Four and a half hours until the new year.
Another year for my Master and me.
A check-up with the dermatologist showed me still free of cancer after 23 and a half years.
Hours with Daddy my Master showed us happy in each other's company. Plus he bought me a BLT for lunch! On white toast. With mayonnaise. I love BLTs... Next week, we both go back to abstemious eating and regular exercise. And I return to my ordained bedtime.
We make each other happy.
Even with all the sturm und drang, we make each other happy.
Now off to a party.
Though after my pre-party nap I'm soft and warm and creamy and would rather just stay home, curled up with a cat or two, feeling my Master's arms around me as if he were still here.
I would be naked.
He, to start, would be wearing a sport jacket with his jeans.
The contrast gets me every time.
Every time.
I wish you all a happy, healthy, and peaceful New Year.
And love.
Joy and sex and lots of love.
I love you, Daddy.
For ever and ever.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
P is for Pain; so are peas.
Except I'm out of peas.
Frozen peas.
A big bag of frozen peas
to ease the pain
after the big beating Daddy gave his baby girl.
A welcome beating.
A desired beating.
A belt beating.
It's not that I like the pain exactly. But if I'm going to be beaten, I do... here I'm not sure what word to use. Like it more? Resist it less? Something about the sensation of that leather belt coming down on my ass...
He steadied me with his hand on the small of my back. He steadied me and swung the leather down. He went up and down my butt and onto the very top of my thighs. He knew I wanted it. Even though it was hard to take. He knows. Daddy almost always knows. He knows there is something about being whipped with his belt that his baby girl can almost say she likes.
She certainly wants it.
And she likes that word.
Not beaten.
The other one.
Whipped.
She likes to think about how he whipped her.
About he hurt her.
About how she screamed
and her screaming made him hot.
He always wants to hear her pain.
To hear her scream that he's hurting her.
He wants her to beg him to stop.
and he wants her to beg him for more.
Screaming.
Begging.
Crying.
It was not an act.
And now she's the one getting hot.
Remembering.
Remembering how he steadied her.
Remembering how he beat her.
Remembering how he hurt her.
Remembering how she lay there.
Holding still (more or less).
Accepting.
Submitting.
Welcoming.
There's an amazing intimacy to the exchange of pain.
The giving and receiving,
the inflicting and accepting.
She becomes soft.
She becomes wet, of course,
and also soft.
Very soft.
He whipped me early on, and then again later, while I was on my hands and knees between his legs sucking his cock, he took up the belt and brought it down again and again on my already stinging butt. He was whipping me very hard, he said, harder than before. But it didn't feel as bad because I was floating on cradling clouds of endorphins. They numb me. He spanked me on my reddened butt, he whipped me having already whipped me, and it just didn't hurt as much as it should have.
And then he touched me.
Caressed my skin.
Kissed my mouth.
And everything felt softer.
My mouth, my skin,
everything was softer,
yielding.
Another piece of the magic.
And then he raped his baby girl's tight little butt hole.
Which also hurt.
And which I also wanted.
And he came in my ass.
And I felt his pulsing.
And when it was over
and we lay close together
I looked in his face
and I saw it was good.
As for the peas... well yes, a nice cold compress would probably have been a good idea, as I realized later when I used the toilet at Starbuck's and it was cold and it felt ever so good. But I'm out of peas. Except for half a small bag. Which are peas destined to be eaten. And besides, I like the pain. In a way, the after-pain is part of my aftercare. I fondle it. Admire it. Sing to it. Float on it until the endorphins start to wear off and the analgesic wine I had for dinner starts to wear off, and you know... maybe a couple of Tylenol would be a good idea right around now...
Frozen peas.
A big bag of frozen peas
to ease the pain
after the big beating Daddy gave his baby girl.
A welcome beating.
A desired beating.
A belt beating.
It's not that I like the pain exactly. But if I'm going to be beaten, I do... here I'm not sure what word to use. Like it more? Resist it less? Something about the sensation of that leather belt coming down on my ass...
He steadied me with his hand on the small of my back. He steadied me and swung the leather down. He went up and down my butt and onto the very top of my thighs. He knew I wanted it. Even though it was hard to take. He knows. Daddy almost always knows. He knows there is something about being whipped with his belt that his baby girl can almost say she likes.
She certainly wants it.
And she likes that word.
Not beaten.
The other one.
Whipped.
She likes to think about how he whipped her.
About he hurt her.
About how she screamed
and her screaming made him hot.
He always wants to hear her pain.
To hear her scream that he's hurting her.
He wants her to beg him to stop.
and he wants her to beg him for more.
Screaming.
Begging.
Crying.
It was not an act.
And now she's the one getting hot.
Remembering.
Remembering how he steadied her.
Remembering how he beat her.
Remembering how he hurt her.
Remembering how she lay there.
Holding still (more or less).
Accepting.
Submitting.
Welcoming.
There's an amazing intimacy to the exchange of pain.
The giving and receiving,
the inflicting and accepting.
She becomes soft.
She becomes wet, of course,
and also soft.
Very soft.
He whipped me early on, and then again later, while I was on my hands and knees between his legs sucking his cock, he took up the belt and brought it down again and again on my already stinging butt. He was whipping me very hard, he said, harder than before. But it didn't feel as bad because I was floating on cradling clouds of endorphins. They numb me. He spanked me on my reddened butt, he whipped me having already whipped me, and it just didn't hurt as much as it should have.
And then he touched me.
Caressed my skin.
Kissed my mouth.
And everything felt softer.
My mouth, my skin,
everything was softer,
yielding.
Another piece of the magic.
And then he raped his baby girl's tight little butt hole.
Which also hurt.
And which I also wanted.
And he came in my ass.
And I felt his pulsing.
And when it was over
and we lay close together
I looked in his face
and I saw it was good.
As for the peas... well yes, a nice cold compress would probably have been a good idea, as I realized later when I used the toilet at Starbuck's and it was cold and it felt ever so good. But I'm out of peas. Except for half a small bag. Which are peas destined to be eaten. And besides, I like the pain. In a way, the after-pain is part of my aftercare. I fondle it. Admire it. Sing to it. Float on it until the endorphins start to wear off and the analgesic wine I had for dinner starts to wear off, and you know... maybe a couple of Tylenol would be a good idea right around now...
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Fuck me, damn it!
We spent the day in mutual masturbation.
Not with our fingers, though,
except for the action of fingers on keyboards.
It started with a scenario that, last night, inserted itself into his brain, playing over and over as he expanded and refined. It gripped him and, as he knew it would, gripped me as hard as his hand can close around my throat till I can hardly breathe.
This was a very large seed my Master planted in my brain. It germinated, rooted fast, and threw up shoots that envenomed like poison ivy. They touched him, infected him, and he tossed his visions back to me.
I was in pain for hours.
The pain of unrelieved arousal.
It was glorious.
He quite enjoyed my agony.
As did I.
We've been elsewhere mostly, this last month. Daddy's health issues, my SAD, assorted other problems in our lives, these have made for very different sorts of interactions. We are many things to each other, with each other, and we grew closer together in those other areas. What we were dealing with was hard, but how we interacted was beautiful and intimate, if not the kind of intimacy that involves the communing of body parts.
Underneath it all,
firmly underneath it all,
lay the foundation of his ownership.
We both know that without that
there would be
no "we."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At this point, I was interrupted. There was supposed to be more to this post. About how he told me to leave a message on his voice mail while he went out to scrape the ice of his car. A message from Daddy's baby girl. A message apologizing for asking for something - because it's true, she's never supposed to just phone, and she certainly is never supposed to ask for anything for herself but this time he ordered me to phone and ask, to beg, please, please Daddy, please stick your cock in my little butt hole and fuck me! Which I do in fact badly want, he knows I want it, need it, that it has been an obsession for years, to be taken in the ass, raped in the ass, sodomized, debased, with nothing erotic about it. A butt-fucking that can only be humiliating, that accentuates the extent to which I am owned property, that sends me further down into that place, not a pretty floaty place despite the endorphins that will flow through me instead of blood. A dark, dark, perfect place - a perfect place, don't you see it's a perfect place? It's a safe place even though it's a dangerous place because of the chance the beast will break past the spell cast around him to keep me safe.
It's a safe place.
Because I don't have to pretend.
I can yield to everything.
Leave everything else behind.
Because with
every
stab
of pain
in my ass
his cock
declares
over
and over:
This
is what
you are.
And what
you are
is Mine.
So now we are talking about his taking me off to a rustic cabin in the woods. For a week of training and torture and transformation. He used to go to the perfect place as a child. I've been pulling up pictures of cabin interiors to set the scene.
A shared fantasy and nothing more?
Perhaps.
If so, the psychological effects will be real.
Then again,
with Daddy my Master,
you never do know...
[That subject line? Never in the world, never never never, would I ever say such a thing to my Master. But oh... It's been weeks since he fucked me. And I've so badly needed to cum all damn day. I wouldn't even have to cum. I could merely pass my finger tip over my very swollen clit. Though no. Do you hear my sigh? All it would take would be that one little touch and you would hear my orgasmic cries from here to London and California. So no. No touching. No cumming. Poor Baby...]
Not with our fingers, though,
except for the action of fingers on keyboards.
It started with a scenario that, last night, inserted itself into his brain, playing over and over as he expanded and refined. It gripped him and, as he knew it would, gripped me as hard as his hand can close around my throat till I can hardly breathe.
This was a very large seed my Master planted in my brain. It germinated, rooted fast, and threw up shoots that envenomed like poison ivy. They touched him, infected him, and he tossed his visions back to me.
I was in pain for hours.
The pain of unrelieved arousal.
It was glorious.
He quite enjoyed my agony.
As did I.
We've been elsewhere mostly, this last month. Daddy's health issues, my SAD, assorted other problems in our lives, these have made for very different sorts of interactions. We are many things to each other, with each other, and we grew closer together in those other areas. What we were dealing with was hard, but how we interacted was beautiful and intimate, if not the kind of intimacy that involves the communing of body parts.
Underneath it all,
firmly underneath it all,
lay the foundation of his ownership.
We both know that without that
there would be
no "we."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At this point, I was interrupted. There was supposed to be more to this post. About how he told me to leave a message on his voice mail while he went out to scrape the ice of his car. A message from Daddy's baby girl. A message apologizing for asking for something - because it's true, she's never supposed to just phone, and she certainly is never supposed to ask for anything for herself but this time he ordered me to phone and ask, to beg, please, please Daddy, please stick your cock in my little butt hole and fuck me! Which I do in fact badly want, he knows I want it, need it, that it has been an obsession for years, to be taken in the ass, raped in the ass, sodomized, debased, with nothing erotic about it. A butt-fucking that can only be humiliating, that accentuates the extent to which I am owned property, that sends me further down into that place, not a pretty floaty place despite the endorphins that will flow through me instead of blood. A dark, dark, perfect place - a perfect place, don't you see it's a perfect place? It's a safe place even though it's a dangerous place because of the chance the beast will break past the spell cast around him to keep me safe.
It's a safe place.
Because I don't have to pretend.
I can yield to everything.
Leave everything else behind.
Because with
every
stab
of pain
in my ass
his cock
declares
over
and over:
This
is what
you are.
And what
you are
is Mine.
So now we are talking about his taking me off to a rustic cabin in the woods. For a week of training and torture and transformation. He used to go to the perfect place as a child. I've been pulling up pictures of cabin interiors to set the scene.
A shared fantasy and nothing more?
Perhaps.
If so, the psychological effects will be real.
Then again,
with Daddy my Master,
you never do know...
[That subject line? Never in the world, never never never, would I ever say such a thing to my Master. But oh... It's been weeks since he fucked me. And I've so badly needed to cum all damn day. I wouldn't even have to cum. I could merely pass my finger tip over my very swollen clit. Though no. Do you hear my sigh? All it would take would be that one little touch and you would hear my orgasmic cries from here to London and California. So no. No touching. No cumming. Poor Baby...]
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Masturbation mania #18 - LELO, I love you
A summary, in a few clever words, of how I feel about LELO.
I lusted after them for so long, you know.
And then... I knew.
My lust was justified.
LELO: because they really are that good.
LELO: better than your fingers.
LELO: beauty does matter.
There is so much to say.
Though words are all second best.
Photos only hint at the combined pleasure.
The perfect combination of form and function.
They call them pleasure objects.
Which covers a lot more than "vibrator."
Or "sex toy."
Pleasure...
The way they feel in my hand.
The subtle velvety smoothness of the silicone.
The perfect balance of texture and glide
which surpasses all my former favorites.
All my other orgasmic assistants,
now banished to the back of the drawer.
Pleasure...
Shape.
Touch.
Pleasing to my eye and hand
even before they get to the business at hand.
Or what was formerly the business of my hand.
It shouldn't make that much of a difference - the perfection of the curves, pleasing to my eyes, comfortable in my hand. But it does. Even the packaging sets me up to expect more because of the extra thought that went into the design.
The outer box. The very classy storage box. The silky black storage bag - because really, how many of us have the room to keep each item in its own black storage box with the compartment for the charger and the toy cleaner. But I haven't gotten rid of the boxes. They're just too... pleasing.
I have two of them.
Two LELO pleasure objects.
SIRI.
And ELISE 2.
To get the first, I shamelessly hinted and hinted and then nearly begged from the LELO reps at a conference I attended late last Spring as part of my job. Their booth was surrounded by swarms of women. All the time. But no one there knew about my other identity. No one knew I was submissive and had a sex blog, a BDSM blog yet, and that I knew more than they would ever expect about sex toys.
I hovered in front of the LELO booth.
Because I lusted after SIRI.
And I was - and continue to be - deeply in debt.
No money to spend on lovely, orgasm-inducing silicone objets d'art.
So I begged.
And got.
And finally tested.
The one I chose is purple and white. It sleeps in my hand like a flattened egg, but with something of the sweet softness of a baby rabbit. Not furry, you understand. But I could swear it feels safe in my hand, comfortable, and then when I press it gently on just the right, round spot - which isn't at all hard to find - it starts to purr... you didn't know that baby rabbits purred, did you? Well, this one does... (Why a baby rabbit when I'm a cat person I have no idea. Never question a poet about her images. We have no control. At least I don't.)
SIRI snuggles up to my clitoris like an old, affectionate friend. I don't push down hard, just cup her in my hand and move her slightly back and forth as if she were my hand except better. Sweeter... Some women have complained that LELO toys aren't strong enough. Maybe I'm hyper sensitive, but I don't even need to go to the highest level of vibrations. Sometimes I explore the different patterns (6 vibration modes, but I've never cared to count or define). Sometimes I don't bother switching, and don't necessarily go to the highest intensity. Always, there is exquisite pleasure. I have to force myself to pull back, to take my time, to savor the sensations... especially as, you may remember, I'm not allowed to masturbate very often - usually only after I have served the sadist, after he has gone, if I've been very good, if he thinks he'll get pleasure from my report about my fantasies and then the texture of my orgasms. Because, as you may also remember, he does own my orgasms. Which he doles out with great deliberateness. You'd think he was afraid I'd use them up too fast. Ha!
But back to my review.
Because here's the thing.
My pleasure.
My hand -
the palm of my hand -
and my eyes -
that screen behind my eyes -
they all contribute to the combined pleasure that makes me cum.
The shape and texture of Siri in my hand,
the image of this beautiful form on the screen behind my eyes,
on top of the perfect stimulation of my clitoris...
I love it.
I just plain love it.
So there I was,
in orgasmic heaven.
And I'm a clitoral girl.
I like to fuck,
but I don't usually cum from fucking.
Hardly ever.
Though twice from Evan in the space of an hour.
So I was perfectly happy with SIRI,
almost never used my fingers any more,
and have other items to shove up my pussy
should I really get the urge
or remember that it's good to give my aging cunt muscles a workout.
But then came the offer.
The invitation.
There were new versions of old favorites.
Buzzing pleasure objects to stick up inside me.
And that's how ELISE joined my little family.
ELISE 2 actually.
New and improved.
Longer.
More powerful.
Fully waterproof.
and, like my darling SIRI, rechargeable.
Packed in a classy box,
along with a silky black storage bag.
Did I like it?
Check back in the next day or two to find out.
Meanwhile, if someone is stuck on what to get you for a last minute present, or you're stuck on what to get someone else, or you're going to be stuck alone over the holidays and are allowed to (or ordered to) masturbate, or you want to watch someone else masturbate - and then be really mean and not let her cum... There are sales going on. Amazing sales. Pre-holiday sales. Personally, I prefer to buy locally, from a local woman-owned business, or if on-line from a not hugely corporate woman-owned business. But if it's get the cheapest price or not get it at all... check out Amazon.
Disclaimer: I got both of my buzzing darlings for free, but of course can say whatever I want. And I can't guarantee that you'll respond the same way I do. All I can say is that I have a relationship with both SIRI and ELISE 2 that is quite different from how I felt about all the other toys I've received and tried. Also, I did try to get a picture including at least one of the cats, but they showed a distinct lack of interest. Not enough plastic, obviously.
Friday, December 14, 2012
On risk and life and death. Mostly death.
"Risky behaviour?" the allergy nurse asked.
She was taking a medical history for their new, computerized record system.
I just looked at her, at a loss as to how to respond.
She thought I didn't understand the question.
I knew she'd be taken aback by the answer.
"Like HIV..." she said, trying to be helpful.
I just shook my head no.
Except when the sadist closes his hands around my neck, my risky behaviour doesn't seem to have any bearing on my asthma.
And besides.
I've made my decisions.
My activities may not always be safe,
but they are consensual.
We'll leave aside the issue of my sanity.
Still...
risky behaviour.
A child going to school...
this should not be risky behaviour.
We should -
should! -
be able to count on their coming home alive.
But this is the United States of NRA,*
where guns are easier to get than treatment for mental illness,
and little children
bleed out
their lives
on a classroom floor.
This isn't the lesson they were sent to school to learn.
And the lesson that is so clear to so many of us? The lesson we learn over and over, from one senseless massacre after another? Our politicians are too chicken shit to act on it. The election is over, and they're still being choked by the NRA's chain.
And people say we're perverted.
* NRA = National Rifle Association, which vehemently opposes any form of gun control.
She was taking a medical history for their new, computerized record system.
I just looked at her, at a loss as to how to respond.
She thought I didn't understand the question.
I knew she'd be taken aback by the answer.
"Like HIV..." she said, trying to be helpful.
I just shook my head no.
Except when the sadist closes his hands around my neck, my risky behaviour doesn't seem to have any bearing on my asthma.
And besides.
I've made my decisions.
My activities may not always be safe,
but they are consensual.
We'll leave aside the issue of my sanity.
Still...
risky behaviour.
A child going to school...
this should not be risky behaviour.
We should -
should! -
be able to count on their coming home alive.
But this is the United States of NRA,*
where guns are easier to get than treatment for mental illness,
and little children
bleed out
their lives
on a classroom floor.
This isn't the lesson they were sent to school to learn.
And the lesson that is so clear to so many of us? The lesson we learn over and over, from one senseless massacre after another? Our politicians are too chicken shit to act on it. The election is over, and they're still being choked by the NRA's chain.
And people say we're perverted.
* NRA = National Rifle Association, which vehemently opposes any form of gun control.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Apart, yes. Lonely? No.
An Anonymous comment on yesterday's post asked:
The sadist has an assortment of relationships, which serve his various needs. In fact, I'm very grateful for them. Certainly, you can understand my appreciation for his masochist slave, whose existence you've heard about before. Whose existence in physical fact saves my ass. My Master could never protect me to the extent he does without having his slave as an outlet for his most severe sadistic urges.
Lonely?
Not me.
Occasionally wanting more?
Sure.
Marriage to my Master?
Heaven help me, no way.
We are both very intense.
Very intense.
We'd combust.
I'd suffocate.
Think of a fine chocolate truffle.
High quality chocolate.
Dark chocolate, if it's for me.
Belgian, perhaps.
When you have one, you eat it slowly.
Savoring every mouthful.
The taste, the smoothness, the richness,
they linger in your mouth long after you're done.
But one truffle after another?
Throughout the day?
Every day?
Too much.
Too rich.
Too intense.
This isn't mere rationalization.
I'm not sure I'd want a regular boyfriend of any sort.
Or girlfriend, for that matter.
As it is, I have this intense relationship with an astonishing man. The connection is... probably not wholly explicable. And incredibly strong. Sometimes I think it would be nice to see him twice a week. But I'm not so sure. This way... it's not like we're only together during those couple of hours once a week. We e-mail. We text. We feel each other. Plus it's not like I have no other life. No other interests. No friends. Certainly he has them. Not to mention the other submissives.
I've learned a lot from the sadist.
And confirmed my belief that there are many ways for people to be together. For all relationships as with those involving BDSM, it's about the people involved. What works for them. For some people this would not work. And I don't deny that there have been frustrating times. Like now. When he's been ill. But would I want to face him over the dinner table every night? Discuss utility bills? Know that he's heading out to beat the shit out of his masochist slave so he could suppress his desire to do it to me?
Then, I think, I'd be lonely.
No disrespect intended, but, are the four of you involved with married men? If you are, doesn't the loneliness outweigh any other benefit of the relationship?
The sadist has an assortment of relationships, which serve his various needs. In fact, I'm very grateful for them. Certainly, you can understand my appreciation for his masochist slave, whose existence you've heard about before. Whose existence in physical fact saves my ass. My Master could never protect me to the extent he does without having his slave as an outlet for his most severe sadistic urges.
Lonely?
Not me.
Occasionally wanting more?
Sure.
Marriage to my Master?
Heaven help me, no way.
We are both very intense.
Very intense.
We'd combust.
I'd suffocate.
Think of a fine chocolate truffle.
High quality chocolate.
Dark chocolate, if it's for me.
Belgian, perhaps.
When you have one, you eat it slowly.
Savoring every mouthful.
The taste, the smoothness, the richness,
they linger in your mouth long after you're done.
But one truffle after another?
Throughout the day?
Every day?
Too much.
Too rich.
Too intense.
This isn't mere rationalization.
I'm not sure I'd want a regular boyfriend of any sort.
Or girlfriend, for that matter.
As it is, I have this intense relationship with an astonishing man. The connection is... probably not wholly explicable. And incredibly strong. Sometimes I think it would be nice to see him twice a week. But I'm not so sure. This way... it's not like we're only together during those couple of hours once a week. We e-mail. We text. We feel each other. Plus it's not like I have no other life. No other interests. No friends. Certainly he has them. Not to mention the other submissives.
I've learned a lot from the sadist.
And confirmed my belief that there are many ways for people to be together. For all relationships as with those involving BDSM, it's about the people involved. What works for them. For some people this would not work. And I don't deny that there have been frustrating times. Like now. When he's been ill. But would I want to face him over the dinner table every night? Discuss utility bills? Know that he's heading out to beat the shit out of his masochist slave so he could suppress his desire to do it to me?
Then, I think, I'd be lonely.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
She sulks
It's true.
I'm sulking.
I'm not proud of it.
But I won't deny it.
I'm like a deflated balloon, one minute bobbing around cheerfully on the end of my string - on the end of my chain, to be more accurate - and the next minute I go splat, all energy gone, falling asleep over my laptop. For real. Nodding off. Staring at the screen and nodding off and wishing a message from the joy and torment of my life would pop up but knowing it won't. And it doesn't.
Sulking.
Because life gets in the way.
It always gets in the way for us this time of year.
But this particuar year is worse than most.
And there's a good chance he can't visit this weekend.
Sometimes this arrangement sucks.
I'm sulking.
I'm not proud of it.
But I won't deny it.
I'm like a deflated balloon, one minute bobbing around cheerfully on the end of my string - on the end of my chain, to be more accurate - and the next minute I go splat, all energy gone, falling asleep over my laptop. For real. Nodding off. Staring at the screen and nodding off and wishing a message from the joy and torment of my life would pop up but knowing it won't. And it doesn't.
Sulking.
Because life gets in the way.
It always gets in the way for us this time of year.
But this particuar year is worse than most.
And there's a good chance he can't visit this weekend.
Sometimes this arrangement sucks.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Beaten butt update. PLUS Honored Again!
Yes, it still hurts.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
The carrot & the stick. Mainly, the stick.
This summary is not available. Please
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Wednesday, December 5, 2012
A glimpse of sun
He is getting better.
I can tell.
The Dom is flexing his muscles,
applying the whip from afar.
There is arousal and relief all around.
A visit Saturday is "not impossible."
Life is good.
I can tell.
The Dom is flexing his muscles,
applying the whip from afar.
There is arousal and relief all around.
A visit Saturday is "not impossible."
Life is good.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Sex and poetry and prose
Sometimes,
not often enough,
I post things here.
Sometimes it's poetry.
Sometimes it's prose.
And sometimes
it's poetry
that looks
like prose.
When I write that way, it's not that I want you to think it's a poem. I'm pretty clear - in my own mind anyway - about when what I'm writing is a poem. I don't always know where it's going, what it will end up saying, but I do know when I mean it to be a poem.
Other pieces, though, are - and were always meant to be - prose. But they're more than just the words. The words have different weight, different meaning, depending on how they're said. The line breaks, the alliteration I can't resist, they make you stop. Listen. Turn back and think again.
A recent article in the New York Times on-line discusses the power of poetry to make us stop and listen and think. To consider the words and images in a different way.
As an example, the authors cite a project which took posts from the Craigslist "Missed Connections" category and transformed them into poetry by inserting line and stanza breaks. The words weren't changed, but the line splits triggered phrasing changes, which accented different words and - yes - altered our understanding of what was said in the first place.
The article is called Philosophy and the Poetic Imagination. Do go for the general discussion as well as for the authors' analysis of the following, which, yes, began life on Craigslist. The title of the poem was the subject line of the post.
And the sex I mentioned in my own subject line?
False representation.
A loss leader.
There hasn't been any sex.
Not for a while.
Not for me.
Not for the drunk Irish guy.
Or for my Irish guy.
Poor Daddy.
Poor me.
We just have to wait
and write about poetry
and talk about music
and think about sex.
And each other.
not often enough,
I post things here.
Sometimes it's poetry.
Sometimes it's prose.
And sometimes
it's poetry
that looks
like prose.
When I write that way, it's not that I want you to think it's a poem. I'm pretty clear - in my own mind anyway - about when what I'm writing is a poem. I don't always know where it's going, what it will end up saying, but I do know when I mean it to be a poem.
Other pieces, though, are - and were always meant to be - prose. But they're more than just the words. The words have different weight, different meaning, depending on how they're said. The line breaks, the alliteration I can't resist, they make you stop. Listen. Turn back and think again.
A recent article in the New York Times on-line discusses the power of poetry to make us stop and listen and think. To consider the words and images in a different way.
In our view, part of what makes language artistic is that we have to explore it actively in order to appreciate it. We may have to look beneath the surface, and think harder about what images the author has used, who the author purports to be, and even how the language is organized. These efforts can lead to new insights, new perspectives and new experiences.
As an example, the authors cite a project which took posts from the Craigslist "Missed Connections" category and transformed them into poetry by inserting line and stanza breaks. The words weren't changed, but the line splits triggered phrasing changes, which accented different words and - yes - altered our understanding of what was said in the first place.
The article is called Philosophy and the Poetic Imagination. Do go for the general discussion as well as for the authors' analysis of the following, which, yes, began life on Craigslist. The title of the poem was the subject line of the post.
Drunk Irish Guy to the Girl in the Red Tights on the Subway to Queens
drunk irish guy
to the girl in the red tights
on the subway to queens
i really hope
I did not creep you out…
I was so drunk
and you were so hot…
I wish I could have met you
at a different moment
and a different place.
And the sex I mentioned in my own subject line?
False representation.
A loss leader.
There hasn't been any sex.
Not for a while.
Not for me.
Not for the drunk Irish guy.
Or for my Irish guy.
Poor Daddy.
Poor me.
We just have to wait
and write about poetry
and talk about music
and think about sex.
And each other.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Grumble grumble
My Master is out of commission.
Temporarily, but still - confined to quarters.
He isn't happy.
His mistress is worried.
And, being his mistress, there isn't much I can do for him.
Very frustrating.
I want to be of assistance.
And I can't be.
So I content myself with sending little messages which he says do help. And I do research on this and that relative to his problem and related issues.
And I worry a lot.
Plus, of course, I don't get to serve him tomorrow.
Phooey.
Temporarily, but still - confined to quarters.
He isn't happy.
His mistress is worried.
And, being his mistress, there isn't much I can do for him.
Very frustrating.
I want to be of assistance.
And I can't be.
So I content myself with sending little messages which he says do help. And I do research on this and that relative to his problem and related issues.
And I worry a lot.
Plus, of course, I don't get to serve him tomorrow.
Phooey.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
My butt hurts. My heart doesn't.
He says it.
Over and over.
Without the words, true, but as clearly as if he were shouting it from the top of the Washington Monument. Which is still closed for repairs of damage suffered in an unlikely earthquake a while back.
Like us.
That there is an us.
A very unlikely earthquake.
So many unlikely things...
Today, this man who declares he doesn't believe in aftercare, this man was lying next to me, luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm. The last few weeks have been very intense, it's been 2 weeks since we were together and he has made many wordless avowals for longer than that. So he's lying there, looking up at me, recovering, and I ask if he's OK, and he says yes - and then he asks if I'm OK. Which he never does. But it was very intense, "even for us," he says, and he has learned that he doesn't always realize if it has been too much for me, and now he has taken to worrying about that, to put it in the box of things he should be aware of as he tries to protect me from himself.
From the beast.
He said he took special steps yesterday to protect me. He wouldn't say what, but I suspect he went and unleashed some of his sadistic desire on another of the Others. To release the tension. There was still some left for me today - and why shouldn't there be? It's not just that he wants to cause pain. He wants to hurt me.
And I wanted him to hurt me.
Which he did.
He spanked me a lot.
Just with his hand.
But hard.
And often.
At various times during his 2 hours visit.
Harder and harder.
And the longer he was here
the harder he spanked me
and the less I could feel it.
Now I feel it.
I'm getting cold.
Some of the endorphins must be wearing off.
Not all of them.
I'm still very floaty.
But enough to allow my butt to hurt.
And it does really hurt.
I wonder if his hand hurts, too?
I'm happy that my butt hurts.
My pussy hurts, too.
From all the fucking.
Beautiful, beautiful fucking.
Some of it was fucking.
And some was making love.
The expression on his face.
That smile...
I'm very happy.
We were both very happy.
And very, very intimate.
He doesn't pretend any more.
That, he acknowledged.
He didn't say those other words.
But he did say he doesn't pretend any more.
And that's about as close as you can get.
And the words?
They could never say as much
as the smile
on his lips
and in his eyes.
But damn it.
My butt sure hurts!
Thank you, Daddy...
Over and over.
Without the words, true, but as clearly as if he were shouting it from the top of the Washington Monument. Which is still closed for repairs of damage suffered in an unlikely earthquake a while back.
Like us.
That there is an us.
A very unlikely earthquake.
So many unlikely things...
Today, this man who declares he doesn't believe in aftercare, this man was lying next to me, luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm. The last few weeks have been very intense, it's been 2 weeks since we were together and he has made many wordless avowals for longer than that. So he's lying there, looking up at me, recovering, and I ask if he's OK, and he says yes - and then he asks if I'm OK. Which he never does. But it was very intense, "even for us," he says, and he has learned that he doesn't always realize if it has been too much for me, and now he has taken to worrying about that, to put it in the box of things he should be aware of as he tries to protect me from himself.
From the beast.
He said he took special steps yesterday to protect me. He wouldn't say what, but I suspect he went and unleashed some of his sadistic desire on another of the Others. To release the tension. There was still some left for me today - and why shouldn't there be? It's not just that he wants to cause pain. He wants to hurt me.
And I wanted him to hurt me.
Which he did.
He spanked me a lot.
Just with his hand.
But hard.
And often.
At various times during his 2 hours visit.
Harder and harder.
And the longer he was here
the harder he spanked me
and the less I could feel it.
Now I feel it.
I'm getting cold.
Some of the endorphins must be wearing off.
Not all of them.
I'm still very floaty.
But enough to allow my butt to hurt.
And it does really hurt.
I wonder if his hand hurts, too?
I'm happy that my butt hurts.
My pussy hurts, too.
From all the fucking.
Beautiful, beautiful fucking.
Some of it was fucking.
And some was making love.
The expression on his face.
That smile...
I'm very happy.
We were both very happy.
And very, very intimate.
He doesn't pretend any more.
That, he acknowledged.
He didn't say those other words.
But he did say he doesn't pretend any more.
And that's about as close as you can get.
And the words?
They could never say as much
as the smile
on his lips
and in his eyes.
But damn it.
My butt sure hurts!
Thank you, Daddy...
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Love and lust and mutual mental masturbation
There's been a shift,
just the slightest change,
since my Master's last
implied confession
of his feelings
via a song he wanted me to hear.
Nothing major.
Not the kind of thing he has feared
in which the delicate balance of power
toppled
when my knowledge of his emotions
was added to one side.
I'm not even sure I can say exactly what it is. I certainly can't give a name to it. But it feels as if we're closer with the veil of pretense removed. I still and always will be on the controlled end of the chain. Neither of us would want it any other way, and he's right in think the relationship could not survive having it any other way. But it's almost as if a different sense of union has joined the D/s dynamic.
Which still doesn't seem like the right word.
Any suggestions?
I feel it so clearly inside.
In my head and my heart.
But I just can't pin it down.
It feels good, though.
Whatever it is.
And makes me feel both safer and bolder.
Isn't that nice?
Meanwhile, I almost came in my allergist's waiting room from the texts the fiend and I were exchanging. I can't believe no one noticed me writhing in my chair, pressing my pussy down into the seat, nearly moaning out load, and surely - oh definitely - grimacing as he described his exercise regimen in real time. (Ha! Surprised you! Doesn't sound a bit erotic, does it? Fat lot you know... we continued to make each other crazy all day, giving my plain white cotton panties a permanently sodden crotch. One touch and I would have cum screaming. If, that is, I were allowed. Which I'm not. There are many forms of torture...)
I'm so very happy.
just the slightest change,
since my Master's last
implied confession
of his feelings
via a song he wanted me to hear.
Nothing major.
Not the kind of thing he has feared
in which the delicate balance of power
toppled
when my knowledge of his emotions
was added to one side.
I'm not even sure I can say exactly what it is. I certainly can't give a name to it. But it feels as if we're closer with the veil of pretense removed. I still and always will be on the controlled end of the chain. Neither of us would want it any other way, and he's right in think the relationship could not survive having it any other way. But it's almost as if a different sense of union has joined the D/s dynamic.
Which still doesn't seem like the right word.
Any suggestions?
I feel it so clearly inside.
In my head and my heart.
But I just can't pin it down.
It feels good, though.
Whatever it is.
And makes me feel both safer and bolder.
Isn't that nice?
Meanwhile, I almost came in my allergist's waiting room from the texts the fiend and I were exchanging. I can't believe no one noticed me writhing in my chair, pressing my pussy down into the seat, nearly moaning out load, and surely - oh definitely - grimacing as he described his exercise regimen in real time. (Ha! Surprised you! Doesn't sound a bit erotic, does it? Fat lot you know... we continued to make each other crazy all day, giving my plain white cotton panties a permanently sodden crotch. One touch and I would have cum screaming. If, that is, I were allowed. Which I'm not. There are many forms of torture...)
I'm so very happy.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Saved by the masochist slave
He gets these urges sometimes.
Seriously sadistic urges.
You know.
I've written about them before.
He wants to torture me.
Seriously torture me.
It keeps him up at night when he gets in that mood. He sees it. He tastes it. He hears my screams and sees my body writhing, my back rising and arching, hears me moaning, begging - and then screaming... His description sounds as if it could as easily refer to passion, orgasm...
Certainly his words catapult me into an agony of arousal.
But that's not the kind of pain he has in mind.
And the only guaranteed orgasm would be his.
He doesn't dare do to me what he wants to do.
He knows I couldn't handle that much pain.
He's afraid he'll go too far.
He's afraid it would destroy us.
And more than anything,
he doesn't want to lose me.
But the thought of it.
It's so seductive.
To me it's so seductive.
And he knows that, too.
He won't tell me what he wants to do to me. He won't tell me the horrible things he does do to his masochist slave. He has, in the past, mentioned some things that he knows I'll eventually accede to. As if I had a choice. Not that he would force it on me. He's more like a snake. Hypnotizing me. Knowing that I will never make him stop. The only thing I react against is when he slaps my face in a way that makes me worry about bruises. In a way that lets me know he's out of control. That scares me. And now scares him, because he doesn't realize things are going bad until the the next day. Until he reads my account of it the next day. He worries about that now. Because he... because of what he feels for me.
I wish I could give him what he needs.
I wish it were safe for him to torture me.
Whatever that means.
He has talked about electro-torture in the past.
Serious electro-torture.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
In a way, it scares him too, I think.
The thought of doing it to me.
Because, again, he's afraid of losing control.
Of going too far.
So he protects me.
He continues to protect me.
Because he has these feelings for me.
Feelings he says in every way he can
without saying those dangerous words.
He protects me.
And tortures his masochist slave instead.
He had been torturing the slave before. Before he found me. That's the point of owning a masochist, isn't it? And each of them has a need filled. Not just the giving and receiving of pain, but also being served and providing service. Relieving pain while receiving pain. For the sadist does suffer during these times. He suffers from the unbearable need to inflict pain, the overwhelming need to hear the screams, and the awful desire to have me be the one writhing and screaming and sobbing as he demonstrates his desire and feelings for me by making my suffering surpass his own.
It doesn't happen that often.
He doesn't have such attacks that often.
But he did last weekend.
And he found relief today.
He wants to figure out why the attack came on when it did. and why it was so severe. I have my own theories. One of those perfect storm things, part of which was being deprived of my body on Saturday because I was sick. Part of which was knowing that I was with S-- on Wednesday night. He's always very aroused at the thought of others enjoying his mistress. His treasure. So first there was his awareness of another man touching and kissing and fucking me, an awareness that filled him all through that night. And then he read the account of the night that I was required to send him the following day. Add to that a different sort of event on Friday - not a sexual activity but related to his activities. And here we return to his doing without me on Saturday, followed by an electronic conversation Saturday night that was frightening in its intimacy and new revelations.
He can't help himself.
Sometimes he tells me things...
So of course by Sunday the bars on the beast's cage had been bent apart and the hungry monster was prowling the halls.
Luckily, my Master had already arranged to use his slave today.
For some people, today was a holiday.
So the slave was home.
And the slave's ass saved mine.
Knowing it was for my protection.
Being told how grateful I was.
While I waited.
The fiend e-mailed me his ETA.
I was at work.
"You'll share the experience with me," he wrote.
My breath stopped.
I had been feeling tense all day.
Feeling his presence, his hands on my body,
slashes of the cane and of the single tail whip burning my butt.
Finally, lunchtime, I left the building.
A message arrived.
There was screaming.
He had almost called me.
I don't know that I could have tolerated the sounds of such pain.
I tried to walk, but instead sat outside on a low concrete ledge and waited. The screams had eased his desperation. All that was left was to cum.
Was for him to cum.
I was there with him.
Not physically.
But there with him nevertheless.
Waiting.
Not breathing.
He gave me a 4-minute warning of when he would cum.
The time passed.
My body let go.
I took a deep breath.
He was OK.
I knew he was OK now.
And I knew he had felt me there with him.
I had to be with him.
Because it all had to do with me.
He wrote me from the car.
He was feeling much better.
His slave was fine.
I was grateful for the reassurance.
I always feel guilty.
And especially now.
I think this was the first time the slave was explicitly told that it was all because of me. Another pain my Master inflicted. I felt bad. Bad and guilty and very, very grateful.
Grateful that my body was saved from horrors I can only imagine.
And grateful that this sadist I love was saved from the torments he visits on himself.
Love can hurt.
In so many ways.
Seriously sadistic urges.
You know.
I've written about them before.
He wants to torture me.
Seriously torture me.
It keeps him up at night when he gets in that mood. He sees it. He tastes it. He hears my screams and sees my body writhing, my back rising and arching, hears me moaning, begging - and then screaming... His description sounds as if it could as easily refer to passion, orgasm...
Certainly his words catapult me into an agony of arousal.
But that's not the kind of pain he has in mind.
And the only guaranteed orgasm would be his.
He doesn't dare do to me what he wants to do.
He knows I couldn't handle that much pain.
He's afraid he'll go too far.
He's afraid it would destroy us.
And more than anything,
he doesn't want to lose me.
But the thought of it.
It's so seductive.
To me it's so seductive.
And he knows that, too.
He won't tell me what he wants to do to me. He won't tell me the horrible things he does do to his masochist slave. He has, in the past, mentioned some things that he knows I'll eventually accede to. As if I had a choice. Not that he would force it on me. He's more like a snake. Hypnotizing me. Knowing that I will never make him stop. The only thing I react against is when he slaps my face in a way that makes me worry about bruises. In a way that lets me know he's out of control. That scares me. And now scares him, because he doesn't realize things are going bad until the the next day. Until he reads my account of it the next day. He worries about that now. Because he... because of what he feels for me.
I wish I could give him what he needs.
I wish it were safe for him to torture me.
Whatever that means.
He has talked about electro-torture in the past.
Serious electro-torture.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
In a way, it scares him too, I think.
The thought of doing it to me.
Because, again, he's afraid of losing control.
Of going too far.
So he protects me.
He continues to protect me.
Because he has these feelings for me.
Feelings he says in every way he can
without saying those dangerous words.
He protects me.
And tortures his masochist slave instead.
He had been torturing the slave before. Before he found me. That's the point of owning a masochist, isn't it? And each of them has a need filled. Not just the giving and receiving of pain, but also being served and providing service. Relieving pain while receiving pain. For the sadist does suffer during these times. He suffers from the unbearable need to inflict pain, the overwhelming need to hear the screams, and the awful desire to have me be the one writhing and screaming and sobbing as he demonstrates his desire and feelings for me by making my suffering surpass his own.
It doesn't happen that often.
He doesn't have such attacks that often.
But he did last weekend.
And he found relief today.
He wants to figure out why the attack came on when it did. and why it was so severe. I have my own theories. One of those perfect storm things, part of which was being deprived of my body on Saturday because I was sick. Part of which was knowing that I was with S-- on Wednesday night. He's always very aroused at the thought of others enjoying his mistress. His treasure. So first there was his awareness of another man touching and kissing and fucking me, an awareness that filled him all through that night. And then he read the account of the night that I was required to send him the following day. Add to that a different sort of event on Friday - not a sexual activity but related to his activities. And here we return to his doing without me on Saturday, followed by an electronic conversation Saturday night that was frightening in its intimacy and new revelations.
He can't help himself.
Sometimes he tells me things...
So of course by Sunday the bars on the beast's cage had been bent apart and the hungry monster was prowling the halls.
Luckily, my Master had already arranged to use his slave today.
For some people, today was a holiday.
So the slave was home.
And the slave's ass saved mine.
Knowing it was for my protection.
Being told how grateful I was.
While I waited.
The fiend e-mailed me his ETA.
I was at work.
"You'll share the experience with me," he wrote.
My breath stopped.
I had been feeling tense all day.
Feeling his presence, his hands on my body,
slashes of the cane and of the single tail whip burning my butt.
Finally, lunchtime, I left the building.
A message arrived.
There was screaming.
He had almost called me.
I don't know that I could have tolerated the sounds of such pain.
I tried to walk, but instead sat outside on a low concrete ledge and waited. The screams had eased his desperation. All that was left was to cum.
Was for him to cum.
I was there with him.
Not physically.
But there with him nevertheless.
Waiting.
Not breathing.
He gave me a 4-minute warning of when he would cum.
The time passed.
My body let go.
I took a deep breath.
He was OK.
I knew he was OK now.
And I knew he had felt me there with him.
I had to be with him.
Because it all had to do with me.
He wrote me from the car.
He was feeling much better.
His slave was fine.
I was grateful for the reassurance.
I always feel guilty.
And especially now.
I think this was the first time the slave was explicitly told that it was all because of me. Another pain my Master inflicted. I felt bad. Bad and guilty and very, very grateful.
Grateful that my body was saved from horrors I can only imagine.
And grateful that this sadist I love was saved from the torments he visits on himself.
Love can hurt.
In so many ways.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Sensitive spanking article hits the Sunday NY Times
Sunday morning.
Well, no.
Not really.
Sunday afternoon.
Unknowing,
unprotected,
unprepared,
I'm reading the Sunday Styles section of the New York Times.
The actual paper!
Such joyful decadence on a weekend when the sadist and I were deprived of each other's company due to an unwelcome and lingering cold. He was not pleased with me. Admitting it wasn't really my fault, he was not pleased with me and required me to devise a 4-part plan to reduce the number of colds I get in the future.
I do get an awful lot of colds.
But I'm straying from the topic.
So I won't even mention how relieved and happy I am about the results of last Tuesday's election, both in the US as a whole and in my own state. On top of everything else, we won 3 out of 3 statewide measures legalizing marriage equality (one in my state of Maryland), and defeated a Minnesota constitutional amendment against gay marriage. A very good day.
Back to the topic.
An article.
The headline of which took my breath away.
Finding the Courage to Reveal a Fetish
Read it:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/11/fashion/modern-love-a-spanking-fetish-is-not-revealed-easily.html?ref=fashion
It's about spanking.
Desire.
Need.
Hiding.
Revealing.
Sharing.
It's not about anything very extreme.
But it's open.
Honest.
Real.
And perhaps will get readers to think.
To wonder.
To reconsider their automatic responses.
It left me breathless.
In fact, kept me breathless through the entire article
and as I wrote the following letter to the author.
I sent the link to the fiend.
I sent the link to the philosopher.
I posted it on my oatmeal girl Facebook page.
But I did NOT post it on my other Facebook page.
and I did not send it to my "regular" friends.
I did not say - Here,
read this,
Perhaps you'll understand me a little better.
I'm not as brave as Jillian Keenan.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Dear, brave Jillian,
It was - is, even as I write - a painful debate as to which e-mail account I should use to write you. To thank you. The account with the name most of the world knows me by? The name on my checking account and electric bill and medical records? Or the name that in some ways even more people know me by? The name on my blog. The name on my stories. The name on the messages to my sadistic lover.
I began with the other account.
Then switched to this one.
And am still wavering.
In a way, it doesn't matter.
What matters most is to thank you.
Not that I'll be brave enough to use your article as a way of coming out.
The way I am,
what I respond to,
what I need,
the structure of my relationship,
these are all much to intimate to try to explain to my friends.
And in many ways it's none of their business.
It's the discomfort that's the problem. Knowing that they'll think there is something wrong with me. Something they should worry about. It's wincing every time I see BDSM misrepresented in cop shows, or made into a joke. All of which has its place. We shouldn't have to live in a purely painfully accurate world. But it shouldn't be only that.
And with knowing that other people have these feelings,
with knowing that a relationship can feed my needs,
comes liberation.
Comes joy.
Thank you for your bravery.
And for your sentence structure.
And for being unreasonably enthusiastic about Shakespeare - in any context.
oatmeal girl
Well, no.
Not really.
Sunday afternoon.
Unknowing,
unprotected,
unprepared,
I'm reading the Sunday Styles section of the New York Times.
The actual paper!
Such joyful decadence on a weekend when the sadist and I were deprived of each other's company due to an unwelcome and lingering cold. He was not pleased with me. Admitting it wasn't really my fault, he was not pleased with me and required me to devise a 4-part plan to reduce the number of colds I get in the future.
I do get an awful lot of colds.
But I'm straying from the topic.
So I won't even mention how relieved and happy I am about the results of last Tuesday's election, both in the US as a whole and in my own state. On top of everything else, we won 3 out of 3 statewide measures legalizing marriage equality (one in my state of Maryland), and defeated a Minnesota constitutional amendment against gay marriage. A very good day.
Back to the topic.
An article.
The headline of which took my breath away.
Finding the Courage to Reveal a Fetish
Read it:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/11/fashion/modern-love-a-spanking-fetish-is-not-revealed-easily.html?ref=fashion
It's about spanking.
Desire.
Need.
Hiding.
Revealing.
Sharing.
It's not about anything very extreme.
But it's open.
Honest.
Real.
And perhaps will get readers to think.
To wonder.
To reconsider their automatic responses.
It left me breathless.
In fact, kept me breathless through the entire article
and as I wrote the following letter to the author.
I sent the link to the fiend.
I sent the link to the philosopher.
I posted it on my oatmeal girl Facebook page.
But I did NOT post it on my other Facebook page.
and I did not send it to my "regular" friends.
I did not say - Here,
read this,
Perhaps you'll understand me a little better.
I'm not as brave as Jillian Keenan.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Dear, brave Jillian,
It was - is, even as I write - a painful debate as to which e-mail account I should use to write you. To thank you. The account with the name most of the world knows me by? The name on my checking account and electric bill and medical records? Or the name that in some ways even more people know me by? The name on my blog. The name on my stories. The name on the messages to my sadistic lover.
I began with the other account.
Then switched to this one.
And am still wavering.
In a way, it doesn't matter.
What matters most is to thank you.
Not that I'll be brave enough to use your article as a way of coming out.
The way I am,
what I respond to,
what I need,
the structure of my relationship,
these are all much to intimate to try to explain to my friends.
And in many ways it's none of their business.
It's the discomfort that's the problem. Knowing that they'll think there is something wrong with me. Something they should worry about. It's wincing every time I see BDSM misrepresented in cop shows, or made into a joke. All of which has its place. We shouldn't have to live in a purely painfully accurate world. But it shouldn't be only that.
And with knowing that other people have these feelings,
with knowing that a relationship can feed my needs,
comes liberation.
Comes joy.
Thank you for your bravery.
And for your sentence structure.
And for being unreasonably enthusiastic about Shakespeare - in any context.
oatmeal girl
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Don't you two have sex anymore?!
Why yes, now that you mention it.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.
First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!
So yes.
To answer your questions.
He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.
For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.
He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.
Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.
Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.
I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...
The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.
My lover.
That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?
I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.
There is no one word.
He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.
He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.
I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.
So now...
Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.
I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.
I didn't want him to stop.
I wanted him to cane me.
And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.
And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.
The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.
And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...
I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.
And now he seems to have stopped pretending.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.
First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!
So yes.
To answer your questions.
He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.
For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.
He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.
Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.
Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.
I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...
The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.
My lover.
That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?
I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.
There is no one word.
He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.
He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.
I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.
So now...
Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.
I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.
I didn't want him to stop.
I wanted him to cane me.
And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.
And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.
The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.
And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...
I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.
And now he seems to have stopped pretending.
Friday, October 26, 2012
A gift
It's almost scary, what he said.
The offer to change.
Or if not necessarily change, at least to review.
To think about something he doesn't usually think about.
Because of me.
Because I'm important to him.
Because he wants me in his life.
His words made me breathless.
We are really so different, you know.
In so many ways.
If I made a list,
if I told my friends about him,
they wouldn't be able to see it.
How to explain what's inside?
And it's not just the D/s. I really think it's more than that. Although certainly the ways we relate on that level are pretty extraordinary. But on the other hand, I made him crazy. Then again, maybe beyond-slaves always drive their Masters crazy.
There are many ways to say "I love you."
The offer to change.
Or if not necessarily change, at least to review.
To think about something he doesn't usually think about.
Because of me.
Because I'm important to him.
Because he wants me in his life.
His words made me breathless.
We are really so different, you know.
In so many ways.
If I made a list,
if I told my friends about him,
they wouldn't be able to see it.
How to explain what's inside?
And it's not just the D/s. I really think it's more than that. Although certainly the ways we relate on that level are pretty extraordinary. But on the other hand, I made him crazy. Then again, maybe beyond-slaves always drive their Masters crazy.
There are many ways to say "I love you."
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Negotiations
We're talking.
Dispassionately.
Dispassionately?
Yeah.
You're right.
There's no way we can be dispassionate.
We're much too intense.
In ourselves.
And about each other.
But we're trying.
And we'll come up with something.
Because we both care too much for it to be any other way.
And no, I'm really very sorry but I can't give you the details. Because a key part of it all would completely destroy his anonymity. In some ways, the details matter a lot. But in other ways, they don't. It's all about what's underneath.
It's always about what's underneath.
Trust.
Intimacy.
Passion.
Danger.
Love.
Whether or not any of those words are used.
Especially that last one.
Dispassionately.
Dispassionately?
Yeah.
You're right.
There's no way we can be dispassionate.
We're much too intense.
In ourselves.
And about each other.
But we're trying.
And we'll come up with something.
Because we both care too much for it to be any other way.
And no, I'm really very sorry but I can't give you the details. Because a key part of it all would completely destroy his anonymity. In some ways, the details matter a lot. But in other ways, they don't. It's all about what's underneath.
It's always about what's underneath.
Trust.
Intimacy.
Passion.
Danger.
Love.
Whether or not any of those words are used.
Especially that last one.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Looming disaster. As always.
Of course... yes, of course, those who've been reading me for years should have seen this coming... while I've been waxing poetic over our relationship and the things he doesn't say, here off the page there's been a storm brewing. A lifting cloud for him, a flash of lightening for me, a new complication for us to face and discuss, a new reality to shake the ground.
And I'm so easily shaken. I start off, still floating, hovering over the perturbed sea, sure we can sort things out. Except that the more we allow comments to slip out our fingers onto the computer keys, the more we say things that don't have the effect we expect or intend. And yes, I admit that my current hormonal condition, that every other week hormonal flare, has made me more prone to emotional turmoil.
Which of course makes him crazy.
I fully accept that dealing with me could make someone crazy.
Which is a pity.
Since till now he'd been feeling rather guilty.
Because the current problem is definitely his fault.
Which he knows.
And regrets.
And me?
So busy trying to keep things exactly the same,
so busy berating myself for my own part in it all,
and so busy trying to assure him of my love
that I can't allow myself to be justifiably pissed off.
Every time things are beautiful
poised in the air
posed in the light
peaceful and beautiful and sweet
something
always
happens.
It's in the stage directions.
Enter stage right.
Trouble.
The next Act is yet to be written.
And I'm so easily shaken. I start off, still floating, hovering over the perturbed sea, sure we can sort things out. Except that the more we allow comments to slip out our fingers onto the computer keys, the more we say things that don't have the effect we expect or intend. And yes, I admit that my current hormonal condition, that every other week hormonal flare, has made me more prone to emotional turmoil.
Which of course makes him crazy.
I fully accept that dealing with me could make someone crazy.
Which is a pity.
Since till now he'd been feeling rather guilty.
Because the current problem is definitely his fault.
Which he knows.
And regrets.
And me?
So busy trying to keep things exactly the same,
so busy berating myself for my own part in it all,
and so busy trying to assure him of my love
that I can't allow myself to be justifiably pissed off.
Every time things are beautiful
poised in the air
posed in the light
peaceful and beautiful and sweet
something
always
happens.
It's in the stage directions.
Enter stage right.
Trouble.
The next Act is yet to be written.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Putty in his hands
Some days I have to walk.
Some days there is other exercise.
To make me strong.
To make me shapely.
To help me lose weight.
There are particular areas of my body that interest him.
Particular exercises to encourage them in the desired direction.
Nothing unhealthy.
Unless you consider being molded to suit his desires unhealthy.
I find it inspiring.
Arousing.
Objectifying.
Delicious.
Plus there's a promise of a reward.
Something tangible.
For when I've reached some unstated goal.
To me, just pleasing him is reward enough.
But he has something else in mind.
It may just be sexy underwear.
It may be something else.
He's not telling.
Which makes me tingle.
And that's the whole idea anyway, isn't it?
There are two double closets in my bedroom. They are side by side, each with a pair of sliding doors, and the doors are mirrored. He has taken to standing us in front of the doors, facing them. I am naked, and he is fully dressed. He holds me to him, facing the mirror, my back against his front, my butt pulled into his crotch, my nakedness striking against his sport jacket. He pulls me tight against him. The picture we create burns itself onto the projection screens in the back of our minds.
I am sex.
I am pussy.
I am naked.
I am his.
I am his pleasure.
His joy and his torment.
And he?
He is my life.
(And now, after writing, my torment, too. I've turned myself on with my own words, and my pussy is screaming for relief. Not a chance. I wouldn't even ask. He keeps me for himself, keeps my pleasure for himself, my arousal oozes from my pores as he pulls my nakedness against him, as he grinds his cock into my ass through his slacks. I revel in my frustration, as every pleading contraction of my cunt and womb throughout the week reminds me of the joy of having ceded myself to his control and power and... that word he uses songs to say.)
Some days there is other exercise.
To make me strong.
To make me shapely.
To help me lose weight.
There are particular areas of my body that interest him.
Particular exercises to encourage them in the desired direction.
Nothing unhealthy.
Unless you consider being molded to suit his desires unhealthy.
I find it inspiring.
Arousing.
Objectifying.
Delicious.
Plus there's a promise of a reward.
Something tangible.
For when I've reached some unstated goal.
To me, just pleasing him is reward enough.
But he has something else in mind.
It may just be sexy underwear.
It may be something else.
He's not telling.
Which makes me tingle.
And that's the whole idea anyway, isn't it?
There are two double closets in my bedroom. They are side by side, each with a pair of sliding doors, and the doors are mirrored. He has taken to standing us in front of the doors, facing them. I am naked, and he is fully dressed. He holds me to him, facing the mirror, my back against his front, my butt pulled into his crotch, my nakedness striking against his sport jacket. He pulls me tight against him. The picture we create burns itself onto the projection screens in the back of our minds.
I am sex.
I am pussy.
I am naked.
I am his.
I am his pleasure.
His joy and his torment.
And he?
He is my life.
(And now, after writing, my torment, too. I've turned myself on with my own words, and my pussy is screaming for relief. Not a chance. I wouldn't even ask. He keeps me for himself, keeps my pleasure for himself, my arousal oozes from my pores as he pulls my nakedness against him, as he grinds his cock into my ass through his slacks. I revel in my frustration, as every pleading contraction of my cunt and womb throughout the week reminds me of the joy of having ceded myself to his control and power and... that word he uses songs to say.)
Monday, October 22, 2012
She's so tight
"Where have you been?" they wonder.
Here.
There.
Around.
Living my life.
It's funny. I think of my relationship, which is still and always quite thoroughly a D/s relationships, and realize that it is also simultaneously more and more a relationship - unconventional as it may be. A committed relationship, without vows or rings and certainly without monogamy. But close and committed and intimate - not just physically intimate, either.
He has this fear that if he shows weakness, softness, vulnerability, I'll lose respect for him. It's not a totally stupid fear, as it was a way I have responded in the past to people who wanted me. A fear based on my own lack of respect for myself. "There must be something really wrong with him if he wants me that much."
A sudden realization... perhaps that's not a problem now because he has finally managed to make me believe in myself enough, to feel strong enough, that I don't feel threatened by someone who does want me that much.
In any case, it's not a problem now.
Not with him.
When he reveals his vulnerability, it makes me love him more.
Not that I didn't know it was there.
But when it's offered to me,
naked on a wooden plank,
knife by its side to use as I wish...
All I want to do is protect him.
So we've been living our lives.
Living our life.
With all our outside stresses inevitably impinging on our time together.
But we manage.
I am his refuge.
And he is my strength.
Both of my aged parents aren't well. My mom had the stroke I wrote of last spring, and 2 bouts of pneumonia, and what they're calling a silent heart attack. My dad was very ill with what may have been just a virus, but the high fever and just being in the hospital rendered him confused and sometimes downright hallucinatory. I was up visiting him a week ago and he kept trying to eat my hand. Very curious... He's coming out of it now, slowly, but when he finally leaves the hospital it's unlikely he'll go back to their apartment. Rather, he'll join my mom in the nursing wing of their continuing care place, leaving me and my sister to empty out the apartment and dispose of the stuff.
At least we are both very relaxed about all that and don't foresee any battles over who gets what. What a relief!
Of course, the fiend and I have our problems.
Old issues and new ones.
A brand new issue came to light the morning after he offered me that song that says what he will never say out of his own mouth. And he knows I'll laugh in his face (well, not really) if he denies the meaning of telling me to listen and then telling me to listen once more before trotting off to bed. There is no way he can claim he doesn't mean what he had to be meaning.
I'm happy.
Problems and all,
I'm happy.
We are so different in so many ways, we are probably protected by not being able to have a standard relationship because it would surely crash and split apart on the rocks of our differences. But now... what we are... what we are for each other... what we give each other...
[Excuse me while I go all moony for a bit.]
OK, that's enough. I have things to do before people come for tonight's debate party.
Oh?
You were wondering about the title of this post?
Ah yes.
Something he wanted you to know.
Tell them, he said.
Tell them you are very tight.
And not,
he said,
merely tight for someone your age.
So there.
PS - I lost 12 pounds in 6 weeks.
Here.
There.
Around.
Living my life.
It's funny. I think of my relationship, which is still and always quite thoroughly a D/s relationships, and realize that it is also simultaneously more and more a relationship - unconventional as it may be. A committed relationship, without vows or rings and certainly without monogamy. But close and committed and intimate - not just physically intimate, either.
He has this fear that if he shows weakness, softness, vulnerability, I'll lose respect for him. It's not a totally stupid fear, as it was a way I have responded in the past to people who wanted me. A fear based on my own lack of respect for myself. "There must be something really wrong with him if he wants me that much."
A sudden realization... perhaps that's not a problem now because he has finally managed to make me believe in myself enough, to feel strong enough, that I don't feel threatened by someone who does want me that much.
In any case, it's not a problem now.
Not with him.
When he reveals his vulnerability, it makes me love him more.
Not that I didn't know it was there.
But when it's offered to me,
naked on a wooden plank,
knife by its side to use as I wish...
All I want to do is protect him.
So we've been living our lives.
Living our life.
With all our outside stresses inevitably impinging on our time together.
But we manage.
I am his refuge.
And he is my strength.
Both of my aged parents aren't well. My mom had the stroke I wrote of last spring, and 2 bouts of pneumonia, and what they're calling a silent heart attack. My dad was very ill with what may have been just a virus, but the high fever and just being in the hospital rendered him confused and sometimes downright hallucinatory. I was up visiting him a week ago and he kept trying to eat my hand. Very curious... He's coming out of it now, slowly, but when he finally leaves the hospital it's unlikely he'll go back to their apartment. Rather, he'll join my mom in the nursing wing of their continuing care place, leaving me and my sister to empty out the apartment and dispose of the stuff.
At least we are both very relaxed about all that and don't foresee any battles over who gets what. What a relief!
Of course, the fiend and I have our problems.
Old issues and new ones.
A brand new issue came to light the morning after he offered me that song that says what he will never say out of his own mouth. And he knows I'll laugh in his face (well, not really) if he denies the meaning of telling me to listen and then telling me to listen once more before trotting off to bed. There is no way he can claim he doesn't mean what he had to be meaning.
I'm happy.
Problems and all,
I'm happy.
We are so different in so many ways, we are probably protected by not being able to have a standard relationship because it would surely crash and split apart on the rocks of our differences. But now... what we are... what we are for each other... what we give each other...
[Excuse me while I go all moony for a bit.]
OK, that's enough. I have things to do before people come for tonight's debate party.
Oh?
You were wondering about the title of this post?
Ah yes.
Something he wanted you to know.
Tell them, he said.
Tell them you are very tight.
And not,
he said,
merely tight for someone your age.
So there.
PS - I lost 12 pounds in 6 weeks.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Why the world needs songwriters
He'll never say the words.
He doesn't have to.
Listen to this, he says.
And my eyes fill with tears.
Because the song says it all.
And this time, there was no ambiguity.
He doesn't have to.
Listen to this, he says.
And my eyes fill with tears.
Because the song says it all.
And this time, there was no ambiguity.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
He worries about my future
Not every man can support his mistress.
Not every man worries about what will become of her as she ages. Especially as they are both already aging. I may catch some glances now, I admit I look considerably younger than other women my age. But I'm sliding towards 64 and the question of who will feed me is not an idle one.
So it comes up every so often.
At least he's stopped urging me to find someone else.
At least he's stopped trying to fix me up with other men.
But it hasn't stopped worrying him.
It slipped out last night.
Cryptically.
Its passage eased by wine.
A text.
Very late at night.
Offered between snippets of romantic lyrics.
"I'm sorry."
With no hint of an explanation till today.
It upsets me.
It always upsets me when he brings it up.
Maybe because I know he's right in a way.
But there are many forms of poverty.
I stayed with ex-hubby #2 for years for financial security, and it nearly destroyed me. The fiend has worked long and hard to build my self-esteem. I'll be damned if I'll risk destroying that by pursuing a relationship in a search for support in my old age. And how could I build a connection with someone else when every moment I'd be making comparisons to the person I wish I were with?
So we go on.
It is what it is.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Tender.
Fierce.
And,
for better or worse,
all I want.
Not every man worries about what will become of her as she ages. Especially as they are both already aging. I may catch some glances now, I admit I look considerably younger than other women my age. But I'm sliding towards 64 and the question of who will feed me is not an idle one.
So it comes up every so often.
At least he's stopped urging me to find someone else.
At least he's stopped trying to fix me up with other men.
But it hasn't stopped worrying him.
It slipped out last night.
Cryptically.
Its passage eased by wine.
A text.
Very late at night.
Offered between snippets of romantic lyrics.
"I'm sorry."
With no hint of an explanation till today.
It upsets me.
It always upsets me when he brings it up.
Maybe because I know he's right in a way.
But there are many forms of poverty.
I stayed with ex-hubby #2 for years for financial security, and it nearly destroyed me. The fiend has worked long and hard to build my self-esteem. I'll be damned if I'll risk destroying that by pursuing a relationship in a search for support in my old age. And how could I build a connection with someone else when every moment I'd be making comparisons to the person I wish I were with?
So we go on.
It is what it is.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Tender.
Fierce.
And,
for better or worse,
all I want.
Monday, September 3, 2012
4 years
It was on Labor Day 4 years ago.
4 years ago, I begged him to take me in his service.
The day after, I wrote this:
I had no idea.
No idea at all.
In captivity, I am free.
In my chains, I am strong.
In submission, I am beautiful.
And oh, yes.
I lost 5.4 pounds in the first week.
4 years ago, I begged him to take me in his service.
The day after, I wrote this:
And now?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.
I had no idea.
No idea at all.
In captivity, I am free.
In my chains, I am strong.
In submission, I am beautiful.
And oh, yes.
I lost 5.4 pounds in the first week.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon
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Saturday, July 28, 2012
Body modification
That's his word for it.
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
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