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
click here to view the post.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
