Cumming and crying and floating

If you'd been looking in the window,
if you'd been listening at the space beneath the door,
you might easily have thought
we were engaged in some sort of
transgressive,
incestuous
role play.

You'd have imagined him turning up and saying, "OK, pet, today we're going to play Daddy and his baby girl." Etc. And if that's what you're into - role playing - who am I to judge? As long as you know the difference between play - which can be hot - and real - which is utterly inexcusable and I'm going to count on you all to understand that we don't have to discuss this further here.

So yes.
If you'd watched
if you'd listened
if you'd hidden under the bed
and looked towards the mirrored closet doors
you'd have thought it was a game.

But no.

I think I've tried to explain this before, but today I'm getting the urge to try again. Because this was so deep, so strong, so important, and so cleansing.

We weren't playing.
This was real.
We were exercising - being - real parts of ourselves.
Ourselves on our own.
And ourselves with each other.

We were spreading salve on the wounds from our latest crisis, which was very scary but we're very dear to each other and we'll be ok. Still, we needed to be close in a way that laid our vulnerabilities out there on the table. Or the bed, as the case may be. For these couple of hours, there was no need to be strong and logical and competent. Especially not for me. I needed to be taken care of. And he needed to take care of me. To hold me.To let me know how precious I am to him. How special and precious. How much he needed to be with me.

I needed to cry.
I needed to cry in his arms while he held me.
And he gave me that, too.
Through an orgasm.

I don't usually get to cum when he visits. Sometimes he'll get me all aroused but won't let me cum. And I can't cum from fucking - not with him, not with anyone, it's happened only a handful of times in my whole life. But he does know how to get me to cum, and he did that today, holding me in his left arm while he touched my clitoris in that special sweet and gentle way. Tenderly. He touched me so tenderly. And I asked him and he said yes, Baby, it's all right, and I came in this arms and I cried, because I always cry when I cum but also I needed to cry, to cry in his arms while he held me, and I did, and he knew why I was crying, and his arms told me it was ok, that I was his, I'd never stop being his, he didn't have to say it, the only way his mouth said it was with his kisses, which suddenly weren't Daddy and baby girl kisses, suddenly they were passionate almost desperate kisses, between all the parts of him and all the parts of me and then he slid his cock inside me and now I'm remembering how sweet it was and I'm starting to drift away and go back to floating and I can't write when I'm like that so I'll stop now and just stay here on the couch, leaning back against the furniture arm instead of his arm while Marko snores on my legs and floating ...

On assignment

I'm writing for my Master tonight.
He knows that I've been writing again.
Writing here.
Writing at all.
And given that he owns me
he thinks - rightfully so -
that he has a right to some of my produce.
The fruits of his fields.

It's a collaborative effort. He is presenting me with little scenarios, each involving one of his friends, and I am to finish the scenes. He plants the seeds, partially sprouted, and I shine my light on them until they blossom into a small pornographic gem.

There is a bondage component to the exercise.
I am allowed only 3-4 sentences.
He is a cruel man, my Master.
It's not for nothing that I call him the sadist.
He is one.
In many different ways.

How lucky I am!

Are you a lurker? We all have our flaws...

I know you're out there.
It's OK.
I'm not mad.
I'm glad you're there.
I see your footprints and I feel reassured.
You didn't forget me.
You had faith.
You kept coming by until I came back.

Or else you're new here.
You stumbled onto the edge of the glade.
You heard me singing to myself and hid behind the tree to listen.

It's OK. I'm shy - and a bit of an exhibitionist. I pitch my singing just loud enough to be heard beyond the edge of the glade. So I'm glad you heard. I'm glad you stayed around to listen. To try to decipher what the hell I'm singing about. You even put up with my tears.

But everything comes at a price.
For old friends and new ones.
For the peeping toms, too,
directed to me by a perverted Google search.

So here's the price you have to pay.
Step out from behind the tree.
Admit that you're here.
You don't have to offer admiration.
Tell me I suck if that's the way you feel.
(I do suck, you know.
I suck cock.
I'm really very good at sucking cock.
I'm even learning to take it down my throat.
He's been training me.
He says I'm his good girl.
So sometimes I take it down.
And sometimes he shoves it down.
On Saturday.
He shoved it down.
Way down.
I'd never felt anything like that before.
He was very pleased.
And that's what it's all about, isn't it?
Giving pleasure.
Giving him - everything.)

Now we all know I'm not big on participating in kinky community activities. But I do get into this one. Which one? Oh right. I didn't say. It's Love Our Lurkers Day. Courtesy of Bonnie of My Bottom Smarts. Do check out her blog, as a small thank you for her efforts in making this day possible. And check out the list of other participating disreputable bloggers. You might come across some others that catch your fancy. Or, to be blunt, who turn you on. Just don't leave me for one of them, OK? I have a very strong fear of rejection...

Sometimes, he lets me cum

He let me cum today.

I asked yesterday.
After his visit.
After giving him what he needed so badly.

He said yes.
But not till today.
He enjoys knowing I'm masturbating for him.
But he also enjoys knowing I'm not masturbating.

He enjoys the power.

So it wasn't till today.
He rewarded his pussy.
He allowed me to touch his property.

And I did.
Gratefully.

He was watching the football game while miles away I was under the covers, half naked, my beloved little LELO Siri buzzing away against my clitoris. Oops. I mean, his clitoris. The whole day, I was aware that I would be touching myself for him. Cumming for him. And all day, he was aware of the same thing.


We have so many ways of being together when we're apart.
So many ways of feeling each other.
Touching each other.
And he has so many delicious ways of controlling me.

I thrive beneath his control.

Heart and cunt win again

Sometimes I think I'm sick.
Really.
Not just kinky.
Not just perverted.
But besieged by a merciless neurosis.

You should find someone else, he says periodically. Someone who can take care of you. I wish I could take care of you. I won't be able to take care of you. And he's right. Absolutely right. I do need someone to take care of me. I'm utterly broke, my physical health isn't so hot, my mental health is laden with diagnoses, and my job is worth doing if only for the insurance plan which gives me for free almost all of my pharmacopoeia of unusual size.

I should find someone I'd love in the ordinary sort of way. I love him. I do love him. But it's not the usual romantic sort of love. When I gaze into his eyes - and he insists that we hold each other's eyes, I get swatted if I close my eyes, he demands that constant connection - it's not the usual romantic connection. Not a swoony sort of thing. I don't have that swoony sort of lovey-dove feeling for him. He approaches the world in a strange sort of way, his friendliness comes with a helping of aggression, I wouldn't introduce him to my friends. He wouldn't fit with my gang.

I'd rather be with him.
This intense, possessive, tormented man.
He makes me feel safe.
Weird, no?
Says a whole lot about my upbringing.
It left me desperate for true intimacy.
And for acceptance.
Acceptance for what I actually am.
Encouragement to embrace my own reality.
Embraced for my own reality.
Admiration for my talent and beauty.
No one else ever talked about my being beautiful.

If I were smart, if my head could trump my... it's not even my heart, it's... it's my essence. If my head could trump my own essential truth, I'd be out looking for some rich guy to marry me and tell me I didn't have to work and he'd take me down to permanent sunshine from November through February and bring in someone to keep the house clean and neat because I'm clearly utterly incapable of doing that myself and I wouldn't have to worry about the prescription food for the cats or about spending my old age in a tent in the backyard with those cats while I rent out all 4 bedrooms in the house to pay the vet bills.

I turn 65 in February.

I stayed in my last marriage out of economic insecurity. I'd rather help the fiend embroider his fantasies of whoring me out to his friends than actually prostitute myself to another marriage as an albeit badly needed supplement to Social Security checks.

And no matter what happens in the future, I'll always have extraordinary memories of the hottest sex any almost-65 year old could possibly imagine.

The hottest sex most anyone could imagine, for that matter.

So there.
Take that, practicality.

"Relax. Breathe."

He does know how to take care of me.

Things are better today.
They were much worse.
And then almost amusing.
And then a sigh of relief.
And now,
it seems,
better.

I'm coming to believe that nothing can keep us apart.
That nothing can separate us.
That nothing can destroy us.
Except, maybe, our own stupidity.
Which,
I hope,
we can keep locked up in its own cell in the dungeon.

Another cliffhanger

We're living a soap opera.

Not, I know, a very surprising statement.

And the writers adhere to a very predictable pattern. Moments of happiness, ecstasy, or the sweetest of intimacies are invariably followed by catastrophe. A darkness. Disruption.  Misunderstandings. My Master goes off the deep end, often (in my eyes) an over-reaction but occasionally justified to some extent. Sometimes I do commit a grave sin, sometimes we're just seeing things differently, but whatever the root, it takes a long time to make our way back.

It too a long time to make our way back from the last time. When I did do something very bad, for which he would not consider  the cause. Still, I was very wrong, very thoughtless, very hurtful - I did hurt him very much, I take full responsibility, and it took a very long time to make our way back. It happened last July and only recently - was it just last Saturday? - did he welcome back into his arms his banished little girl.

And then catastrophe struck.

I won't tell you what happened.
I can't.
But I wouldn't.
I haven't signed a contract to reveal all.
There are things that should be private.

I'll tell you this, though.
It was all his fault.
And he knows it.
He says so.
Has apologized.
Taken the blame and said he was truly, truly sorry.
A number of times.
Which he usually doesn't.
It's a feature of his psychopathology.
He doesn't apologize.
But he is now.
And I know that's a big deal.

I'm not smiling here, you know.
No triumphal gloating.
I'd rather we were whole and blissful again
than endure this pain
that we both are suffering.

It's a matter of trust.
A lie.
Not an omission.
An actual lie.

I never walk away.
I can't.
I know that.

But I hurt. I worry about a part of me always staying slightly to the side, holding back, protecting my soft, vulnerable heart, never letting myself fully accept anything he says. There's a hard knot inside me, which could dissolve in tears at any time, and did dissolve at times throughout the day. I slip into feeling close and then am reminded and my stomach has been all queasy since Monday, I'll bet. I got the news on Monday, though something happened on Sunday...

Don't speculate, please.
Don't try to guess.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is making our way back.

We always do make our way back.
Which in itself is some sort of tribute.
Or else testimony to an odd folie à deux, 
a romantic delusion of five years' duration
that we are chained together,
both of us slaves in a Sisyphean chain-gang,
pushing the rocks up hill.
smashing them at the top,
only to trip on the debris and tumble down,
our bruised naked bodies all in a jumble
until we hit the bottom
where we piece back together our
battered hearts and painfully begin
to push them up the hill
closer to heaven
hoping the sun that we
shine on each other will
wash away our suffering
and bring us some peace.

You know what submissives are like

Desperately in need of reassurance.
Always.

Whether presenting our bodies for admiration, or abuse. Whether offering sexual pleasure or having pleasure wrested from us. Whether smiling prettily, sending sensual poems, or whispering phrases guaranteed to incite our owner to cum. We need reassurance that we are beautiful and sexy, clever and enchanting, small and soft and vulnerable and whatever else we are required to be.

Writers - especially those of us who bare our brains as well as baring our tits and ass - we can be the worst of all.

So thank you.
Thank you, old friends.
Thank you, my fans, as he likes to call you.
It's good to know you're out there.
Still or again.

And I'm sorry I'm so insecure that I had to summon you all now. Especially as I will surely do it again on Love Our Lurkers Day, which is coming up soon. Unless I forget. Because I do tend to forget things...

Except, see? I didn't forget to post today!

Good girl.

No new tales of torture today

Just stopping by to say hello.
Keeping up the rhythm.
Posting every day.
Well...
Almost every day.
Still, that's pretty good.
Though I could use some encouragement.
Any of my old readers out there?
Please wave your hands and say "Present."
At the very least.

We thank you for your participation.

And so,
good night.

o.g.

"He beat the talent out of you" - and his eyes shone with love

This could be about Daddy my Master:

Heaven and Hell, I would say. Hell in the sense that he didn't let you get away with anything. He pushed and he pushed you. He beat the talent out of you. He knew more about what you could give than you did. And that's not an easy environment to be around.

The Heaven is that he was most always right. And he pushed you to your best work. So if you could survive that day with [him], you walked out onto the street probably as tired as you've ever been - but with the pride of your life.

It could be - it is - about Daddy my Master. Even though it comes from an interview with the author of a new book about Bob Fosse.

(He wasn't like that today, though. He was sweet and soft and loving as he called me his baby girl for the first time in months. And he was so happy to hold his special little girl again that his mouth went all soft and sweet and his eyes shone as bright and loving as mine as he lowered himself down onto my body and his cock kissed my pussy and for two hours we were as happy as anyone in the world.)

On prosaic matters

My boss is gone.
Pushed out.
 
Happy me.


Yes.
I'm submissive.
Very much so.
But I don't grovel to just anyone.
I obey with respect.
Earned respect.
Which also means respect shown to me.

I'm looking forward to seeing what will happen next.
Meanwhile,
tomorrow,
Saturday,
I will suck my Master's cock.

Happy me.

On Hallowe'en

I turn up at his door.
Naked but for the chains.
An Orientalist fantasy come to life.
The exotic Jewess
with nothing concealed.

Trick or treat, I say.
Being both.

He hides me in the back of his
closet, a secret stash of sweets
saved for when the need
becomes too strong.

A pre-orgasmic lullaby of pain

Go ahead and scare me.

Make me face the ugly welcome truth that you won't stop no matter how hard I beg. There is no safe word. Why pretend? Why pretend you would obey? I'm the one who must obey.

Why pretend I want one?

Such a safe childhood I led. Such an overly safe childhood. Perhaps a handful of normal risks would have freed me from this urge to run into a burning building, ripping off my clothes as I dive into the flames. Ripping them off - into unquiltable scraps - so there is no chance of ever again covering my nakedness against singeing eyes.

So yes.
Scare me.
Go a little farther.
Show me his greedy face.
Let me see the hunger dripping from your fangs.
Give me a peek
before sleep
and the morning
send him back to his fury-fueled lair.
You know I can't help flirting with the beast.

You stayed his hand when together you whipped my butt. But later, as the night dripped on in its hours of love and desire and devotion and suffering, he pushed you away as he took the belt to my pussy. For a week the giant darkened patches of skin spoke to how hard I tried to keep my thighs apart, to accept the blows, to accept the pain, to offer pale protected skin and hidden lips and once even there on the altar my poor unprepared clit to the hard slash of the whipping belt and it was all worth it because you knew I was trying, you treasured the glorious sacrifice to your mastery and the leather and the pain whipped away the walls, the barriers, the misunderstandings, the months of private pain having nothing to do with belts across the ass and hard slaps to the face and nipple abuse that left those poor tender little red nubs of flesh chapped for days and days and how gladly I suffered for you and how valiantly you pushed me only a little past where I'd been before so that this time you just let yourself swim in the sweet soft honey soup of your pussy slave, your angel slave, all loving and gentle and more worshipful than ever as she wishes you could take your belt to her ass every evening after supper before you fucked her with love or raped her with need and now, I think, I'll take my reward and stroke my sweet pussy till I cum.

I love you, my Master.

I'm trying. I'm really trying.

I want to post something every day.
So I don't lose the habit.
So I don't lose it yet again.
Which is why I'm here posting nothing worth reading.

It's as if you, my improbably loyal readers, were the teacher. You call my name. I raise my hand and chirp "Present."

And then sleep through the rest of the class.

Sorry, gang.
See you tomorrow.

(This did get posted on Monday, 10/28, but I was so spaced out that I posted it to a different, private blog where I keep some poetry. So I'm re-posting it here on Tuesday but with Monday's date. I'm such a confused pet!)

About love and pain and cats

It's about cats.

It's not about cats.

It's called How to Pet a Kitty.
Until it could be called How to Love a Sadist.
When it's almost at the end.
When it talks about petting your kitty's belly.
And you know what can happen
when you try to pet a kitty's belly.
Even when the kitty offers her belly.

And that's when suddenly it's not just about cats:

Biting and clawing is a form of "love mauling."

The more pain they deal out,
the more they are trying to tell you
they love you.

Endure the pain
and do not stop petting your kitty.

Power to the butt plug

You would think he had hypnotized me.
Or cast a wizard's spell.
Or came from another planet
and transformed me with intergalactic vibrations.

But no.
Nothing so exotic.
Nothing more than plastic.
A little knob of purple silicone
shoved up my well-oiled ass.

It's not even that big, you know.
My little purple butt plug.
You've seen it.
You've read about it.
I've always liked it.
But now he's smitten with it.
Smitten with its power.

It turns me to jelly.

He orders me up onto the bed. On my hands and knees, head facing the head of the bed. Back arched to best present my little puckered ass hole to him. My little puckered ass hole which he swears is pink although it really doesn't look that young and pink to me but if that is how it appears to him who am I to argue because then he'll just beat me till I agree.

So I present my PINK butt hole, and (it seems) he coats a finger with K-Y and plunges it in and out of me to prepare me for entry and coats the pretty purple plug with more K-Y and pushes a few times till it pops past the stubborn outer gate and then thrusts hard so it is wedged inside me and then cranks it around as if he were truly screwing me and then fucks me with it and meanwhile I'm descending into I'm not sure where but it's somewhere I usually mustn't be because I must be alert and focused and thinking only of serving him and his cock and his pleasure but when he fucks me with the butt plug I am to give myself to the sensation and to its power which is his power and sometimes he sort of hits at it which doesn't actually hurt but instead nails it into me, intrudes on me, pounds a little and I feel each little thud of impact in my womb and I sink and I sink and if he kept it up I'd be flying so high he could torture me to death and I would welcome it and smile and thank him as my life slipped away.

But instead he eventually stops and raises me to my feet and I stand naked before him and raise my face towards his and offer my mouth and as we both know because it happens every time my mouth is so damn soft you'd think my lips were a mound of whipped cream but warm and moist and soft and yielding and right there is a testament to the beauty of his power and I look up into his eyes because he always wants my eyes and my eyes are glowing and he sees into me deeper than I even can see into myself and Yes. It was always thus. Butt plug or no. He has always seen into me and knows what I need and knows what I want and knows who I am and knows how to make the most of that and knows - as we both know - that I am dripping, melting, sopping wet.

And then he is inside me.

Just to reassure you...

I'm still here.
But sleepy.
Going to bed.
And tomorrow?
Saturday.
Shabbos.
My day of rest -
and of service.

Happy pet.

Good night, all.

I am naked. He is dressed.

That is how it usually is.
That is how we usually start.
I am naked.
He is dressed.

Sometimes, especially with the luxury of a hotel room, it might be different. I might be dressed in black bra and black panties and black heels when I open the door to him. Or - since his latest gift to me - very sheer black baby dolls. But usually - I am naked and he is dressed. And he stays dressed for quite a while.
 
Me: naked, small, and vulnerable.
My Master: fully dressed, strong and controlling,
his power throbbing above and around me.

I am naked.
He is dressed.
And there it is.
Encapsulated.
The physical manifestation of who and what and how we are.

Soft and moist and serving beneath the spray

Soft.

Sweet.

Moist.

 

No.

Not talking about my pussy this time.

It was a different sort of intimacy.

A morning shower.

Finally, after all these years.

All the yearning.

We had enough morning for me to serve him in the shower.

 

And no.

It was nothing like in my story.

He didn't fuck me.

Not in my ass.

Not in any other orifice.

He went into the bathroom,

and allowed me to enter,

and bade me run the shower

and to follow him into the shower.

 

And I knelt down under the little bit of spray that slipped past his body, and washed him with the soap in my hands, and washed him with my bare soapy hands, and took in my hands his poor tired cock, and washed with my hands his sweet worn-out cock, which had worked so hard all through the evening and most of the night and again in the morning before he allowed me to join him in the shower

to join him in the shower
and worship him under the spray.

Pain and joy and submission.

Nothing much to report.
Bruises are fading, though still dramatic.
And I wrote the first draft of a poem.

It's been a while.
The poem.
And it felt good.
A relief.

The spanking.
The whipping.
The hair brush that broke after just a few swats.
The hard slaps to my face that did not leave a mark.
I can never understand why they don't leave a mark.
And I hate...
I hate that I respond to it.

See? I guess there is something to report... 

There have been changes during these many quiet months. The relationship has evolved over time. Deepened. Survived more of our usual crises. Survived crises in our other lives. In what you might think to call the real world but to me only the hours we spend together are the real world and the rest is the illusion that provides a structure of practicality within which our real world exists.

I won't talk about the complications of his life except to say that there was no way they couldn't affect our own interactions. As for me, my mom had a stroke a year and a half ago and finally died late last June. It was time. And a relief. My dad is still alive, edging towards a hundred, with creeping dementia. He's become a lot sweeter though, and I know I'll mourn him when he's gone. I even wish I lived closer, which is a first. So few years of a good relationship. Too few years. But better than nothing.

I became unhappy at my job, because my department head was micromanaging me until I couldn't breathe. And now - poof! - he was forced out. Happy me! No guarantee how things will turn out, but at least one sure bad thing will be gone in a week and a half. And so. I repeat. Happy me.

Happy pet.

Which goes back to last weekend.
Punishment.
Correction.
Training.
I did something quite bad.
Thoughtless.
Explainable.
But he doesn't take explanations.
And anyway, I should have known better.
The bad thing happened last July.
We're slowly working our way back.
And then I...
It doesn't matter really.
A small thing but a telling thing.
So the whipping.
And all the rest.
Punishment and correction and training.
And eventually just for his pleasure.

In the end, it worked. Not just to convey the lesson, but also to cleanse me. To center me. To beat out of me all the accumulated emotional debris as well as the dust bunnies and fog clouding my (his words) beautiful brain.

A deepening of my submission.
An appreciation.

Because the beauty, the glory, the transcendence of such an abuse of my body is not the pain - although I do admit that up to a point (quickly reached) there is some measure of pleasure in it and - here comes the part that always embarrasses me and perhaps some of you as well - I grow sloppy wet as he beats and pinches and whips and slaps and... But the true beauty of it all, the part that feels best of all, is the submission. The offering. The acceptance. So that even as he brings his whipping belt down hard (for me) on the sensitive, vulnerable, screaming tissues of my sweet pink pussy, I try ever so hard to keep my legs open and accept whatever his own pain and desire drive him to do to me. And later, after, lying close and soft and warm next to his sated body, listening to the murmurings of his for-now eased mind, I feel the joy of having yielded to him everything I am. Of having given him everything in irrational and unlimited trust.

And my reward is the safety and comfort of the sadly not physical cage in which he keeps me, and the hours lying beside him with his collar around my neck.

PS - No. He most certainly did not allow me to cum, although he deliberately brought me very close.

Hairbrush research continues (plus tales of my whipping)

I'm passing your comments on, of course.

From the hairbrush-as-hairbrush point of view, it sounds like a combination of natural and plastic bristles is recommended, given that my hair is thick and wavy/curly. Not the very thickest or curliest kind of hair, but it definitely has a good bit of texture of its own.

The reason the other one broke is that it was not a solid piece. Oh, and it was cheap, but that wasn't the real problem. The head flew off the handle. We were in the bathroom of the hotel room. He did get a lot of pleasure out of my poor bottom. His hand, his belt, my hairbrush... Even my collar when he momentarily couldn't find the belt!

He used the belt as a whip this time. Usually, I think, he folds it in half. But this time I had to pull the loose tale through the buckle, after which he wrapped it around his fist a few times before whipping me for long spells and at various times.

Long spells for him, anyway. Most of my spankings and beatings and canings and such have been relatively short, except as punishment/correction/training. Which much of this was. Until later, when he whipped me purely for his pleasure.

I think that when he whipped my pussy it was for his pleasure.

Plus he needed to whip me.
He needed to hurt me.
He needed to hurt me,
and then held back from hurting me as much as he wanted to.

I knew he needed it.
And I knew that I needed it, too.

And today?
I have a collection of very impressive bruises
(poor Pussy isn't looking very pink today)
and I feel very calm
and very centered
and very, very owned.

Wanted: a consumer study of hairbrush durability

He broke my hairbrush on my ass.
And was quite distressed.
Wants to buy me a new brush.
Strong enough not to break on my ass.
Are there reviews that address this issue?
All suggestions are welcome.

Five Years

She smiles.

The serenade

Before the avowal.
Before we went up to the room.
Still sitting across from each other at dinner.
He sang to me.

This.



I was used to his telling me that he loved me with offerings of songs. Songs about which he no longer offered unconvincing disclaimers. Now don't go reading anything into the lyrics, he'd say.

Disclaimers which I never once believed.
And which he didn't offer this time.

I admit to a tear or two as he sang this song- which I'd never heard before. But I never expected the confession that came later.

Not complaining, though.

Those three words?

He said them.

To me it's still Tuesday

My iPhone says it's Wednesday.
The computer says it's Wednesday.
But reality says it's Tuesday night.
So the hell with technicalities.
It's Tuesday night and here's my little post
and my bags are nearly packed
despite Ketzel's pleading look
and well-placed sprawl
with which she hoped to prevent my departure.

And so to sleep.

And then
to Nashville.

Good night, all.

A lesson for myself

So here I am. Trying to get back to blogging regularly, to get back to writing, with more concern about regularity than about the quality of what I produce. (Note, please, how I hold back the urge towards scatological word play as I see the previous sentence take shape - and how I cheat by pointing out the lurking pun. Another sign of how I was designed to have a master.)

Where was I?
I'm so easily distracted.

I want to blog daily.
I failed on the third day.
Here comes the challenge.
Another temptation to fight.

Just because on the third day I couldn't manage to create even a small gathering of words, let alone earth and plants and all that grand stuff, doesn't mean I should walk away from my ever so meager project. So today I'm back.

And again
I hope
tomorrow.

And Wednesday?

I'm off to Nashville!

Making an effort

Can I do it?
Can I return here each day?
Can I leave a little note
just to say I was here,
like the memories of kisses
and the blush of spanked buttocks
that remain behind when the man
departs
and scents and love linger?
At least
I can try.

Discipline is good for me.
That we know.

Maybe...

Maybe it doesn't have to be a big thing.
Maybe I don't have to wait
for lots of time and thunder rolls that
herald inspiration's unexpected arrival.
Maybe just hello
and I'm ok
and life goes on
and today he spoke of marble floors
and private chambers,
iron gates and metal doors
inspired by something he did for work
and there's peace and comfort
and piercing excitement
and wanting
and needing
and loving securely
and really.
Isn't that enough?

Birthday presents

His presents.

His presemce.

An orgasm.

A collar.
Black leather.
Martha Stewart.
From PetSmart.

His smile.

Who could ask for anything more.

For me

For me.
He shaved extra close.
Before he came
to my house
and my bed.

For me.
For him.
For us.