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.

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...


Wednesday, November 14, 2012

The Soldiers' Whore - a story

We've been making each other crazy.
Continuing to make each other crazy.
My Master was nearly eaten by a sadistic fit.
And my pussy has been wet and swollen
and TRULY PAINFULLY AROUSED
since Sunday.

And what do we do to ease our suffering?
Inspire more.
Strip our desires naked.
And proffer fantasies.

I got carried away today. I shared 2 strong, old, masturbatory scenarios. And after the second one, my Master offered me a desired reward if I wrote just a few more paragraphs - not what was being done, but what I felt.

I tried.
I really tried.
But it became far more than two or three paragraphs.
And it would not take directiom..
Luckily, in the end, it impressed him.
It wasn't the raw piece of porn he was after.
But he said he admired it.
That it was worthy of me.
Which is one of the biggest compliments he can give.

He also agreed to let me share it with you.

Meanwhile, I do owe him that piece of porn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Soldiers' Whore

They are always there, Sir.
Day and night, they are always there.
Day and night, I hear them outside the door.
Shuffling their feet.
Joking among themselves.
Calling encouragement.
Cursing me for having someone else's cock shoved up my bleeding cunt.

I even hear their silence.
which scares me most of all.

Because whatever they feel, they act out with me.
And often what they feel, Sir, is anger.

They stride in looking tough.
It doesn't matter that by now I can see the truth behind their masks.
I suffer all the same.

The stream of men is so steady that usually I don't even make it out of the bed between one and the next. Which is part of my pain. In my body there is real pain. My cunt - how can I call something a pussy that receives no gentleness? - my cunt has been worn thin. Each thrust of invasion feels like sandpaper. I can't... I CAN'T... do I really have to talk about that part? I pretend it's not part of me, I no longer try to see what it looks like, I try so hard to forget that very early morning... a captain broke down the door during the 4 hours I'm granted for sleep... he was so angry that my one-woman whorehouse was closed that he fucked me with his pistol before tearing... they never healed... I scream when I shit... EVERY TIME I SHIT I CAN'T HELP SCREAMING!

They're so angry...

Not all of them. Some of them need softness. Give softness. They stroke my filthy, knotted hair, sometimes bringing a comb on their second or third visit, gently trying to comb out the knots... They try so hard... They try so hard to be gentle... They make me cry. I forget. I forget to keep my walls up. I cry on their shoulders and sometimes, for a minute or two, forget to be afraid.

I should never forget to be afraid.
Because the gentle ones...
They're the most dangerous.
Sooner or later, they snap.

I never know what will set them off.
But suddenly I'm being scolded.
Cursed.
My face is slapped.
Hard.
I hate that more than anything.
With all the things these men do to my body,
I hate those slaps most of all.
They leave bruises.
Such foolish pride.
I'm a whore.
I'm being fucked within an inch of my life.
And I hate for the men to see bruises on my face.

There are plenty of other bruises, of course.
Especially from the officers.
Who knew there were so many sadists in the officer's corps?

I have my regulars, Sir.
The ones who come to beat me.
They can't cum unless they beat me.
Some spank me with their palms.
Hard.
Right from the start.

Do I have to talk about this?
I really hate talking about this...

There are so many men...
So many sadists...
And the others, the ones who just lose control...

It's like my cunt, Sir.
My ass.
It never stops hurting.
My butt cheeks,
my formerly small and tight butthole,
they never have time to heal.
No one gets to see how pale and moonlike my ass can be.
Used to be.

That's one reason I almost never leave the bed, Sir.
Not just because there's no time between one horny soldier and the next.
But... what would I do?
My legs are weak.
And my butt too sore to sit...

It's hard to sleep, Sir.
I can't lie on my back.
And I can't lie on my belly...
They bite my breasts, Sir.
My nipples...

Why is it now that I start crying, Sir?! They were so beautiful, my tits! So soft and sweet and my nipples... I can't wear clothes any more, Sir... I can't stand the touch of the softest cloth, my breasts are so bruised and my nipples so raw and crusted with blood... I'm not a woman! I'm a punching bag! I'm holes! I'm whatever they want to imagine me to be.

And to the officers, Sir.
Those sadistic officers...
I'm a target.

They hurt me...
They're always hurting me...
And I can't even confess to anything to make them stop...


They slap me across the face.
They slap my breasts from side to side.
They... please... do I have to remember?
The pain...
When they punch me full hard in the belly...
And then cum on my body as I lie on the floor sobbing...
They punch me so hard that I fall off the floor.

And then I can't breathe.

If I'm lucky, one day soon one of them will kill me.

So you see, Sir?
The ones who whip my ass?
They're not so bad...

There, Sir.
I've answered your questions.
Was there anything else you wanted?
Do you want me to suck your cock?
Please, sir, if I'm really good,
and suck your cock,
and make you cum...

Could I have a small drink of water?

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.

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.

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