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.