.
Most enthusiastically .

The blog as poetry, not documentary

He doesn't remember saying them.
Those three magic words plus one.
Which doesn't surprise me at all.

He certainly didn't say them as if it were some big admission. He didn't say them as if he expected a huge emotional reaction from me. And he didn't get one. Even after, I haven't been obsessing over it, although I was curious what his response would be when I told him that I'd heard it.

And he didn't remember.
Which is no surprise.
Given the amount he drank that night.

So don't make too big a deal of it.
Cause I'm not.
He's fond of me.
That's enough.

I'm amused more than anything, with no expectations of flowers and chocolates. Definitely not chocolates, given the diet and diabetes issues. Though eventually I might be allowed an occasional small square of of super dark chocolate. Yum...

Something you all should keep in mind.
Mainly, I write this blog for myself.
It's good for me to write regularly.
And talking and writing is how I process things.
Sometimes I figure things out as I say them.

But sometimes I write mainly for you.
To amuse you.
To entertain you.
At times deliberately to arouse you.
And at times to feed your romantic streak.

So I might present things through trick glasses that fill the scene with hearts and flowers and moony eyes. The view you then get is to some extent mine, and very little his. I've given the warning before, that you need to remember that I'm a writer. I select, I edit, I embellish, I leave things out.

And I'm a poet.
I do things with words.
My life is my raw material.
My blog is not a photograph.
It's an impressionist painting.

Even so-called reality shows have writers.

Champagne baptism

Champagne and nipples, he said.
You could tell them just that.

I could.

But I feel compelled to add that he drank much of that bottle of champagne from the channel that runs down my back. He drank a good bit more from my hands and tits, my hands serving as cups for both the aforementioned tits and the champagne. He drank more from some lovely Finnish champagne glasses I brought along for the occasion, a remnant of my first marriage. As well as from the bottle. I sipped a small amount. It was good champagne. We clinked glasses and held each others' eyes as we took our first tastes.

He had been with friends before arriving at the hotel and consumed quite a bit of alcohol then as well. He doesn't drink most days, but when he does, he makes up for lost time.

We all know what too much alcohol does to male performance.

It took me hours to get him off.
The beast was very impatient.

The next morning, he texted:

"You were magnificent."

Which probably refers to the champagne trough as much as to anything else.

And later:

"You may tell your blog fans about your stick-to-it-iveness."

Ah yes.
Maybe I should have titled this post The Loneliness of the Long Distance Cocksucker.

In other news...

He called me "sweetheart".
Twice.

After the first time, he paused, looked at me quizzically, and said "Did I just call you 'sweetheart'?"

And.
He said the three magic words.
Except there were 4 words.
The three,
followed by "too."
I did hear them.
They were soft and clear.
Somewhat matter-of-fact.
I'm not surprised at what he feels.
I'm surprised that he said it.
Soft and clear.
And then went on.

I wonder why?
I wonder why he confessed?

Summary: it was a very mixed weekend.

But at least the bottle of champagne is no longer living in the back of the bottom shelf of my refrigerator, where it had been stashed for the last year. So that's something.

Ayes 33, Nays 29.

Gay marriage just passed in New York,
the state where I was born.

Sex toy photo shoot

I really thought I'd be posting a sex toy review today.
I really did.


I got the thing last month and finished my testing early this month and then there was this and that and I wasn't getting it written and circumstances weren't right for trying it out on the sadist which I really wanted to do and I finally started writing it late last night and was going to finish at least the first of the 2 posts today and then my sister called and an hour and a half later my ear is hot and sore and I've got no more written.

And Saturday I head out to the undisclosable location in which I will spend the night with my Master back in the room with white linens.

Well, maybe not the same room with white linens. but close enough.

So I still have much to do to prepare.
Laundry to do.
Though I probably don't really need to.
No underwear allowed once I check into the room.
But things to pack.
A poem to memorize.
The tank to fill with gas,
The cats to snuggle.
All that sort of thing.


Not to mention getting into and maintaining the right state of mind. That is very, very important. We even discussed the music I should listen to during the various stages of the trip.

I need to remain calm.
Quiet.
Centered.
Peaceful.
No heavy emotions.
Yeah, well, we know how that goes.
Even if there's no big thing,
we're both so intense,
our relationship is so intense,
it will all be underneath everything anyway.
But no big show of emotions.

I can do that.

I can!

Well, sometimes...


I will.
I'll show him how good I can be.
His poet.
His pet.
His courtesan.
His Geisha.
His slave.

His favorite.

And meanwhile, you get this sampling from the little photo shoot I did with my new friend. She was ever so cooperative...

What to do for your Daddy on Father's Day

How could I ignore it?
How could I ignore that it was Father's Day?

Yes, I admit, it felt a little weird.
But he's Daddy.
He's my Lord.
My Master.
My Owner.
My Life.

But also he's Daddy.
And it's such a relief to be calling him that again.
So much is contained in that word.
It's a vessel into which we can pour so much.
I admit that some of it is very transgressive.
But there is also a sweetness...
A love...
And from him -
affections it isn't safe to express in any other way,
although I still feel them.
In his touch.
They leak from his touch...

Anyway.
It was Father's Day last Sunday here in the US.
And on Saturday I spent hours compiling a playlist.
A playlist for my Daddy.
It ended with My Heart Belongs to Daddy.
So you get the idea.

And the poor man has been so busy that he hasn't even had a chance to listen. Because he won't until he can give it proper attention. And I know he has been thinking of me.

We are making plans.

Plans to return to the room with white linens.

Soon.
Very soon.

I'm a very happy pet.

Lotus-eaters

He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it. And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter within the newspaper.

A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then? What does she say?

Dear Henry,

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word. Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling. I have such a bad headache. today. and write by return to your longing

Martha.

P.S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.

x x x x

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses without thorns.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And for dessert: Feedback from James Joyce's Submission of Ulysses to his Creative Writing Workshop

Daddy's back

I was kneeling before him.
He was enthroned in his chair.
It really is his chair now.
I can't bring myself to sit in it any more.
Which is too bad, because it's frightfully comfortable.

I was kneeling before him doing to him those things I do when he's settled into his chair and I'm kneeling before him. I had come up for air, as he likes me to do, so he can see my face and enjoy my mouth and hear those words that get him ever so turned on.

He called me his little girl.

It took a few moment to sink in.
I looked up.
A questioning look.

Yes, he said.
Daddy's back.

Daddy's been away for a couple of months. Since our big conflagration back in April, when in the face of a demonstration of his affection I pulled back. Not deliberately. Something in me can't handle anyone being so taken with me. Thinking I'm so extraordinary. The look in his eyes...

I'm crying now.
Because it will be a very long time,
and maybe forever,
before he lets himself be with me in that way again.
Because it's not safe.

He says I hate weakness. I don't know if it's that. Perhaps it's that I think there must be something wrong with anyone who can feel that way about me. Because even as hard as he has worked to make me value myself, there is obviously a lot of work left for him to do. So at a few moments during that night he rented the motel room, and then a fair amount the following Tuesday when he visited, I pulled back. I slipped out and saw him... differently.

I felt power. The power that comes from knowing someone wants me that much. The power that comes from disinterest. From scorn.

He was giving me so much, and in return I did the equivalent of spitting in his face.

With his x-ray vision, he saw.
He knew.
He could tell.
And that is how I hurt him back in April.
That is is why he beat me that badly.
That is why he beat me more than he wanted to.

And that is why Daddy went away.

Well, that's basically why. I don't know exactly why he wasn't letting me be his little girl any more. I felt it as a punishment. I felt that he didn't think it was wise or safe to have that kind of very special intimacy any more.

It was awful. I found myself addressing him as Daddy in my head, calling out his name as I tested my new vibrators, having his name on the tip of my tongue when I was with him. Last week - I think it was last week - I said how much I missed him. My Daddy.

10 days ago.
I wrote:

I miss my Daddy... I so wanted to come bursting in to send you a proud message saying "Look, Daddy! I got my plants in!" But I understand, my Lord. I know you know what's best. Still, I keep having to sweep that name away from my lips...

But he said it was too early. That he had a plan for that. For now, he wanted me to think of myself only as his slave for a while.

Except I've been having trouble living in in my "slave skin", as he called it. Struggling. I was OK when we were together, and occasionally over e-mail, but there is something about the word itself that makes me uncomfortable. Add that to hormonal issues, low thyroid, unbearable heat, and things were not going well.

My Master - and he is my Master - is used to having to change his plan for me. Poor guy. So he did. He knew exactly what I needed.

First, he - well, this is hard to describe. How do I put this? He... he let me kiss him. Deeply. Needily. Desperately. Usually I present my mouth for him to enjoy. My mouth must be soft and my tongue extended just the right amount. You know how hard it is to keep your mouth soft with your tongue sticking out?

Anyway, on Tuesday he could feel how desperately I needed his warmth. His affection. His arms and his mouth as comfort and refuge because I was feeling such a failure and a bit like I was stranded on a dessert island. So he threw the doors wide open.

"Feed on me," he said.

And of course I cried.
I am such a cry baby.
I cried and he held me and he was sweet and gentle.

And later.
Later.
Daddy came back.

And he told me how much he had missed being with his little girl. How hard it had been for him. And I realized it was true, and how much he denies himself for me. For the good of the relationship. Because while he has a whole stable of other submissives, I give him things that he can't get from anybody else.

I am Daddy's little girl.

There are still sadnesses that linger. I'm still struggling with the slave thing, and I feel I've let him down. He tries to reassure me, saying that I learned plenty and did enhance my service to him. So that's something, I guess. And he was smart enough to realize that I needed a break now. And something to make me feel better.

Having Daddy back makes me feel really, really good.
And having his little girl back...
I could tell how good Daddy felt.
Oh, yes.

That still leaves one more big thing.

For the sadist to feel it's safe to be with me in that special, beautiful way as he was that night we threw common sense into the damp night air and ran off to share amazing hours in a seedy motel.

I want to hurt you, he said.

I want to hurt you, he said, without a trace of the beast in his voice.
Bring me the cane, he said.
Bring it to me here, he said, enthroned in his chair.

There was no trace at all of the beast in his voice as he asked for the cane, sitting in the chair. It was almost gentle. I belong to him. He merely wanted the sweet pleasure of hurting me.

I felt no fear.
I felt soft and sweet.
Soft and sweet and drunk on his kisses.
Soft, sweet, sensuous kisses.
Reassuring kisses.
Kisses to wash away the pain of my struggles with this slave business.
Soft sweet kisses to make me feel safe.
Safe and secure.
Safe at his feet.
Safe in his arms.
Safe with my arms wrapped around him and my head in his lap.

The only way he could really hurt me would be to send me away.

I almost floated over to the large, heavy, pale wood coffee table that held everything from a pair of water glasses and salad bowls to a flogger, a chain, and the long strip of wood that he uses as a cane. I floated back over to my Master in the Eames chair, offering him the safe, square end of the cane, leaving the jagged, pointed, dangerous end free to express itself. The end that has, at times, carved my Master's initial in the soft, pale pillow of my ass.

As my Master ordered, I lay face down on the open futon, my head on the pillow. Of my own volition, I spread my arms and legs, forming a tempting white X against the dark red of the sheet. I felt him place the strip of wood on my back... I can't remember now... was it at first perpendicular to my back? For sure, it was settled into the valley of my spine. I was aware of how soft I felt... He told me to raise my ass more. I did, sure that now the first blow would land. Instead, the jagged end of the cane wandered down between my butt cheeks.

Turn over, he said.

I turned over, returning to the X formation.
Offering my softness.
Offering my vulnerability.
Giving him whatever he wanted.

He ran the jagged point of the cane down between my breasts.
He traced his desire among the folds of my pussy.
And then he stopped.

I'm not going to hurt you, he said.

Silence.

Do you still want to? I asked.
I thought he was sparing me.
I didn't want him to spare me.
I was soft and warm and loving and yielding.
I wanted him to take whatever he wanted.
Whatever he needed.

I was never going to hurt you, he said.
I wanted to see you offering.

And then he rolled me over onto my side, lay down behind me on the dark red sheet, and gathered me in his arms.

Now and then

Sometimes I don't feel like writing.
So I don't.

And then I do.

Ayez patience.

Steamed, boiled, or fried

101 degrees Fahrenheit at Washington's National Airport.
I'd trade it for a caning any day.
A caning's over faster.
Even if the pain lingers.
And the sadist at least gets some pleasure from it.
I doubt he got much pleasure from today.

More about this slave stuff

He walks me from room to room, pointing out notable features: the old stained wood trim, the choice of paint, the style of furniture, the varying music to set the mood.

Stay here for a while, he says.
Settle in for a while.
See how it feels.

They're not fun house rooms.
They're not sample rooms in a furniture store.
We don't encounter them on one of those fancy house tours.

The rooms are inside me.
They are different parts of me.
One is marked poet.
One is marked whore.
There's a big one called submissive.
And then there's Daddy's little girl.
That one is locked for now.

Today we're in the room behind the door marked slave.

He tells me to explore.
See how it feels.
Get used to being here.
Don't worry about the word.
Don't worry about how the word makes you feel.
Don't get locked into the box a word can create.
It could make you other than what you are.

Together we will explore what you are.
We will polish what you are.
We will free what you are.
Because you are all these things and more.

“Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.”
~ Michelangelo

Being a slave: the Gospel according to my Master

Ignore whatever you may read on line, he said.
Forget all that bullshit you may hear in chat rooms.

I did not, of course, interrupt to say I don't hang out in chat rooms.

You are my slave.
You serve.
That is all.
You serve my pleasure.

Please me.
Do not displease me.
Do not not please me.
You understand the difference?

Yes, my Master.
I do understand.

When you displease me, you will be punished.

And indeed, he did punish me, when he ordered me to bring the straight-backed chair he calls the secretary's chair and I did bring it and sat down in it. Except he hadn't yet told me to sit down. So he spanked me, hard, as I stood before him, and it hurt because I wasn't yet aroused. When I'm aroused I don't even realize how hard he is hitting me, because while I'm aware of the impact I feel no pain. He is training me. I know. He is training me to connect pleasure and pain so that I will beg him to torture me. To really torture me.

When you please me, you will be rewarded.

And indeed, he did reward me, early on in the visit, when I remembered to do those special things that he expects and which give him pleasure. He kissed me in the most tender, sensuous, affectionate way. so that our mouths melted together and his mouth told my mouth how very special I am to him.

Concentrate on being my slave.
I want you to become comfortable with it.
Actually, don't become comfortable.

And then I served him his lunch, and we talked like two people who are accustomed to spending time together. Two people who are comfortable with each other, who share thoughts about everything from gender issues to how you know that an avocado is ripe.

And then I served his pleasure, kneeling at his feet as he sat enthroned in the Eames chair which I almost never sit in any more because it feels like sacrilege. I knelt at his feet and sucked his cock, sometimes changing position, raising my butt so he could see it all round and white except pink now from having been spanked - for punishment but also, shortly after he arrived, purely to redden it and later, after I was aroused, for his pleasure and as part of my training to connect pleasure and pain. And, of course, to make it pink. He loves to look on the blush of my butt after he has hurt me.

I sucked his cock in all those ways that I know to make him groan with pleasure and at one point, when I gave him a little break so he wouldn't cum before extracting as much pleasure from his slave as his schedule allowed, he said that as I was serving his cock he looked down on me, at my soft, beautiful hair flowing down my channeled back, and down to my delicious pink butt, and he thought - it's as if I'm being served by a work of art. And then he corrected himself and said - I am being served by a work of art. And you can tell them that, he added. Meaning you all.

When it was over, he called me his angel, and also called me angel towards the end of my service to his cock. Which is a very special name. It carries warmth, and tenderness, and shows how pleased he is with me. He said - I am very proud of you today, my angel.

And then we discussed a couple of small tasks, and he said I could masturbate if I wished. (I did wish, and I did masturbate, and it was quite lovely, so between that and serving him I am fairly floaty as I'm writing this.) He also told me to take the chain to my bed tonight - which is a great gift on the rare occasions he grants it.

As he left, I reminded him that it's only two and a half weeks until we return to the hotel we stayed in last year. Until we again spend the night - together - in a room with white linens. But even if everything is the same, it won't be the same at all.

In so many ways, it won't be the same.

It will be...
a gift.
For us both.
And it will be beautiful.

No modifications necessary

I have a really great hairdresser. He does phenomenal things with my long, still naturally red mane. What I really admire is how he listens to my hair. He reads it. He doesn't impose a style on my locks and then cut them into submission. He frees them, encouraging them to be what they really are and bringing out their true, natural beauty.

When I was in second grade, my mom took me to her hairdresser. He cut my hair short, and suddenly - no more curls. They never really came back. I never forgave him, and hairdressers have made me nervous ever since. Now, though, I suddenly have curls again! Even with my hair so long, which should drag out the bounce, I have curls. I watch in fascination as my hair slowly dries after I've washed it. The ends awake into curls that hold their shape throughout the day, and which return after brushing if I wet them down again. No product, no curling iron, nothing. My very own little girl curls.

I have a really great Master. He does phenomenal things with me. One of the many things I admire is that he pursued me for what he saw I truly was. He saw inside me. He saw me as something of value, and he wanted me as his own treasure.

He did not say - oh, here is a marble statue which I will treat as a piece of rough stone to be hacked and chiseled until it becomes the piece of art I have in mind.

He said - ah... here is a beautiful work of art who needs some polishing and minor bits of carving here and there to refine the shape and bring out the beauty inherent in the stone.

And he also said - ah... here is an artist who doesn't know her talent. Here is a girl who doesn't know her beauty. This is a crime. I will take her for my own, and use her for my own pleasure. But in order to get the most out of her, she must come to accept and appreciate her own value.

As I mentioned recently, I'm on a diet. It's a serious health thing. I need to lose weight, limit carbs and especially sugar, exercise more... all the things my doctors have been saying for years. But now I'm getting serious about it. I really do need to be serious about it.

And my Master is helping me.

I ran off to the bookstore today to pick up a particular diet book. I e-mailed the sadist from the car as I prepared to leave the parking structure, saying I was on my way home and would then address a particular assignment he had given me. He replied:

I heard no mention today of exercise. When you get home send me your plan.

Oops. I'd forgotten again. He had brought it up that morning, how he wanted me to do my exercises to accentuate the ravine down my back, aka the champagne channel, which must be made deeper by the time we have our night together. Which gives me 3 weeks. Plus he wanted me to add some exercises to develop the shape of my delicious butt. I had really forgotten about that part! I wrote back:

[she sighs and wrinkles her nose]

I both love and it and hate it when you remind me of things I have forgotten, my Lord. Things that I'm obviously not running to do.

Which is true. I feel a bit petulant, and have the urge to be defensive and make excuses. But I know there are no excuses. I have lost focus, yet again. I've been distracted, been involved with other things, and must - must - do what is required of me.

Which I did do.
And reported back.
And he was pleased.
Yea, verily.

Later, I wrote:

You know what's so great, my Lord, about what you're doing with me and the diet and exercise thing?

You're not making me feel bad about how I look. Of course, all along you've been pushing me to accept that I'm beautiful. But this, specifically, you're not saying I'm fat. You're not saying I'm a lazy slug. You're saying I need to be healthy, to serve you better and because you own me and want - need - your slave to be healthy. Plus there's these little preferences of body form to increase your enjoyment. It's not, my Master, as if you're saying I'm worthless if I don't weigh 110 pounds. And you're not sending me off to get my tits augmented, or any such thing. It all not only makes me feel better, because I'll be healthier, but will also make me feel better about myself in a healthy way.

It's all very positive, my Master.

I am so lucky to belong to you!

He replied:

I never said you weren't a lazy slug.

But quickly followed that with a new message:

Seriously, my goal for you is to maintain both your sexy body and your general health, so there will be fewer occasions when your service is unavailable to me for health reasons. No modifications necessary, except maybe a deeper champagne canal.

Which is the truth. He makes me feel good about myself. He makes me feel wanted. He did not take charge of my eating and such merely to demonstrate his control, but did get involved when there was reason to be concerned and, before that, on a very small scale for the well-defined goal of increasing his pleasure from the use of my body in a very particular way. (He already eats pitted Kalamata olives and tiny grape tomatoes from the trough running down my back, but a deeper channel would certainly be preferable as a vessel for champagne.)

This is but a very concrete and current example of a larger point which I have referred to before. I get very nervous when I hear about a Dom/Master who seems to be pushing submissive/slave into some external mold which just doesn't fit. We all struggle in our relationships - in any relationship, all the way from vanilla ice cream to jalapeño sorbet. We all struggle, some more, some less, whichever side of the power exchange we occupy. No one is perfect. No one. Get that? Even my Master has occasionally apologized, or at least admitted to faulty judgment and taken steps to prevent a recurrence.

We may worship our Masters/Mistresses, but they really are not gods. And it pisses me off when they can't manage enough humility to appreciate the treasure they do have in their submissives or slaves. It pisses me off when I hear of a Dom who is so caught up in his own fantasies of what he wants and is so drunk on his own inflated ego that he pushes his possessions to do things before they are ready while making them feel inadequate for not being able to handle what maybe they just aren't cut out to handle.

I worry.
I really do.
Because we get drunk on our submission.
We lose perspective.
And some of us end up hypnotized into wanting something we really don't want.

Submission can be glorious.
And being a little intoxicated can be a lovely thing.
Just don't get so drunk that you drive off a cliff.
And never forget that you are beautiful.

End of lecture.
Time to put my sexy body to bed.

Taking care of my Master's property. Meaning me.

We're on a diet.
We're all on a diet.
Including the cats.
If only I could find a kitty health club for them!

I get blood tests twice a year. I'm on all sorts of medication, so need blood tests twice a year to be sure my kidney isn't crapping out. Turns out I have the kidneys of a horse, or so one doctor said, but you still have to check. And then there's all that other stuff. Like my thyroid level due to the little bit of lithium I take, and the high cholesterol I inherited from my mom, and the tendency to diabetes I got from my dad.

I got the worst they each had to offer.
Though I did get my mom's red hair.
And her amazing nipples.
She still has amazing nipples at age 90.

She would thoroughly plotz if she knew what my Master likes to do with that hair and those nipples I inherited from her. Hell, can you imagine her reaction if she knew I had a Master? A dangerously sadistic Master who is my only protection against his own urges?

Yum.
I admit that I'm enjoying the idea...

Blood tests.
Back to the blood tests.

I had the full report sent directly to me as well as to my stable of doctors. There were some things that concerned me and then my master, so I trotted off to my family doctor who happens to be, conveniently, a geriatrician as well, having already discussed the report by e-mail with my brilliant psychopharmacologist.

(FYI - geriatricians are trained have a particularly holistic approach to medicine, and make less money because they spend more time with their patients.)

The things that seemed like new problems aren't really and, while the numbers were high, they're better than last year. As I suspected, my thyroid numbers were high which means my thyroid is underperforming which, to my relief, explains why I've been feeling so sluggish and is easily corrected.

My cholesterol levels are surprisingly good.
Hooray!
Happy pet.

But.
The diabetes thing...
Having looked a little better last fall,
it looks a little worse now,
and if I don't get it under control
it's medication for me.
Not to mention that diabetes is a BAD thing to have.

So it's serious diet time.

BUT!!
Happy day!
My Master is taking a interest.
I am his property
and he expects his property to be kept in good working order.

I've really been wishing he would take control of my diet.
Because clearly I can't do it for myself.

It's not like he's going to monitor what I do every day. But he expects me to make a plan, and to keep to it. I am to have a healthy diet plan, and I'm to exercise, and I'm to lose weight, and I'm to get my blood sugar levels down.

I'm to exercise.
Including some very specific exercises.
Exercises meant to accentuate the ravine running down my back.
The trough from which he can drink champagne
in a little over 3 weeks
when we once again
spend the night
in a room with white linens.

As for my tubby tabby cats,
I'm stuck dealing with them myself.

My Master flogs it and makes it all better

Tuesday is the day my Master comes for lunch.
And other things.
Tuesday was the morning I woke up feeling...
detached.

Uh-oh.

Actually, I woke up feeling fine. Or so I thought. And then I knelt at the foot of the bed to do my morning ritual and... something felt off. I wasn't really there. I wasn't feeling it. And I was terrified that he would come and look in my eyes and not see what he expected to see and think I had been faking it and oh no, there we'd be again!!!

So I e-mailed him.
I emailed him
and told him
and said it just felt temporary
and at the same time he was emailing me
discussing some cocksucking pointers
that he'd wanted me to review
and which I had.
I had studied very hard.
And he said,
without having seen my message,
that maybe we'd do a little training
and then I started to cry,
because I realized that's just what I needed.
And then he read my own message,
and he knew what was needed,
including the training,
and flogging my tits
and flogging my pussy
while I held on tight to the edges of the futon
and did NOT protect myself.
And then he turned me over
and flogged my buttocks
and spanked me with the spoon
and beat me with the strip of wood he uses as a cane
and it hurt
and it hurt
but not more than I could take
because he knew what I needed
and knew how much pain was the right amount of pain
and I held tight to the edges of the futon
and yielded
and cried out
and later
as I knelt before him
I sobbed and sobbed
and he held me to him
and told me to let it out
and everything was ok
and everything will be ok
and he knew
he knows
he always knows
and then he does
exactly what was needed.

He says he knows this slavery thing will be hard for me. That there are things I'll struggle with. Things that will be hard for me. Which I know is true because while on the one hand we both know inside us what it means to us for me to be his slave, on the other hand I don't really know what that will mean for me as we continue from here. And while I know internally that yes, of course that is what I am because haven't I truly ceded my life to him - increasingly made everything else secondary to him because nothing means more and no one understands me better and makes me feel so safe even though I know he is dangerous and damn. I really do fall into these run-on sentences when I get really intense, don't I...

So here's the thing.

That word.
Slave.
It makes me uncomfortable.
Just the word.
It just...

And I'm not sure why. Because it's not the concept that I belong to him that's the problem. I just do. I do. I do belong to him. Not because of any formality but because I do. Because of what's between us. Because of who we each are and what we each are to each other and give each other and do for each other and mean to each other, and this connection...

Anyway.
I'm no longer worried.
I know we are what and who we are.
I know he will lead me to see and to understand
and that my life will continue to be richer
because I have given it to him.