Welcoming the sun and the new year

Rosh Hashanah.
The Jewish New Year.
The anniversary of the birthday of the world.

(Yesterday, we learned that in fact this birthday celebrates the sixth day of creation, when man came into the picture, and not the first day. I could write reams on that alone, but am too tired after 2 days of services and - the true reason for the exhaustion - getting up early.)

We had a special celebration today, the second day of Rosh Hashanah, as the sun deigned to make a full-out appearance. For a while, in any case. Enough to make me wish we could be a little more pagan in our observance and move it up the road to Rock Creek Park. Still, throughout the holiday, there has been plenty of gratitude expressed for the beauty and glory of nature, as well as references to our responsibility to safeguard and, now, restore it.

Tikkun olam.
Healing the world.
We have our tasks.

I expect to return to the issues raised by the various themes of the High Holy Days as we move through the Days of Awe, culminating in Yom Kippur next Friday night and all day Saturday. But for now, here is a poem that is included in the Rosh Hashanah prayer book compiled by my unaffiliated, GLBT synagogue, which seems particularly appropriate to both the birthday of the world and the return of the sun.  (We could get into a whole other discussion about the third verse, as this year's services have been addressing issues of doubt and questioning, struggling with issues of belief. Doubting, questioning, challenging... a very Jewish approach to everything. Including God. If there is a God...)

The poem, then.
And wishes to all who celebrate for a sweet new year,
filled with health, happiness, love, and peace.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

i thank You God for most this amazing
by e.e. cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

A few hours later...

He got what he needed from me.

Though not in the way he had led me to believe.

The rest
is for him and me alone.

He needs to hurt me a little

He will hurt me tomorrow.
He needs to hurt me tomorrow.

A little.
He needs to hurt me a little.

I don't think "a little" refers to the extent of his need.

I'm... uneasy.

He says it will be "different."
I have no idea what that means.
I scare myself in speculation.

He understands my uneasiness, he says.
He'll try to be careful, he says.
I am his treasure.
I do not doubt that.
He will try to protect me.
But whatever he's going to do, it needs to be done.

It's all my fault, of course.
I knew this would happen.
Because I sent him a picture.

He had given me an assignment on Sunday. When I finished the task, I lay there naked on the bed, deep in that place. The laptop was open on the nightstand next to me, in case he e-mailed while I was working for him, but by the end the screen was black. Empty, except for my reflection as I lay there before it, posed like one of my beloved odalisque paintings. I wished he could see me. Right at that moment.

So I took a picture.
A lot of pictures, actually.
And sent him the best of the lot.
Ignoring the way the position made my neck folds sag.
Knowing what that view of me would do to him.

I know what he likes.
I know what gets to him.
This is part of my job.
As his pet.
As his slave.
To serve him.
To please him.
So I gave him what I know he likes.

And I knew he would want to hurt me.

So I have no one to blame but myself.

On top of which...

Well, you know.
He's going to hurt me.
In a different way than he has till now.
Which scares me.
And arouses me.
And that embarrasses me.

I won't like it while it's happening.
And I'm nervous about it now.
But I... I admit that I want it.
I want him to have that pleasure.
I want him to do to me what needs to be done.

I will offer myself without hesitation.
I will accept whatever he needs to do.
I will trust him to protect me.
I will scream and cry and tell him he's hurting me.

And after?
There will be that special intimacy that comes from his hurting me.
And I will be disgustingly, embarrassingly aroused by the memory.

Cognitive dissonance and BDSM

It took four and a half days. Finally, someone was brave enough to leave the comment I had been expecting from the moment I finished writing the post I called Ouch. Screwed up again.

This morning, goodgirl wrote:

Hello
For reasons I can not even explain nor understand myself your last sentence, "a man has the right to beat his slave" prickled me to my very core. To each his/her own; freedom of speech and choice I believe but reading those words felt offensive and is just one of the many reasons why I feel conflict with the exchange of Dominance/submission; Sadism/masochism; Master/slave.

You appear very happy in your relationship and that is truly all that matters for you and the exchange you have.

For me though, this entry just fills me with sadness. 

The full quote, the last two lines of my post, is this:

Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.

Here, an admission.
I felt extremely uncomfortable as I wrote it.
And I left it in as a challenge.
A challenge as much to myself as to my readers.

Because that is a horrible thing to say.
As a concept, as a tenet, it is absolutely inexcusable.
And yet.
I thought it.
I felt it.
At that time.
In that context.
As I wrote.
But if I let myself truly think about it, my stomach clenches.

So I tried not to think about it.

An exquisite example of cognitive dissonance.

As I write about it now, I'm suddenly reminded of something very different. Or maybe not so different as a psychological experience.

I was raised an atheist. A third-generation left-wing Jewish atheist. While my parents gave us a strong sense of Jewish identity, they were very clear on the non-existence of God. Religion was something that distracted people from improving the lot of the masses and making the world a better place. (Knowing very little about Judaism, they didn't know that tikkun olam, healing the world, is precisely the job we were given, but that's another discussion entirely.)

Eventually, I was drawn - felt compelled - to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. I talked with a rabbi, I read, I went to services, I found things I could relate to. But largely I preferred services that were mostly in Hebrew. Despite the fact that I didn't know what I was saying.

In fact - precisely because I wouldn't know what I was saying.

Because otherwise the highly rational part of me would push past the part that found meaning and fulfillment in ritual, the part that sensed the existence of something else, and while poking at my stomach would say: "How can you say this stuff?!?"

I rarely ascribe things to "God." Notice that above, when I spoke of tikkun olam, I didn't say it was the job that God gave us. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. And yet, I really have, on a few widely disparate occasions, become disconcertingly aware of something else.

I do not like talking about those occasions.
They make me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet they were very real.

Cognitive dissonance makes us very uncomfortable.

There is another psychological state that walks hand-in-hand with cognitive dissonance. And that is suspension of disbelief. A very deliberate suspension of disbelief.

Yes, I am very happy in my relationship. But I am admittedly uncomfortable enough about a few of its aspects that I don't reveal it to friends who are not part of this world. They would worry about me. And really, rationally, how could I blame them? Aside from everything else, I should be out looking for someone who will commit to looking after me as I grow older. Who could take care of me, financially and otherwise. Instead I have made a commitment to a man who... well, you know. Or some of it at least. You've read it here.

In order to write what I do, not to mention do what I do, I push away my thoughts of real slavery. Of real abuse, sexual and otherwise. Of forced prostitution, of children who are sold, of children whose real daddies do things to them that no child should have to endure. Things that no daddy should even think of doing. These are real horrors in the world - realities we should not close our eyes to, realities we should not close our minds to, realities we must acknowledge even as we do things that some of us, at least - perhaps precisely because our awareness is so keen - feel we must keep from those who care about us.

So I write from another place.
That place from which I can say
a man has the right to beat his slave.
For pleasure or punishment.

But there was no way I could go deeply enough into that place to enable me to write that line without cognitive dissonance standing on my shoulder, like an angel of good intent, whispering into my ear the true horror of the words I left for you to read.

So thank you, goodgirl, for being honest enough to admit what you felt.
Because if we didn't have those feelings,
at least sometimes,
we would have to seriously question our own humanity.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A reassurance, for my new readers and for those who may have forgotten.  None of us, in any relationship, can truly say that our safety is assured, whether physical or emotional. The old hit-by-a-bus possibility. But I can say this. This man I write about - this sadist - is aware of the potential dangers and works very hard to protect me. And it is that level of consciousness that feels like the greatest protection of all.

Why I was beaten for smiling

There were 2 comments on my last post, which I had cleverly titled Ouch. Screwed up again. I do hope you all recognize that at times my titles are deliberately selected to lure readers. It certainly worked this time. My stats shot right up. Whether any of those first-time visitors will return is a separate issue. But it sure gives me a sense of power, knowing how easily I can lure them over for an initial peek.

Anyway.
Back to the post.
Back to those 2 comments.

The core of the post was this:

Don't smile when he comes in the door.

It's inappropriate.

It seems from jcn's comment that maybe I should define my terms more carefully.
It's not that I'm never allowed to smile.
And I do smile at times.
As does he.
At times.
But not when he comes through the door.

It's inappropriate.

One comment he made about the issue was a reminder that
it's not about me.
It's not about how I feel about seeing him.
It's about him.
It's all about him.
I am there to serve him.
I am there to please him.
How I feel at the moment of his arrival is irrelevant.

The second comment said:

Won't it be nice for you both when
he's trained you not to smile? I
wonder what your face will show then
when he appears.

I guess I should point out that I don't usually smile on his arrival. Really. I don't. Certainly in the beginning I didn't smile. If you knew this man from a submissive position, you'd know that his presence does not inspire smiles. But as various things developed... well, one day I couldn't help it. He arrived and a smile of joy and love flooded my face.

But that is not what he usually sees.

What he usually sees is
submission
respect
focus
obedience
adoration
and worship.

Behind all this is love.
And I'm sure he sees that, too.

Ouch. Screwed up again.

I do know.
I do!
Sometimes I even think about it.
And remind myself.

Don't smile when he comes in the door.

It's inappropriate.

But every so often I forget.
I can't help it.
I'm so happy to see him!

He came in the door
and a smile spread over my face
and I thought
"Damn."

No smiling.
It's inappropriate.

There are smiles later.
Sometimes.
But not when he arrives.

So I was punished.
Beaten.
With the strip of wood he uses as a cane.
Which hurt.
And I cried.

And afterwards, I was even softer.
And deeper in my slave space.

I learned a lot about my slave space.
But that's another story.

Maybe I'll tell you.

Meanwhile, there's this.

I realized this.

Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.

Summer dances with Fall

Summer passes Fall 

going through the door.

Songs for a cocksucking slave

'No Language Like Song' is an interesting article in the New York Times comparing songs of American slaves and Russian serfs. Both scholarly and readable, it includes a link to Paul Robeson's versions of 3 of the referenced songs. Given that Robeson was veneered as something of a saint in my atheist, left-wing Jewish home, this made the article particularly enjoyable. Add to that grandparents that all fled Russia/Ukraine/Poland, whose borders were prone to wandering, and you can see why I was attracted to it.

Then there's this quote from Frederick Douglass:

the heart has no language like song

Poetry is song without music.
Or rather, the music is inherent in the words.

Anyway.

Obviously, the article is dealing with a far different flavor of slavery than mine. For one thing, the songs deal, often only slightly covertly, with either escape (among American slaves) or rebellion (the Russian serfs). There's an interesting explanation for the difference. I, of course, have no interest in escape, and outright rebellion would trigger the end of the relationship.

But my errant imagination can't help but think that the world - our world, at least - could use some songs for slaves such as we. Songs to sing as we work, sings "to regulate the movement" of our mouths and our hands as we strive to please the ones who own us.

Songs to be sung with a cock in one's mouth.

Suggestions, anyone?

Written while sitting on my sore, hot butt

He needed to spank me today.

My Daddy has been dealing with a lot of aggravation lately, and he needed to spank his little girl. So he did. A lot. And hard. Though not as hard as I'm sure he wanted to.

He wanted to see his little girl's butt turn pink and then red. He wanted to feel it hot beneath him as he lay on top of her and pushed his Daddy cock against her tight little puckered butt hole until it hurt and she cried out "Ow! Daddy! It hurts!"

He loves when she tells him that he's hurting her.

So he spanked her as she was lying flat on the futon, with her panties pulled down below her knees and her Daddy straddling her legs so both those things made her feel restrained. And then he spanked her as she knelt before him sucking his cock, and as she rose up on her knees and he pulled her close to him while he sat on the chair that is his throne, and then as she lay on the futon facing in the other direction. He spanked her extra hard then, facing in the other direction, so her butt went from pink to red and grew very hot and was especially red on her right side because that's the side that shines in the light from the window when she kneels before him and sucks his cock.

He spanked me a lot.
He spanked me hard.
And I kept crying out that he was hurting me.

And later he spoke of how he had beaten me. which seemed rather a strong word to use for a hand spanking, except that the phrase arouses me, and it arouses him, and it makes me want him to beat me even though I probably - I know - I know I couldn't handle what he really wants to do.

When he hurts me, it makes me softer.
My mouth.
My tits.
My belly.
Everything softer.
Every time.

He spoke of how he wants to torture me.
Not of exactly what he wants to do.
He never tells me that.
But of part of why he wants to torture me.
Not for my screams.
But for my breath.
For the sharp intake of breath that would precede a scream.

He protects me.
He prevents himself from torturing me.
He denies himself.
He suffers to protect me.
Because to give in to the beast would be to destroy us.
And what we have, what we are, is too precious.
He wouldn't risk that.

But he does let himself spank me.
And now my bottom is still pink.
My bottom is still warm.
My bottom still hurts.

My Daddy spanked me.
And I'm so glad he did.

Ex-marital aids

On the bed, in shades of pink and lavender,
an array of devices formerly known as
marital aids. No lump of silicone could save
that wretched marriage, but now they stall
a tantrum by sparking explosions elsewhere.
Displaced from their once leading role,
pouting fingers hold and thrust, consoled by
drops of mead milked from passion’s mouth.
Half the action’s higher up in any case,
as memory
and fantasy
fill the void that waits for you alone.

Masturbation Mania (11) - orgasmic explosion from the Silky G

I do keep my promises.
Eventually.

Here at last is Part 2 (read Part 1 here) of my review of the Silky G vibrator from Evolved Novelties, my August adventure in sex toy exploration courtesy of the kind folks over at Eden Fantasys. This really has been an adventure. I've gone from a monogamous devotion to clitoral love from the first two fingers of my right hand to constructing orderly plans of which devices to use and in what order.

I'm hooked!

Given my persistent state of unemployment, it's a good thing I don't have to buy the things. Despite having firm preferences, I'm always hoping that the next shipment will bring a new thrill that will eclipse my passion for the latest favorite.

The Silky G definitely fell into that category.

Go back to Part 1 for the story of how I made my selection, an initial description, and the reason I didn't finish writing my review at the time. And now... now that the sun has finally come out again... here is a moan by moan description of what the sweet thing did to me.

The following is edited from e-mails I sent my Master during and after my two main toy trials, as well as during the session that cut short my previous attempt at writing this review.



From August 5th:

Good morning, Daddy.
I had one great orgasm last night.
Yummy.
I'll write back shortly with more details.

My only regret, Daddy, is that it got me so excited I couldn't take much time to explore the sensations. I'll need to try one more time before I write the review. Whenever it's all right with you, my Master, who owns my orgasms and everything else.

[...]

So the thing about this vibrator, Daddy, as I think I said yesterday, is that it strikes me as so cute that it makes me want to use it. The tip looks like the top curvy point on a soft-serve ice cream cone. And it's got these 2 curves on it that bulge while generally being slender that just make me want to stick it up inside me.

Technically, my Master, it's not all that fancy. Just 3 speeds, no complicated vibration patterns, and I'll bet a lot of women would think it's not strong enough. Or fat enough. But for your little girl... perfect. It slid into me as if it had been designed with my pussy in mind.

It's supposed to be a G-spot vibrator. So is the little lavender one I like so much. But this is longer, and has that cute little point on the end in which are concentrated the vibrations. So I pushed it inside me and didn't even fuck myself with it. Just kept it there. And then I started feeling these things, Daddy! Right up in my womb! And I was only on level 1 or 2 of the vibrations.

Wow.

I couldn't think about anything but the physical sensations, my Master. Fantasies? Scenarios? Barely. I wanted to take more time with it, to explore it more, and I just couldn't. I fucked myself a little, and felt the little bulges push in and out of me, which I liked, but mostly it was just those vibrations deep inside and I just couldn't prolong it, Daddy! I did manage briefly to recall that sense of objectification, but then that was it. I pulled my new purple friend out and pressed the pointy tip against my clit. Didn't take long at all.

No little moans.
Loud shouts instead.
And then I came.
Boom.

Still not like my orgasms used to be - and I'm still not sure how much of that is due to age and how much to all my meds - but it did feel big. Followed by a very strong crying fit that was completely tension release. No upset in it at all.

Great.
Really great.

I love my new toy, Daddy!

But I do need to try once more, if possible this weekend, so I can write it up before I go to camp. May I, Daddy?

[As you can tell from the following, permission was granted.]



August 7th:

Your naked slave, sitting up in bed, having slept off this morning's orgasm.

Thank you, Daddy my Master. I did need to give my new toy one more test. Plus I woke up early and hoped that cumming would help me go back to sleep for a bit.

This time I let myself enjoy the pure form of it, Daddy, before turning on the vibrations. It's got these couple little bumps in it, rather than being one, smooth form. Which is nice, as it really is very slender. And it's also good for me. Remember, how I've said that I actually need to fuck myself fairly regularly to keep my tissues young and pliable? But I haven't really had anything that I've wanted to shove up there. This is very comfortable, with that little extra bit of stimulation and stretch from the 2 bumps.

Oh, and it's got the pointy tip, Daddy. It reminds me of the end of those little chandelier light bulbs, that you can get with either a straight end or a curved end. This has the curved tip, Daddy, which makes it so very cute! Plus it helps it slip in. Nice...

So the upshot of all that, Daddy, is that it's good for maintaining your little slave's pussy.

The vibrations are nice, too. They go straight up into my womb. Very yummy. In the end, it wasn't as big an orgasm as last time, Daddy, but very good nevertheless, and it was all very pleasant. And I was very aware of how it was good for Daddy's pussy, and would make it all nice and fuckable when you finally bring your friends to shove their cocks up me.


[And then I was off to "Band Camp" followed by post-camp recovery and too much rain and who knows what and suddenly it was the end of August and I really needed to finish the review by the end of the month. So with Hurricane Irene on her way, and my Master out at a bar, I settled down on the couch with Ketzel and my purple-encased MacBook Pro, intending to write. But first there were my wake-up messages from bed.]


August 27th:

Good morning, Daddy. I woke up very early and had a bout of painfully aroused insomnia. Then fell back to sleep and dreamt that all these men wanted me, Daddy, and I was flirting with them. But I wanted only you.

My pussy is still twitching and whimpering, Daddy.

[...]

Another dream detail I just remembered, Daddy... one of the men... he kissed me and it was AWFUL, Daddy. He had thin, dry lips and didn't know how to do it right.

Not like you...


[Later...]


Twitching twitching twitching...

I'm writing up my vibrator report, Daddy, and describing how good it felt is getting your little slave very aroused... And oh, Daddy, it feels so good knowing I can't touch myself unless you give permission!

The chain of your ownership is cutting into your little slave's pussy, my Master.

I wrote that and the twitching kicked up a notch.
I feel you tormenting me, my Master.
And I embrace it.

Is it the storm, Daddy?
Or errant hormones?
Whatever it is, I'm falling deeper and deeper into that slave place...


[The sadist replies that I'm too sensitive not to respond to the storm. He says I may masturbate, but must report before, during, and after - which is what I normally do. I picture him reading my reports as he sits imbibing at the bar. I know what it will do to his cock...]


Oh, thank you, Daddy my Master!

I wish I were at the bar with you, my Master.
I wish I were standing naked beside you.
I wish you were offering me around to be touched and inspected.
I wish I were bent over a table to be beaten and raped.
I wish your chain were tight around my neck
so everyone could see
that I am your slave.

I am, my Master.
I'm your own little slave.
And now
I'll rape myself with silicone on your behalf.

[...]

In the bedroom, my Master.
On the bed.
Door closed.
Clothes off.

Except I left on those support knee hose and my socks with cats on them, Daddy. They somehow make me feel more naked. The contrast, I guess. And the socks... they make me feel younger.


I'll use that newest toy, my Master. To stick inside me. And maybe the lavender one, too.

[These descriptions of my masturbation alternated with episodes of what would be happening to me in the bar as the sadist offered me around to the other drinkers. This is a recurring, shared fantasy, but was written for my Master's pleasure and feels too personal to share. Anyway, I'm sure you can fill in details from what I wrote above.]

Oooh. Daddy...

It feels so good.
It slips right in.
No resistance except for that little extra pressure from the bumps.
And the curved tip is reaching towards my womb.

I haven't even turned it on yet, my Master.
And I'm afraid to think too much about what you will subject me to in the bar or I'll cum too fast.

I need to feel the torture of the pleasure.

[...]

I turned it on, my Master.
Just at the first level.
Not very strong but yes... it's torture.

Who would think that pleasure could be torture?

The vibrations from the curved tip are heading into my g-spot as they were designed to do. I'm suffering, my Master... it feels so good that it inspires a sense of short thin lashes flogging my pussy.

[...]

I've taken the vibrations to Level 2, my Master.
They are spreading from my pussy towards my tight little butt hole.

[...]

Turns out it accidentally went all the way to Level 3, Daddy. This pretty thing isn't very strong, my Master.  But it fits perfectly.

I ran the curbed point of the tip in a semicircle over my outer labia and above my clitoris. Just around it, trying not to touch directly. And I pressed it into the pubic bone above my clit. Delicious, Daddy..
I'm trying very hard to prolong this...

This is tricky, my Master, typing on the laptop while lying on my back, knees up, vibrating purple silicone shoved up my pussy.

[...]

I pulled it out, my Master, squeezed on more AstroGlide, then shoved it firmly back in and started fucking myself with it.

It's no longer silicone.

It's my rapist.

[Insert a handful of fantasy installments here.]

I switched to the little snub-nosed lavender Meany at the end, my Master.
I love how its soft round nose feels against my clit.
It snuffled and poked at me and felt so good, Daddy!
Plus it's yummy inside me -
fatter than the other one, I think, though very short.

Whatever it is inside me that's been forcing these dark fantasies on me took me back to a place where my ass and my pussy door were being whipped. And I came. A real orgasm, my Master, inside, the rising up and rolling over, which I pushed for a little more even. It still wasn't super strong, but it was a real physical orgasm, Daddy, and I was - I am - grateful for it.

I rested a bit then.
But didn't let myself sleep.

And all that activity made me need to pee.

The new vibrator was buzzing away inside me, Daddy, all those times I wrote you once I said I had turned it on.

Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for allowing me to masturbate.
Thank you for allowing me to cum.
And most of all, thank you for having me share it with you.



[End of e-mail reports.]


So yes.
I really liked it.
A lot!

A couple of points to remember.

Including one thing I don't mention enough. I have a very strong preference for silicone toys. I love how they feel - so velvety! - and I love how well they clean up (especially when they're waterproof), meaning I don't have to bother with a condom. A big advantage. But remember that you need to use water-based lubricant only, and keep the toys from touching each other. Who knows what they would get up to in your toy box? (No, seriously, silicone and silicone don't do well together.)

Otherwise, remember that the Silky G is fairly slender, so could be unsatisfying for those of you who like something big and fat shoved up your cunt. Plus the vibrations aren't super strong, and there aren't any fancy patterns. Which obviously didn't interfere with my pleasure one little bit. But it's something to keep in mind if you're laying out your own money for your pussy's next best friend.

For me, though...

Wow!

PS - and no, I will not be posting anything about the 10th anniversary of September 11th. Observance is appropriate, and I don't begrudge people what they need. I certainly have not forgotten. But for me, once was enough.

Washed out

I haven't been a very dependable a blogger lately.

Blame it on the weather.
There's been far too much weather.
Meaning rain.
Far too much rain.

Yesterday, I finally dragged my large lightbox upstairs, as my brain had completely shut down. I was so desperate for light that I overdosed. It didn't make me lively, but did keep me up till 3 am. Bad girl, because then I slept till 10 this morning, meaning I missed much of whatever morning light there was.

NOTE to those who are contemplating light therapy for winter sluggishness or depression or full-out SAD. You're supposed to start using it before you can tell that you've slowed down. Meaning in mid-August, just a few minutes as early in the morning as possible (yeah, right...) and then gradually increasing. But this was an emergency. I keep that big box in the dining room once the season starts, and have a Sunlight Jr. on the kitchen counter, with another Sunlight Jr. for my office desk when I'm fortunate enough to have paying employment. (At home, I mainly work at the thoroughly buried dining room table.)

Anyway, today the sun came out. Still somewhat feeble, but a promising sign nevertheless. And I actually managed to get some things done!

Lots left to do for the sadist, including revising a long-ish poem he assigned months ago. Plus I owe you all the second half of my review of the Silky G, after which I can write about my utterly delicious and delightfully classy new vibrator. In black and grey. Not like me at all, but it looked so elegant on the website and in fact it is. And damn, but it feels good... Whoo-ee!

But that's for another time.

(Though if you follow the link, you'll see that it's on sale...)

Oh, and everything is quite wonderful with me and the fiend. The things he says with his mouth but without words...

There.
Now you know I haven't forgotten about you all.
Feel better?

Ghosts

Sunday.
He was somewhere we had been together.

He felt my presence.

Still.
After all that time.
My presence lingered.

And me?
I was elsewhere.
Wishing we could have been together.

So in the end, we were.
In our own way, we were.
Together.

[she sighs happily]

In case you were thinking about anniversary presents

Three years....

Guess what I found out!
Three years...

It's our leather anniversary!

Just so you know.

Three years . . .

There should be an adjective.

Three [something-or-other] years.

Perhaps that word my Master used when my physical service rendered him nearly speechless.

Three amazing years.
Or maybe:
Three extraordinary years.
Or even:
Three unlikely years.
Or how about:
Three years of struggle and joy.

For me, too, in this as in so many other things, words are inadequate.
Utterly, inevitably inadequate.
The richness and complexity of
who we are and
how we are and
what we are
cannot be pinned down.

What we have is an exquisite, elusive butterfly that you will never catch and nail to a board for a thorough and dispassionate examination.

There is nothing dispassionate about our relationship.

Below is what I posted on September 2, 2008, one day after I begged my Master to allow me to serve him, which happened a mere one week after he first found me on FetLife. He found me, wanted me, set his trap, and got me. All in the space of a week, which was exactly what he had predicted to his masochist slave.

You can read the whole post below, but you might want to go back and read it in situ. In context. with some of the surrounding posts. Including our first meeting in the flesh. (I notice that there, as so often now, I display an unwillingness to really describe our interactions.)

The following speaks of the philosopher as well as of the sadist - so I suppose I should offer this update that we've had some extended e-mail conversations in the last few months, kicked off by the death of Osama bin Laden. Which is good. What the philosopher and I had was also very special, and I was sad that we were no longer in contact. (Note: he did finally finish his dissertation. And does still read here.)

Here, then, is a remembrance and a tribute
to what was
and what is
and what will be.

A remembrance filled with love (and offered with uncorrected capitalizations).

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Life makes its own decisions

Sometimes, things happen very very fast. Which can really blindside you if you never imagined they existed.

This change in my life I never imagined existed. Not for me. Not now. And certainly not quite this fast.

In some ways I’m not even sure what happened. Or how. One day I start getting odd messages from an evil man whose over-the-top enthusiasm for my writing makes me laugh. A day or so later, I’m inspired to write a very dark piece which I don’t feel like posting here. By Saturday we were having some horribly long volleys of messages and I was still teasing him for the way he worshiped my words, but I was distracted and aroused and aching to please him.

On Monday, Labor Day, I begged him to let me serve him. I am perhaps the first literary service slut in history.

Monday was very odd. It could have been a very rough day – the day on which my poor philosopher would have called to discuss where we went from here – if he hadn’t already dismissed me by e-mail on the anniversary of his taking possession of me as his slave kitten, his selkie, and as his best friend. It could have been a very very difficult day.

But it wasn’t.

The philosopher wrote me after reading about the fiend and about my dream, acknowledging what the day would have been. I was so, so happy, spending all that time writing back and forth, talking about the film i had seen (Starting Out in the Evening, which I liked a lot), learning that the dissertation is going well now and that i’m free to ask about it whenever i wish. Things are good between us, however they might be defined.

Meanwhile, my demon muse and i continued to write throughout the day, and… and i have no idea what happened. I’m not going to share the conversation; it loses something in translation and feels too intensely personal. Too intense. Very personal. Mainly, there was all this frustration on both sides that the other just couldn’t understand what needed to happen next. My fault, really, for being so afraid of rejection and for not knowing the rules.

What i CAN say is that by Sunday i was desperately wanting to please him. The more nice things he said, the more intensely submissive i felt. i was drunk on it, i think… perhaps my intense desire to serve him was a way to jump in the barrel and drown in the sweet strong wine of his approval.

(and yes i know i have completely lost any consistency in my capitalization and i’m not going to correct it. you can see what happens to my mind as i write. certainly, when i’m feeling submissive “I” gets rapidly replaced by “i” – not as a conscious thing, just as a reflection of something very deep and very uncontrollable. except, of course, by someone who very much wants to control me.)

so yes. i am his service slut. his literary service slut. his imprisoned poet, his treasured pet. i'm not totally sure what he wants of me, but whatever it is, i will give, and will learn to anticipate. i do know that we won't see each other all that often - but then, i am used to that. and since much of what he is looking to accomplish with me is guiding and disciplining and inspiring my writing, e-mail works just fine. i am already seeing a difference. (and oh... i have a secret goal... aside from all the other things i hope to achieve through my demon mentor's training, i'd really love to be able to write a sonnet one day. i've wanted to write a sonnet for years.)

while i may not be totally sure of what my poetic dominant wants of me, it is quite clear and agreed upon what he doesn't want of me. he has no intention of being my boyfriend, and i am not looking for that from him. our goals are clear, the work will be hard, and our time together will be focused. it's true that i thought i was done with active BDSM for now, but every so often an opportunity comes along that is too rich and exciting and fulfilling and challenging to pass up. however, that doesn't change the fact that as far as Relationships go, with a capital "R", i'm feeling quite fulfilled at the moment.

because there is the philosopher. even as friends, even as we are, whatever we are to each other, i regard this bond between us as my primary relationship. and my sadistic jailer knows that. he respects that and he supports that.

i wonder if something like this would have helped things when the philosopher tried to break up with me as far back as last February. what with the stress of the dissertation, he has been feeling overwhelmed by the relationship for a long time. everything came to feel onerous – putting me to bed, giving me attention, giving me the control i needed, even accepting my love perhaps… i’m not totally sure, really. what if we had been able to think of this as a solution? someone for me to serve, someone to command my obedience, to give me attention, to praise me and to chastise me, to arouse me and control me, and to nurture my submission. i would still have belonged to the philosopher, we both would have had that to hug to ourselves to keep us safe and warm at night. but i would have been out of his hair and locked away safe until he was done and ready to resume life. and then we would have figured out together the new rules for a relationship that would work for us both.

but things don’t happen that way. we don’t always think of solutions when we need them, when life is coming apart, and i can’t imagine going shopping for someone to take me in hand. besides, that’s not how my life works. opportunities present themselves. people suddenly appear, people far beyond what i could have imagined. and then there is no choice. all i can say is “yes, Sir” and obey.

besides, the philosopher was always so possessive, even when he tried not to be, that i can’t imagine his having accepted such a thing.

so now he is my best friend, and i try not to say “yes, sir” when he calls me kitten. because i don’t ever want him to stop calling me kitten. and i still think of him a lot, i could never stop that, but am saved from brooding by this demon ex machina who commands my submission and demands my words and scares me and delights me and makes me tremble and makes me want to throw myself at his feet which maybe i can do later this week. how else should i feel about a man who likes my very feeble singing?

i am happy.

And today, I put the philosopher’s picture back on my desk. He is part of my life, whatever label we may stick on his role, and i like being reminded of that. Besides, he’s cute.