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.