Saturday, February 18, 2012

He wants me to speak of his pain

He suffers.
He wants you to know that he suffers.
He wants me to speak of his pain.

The beast was here today. Which surprised me. I had no warning. Though I should have realized something was up when the sadist preceded his visit by a warning against "moony-ness" and an order for strict focus on service to his cock. Now it's quite clear to me that when things become moony and emotional and all, it's not all my fault. He opens the door to that, he goes there, he radiates his feelings for me and his own softness and his joy at being with me along with gratitude that I am his. He can't fool me. Not any more.

[ . . . ]

Hours have passed.
I'm back on the sofa, sitting again between two very soft cats.
I had to stop before.
My mind strayed.
I lost focus.
Became very sleepy.

Delayed reaction.
Because yes.
The beast was here today.
And he took his belt to my ass.
He took his belt to my ass and
hours later
it finally hurt.

At first I didn't realize what was going on. I thought it was a punishment for missing my bedtime the other night by 2 minutes. I e-mail him before turning out the light, so he did know what time it was. But I'd had no inkling that he was pissed off about it so I was surprised and confused and he was bringing the belt down hard on my ass.

Harder even than I realized.

Which happens.
When he's been there for a while.
When I've been kneeling before him and he's been kissing me.
Arousing me.
Sending me into that place.
If he hurts me then, he can hurt me harder and it doesn't fully register.

But he hadn't been there that long.
At least I don't think so...
Certainly I wasn't deeply in that place.

It wasn't till he was on his way out that he let on that he'd swung the belt down quite hard on my ass - very satisfying, he said it was - and that he was surprised it hadn't hurt me more. I did cry when he beat me, but more from confusion, from distress at what I thought was anger, than from severe pain. I've felt pain that was much worse. Delivered by him.

The beast.
I realized the beast was there,
but thought he had arrived in anger.
But that wasn't it.
He was hungry.

He wanted to torture me.

Don't worry.
He didn't.
And except for very brief flashes, he has been absent for a long time.

This time, though...

The beating wasn't a punishment, Daddy said.
It was purely recreational.

He was very upset.
He struggles.
He suffers.
It hurts.

He was this close to the edge, he said. I've always thought of it as an increase by degrees. A little pain, a little more, a lot more, until it crosses a line and becomes more than I can handle.

Though, oh - how I wish I could handle it!
How I wish I could give that to him!
But I can't.
And we both know it.

It's dangerous to play with. Because what he explained today was that it's not like slowly turning up the heat. It's like going along and then suddenly - he's over the cliff. It could be that sudden. And the beast would be in control.

Though he doesn't like using that construct.
Splitting off that part of himself as if it were another man.
A man with his own name.
A man who has tried to seduce me and will do so again.
He has to own that part of himself.
The part that wants to torture me.
The part that wants to do things he will not describe.
The part that wants to hear the full range of what my voice can do
as he does the full range of unspeakable things to my body.
As he makes me suffer.

He wants you to understand.
To understand his suffering.
To know that this is real.
It is not a game.
It is not something he plays at.
It's not some kinky sex game.
It's not role play.

It's not "I'm a sadist - yuck, yuck, yuck..."

It's real.
And while he does get pleasure from inflicting pain,
he does not get pleasure from being battered by his urges.

He did not go too far.
He stopped himself.
He stepped back from the edge
and brought himself down
while saying things with his kisses which showed how he cares.
But he suffered.

Being in that state is a high.
So he was crashing.
Even as he was being gentle and loving
and saying all those things without words,
he was in pain.
Think of it as the pain of withdrawal.

Later, an hour or so later, when he finally came in my mouth - which he doesn't usually do because he likes to see my face - he talked about it. About the struggle. The pain. He was worried. Disturbed. He hadn't had an attack in quite a while. He worried about truly hurting me. About losing control. He spoke again about his concern that maybe he shouldn't see me again - though we both know it's too late for that. Who we are... how far we've come... what we are like together... we have a relationship. Not a very standard one. Not one that many would approve of. But we are mostly definitely we. He won't walk away.

He can't.

Me, I have faith.

I truly believe that his feelings for me are stronger than the beast. There may be times that he'll go a little too far. Every so often. But then he'll look at me in wonder and see both all those things that make the beast want to devour me and all the things that make him retract his claws and hide his fangs and then fold me in his arms and hold me tight, my nakedness close to his.

The curious thing is that what I was picking up all that time was not the beast's hunger. It was the stress underneath. When, later, he was wondering what triggered the return of his compulsion, I brought up the stress. We've seen it before - although he always seems to forget - that stress tends to break the bars of the cage that usually holds back the beast. And I do know he's under a lot of stress, although he has largely refused to talk about it. Not just to me but - it seems - to anyone. He feels he has to be strong. To be in charge of everything and not show how hard it is for him. He has told me that much directly.

Under all that stress, something has to crack.

So it was the distress of the stress I felt.
That concerned me.
That made me want to comfort and soothe him.

I do love him.
I do trust him.

And my heart aches for his suffering.

PS - He has made arrangements to visit someone who can willingly feed the beast's hunger. He hadn't realized until he arrived today that there was any danger. And there's a chance we can spend the night together, away, during one of the weekends in March. A very happy possibility. For us both.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Demanding worship

You are all invited to wish me a happy birthday.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Daddy's pet: a Pavlovian success story. I think...

It was horribly embarrassing.
Even though no one but me knew.

We were in a departmental staff meeting. The director said that after this week he wouldn't need to check my work on a particular process.

"You're doing really well," he said.


Do I even have to tell you what happened next?

I responded as I always respond when praised.
My pussy became warm and swollen and wet.

Thank goodness I didn't blush!

And I feel NO attraction to the man whatsoever!
Nor is there any trace of dominance about him.

It was a purely Pavlovian response.

Perhaps I've been trained too well?

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Leather and heels; feminism and sucking cock

Today we spoke about feminism.

He was here today.
Saturday was inaugurated as Daddy's Day.

Shortly before he arrived, as I finished my preparations - clean sheet on the futon, implements arrayed on the large, high, pale wood coffee table that had been moved in front of the old television - I realized I was nervous. We hadn't seen each other since shortly after New Year's. That first Tuesday of the new year. He didn't visit that Saturday four days later, and the following weekend I was out of town. The Saturdays thereafter were lost first to my cold and then to my ill-advised but very successful appointment with the house call vet. Which made it what? Four and a half weeks since we'd last seen each other? Since we'd kissed. Since we'd touched. Since I'd knelt at his feet and sucked his cock and then looked up and seen a smile on his face of the purest happiness...

A long time.

So he arrived and he pressed himself into me as I stood facing the wall, and he ran his hands over me like a man walking the acres of his fields, marking out his terrain, admiring the rise and fall and fertility of it all.

I am not, of course, fertile in the common sense of the word.
Nor does he plant in me seeds of the kind that would engender offspring.
Not the kind of offspring that require constant feeding
followed by new clothes every six months.
But we do produce offspring.
In a way.
Our union gives birth to a small bit of peace and joy
which perhaps seeps through the inadequate windows
and neutralizes a drop or two of the poison that is hate.

Enough of that.

He was here.
We touched.
We kissed.
I sucked his cock.
I think I referred to all that before.

He spanked me.
He whipped me with his belt.
Not very hard.
Just enough to make my butt lightly blush.
Just enough to leave a sting behind.
Just enough to center me.
And to fill me with a sense of acceptance.
This is who I am.
This is who he is.
This is what we are together.
This is how we need to be.
He will hurt me and I will not resist.

That was one good result of the pain being fairly light. There was no automatic self-protection on the part of my body. No jerking away because the assault was too severe. Instead, I could revel in the sense that he was spanking me. That he was whipping me. Especially that. It's a new belt, more flexible than the last one. And it did feel more like a whipping than a beating. I wished it had gone on longer. I wished it had been a little harder. But this gave us what we needed. The knowledge that within the limits of what was safe for the relationship (meaning not so extreme that the beast might break free of his cage and destroy us both), I would give him what he needed.

This is my choice.

And here is where feminism comes into it.

It was after.

After he came.

After he relieved at last the arousal that had been plaguing him for a week and which he had saved for me. No release all week because he wanted to save it for me.

I was touched by that.
And gave him a hell of an orgasm.
It wasn't just me, of course.
It was totally a joint project.

Because the things he did to me... the belt buckled around my neck... pulled... even just feeling it around my neck... before he had me lie on my back on the ground as he sat on the edge of the futon, my knees bent, my feet under the bed, the belt fastened snugly around my neck with the loose end clutched in his fist... before he had me writhe for him, undulate, as he pulled at the belt so I felt his ownership... before he leaned over and thrust his fingers inside me... fucking me... filling me... watching me... devouring my pleasure and most of all my submission... the place that put me... he has backed off from the word "slave"... it's a danger spot, I have trouble with it, but that word kept coming back to me as he pulled on the belt and fucked me... not because he sometimes would come close to stealing all my air... but because of the belt... the surrender of freedom... which frees me to be who I truly am.

He's not really into leather, he said.
Which I know.
But on me, he said, it looks good.

So he came, at last, and yes it was worth waiting for.

And then I sat there on the floor at his feet, my head in his lap and my arms around his waist, feeling all happy and peaceful and right. And we talked about this and that and I can't remember how we got to the topic, maybe just straight from talking about my new job which I love (!!), and which does involve issues of women's empowerment.

"And if you told them that you wear heels and short dresses for me?"

"But I choose to, Daddy. For you."

"Isn't that the point of feminism? To be able to choose?"

"Exactly, Daddy. That's exactly what it's all about."

And I was so happy.

So happy to have this extremely dominant man, this sadist whose softness I've known and touched, understand about feminism and me and love and submission

"And if you told them..."

He brings this up every so often. He did it again recently. Specifically gave me permission to tell my friends about him as long as I guard his privacy. It's come to sounding like he wants me to tell people about him. Even though I can't name him. Even though they would never meet him. But he seems to want me to say: there is this man... he makes me happy... I'm not looking for anyone else.

To acknowledge him.
As a way of showing my commitment, perhaps.

I wish I could.
But people wouldn't understand.
Not the D/s thing.
I wouldn't mention that at all.
But other things.
Things that are honest but not common,
and which most of my friends would worry about.

I did tell someone once.
I thought she would understand.
But she, too, was worried that I must feel dissatisfied.

So I'll wait till I know for sure how the person thinks.  Till I find the right person. And then I'll do it. I'll say... there is this man... and then I'll tell him that I've done it. So he'll know I'm not ashamed of him. I'm not ashamed of loving him. And that I mean it when I say that in my mind this is a committed relationship.

We were talking about choice.

I read an article in last Sunday's New York Times. It was by a woman who had been working almost too hard to try to make her marriage better. She'd been trying all sorts of things. Very determinedly. And now she was stuck on this back country camping trip that she very much didn't want to be on but her husband liked to do it so she went.

And now she was miserable.

So I'm reading along, thinking how beautiful it must have been out there by that high lake and I'm reading and reading and then I stop. Because there it is. What he'd been trying to teach me and had taught me - as a D/s thing - and yet here it was as a gem of truth about relationships and love and it had nothing to do with D/s at all. And I'd been wanting to share it with him ever since I read it but had been a little nervous because... well... anyway, now here was this perfect opening...

And he smiled.

Because this (edited for focus) is what she wrote:

After dinner and washing the dishes with freezing lake water, Dan beckoned to me behind a copse of white firs.

“You know, ” he said, “I know this isn’t your first-choice vacation spot. But it means the world that you would do this, for me.”

Do this for him. Holy cow. I felt my face relax. I didn’t have to want to be there. I could just do this uncomfortable thing for him because it meant the world to him. That was it. That was enough.

I do it for him.
And that is enough.

And in return?

Ah... the joy...

And tonight,
for him,
an orgasm.