Wish I could make that headline sound like some kinky and particularly disgusting form of torture, but no. Creative as he is, the sadist's brain didn't cook up this one. It's just a cold. The kind that feels like a faucet opened all the way, sending not a drip but a hard, steady stream of thin snot rushing from my head down through my nasal passages and out through my now sore-from-blowing nostrils.
Oh woe is me.
I'm prone to getting this particular cold this time of year.
I just hope I wasn't already contagious when Daddy was here Tuesday.
I'm not supposed to give him my colds.
Just imagine the spanking I would get if I did?!
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
Pain on the horizon
It has been promised.
It has been decreed.
Tomorrow he will arrive.
He will stride into the house.
He will stride into my bedroom.
He will settle on the bed
with his back against the headboard.
He will take me across his lap,
my naked belly pressed against his fully-clothed lap.
And then,
for his pleasure,
because he wants to,
because he wants me,
He will spank me.
Hard.
Sometimes a spanking is another form of embrace.
It has been decreed.
Tomorrow he will arrive.
He will stride into the house.
He will stride into my bedroom.
He will settle on the bed
with his back against the headboard.
He will take me across his lap,
my naked belly pressed against his fully-clothed lap.
And then,
for his pleasure,
because he wants to,
because he wants me,
He will spank me.
Hard.
Sometimes a spanking is another form of embrace.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
"You're higher than a kite!"
He tasted all the flavours of my tears today.
He wanted me to tell you that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written last Tuesday, after a truly sweet and long time together. I meant to write more, but it somehow never happened. He soothed and banished my grief and fears over the changes to come, with reassurances in words and kisses and especially in his eyes that nothing of what we are will be lost. And there was his hand and the belt and even the nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane along with the kisses and the words in his eyes and then his fingers on my pussy and the belt on my pussy and it was all wonderful and close and rich and I'm happy but it's too soon after the solstice for my brain to have kicked back in again so this is all you get. And I know that today he is thinking of me. His poet. His pet. His sweet little girl.
Who was, in fact, higher than a kite.
As he said.
And today?
For me, a good movie and way too much Chinese food lie ahead.
With the lighting of the menorah on the restaurant table.
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate.
However you celebrate.
With love.
Always love.
o.g.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Happy Chanukah!
And yes, we did celebrate. After all, Chanukah is the Festival of Lights, and my eyes were shining and my ass was glowing by the time he left. His eyes were shining, too, and the most beautiful smile lit his face.
More details tomorrow.
But I go into work tomorrow and must go to bed early.
For now, this:
He is changing things around in his schedule.
We will still see each other regularly.
He won't let my place in his life slip away.
I belong to him.
And I am blissfully happy.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
So there's good news and bad news
Everything is complicated.
Always.
Complicated.
The good news is clear enough.
I've gotten a job!!
Good work,
lousy money,
reasonable benefits,
GREAT holiday schedule.
And a very short commute.
Although not as short as my last job.
And there's the problem.
Anyone remember what happened with my last job?
Anyone remember
my Tuesday lunches?
When it wasn't sandwiches that filled my mouth?
I would race home,
strip off my clothes,
pop open the futon,
lay out the implements,
and greet him naked at the door.
Invariably, I was late getting back to the office.
But at least our snatched half hours were feasible.
And then I was laid off.
And our trysts stretched to one hour.
Two.
Even three hours now and then.
Every week.
Every Wednesday.
Until his schedule changed.
Then it was every Tuesday.
And now?
Not possible.
I won't be far from home.
But not close enough for a weekly lunchtime quickie.
And besides.
Now we're spoiled.
Very spoiled.
We've eaten of the fruit.
Such sweet fruit.
Sweet and tart and slightly poisonous,
leaving our lips hot and soft and moist
and red-stained with desire.
We're spoiled.
And I worry about how things might change
when the intensity of frequency is lost.
The sadist orders me not to worry.
And says he is already contemplating options.
Considering ways to make up for our missed Tuesdays.
So I try to have faith
and then smile
and remember
that this man who owns me
body and soul
always gets
whatever he wants.
Always.
Complicated.
The good news is clear enough.
I've gotten a job!!
Good work,
lousy money,
reasonable benefits,
GREAT holiday schedule.
And a very short commute.
Although not as short as my last job.
And there's the problem.
Anyone remember what happened with my last job?
Anyone remember
my Tuesday lunches?
When it wasn't sandwiches that filled my mouth?
I would race home,
strip off my clothes,
pop open the futon,
lay out the implements,
and greet him naked at the door.
Invariably, I was late getting back to the office.
But at least our snatched half hours were feasible.
And then I was laid off.
And our trysts stretched to one hour.
Two.
Even three hours now and then.
Every week.
Every Wednesday.
Until his schedule changed.
Then it was every Tuesday.
And now?
Not possible.
I won't be far from home.
But not close enough for a weekly lunchtime quickie.
And besides.
Now we're spoiled.
Very spoiled.
We've eaten of the fruit.
Such sweet fruit.
Sweet and tart and slightly poisonous,
leaving our lips hot and soft and moist
and red-stained with desire.
We're spoiled.
And I worry about how things might change
when the intensity of frequency is lost.
The sadist orders me not to worry.
And says he is already contemplating options.
Considering ways to make up for our missed Tuesdays.
So I try to have faith
and then smile
and remember
that this man who owns me
body and soul
always gets
whatever he wants.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
I suck the sadist's mental cock as motorcade delays blowjob
He was stuck in front of the White House.
He was on his way to get his cock sucked
and he was stuck in front of the White House.
We get that here in DC.
Motorcades and helicopters,
police escorts and unexpected traffic.
I hear about a speech in the Rose Garden and I can feel it happening, 9 miles down the road. The reporter comments on the weather but I already know what it is, I only have to look out the window and I know we're under the same sun, the same clouds, the same threat of economic disaster.
He had projected an arrival between noon and 1 pm. Last week he was held up by rain-delayed traffic. Today was clear and cold, bright sun smiling down on a city preparing for Christmas as the unemployed try for a second year to sneak a couple of gifts into their struggling budgets. The sun was shining. Anything seemed possible.
Surely, today, he'll have plenty of time to enjoy the services of his devoted pet?
Not so fast.
In fact, not fast at all.
At 12:55, he projects a 1:20 arrival.
Ha.
Five minutes later, everything stops.
1:15.
He's been stuck at the same light near the White House for 15 minutes.
People start getting out of their cars.
At least we can text.
Illegal for him but what the hell.
He certainly isn't going anywhere.
Poor Daddy. Too bad your pet isn't with you. Though maybe not a good place to have your cock sucked in the car.
I check out the Washington Post on line. The sadist reports a motorcade. I eventually figure out that Obama must be coming back from a speech to campaign workers at a nearby hotel. At 1:25, cars start moving again.
Poor Daddy indeed. If he wasn't stressed out before, he surely must be now. The visit will have to be cut short. Again. Sometimes it seems as if we are being punished for the luxury of that perfect hotel night. We're being charged for it, forced to pay it back, minute for minute.
Still, there are ways I can serve him in absentia.
Not with my hand.
Not with my mouth.
But with my mind.
My pussy mind.
I'll lick and suck him with my mind.
Feel my tits pressing into your belly. Feel my belly pressing against your cock. I am with you, Sir. Breathe deeply and you will smell me.
My tongue whispers in your ear. I am waiting. I am always waiting. I live in standby mode, a little red light on the tip of my clit signalling readiness.
My pale butt cheeks rise before your eyes, blocking the view of cars and politicians. You feel yourself being sucked into my tight moaning butt hole.
You feel me on the seat beside you. Touch yourself, you say. Reach under your dress to your soft bare pussy and touch yourself for me.
Taste yourself, you say. Taste how you melt from knowing you are mine.
Touch me, you say. Run your fingers over my cock as it groans within my jeans.
Suck me, you say. Imagine away these bucket seats. Spread your obedient body across the bench seat and fasten your sweet soft mouth on my demanding dick.
Show your bare ass to the waiting cars and the now distracted Secret Service. Brighten their day. Give them food for torrid dreams. Let them dream. You are mine.
Are you moving yet, Daddy?
Thank you, Sir. I await. Twitching.
If you must be stuck in traffic, it's good to have a reliable stress reliever waiting at the end of the trip.
I am very reliable.
And when he left me, he felt very good indeed.
It was the least I could do.
As for me -
I get to masturbate tonight.
Daddy had the pleasure of giving me the spanking I needed.
And he gnawed into my neck a beautiful mark.
Good thing it's cold enough for turtleneck sweaters!
He was on his way to get his cock sucked
and he was stuck in front of the White House.
We get that here in DC.
Motorcades and helicopters,
police escorts and unexpected traffic.
I hear about a speech in the Rose Garden and I can feel it happening, 9 miles down the road. The reporter comments on the weather but I already know what it is, I only have to look out the window and I know we're under the same sun, the same clouds, the same threat of economic disaster.
He had projected an arrival between noon and 1 pm. Last week he was held up by rain-delayed traffic. Today was clear and cold, bright sun smiling down on a city preparing for Christmas as the unemployed try for a second year to sneak a couple of gifts into their struggling budgets. The sun was shining. Anything seemed possible.
Surely, today, he'll have plenty of time to enjoy the services of his devoted pet?
Not so fast.
In fact, not fast at all.
At 12:55, he projects a 1:20 arrival.
Ha.
Five minutes later, everything stops.
1:15.
He's been stuck at the same light near the White House for 15 minutes.
People start getting out of their cars.
At least we can text.
Illegal for him but what the hell.
He certainly isn't going anywhere.
Poor Daddy. Too bad your pet isn't with you. Though maybe not a good place to have your cock sucked in the car.
I check out the Washington Post on line. The sadist reports a motorcade. I eventually figure out that Obama must be coming back from a speech to campaign workers at a nearby hotel. At 1:25, cars start moving again.
Poor Daddy indeed. If he wasn't stressed out before, he surely must be now. The visit will have to be cut short. Again. Sometimes it seems as if we are being punished for the luxury of that perfect hotel night. We're being charged for it, forced to pay it back, minute for minute.
Still, there are ways I can serve him in absentia.
Not with my hand.
Not with my mouth.
But with my mind.
My pussy mind.
I'll lick and suck him with my mind.
Feel my tits pressing into your belly. Feel my belly pressing against your cock. I am with you, Sir. Breathe deeply and you will smell me.
My tongue whispers in your ear. I am waiting. I am always waiting. I live in standby mode, a little red light on the tip of my clit signalling readiness.
My pale butt cheeks rise before your eyes, blocking the view of cars and politicians. You feel yourself being sucked into my tight moaning butt hole.
You feel me on the seat beside you. Touch yourself, you say. Reach under your dress to your soft bare pussy and touch yourself for me.
Taste yourself, you say. Taste how you melt from knowing you are mine.
Touch me, you say. Run your fingers over my cock as it groans within my jeans.
Suck me, you say. Imagine away these bucket seats. Spread your obedient body across the bench seat and fasten your sweet soft mouth on my demanding dick.
Show your bare ass to the waiting cars and the now distracted Secret Service. Brighten their day. Give them food for torrid dreams. Let them dream. You are mine.
Are you moving yet, Daddy?
Eta 2:00.
Thank you, Sir. I await. Twitching.
If you must be stuck in traffic, it's good to have a reliable stress reliever waiting at the end of the trip.
I am very reliable.
And when he left me, he felt very good indeed.
It was the least I could do.
As for me -
I get to masturbate tonight.
Daddy had the pleasure of giving me the spanking I needed.
And he gnawed into my neck a beautiful mark.
Good thing it's cold enough for turtleneck sweaters!
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Surrender
In the end, it was nothing more than hubris.
Why should I surpass Odysseus
in managing to flee my fate?
I bragged.
Sure, I'm sluggish.
Yes, I'm eating all the wrong things
and plenty thereof.
Me and the squirrels outside my window.
Fattening ourselves up for winter survival.
But no depression.
Not me.
Not this year.
Ha!
Like the sadist himself, SAD is a predator, watching his prey, gauging vulnerability, watching for the little drops of blood left like breadcrumbs by the unseeing victim, complacent in her seeming safety from the worst of his tortures. He plays with her, swatting her across the floor, leaving little scratches while holding back from the last hard blow to the head before sinking his teeth into her jugular.
He knows just the right spot.
He pierces it year after year,
sucking out her soul,
deadening her eyes.
He knows she'll rise again in Spring.
But the wounds never wholly heal.
And unlike the cats
who mourn the loss of each mouse killed,
he knows he'll have his favorite prey
to play with once again come Fall.
Year
after year
after year.
The Solstice can't come soon enough.
Why should I surpass Odysseus
in managing to flee my fate?
I bragged.
Sure, I'm sluggish.
Yes, I'm eating all the wrong things
and plenty thereof.
Me and the squirrels outside my window.
Fattening ourselves up for winter survival.
But no depression.
Not me.
Not this year.
Ha!
Like the sadist himself, SAD is a predator, watching his prey, gauging vulnerability, watching for the little drops of blood left like breadcrumbs by the unseeing victim, complacent in her seeming safety from the worst of his tortures. He plays with her, swatting her across the floor, leaving little scratches while holding back from the last hard blow to the head before sinking his teeth into her jugular.
He knows just the right spot.
He pierces it year after year,
sucking out her soul,
deadening her eyes.
He knows she'll rise again in Spring.
But the wounds never wholly heal.
And unlike the cats
who mourn the loss of each mouse killed,
he knows he'll have his favorite prey
to play with once again come Fall.
Year
after year
after year.
The Solstice can't come soon enough.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Strangled
I've lost my voice.
Oh, not physically.
Mentally.
I'm being strangled by SAD.
Strangled... the sadist had his hand very tight around my neck last Tuesday. After I had made my confession. After he had whipped me with his belt as I was down on my hands and knees on the futon, every part of me draped in my nun's habit.
Every part of me but my reddening butt, now adorned with the stripes of pain and penance left by his belt.
It was after that.
As I knelt before him to serve his pleasure.
After I had stripped off the pieces of the habit.
Slowly stripped off the black and the white and the yards of black.
Stripping before his eyes.
Letting the long dress drop to my feet.
Revealing my nakedness beneath.
I was naked in so many ways.
But I digress.
I'd much rather be strangled by his large, firm hand.
It somehow makes me feel safe as it circles my throat.
As I hear myself gasp for air.
Or gurgle.
This time I was gurgling.
Being strangled by SAD does not make me feel safe.
I am its prisoner.
And not in a good way.
There is no affection in its stranglehold.
And I return none.
You might say there is intimacy, as we live close together for a few months each year. We are so close that when SAD moves in I see everything through its eyes. And even when it isn't here, I feel it looming. Breathing on my neck. When it finally leaves, its soft seductive voice breathes into my ear: "I'll be back." And I know it will.
Yes, its voice is seductive.
It draws me down into sleep.
Sleep from which I never quite awaken.
Sleep.
Stupor.
A mind that is dulled by the shortened days.
Even today, when the sun was dancing.
Laughing.
Beckoning.
Come! it smiled.
Come out and play with me.
But I lay on the couch as if drugged.
I lay there with Ketzel on my belly.
And I slept like a cat.
Perhaps today that was from hormones.
Could be.
They play games with me,
coming and going so fast that I sense no cycle.
But whatever it was,
I lost another day.
Still, I should be grateful. The SAD held off, and didn't fully move in until now. Except for the sabotage of grey skies, it should start moving out by the end of the month. At first it will move out slowly. A fork one day, then a pile of towels, eventually a box of books. But it will move out. Until suddenly, in March or April, I'll be unbearably bouncy.
My manic season is short.
But I love it.
My compensation prize.
For now, though, I'm dulled and sleepy, soft and vulnerable, struggling to get through the day, and excited only by thoughts of the sadist and his kisses and the leather belt which now hangs in the closet with the belts that I wear.
I think of the leather belt.
I feel its tail gently whipping my pussy.
I feel its weight landing hard and sharp on my ass.
And I ponder the teasing morsels the sadist is feeding me about a plan which seems to be drawing nearer to being realized.
A plan?
What plan, you wonder.
Ha!
The sadist isn't the only one who can tease, you know.
Oh, not physically.
Mentally.
I'm being strangled by SAD.
Strangled... the sadist had his hand very tight around my neck last Tuesday. After I had made my confession. After he had whipped me with his belt as I was down on my hands and knees on the futon, every part of me draped in my nun's habit.
Every part of me but my reddening butt, now adorned with the stripes of pain and penance left by his belt.
It was after that.
As I knelt before him to serve his pleasure.
After I had stripped off the pieces of the habit.
Slowly stripped off the black and the white and the yards of black.
Stripping before his eyes.
Letting the long dress drop to my feet.
Revealing my nakedness beneath.
I was naked in so many ways.
But I digress.
I'd much rather be strangled by his large, firm hand.
It somehow makes me feel safe as it circles my throat.
As I hear myself gasp for air.
Or gurgle.
This time I was gurgling.
Being strangled by SAD does not make me feel safe.
I am its prisoner.
And not in a good way.
There is no affection in its stranglehold.
And I return none.
You might say there is intimacy, as we live close together for a few months each year. We are so close that when SAD moves in I see everything through its eyes. And even when it isn't here, I feel it looming. Breathing on my neck. When it finally leaves, its soft seductive voice breathes into my ear: "I'll be back." And I know it will.
Yes, its voice is seductive.
It draws me down into sleep.
Sleep from which I never quite awaken.
Sleep.
Stupor.
A mind that is dulled by the shortened days.
Even today, when the sun was dancing.
Laughing.
Beckoning.
Come! it smiled.
Come out and play with me.
But I lay on the couch as if drugged.
I lay there with Ketzel on my belly.
And I slept like a cat.
Perhaps today that was from hormones.
Could be.
They play games with me,
coming and going so fast that I sense no cycle.
But whatever it was,
I lost another day.
Still, I should be grateful. The SAD held off, and didn't fully move in until now. Except for the sabotage of grey skies, it should start moving out by the end of the month. At first it will move out slowly. A fork one day, then a pile of towels, eventually a box of books. But it will move out. Until suddenly, in March or April, I'll be unbearably bouncy.
My manic season is short.
But I love it.
My compensation prize.
For now, though, I'm dulled and sleepy, soft and vulnerable, struggling to get through the day, and excited only by thoughts of the sadist and his kisses and the leather belt which now hangs in the closet with the belts that I wear.
I think of the leather belt.
I feel its tail gently whipping my pussy.
I feel its weight landing hard and sharp on my ass.
And I ponder the teasing morsels the sadist is feeding me about a plan which seems to be drawing nearer to being realized.
A plan?
What plan, you wonder.
Ha!
The sadist isn't the only one who can tease, you know.
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