submission & metaphor

Rapprochement

2012-01-24T21:04:00.000-05:00

We're talking again.
I had hurt him.
It amazes me that I can hurt him.

It moves me.
Frightens me.

But maybe...
when his attentions have been so scarce...
it's important for me to be reminded.

Mouthing off

2012-01-23T22:22:00.000-05:00

That's what I'm not going to do.
I'm not going to start spewing frustration.
I'm not going to offer any snarky psychological analyses.

I'm just going to mentally pace, saying everything inside my head, but I'm not going to write any of it here. And you know why? Not because someone might recognize him from his behaviour patterns. And not because any of the small handful of readers who do know who he is would find out things about him that maybe they shouldn't. And not because I'm afraid he would read what I have to say. Because he told me he no longer reads here. And I believe him.

I'm not going to say all the things roiling around in my head because I love him and am committed to him and all this - the realities of our lives and our emotions and insecurities - is frankly none of your business.

But that doesn't stop the thoughts.
Or the steam coming out of my ears.

Or other stuff coming out.

I'll let you know when things get sorted out.

Insecurity

2012-01-22T21:15:00.000-05:00

Things have been very quiet here lately.
"Here" being not just these pages.
(Can I refer to pages in a web-based journal?)
"Here" also means the world I occupy with the sadist.

Every year, personal demands erode his availability for a 2-month stretch between mid-November and mid-January. The situation was worsened by the happy circumstance of my finally returning to work - which has meant we haven't seen each other in weeks.

I've been worried.

I've been worried about what the lack of a regular meeting schedule will mean. But now I'm worried about something else. Maybe it's unnecessary worry. A result of my lack of self-confidence. Of my insecurity, which can't help sticking its ugly head out of the ground when I'm not getting enough reassurance of what I'm worth to someone else.

His words have been scarce.
Thus, so has the reassurance.

As of today, though, the 2-months is over. Which means, for him, fewer demands and less of a particular kind of stress. There is still the issue of finding intersecting times in our schedules for visits, and the loss of regular meetings continues to disturb me.

But there's something else.
The near silence.
Day after day of no more than a few words from him.

It's the loss of that interaction which worries me now most of all.
Because words were the foundation of everything.
And words can always be there even when his cock can't be in my mouth.

This is the closest I get to jealousy. I know there are others. I've met three, and know of at least two more. Plus he has projects. Someone always seems to be catching his eyes or his mind. It doesn't matter. I knew what I was to him. I was happy and secure. But now the near-silence scares me. I worry that it's not just because he's so busy with things I know about. I worry that someone new is distracting him, getting special attention, intriguing him, reducing his desire for me.

It's silly, I know.

Our relationship has evolved through so many stages in nearly three and a half years. There have surely been some particularly intriguing additions to his collection of submissives during that time, whether temporary or permanent, and yet we continued, fighting our way through every near-catastrophe. I'm probably worrying over nothing, distorting the situation because of the loss of our regular meetings.

Because I'm back at work and happy there and I have other things to think about and am not obsessing about him every minute of the day.

I'm scared.
I'm insecure.
And there's nothing I can do
except wait.
Wait
and hope
the words come back.

Of lovers and friends i still can recall

2012-01-16T22:02:00.003-05:00

I'm back.
I was in New York.
New York City.
Brooklyn, actually.
Up for a big, wild, 2-day music festival.
And to stay with a friend.
A guy.
He likes me.

We've known each other for years, flirted for years, were lovers for a while but not a pair, if you know what I mean. It would have been so convenient if it had worked. Efficient. We're part of the same crowd, albeit a geographically scattered one.

I like him.
We like each other.
We're fond of each other, actually.
And the sexual tension had gotten really high back then.
But the truth is, the sex wasn't all that hot.
Even on a vanilla scale.
And for a relationship...
Well, he can be kind of crotchety.
Maybe more so as he's gotten older.
Which he has.
He's 10 years older than me.
But he's always drawn women to him.
Curious.
And always younger women.
Much younger women.

He wants to start things up again.
Wanted to have sex again, anyway.
I think it was last year.
And I turned him down.

Boy that felt good! To be the one in control. The one with power. Though I was sad in a way. I'd like to be close to him. But, as I said, the sex wasn't that good. And - even more important - it would risk messing up our relationship, which is what happened last time. I was hurt in a way last time, to which he was oblivious, and it took a while for things to become comfortable again. Which they very much are now. I'd love things to be physical without full-scale sex. To be physically affection, which we are to an extent, but maybe more. Snuggling. That would be nice...

The sadist was not happy last year when he found out I'd turned down an overture.

That I'd turned down... I guess I should give the guy a blog name. "Ralph" should do.

Anyway, the sadist is convinced I was created to give men sexual pleasure, and was duly pissed last year that I had turned down both Ralph and S---. So I did resume fucking S--- when he was here last year, and that was a good thing to do, but am being stubborn about Ralph because I care for him and don't want to fuck things up through fucking.

Still, it was nice to see him, and (in the house with plus-or-minus 10 other people depending on the night) we were comfortable and affectionate.

It was a good weekend.

There was one odd moment, seeing at the festival another old friend, male, who was widowed exactly 1 year ago. He asked if my significant other was into dancing. I thought of the sadist, about whom no one knows and to whom I would never think of applying the term "significant other." Then I realized the friend was referring back to the philosopher, who did come with me to the festival one January, a little less than a year after we met on line. It would have been nice to have seen him while I was up in New York. And then, after the festival was over but before I came home, I got a message from him asking if I'd gone. And later, saying he wished he'd known sooner, we cold have met for lunch. I hadn't told him... I felt shy about it... not wanting to put him on the spot, not wanting to be turned down if he didn't want to see me. I'm sorry now for feeling shy. I like him. I truly enjoyed his company. I was very happy for the time we spent together. Even leaving out the D/s, which perhaps I felt more strongly and more consistently than he did. I was happy being with him, and happy to learn what it was like to be friends with someone I loved. To spend time really together.

It would be nice to go back up to New York just to visit people.

The philosopher would be on the list.
The list of friends.
Whether or not lovers.

Friends are precious, and should not be lightly tossed aside.
Especially redheaded Irishmen.

I'm afraid

2012-01-07T23:28:00.000-05:00

Is it unfounded?
Hallucinatory?
Hormone-based insecurity?

It suddenly washed over me today - the fear, the sadness, the despair, the conviction that the change in schedule means the end of our relationship as it has been developing for well over 3 years. As it has stubbornly persisted and grown in spite of our intensity - or perhaps because of it. As we've battled each other and ourselves. As we've come so close and wanted so much that we've run screaming and then returned because we couldn't stay away.

There is so much of our brains involved in what we have, our minds, our creativity, the special mental connection that makes what we have so different... but it's the physical that blasts down the walls and both fires and soothes us.

When he's so busy -
when I'm so tired -
when we can't touch each other for weeks at a time -
can it last?

Or will I lapse into being just one of the many he has to choose from when he needs amusement?

I don't know.
And I'm afraid to find out.

Daddy likes to share his toys

2012-01-05T20:55:00.000-05:00

They're salivating at the thought of me.
There's a gang of "old guys" salivating at the thought of me.
The thought of getting their hands on me.
The thought of getting their cocks in me.

And the sadist is quite delighted at getting to watch.
Delighted?
He's hot.
I could probably get him to cum just by talking about it.

He loves to think of watching them admire me.
Inspect me.
Poke and prod and explore me.
Spank my lovely pale white ass.
Fuck me in every possible hole.
Sit back and revel in the services of my expert mouth.
My tongue.
My teeth.
My lips.

He wants to see me work hard to please them.
He wants to see me suffer.
To see me reduced to a thing.
And he'll know.
He'll know it's all for him.
That I'm doing it all for his pleasure.
Because I love him.
Because he owns me.
Because he wants it.
And if he wants it,
then so do I.

(And the guys? They're pretty excited, too. Though I won't service them all right away. We're working up to it. The first event will be me and Daddy and the ringleader and his male sub. Date not set yet - my new employment status has made scheduling more difficult, as a weekday afternoon encounter had been under discussion. But I expect within the month. And yes - though you didn't ask - he declared condoms de rigueur. After all. I'm his property. I'm his baby girl. A Daddy like to look after his baby girl.)

Being his little whore

2012-01-03T22:19:00.000-05:00

He wanted his whore today.
Which has its advantages.
His whore's nose doesn't need blowing.
As opposed to his little girl's nose.
Or his emotional pet's nose.
There was none of that.
No crying.
No mooning.
No mourning the fact that this was our last Tuesday.

Which doesn't necessarily mean we won't have long visits any more. He says that quite a number of my Saturdays will be devoted to serving his pleasure. But no more regular thing.

I'm not worried, though.
I'm really not.
I feel calm.
Secure.
Treasured.
Happy.

And tomorrow I start my new job for real.
I start my job,
and my brain is waking up from its SADdened stupor,
and Daddy was VERY understanding about the effect of the SAD.

He challenged me today.
He said he wanted his whore.
Focused.
Detached
Working for him.
Working for his pleasure.
But he wanted to see me struggle.
And he's a tease.
He is.

So while I was trying to stay focused and detached, he was saying things with his mouth... with his lips... with his tongue... and he gave me that happy, contented smile when I said how hard it was not to yield to my feelings...

I hear Allison Krauss...

"You say it best when you say nothing at all."

And after.

After he came, which he badly needed, we sat and talked for a long time. About the holidays, and his hometown, and an old friend, and developing plans for him to share me with a Dom friend of his. With the Dom and his male sub. And about the possibility of taking me away to a beach town, and whether he'll let me sleep between his legs with my mouth by his cock.

[she sighs happily and wriggles at the thought]

And about the absolutely perfect framed print that he gave me for my office.
The print that was his.
Actually, it's still his.
Which is even better.
It will be his presence in my office.
There's no face in the picture.
But I'll feel his eyes on me,
as if the frame contained a small hidden camera.
So he can keep his eyes on his property.

On his treasure.

I am his treasure.

And he is my everything.

Drowning in snot

2011-12-29T18:10:00.000-05:00

Wish I could make that headline sound like some kinky and particularly disgusting form of torture, but no. Creative as he is, the sadist's brain didn't cook up this one. It's just a cold. The kind that feels like a faucet opened all the way, sending not a drip but a hard, steady stream of thin snot rushing from my head down through my nasal passages and out through my now sore-from-blowing nostrils.

Oh woe is me.

I'm prone to getting this particular cold this time of year.

I just hope I wasn't already contagious when Daddy was here Tuesday.
I'm not supposed to give him my colds.

Just imagine the spanking I would get if I did?!

Floating beyond the pain

2011-12-27T21:45:00.000-05:00

I admit that I was nervous about the pain.
A hard spanking, he said it would be.
A hard spanking, right after he arrived.

That was the tricky part.
Things always hurt more right after he arrives.

People write about warm-ups.
Starting slowly, carefully, building up to the harder pain.
But his warm-ups aren't physical.
He takes me to that place with his kisses.
With his touches.
With his words.
And then, when he spanks me,
just two or three smacks to each pale butt cheek,
I can sense the strength of impact,
but don't feel the pain that should be there.

Today, though, there would be no preparation.
He would sit back against the pillows
and beckon me to lie across his lap.
He would admire my bottom,
soft and round and pale and vulnerable.
And then there would be the spanking.
A long, hard, deliberate spanking,
for no other reason than his pleasure.

But then, something happened.
As I waited for his arrival,
reviewing my notes on how best to serve his cock with my hand,
something happened.

As he drew nearer to the house, the e-mails flew.
Mainly from me.
A continuation of the foreplay that had begun yesterday.

I'm both afraid and aroused, Daddy.

then you are prepared

I think that's what triggered it.
What sent me to that place.

I kept writing.

Yes, Daddy.

I do know this is how you want me to be.

Trembling and longing.

My mouth is watering, Daddy.
My pussy mouth.
And my mouth that is pussy.

I am soft, Daddy.
Soft
and warm
and vulnerable.

hold that thought . think 'this is how he wants me '.

And this is how I am.

And that is how I was.
He sent me to that place with three short sentences.

And I was so deep into that place by the time he arrived that even that first hard blow from the palm of his hand on the tender flesh of my ass didn't register as the the pain which should have come from the assault he had delivered. Again and again he hit me, maybe 5 or 6 times on one cheek before switching to the other, then a pause for words, for admiration, and the spanking continued, with only an occasional true cry of "Daddy! you're hurting me!!" No automatic attempts to squirm away, no unconscious leg kicking to siphon off the pain... the latter came later, downstairs, on the futon, was it from when he whipped me with his belt or, earlier, when he beat me with that nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane? No, wait, the caning came later I think, though not a lot of blows, when I was sucking his cock, I think. The details have grown fuzzy.

The belt did hurt.
Though not as much as it should have.
And the cane...
But he worked hard to control himself there.
He hadn't meant to use the cane.
It was the beast who reached for the cane,
though Daddy was able to control the beast's arm.
It hurt just enough.
For Daddy and for me.
Just enough.

But a lot of time was spent kissing.
My offering my mouth
soft and moist and receptive
for him to take his pleasure.
And the chain was tight around my neck
and then the belt was looped around my neck
and I felt all owned and possessed
and knew I was truly his property
and I was floating and serving
and I'm still very high
except now I can tell
he did really hurt me
because my butt really hurts
and there are welts from that nasty strip of wood

And every blow was a kiss.

And hours later, I am still in that place.

How very lucky I am!

Pain on the horizon

2011-12-26T18:09:00.000-05:00

It has been promised.
It has been decreed.
Tomorrow he will arrive.
He will stride into the house.
He will stride into my bedroom.
He will settle on the bed
with his back against the headboard.
He will take me across his lap,
my naked belly pressed against his fully-clothed lap.
And then,
for his pleasure,
because he wants to,
because he wants me,

He will spank me.

Hard.

Sometimes a spanking is another form of embrace.

"You're higher than a kite!"

2011-12-25T13:58:00.000-05:00

He tasted all the flavours of my tears today.
He wanted me to tell you that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Written last Tuesday, after a truly sweet and long time together. I meant to write more, but it somehow never happened. He soothed and banished my grief and fears over the changes to come, with reassurances in words and kisses and especially in his eyes that nothing of what we are will be lost. And there was his hand and the belt and even the nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane along with the kisses and the words in his eyes and then his fingers on my pussy and the belt on my pussy and it was all wonderful and close and rich and I'm happy but it's too soon after the solstice for my brain to have kicked back in again so this is all you get. And I know that today he is thinking of me. His poet. His pet. His sweet little girl.

Who was, in fact, higher than a kite.
As he said.

And today?
For me, a good movie and way too much Chinese food lie ahead.
With the lighting of the menorah on the restaurant table.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate.
However you celebrate.

With love.
Always love.
o.g.

Happy Chanukah!

2011-12-20T22:31:00.000-05:00

And yes, we did celebrate. After all, Chanukah is the Festival of Lights, and my eyes were shining and my ass was glowing by the time he left. His eyes were shining, too, and the most beautiful smile lit his face.

More details tomorrow.
But I go into work tomorrow and must go to bed early.

For now, this:
He is changing things around in his schedule.
We will still see each other regularly.
He won't let my place in his life slip away.

I belong to him.
And I am blissfully happy.

So there's good news and bad news

2011-12-15T20:30:00.000-05:00

Everything is complicated.
Always.
Complicated.

The good news is clear enough.
I've gotten a job!!
Good work,
lousy money,
reasonable benefits,
GREAT holiday schedule.
And a very short commute.
Although not as short as my last job.

And there's the problem.
Anyone remember what happened with my last job?
Anyone remember
my Tuesday lunches?
When it wasn't sandwiches that filled my mouth?

I would race home,
strip off my clothes,
pop open the futon,
lay out the implements,
and greet him naked at the door.

Invariably, I was late getting back to the office.
But at least our snatched half hours were feasible.

And then I was laid off.
And our trysts stretched to one hour.
Two.
Even three hours now and then.
Every week.
Every Wednesday.
Until his schedule changed.
Then it was every Tuesday.

And now?
Not possible.
I won't be far from home.
But not close enough for a weekly lunchtime quickie.

And besides.
Now we're spoiled.
Very spoiled.
We've eaten of the fruit.
Such sweet fruit.
Sweet and tart and slightly poisonous,
leaving our lips hot and soft and moist
and red-stained with desire.

We're spoiled.
And I worry about how things might change
when the intensity of frequency is lost.

The sadist orders me not to worry.
And says he is already contemplating options.
Considering ways to make up for our missed Tuesdays.

So I try to have faith
and then smile
and remember
that this man who owns me
body and soul
always gets
whatever he wants.

I suck the sadist's mental cock as motorcade delays blowjob

2011-12-13T22:08:00.000-05:00

He was stuck in front of the White House.
He was on his way to get his cock sucked
and he was stuck in front of the White House.

We get that here in DC.
Motorcades and helicopters,
police escorts and unexpected traffic.

I hear about a speech in the Rose Garden and I can feel it happening, 9 miles down the road. The reporter comments on the weather but I already know what it is, I only have to look out the window and I know we're under the same sun, the same clouds, the same threat of economic disaster.

He had projected an arrival between noon and 1 pm. Last week he was held up by rain-delayed traffic. Today was clear and cold, bright sun smiling down on a city preparing for Christmas as the unemployed try for a second year to sneak a couple of gifts into their struggling budgets. The sun was shining. Anything seemed possible.

Surely, today, he'll have plenty of time to enjoy the services of his devoted pet?

Not so fast.
In fact, not fast at all.

At 12:55, he projects a 1:20 arrival.
Ha.
Five minutes later, everything stops.

1:15.
He's been stuck at the same light near the White House for 15 minutes.
People start getting out of their cars.

At least we can text.
Illegal for him but what the hell.
He certainly isn't going anywhere.

Poor Daddy. Too bad your pet isn't with you. Though maybe not a good place to have your cock sucked in the car.

I check out the Washington Post on line. The sadist reports a motorcade. I eventually figure out that Obama must be coming back from a speech to campaign workers at a nearby hotel. At 1:25, cars start moving again.

Poor Daddy indeed. If he wasn't stressed out before, he surely must be now. The visit will have to be cut short. Again. Sometimes it seems as if we are being punished for the luxury of that perfect hotel night. We're being charged for it, forced to pay it back, minute for minute.

Still, there are ways I can serve him in absentia.
Not with my hand.
Not with my mouth.
But with my mind.
My pussy mind.
I'll lick and suck him with my mind.

Feel my tits pressing into your belly. Feel my belly pressing against your cock. I am with you, Sir. Breathe deeply and you will smell me.

My tongue whispers in your ear. I am waiting. I am always waiting. I live in standby mode, a little red light on the tip of my clit signalling readiness.

My pale butt cheeks rise before your eyes, blocking the view of cars and politicians. You feel yourself being sucked into my tight moaning butt hole.

You feel me on the seat beside you. Touch yourself, you say. Reach under your dress to your soft bare pussy and touch yourself for me.

Taste yourself, you say. Taste how you melt from knowing you are mine.

Touch me, you say. Run your fingers over my cock as it groans within my jeans.

Suck me, you say. Imagine away these bucket seats. Spread your obedient body across the bench seat and fasten your sweet soft mouth on my demanding dick.

Show your bare ass to the waiting cars and the now distracted Secret Service. Brighten their day. Give them food for torrid dreams. Let them dream. You are mine.

Are you moving yet, Daddy?

Eta 2:00.

Thank you, Sir. I await. Twitching.

If you must be stuck in traffic, it's good to have a reliable stress reliever waiting at the end of the trip.

I am very reliable.
And when he left me, he felt very good indeed.
It was the least I could do.
As for me -
I get to masturbate tonight.
Daddy had the pleasure of giving me the spanking I needed.
And he gnawed into my neck a beautiful mark.

Good thing it's cold enough for turtleneck sweaters!

Surrender

2011-12-11T18:22:00.001-05:00

In the end, it was nothing more than hubris.
Why should I surpass Odysseus
in managing to flee my fate?

I bragged.
Sure, I'm sluggish.
Yes, I'm eating all the wrong things
and plenty thereof.
Me and the squirrels outside my window.
Fattening ourselves up for winter survival.
But no depression.
Not me.
Not this year.

Ha!

Like the sadist himself, SAD is a predator, watching his prey, gauging vulnerability, watching for the little drops of blood left like breadcrumbs by the unseeing victim, complacent in her seeming safety from the worst of his tortures. He plays with her, swatting her across the floor, leaving little scratches while holding back from the last hard blow to the head before sinking his teeth into her jugular.

He knows just the right spot.
He pierces it year after year,
sucking out her soul,
deadening her eyes.

He knows she'll rise again in Spring.
But the wounds never wholly heal.
And unlike the cats
who mourn the loss of each mouse killed,
he knows he'll have his favorite prey
to play with once again come Fall.

Year

after year

after year.

The Solstice can't come soon enough.

Perfect

2011-12-06T18:18:00.001-05:00

He was, indeed, horribly horny.
Very horny and very short of time.
Rain.
Traffic.
Business complications.

In the end, he had barely an hour.
Meaning I had barely an hour.
An hour to make him feel very, very good.

I felt his stress start to drain away. I stood naked against the wall as he pressed his clothed body into my nakedness and I felt the stress start to drain away. Even in his urgency, I felt him relax.

His hands were soft as they touched me.
As they caressed me.
I could feel what he tasted
as his fingers drank the softness of my breasts.
I could feel what he smelled
as his hands inhaled the pallor of my belly.
I could feel what he heard
as his fist listened to the flow of my hair.

And I heard what he felt as I bathed in the noises he insists, with a smile, that he does not make as I kissed him and licked him and sucked him and jerked him and he poured everything into my hand.

Everything.
Far more than the flow of semen that I welcome as the sacrament it is.

"Perfect," he said.
"There is no such thing as perfection," I said.
"But you were," he said.
"Perfect," he said.
"My perfect pet."

And I sighed in pure joy as, still on the floor at his feet, I rested my happy head in his lap and melted beneath his hand as, so softly, so gently, it caressed my grateful hair,

Strangled

2011-12-04T18:15:00.000-05:00

I've lost my voice.
Oh, not physically.
Mentally.

I'm being strangled by SAD.

Strangled... the sadist had his hand very tight around my neck last Tuesday. After I had made my confession. After he had whipped me with his belt as I was down on my hands and knees on the futon, every part of me draped in my nun's habit.

Every part of me but my reddening butt, now adorned with the stripes of pain and penance left by his belt.

It was after that.
As I knelt before him to serve his pleasure.

After I had stripped off the pieces of the habit.
Slowly stripped off the black and the white and the yards of black.
Stripping before his eyes.
Letting the long dress drop to my feet.
Revealing my nakedness beneath.

I was naked in so many ways.

But I digress.
I'd much rather be strangled by his large, firm hand.
It somehow makes me feel safe as it circles my throat.
As I hear myself gasp for air.
Or gurgle.
This time I was gurgling.

Being strangled by SAD does not make me feel safe.
I am its prisoner.
And not in a good way.
There is no affection in its stranglehold.
And I return none.

You might say there is intimacy, as we live close together for a few months each year. We are so close that when SAD moves in I see everything through its eyes. And even when it isn't here, I feel it looming. Breathing on my neck. When it finally leaves, its soft seductive voice breathes into my ear: "I'll be back." And I know it will.

Yes, its voice is seductive.
It draws me down into sleep.
Sleep from which I never quite awaken.
Sleep.
Stupor.
A mind that is dulled by the shortened days.
Even today, when the sun was dancing.
Laughing.
Beckoning.
Come! it smiled.
Come out and play with me.
But I lay on the couch as if drugged.
I lay there with Ketzel on my belly.
And I slept like a cat.

Perhaps today that was from hormones.
Could be.
They play games with me,
coming and going so fast that I sense no cycle.
But whatever it was,
I lost another day.

Still, I should be grateful. The SAD held off, and didn't fully move in until now. Except for the sabotage of grey skies, it should start moving out by the end of the month. At first it will move out slowly. A fork one day, then a pile of towels, eventually a box of books. But it will move out. Until suddenly, in March or April, I'll be unbearably bouncy.

My manic season is short.
But I love it.
My compensation prize.

For now, though, I'm dulled and sleepy, soft and vulnerable, struggling to get through the day, and excited only by thoughts of the sadist and his kisses and the leather belt which now hangs in the closet with the belts that I wear.

I think of the leather belt.
I feel its tail gently whipping my pussy.
I feel its weight landing hard and sharp on my ass.

And I ponder the teasing morsels the sadist is feeding me about a plan which seems to be drawing nearer to being realized.

A plan?
What plan, you wonder.

Ha!
The sadist isn't the only one who can tease, you know.

Daddy's nun fetish

2011-11-29T21:24:00.001-05:00

The sadist has a thing for nuns.
I've known about it almost as long as I've known him.
Since maybe a day or two after he found me.

Nuns.
I'm a naive thing.
I didn't know people had nun fetishes.

People probably have fetishes about everything.

Anyway.
It fascinated me.
Intrigued me.
To be swathed in a full nun's habit.
To be innocent.
Maybe.
Bent over.
Butt exposed.
Soft white buttocks whipped.
To be despoiled.
Raped.

I absorbed his fantasies into myself.

And I wanted to please him.
I've always wanted to please him.

So pretty early on, I decided I would somehow have to get my hands on a nun's habit. Get my soft white Jewess body into a nun's habit. Note: I hate that word. Jewess. It feels dehumanizing. But it turns the sadist on. And I play to his desires. His fetishes. Which gets us back to the nuns. The habit. Where the hell was I going to get a nun's habit? A real one?

And then I mentioned it to one of you. She used to comment as jcn and now has a profile but I can't remember what name she uses. Anyway, she said she had a friend who was a nun who was trying on the case. And then someone came into where she works and asked if anyone could use a nun's costume. A good one.

That was this summer.
Today, the sadist got to see it.
With me in it.
And then not in it.

I've said that we don't "play." We don't role play either. There are different aspects to our relationship, to how we are with each other, to the needs we serve for each other. Emotional needs. Sexual needs.

This.
Me in the nun's habit.
What he did to me.
It was the closest to role play as we've ever gotten.

But it was more than that. Far more. Oh yes. You could call it a scene. A scenario. But it was also a ritual. A ritual we both needed. I was to make confession. To think, to search, to self-examine. To open. To offer.

Confession.
Penance.
Absolution.

This morning, as I finished compiling the list, it suddenly hit me.
All my failings.
All my faults.
All my weaknesses.

I was devastated.
Distraught.
And later, as I began to read it to him,
swathed in the very convincing
and totally obscuring
nun's habit,
I started to cry.
And sob.
It was a true confession.
From the heart.

When he talked to me about it beforehand, while I was away for Thanksgiving, he reassured me that it was just a fine-tuning. Not an engine replacement. Not preparation to trade me in for a newer model. And he was right. I did need this. Not that I needed reminding of my faults and failings. I haven't forgotten them. I never forgot them. But every so often I need to face them. Especially the ones that involve sins against the sadist. Whom I serve and whom I love. For both reasons, my failings are unacceptable.

To me.
Far more than to him, it turns out.

I confessed and I sobbed.
He comforted me.
Reassured me.
Stroked my back.

Eventually, he did punish me.
I needed that, too.
He almost didn't punish me, he said.
Because I have an interview in a few days.
He didn't want to do anything that might make it too uncomfortable for me.
But he couldn't keep from doing it.
I was too hot in that nun's habit.
And I needed it.
It cleansed me.

The thing is, the sadist is not one of those Doms I sometimes read about who need to tear down their subs. His bigger concern is that he thinks I'm amazing. beautiful. Brilliant. His treasure. And I have a hard time swallowing it. And that makes him more angry than just about anything.

I'd been afraid of the coming punishment. I wanted to do penance, but was afraid he would beat me with that nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane. Which is what he usually uses for punishment. It hurts like hell. And it's a nasty sot of pain. It scares me.

But he didn't.
He didn't cane me.
And he didn't flog me,
which would have been appropriate.
He whipped me
With his belt.

I kind of like being whipped with a belt. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be for my pleasure. And it didn't feel like that. It was supposed to cleanse me of my grief and my guilt. And thus be something I could embrace. It wasn't an angry beating. And... punishment seems like something external. Something imposed. Whereas penance... you offer to do it. It's a cleansing pain, a cleansing suffering. And the belt... the choice of the belt over the cane... it felt loving.

I told him that.
Assuring him that "loving" was not implying that other, related word.
He understood.
And did not protest my characterization.

A loving whipping to cleanse me of my sins and my guilt.
A firm, loving whipping,
his belt landing on my soft, bare, proffered bottom
as I posed on the futon on my hands and knees,
everything but my reddening butt swathed in black
and my head and hair buried beneath the veil.

There was more, of course. It was happy and beautiful and fierce and we had to struggle to keep the beast under control. It was close sometimes. I'd been afraid he'd be there. Because of the nun. And he was there. I saw him in my Daddy's eyes. I felt his hand tight around my neck. And he was dangerously close when later, for his pleasure, Daddy whipped my pussy.

With the belt.

He left the belt with me.
He'll be whipping me with it again.
He'll be buckling it around my neck again.
He'll wrap it around my neck and pull me to him
as he lies back on the futon
while I kneel between his legs
sucking his happy cock.

The nun will be back, too.

Home again, home again, jiggedy jog

2011-11-26T20:24:00.001-05:00

Reporting in, having survived far too many hours in Thanksgiving traffic, 4 nights with my parents, and a cold, dry turkey that my father's normally sensible cousin insisted on bringing up to Connecticut from Brooklyn.

My stuffing and gravy were great.

I suspect Ketzel peed somewhere she shouldn't have while I was gone, but I'm not sure where and am too tired to sniff out the exact spot. More important is that they gave me a warm and loving welcome, acting as if they hadn't eaten in a week, which is their way of saying they missed me and needed reassurance of my love.

Having not seen the sadist on our usual Tuesday earlier in the week, I will be especially thankful to be reunited with him this coming Tuesday. Don't know how much he'll allow me to tell you about what he has planned, but the preparations have been intense. I do try to remind him - every single time - that a trip to see my parents is not a happy thing, and that any added pressing of sensitive buttons is bound to unleash a heavy emotional reaction. Luckily, after triggering in me a spell of depression, he offered something akin to an apology - at least for him - and reassured me that the ritual he has planned does not in fact contain any risk of my being traded in for a new model. Great relief and outpouring of gratitude and affection.

Hot Jazz Saturday Night (WAMU-FM) is now playing I Can't Give You Anything but Love. For a sadist, of course, that won't do. He requires service. Obedience. Unquestioning submission.

Luckily, he enjoys my struggles.
And does treasure me.
So I'm safe.
For now.

But tired.
So enough for tonight.
Hope you all had a happy Thanksgiving - or at least a good weekend.

Heading north

2011-11-21T21:58:00.001-05:00

Packing.
Making cranberry orange relish.
Spending a little quality time with the cats.
Downloading more tunes he introduced me to.

I have my instructions.
An assignment.
Things to think about.
A musical touchstone.
A theme.
Messages to send.
When and how to send them.

A theme.
A focus.

Service.

And a rich and scary ritual when I return.
When we reunite.
On the Tuesday.
In a week.

Reunion.
Punishment.
Recommitment.

And in between?
630 miles round trip.
And no cats.

What's a house without cats?!

Back home Saturday night.

Happy Thanksgiving, you guys.

Even if this is not your holiday,
it's good to take time to be thankful.

Me?
I am very thankful indeed.

Separation anxiety

2011-11-20T21:52:00.001-05:00

I haven't even left yet, and I'm already sad.
I guess because it's a double loss.
There will be the distance.
And I'm leaving on Tuesday.

Tuesday.
My usual day of service.

Tuesday is blowjob day.

Oh, he probably gets sucked off on other days as well. Not to mention the days he gets to whack away at someone's butt. But on Tuesdays...

His cock is happily ensconced in his pet's mouth.

Except this Tuesday.
Not this Tuesday.
This Tuesday his pet will be on the road.
Driving north.
Driving.
Driving and sitting in traffic.
Along with far too many other people.
Heading home to a home that was never my home.
But that's a whole other story.

For now, all I feel is the distance.
Absence and distance.

Its nonsensical, of course. It's not as if we saw each other all the time. Why should it make a difference if we're 10 miles or 30 miles or 300 miles apart. E-mail is e-mail, right?

Not right.
I feel the distance.
I can physically feel the distance.
I can already feel the distance as it will grow on Tuesday.

And it hurts.
Even now, it hurts.

I'll miss you, Daddy!

I miss you already...

Another special, secret nothing

2011-11-19T17:58:00.001-05:00

Special.
Very special.
And secret.
Which is the wrong word.
Private.
That's the right word.

More and more I've been wanting to keep things private.
And again, that's the wrong choice of word.
Not keep things private.
They are private.
They are already private.
They are a reflection of our relationship.
Like his taking me away with him to the casino.

Although what we did there, how we were there, was not at all shocking. But it seems almost easier to write about the really kinky stuff, the sadist as sadist, floggers and belts and strips of wood landing on my pale, reddening butt, than about smiles and laughs and shared dinners.

The inner intimacies cradle the true nakedness.

"Come here, my pet."

2011-11-18T18:49:00.001-05:00

It hits me every time.

I see a reference to pets and I startle.

Just a little.

A moment of translation

from what the sign means

to what I am.

Today it was from the cat food.

The words stamped on the can of kitty tuna:

PET FOOD ONLY.

As if pets were some lesser creatures.

I am his pet.

I am his treasure.

And yet I am forbidden.

Probably a good idea.

But still...

What if we had driven together out to the casino?

What if I had begged for a pee stop?

Would he have obeyed the sign

and taken me from the car on the end of the chain?

Would he have made me pee in the designated area?

Would I have tottered through it on my black spike heels?

Would I have been naked except for the shoes?

It was a warm day after all...

You see what happens?

My imagination escapes me.

Leashes can be useful at times...

Sweet, sexy, and submissive: they still like me!

2011-11-17T20:38:00.001-05:00

I admit it.
I've been waiting.
Watching.
Wondering.
Do they still like me?

[a suspenseful pause]

Yup.
It seems they do.
I'm back on the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers.
And I was moved up to #15.

Of course, the title is a misnomer. I'm not claiming to be the 15th best sex blogger out there. Or any sort of "Best" sex blogger. The most I'll say is that I'm a good blogger, somewhat outside the usual variety of sex bloggers, with fans who nominated me and members of the judging panel who liked me. Which I'm not sneering at.

Hell, I'm real happy about it.
You know what submissives are like.
We crave approval.
Submissive bloggers are probably even worse.
This award is like a giant GOOD GIRL plastered all over the Internet.

Which reminds me of a thought I had earlier today:
Why is it always my gay male friends who are telling me they love me?
They make me feel good and all, but...
well, you know...

Nope.
Put that away.
Not gonna happen.

Back to business.
Which means giving a huge thanks to Rori
and the rest of the judges
and those of you who nominated me.

And to the sadist
who makes my life
extraordinary.
I love you, Daddy.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>

Here is the whole list.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2011.
Please take some time to visit a few bloggers who are new to you.

I especially point you to Joan Price, who at #14 is just above me. She, too, is over 60, and is dealing directly with issues of sex and aging. She does what I don't. Maybe we're a good pairing. I mostly act as if age is irrelevant. I feel young, I look (relatively young), the sadist makes me feel young, even in my non-kinky life I try to push that confusing number out of my mind.

62.
I'm 62.
That does not compute.

Joan, though, faces it head on.
She says yes, we've aged.
But don't let that stop you.
Be aware of how your body has changed.
Be good to it.
But still enjoy it.
Enjoy sex.
Enjoy relationships.
And learn what you need to so you can enjoy them more.

In light of that, check out this post: Things You'll Never Hear Him Say When He Sees You Naked. It applies to anyone who doesn't look like a model. Not to mention those of you who look amazing but can't see or accept that. And make sure to read all the comments. Including the one from me.

And now, for The List.

Guy New York (@quickiesnewyork) and The Dirty Gentleman from Quickies in New York
Charlotte Times (@charlotte_times) from The Life and Charlotte Times
Kendra Holliday (@TBK365 and @beautifulkind) from The Beautiful Kind
Amie Wee (@crevicecanyon) from Crevice Canyon
Riff Dog from Ashley and Me
Catherine Toyooka (@Catcoaches) from Sex Spoken Here: Secrets of a Sexuality Educator
Vineyard Road (@vineyardroad) from Vineyard Road
David (@DavidinVegas) from A View from the Top
Quizzical Pussy (@quizzicalpussy) from Quizzical Pussy
Athol Kay from Married Man Sex Life
Dick and Jane from Dick-n-Jane
EA (@easilyaroused) from Easily Aroused
Axe (@unspeakableaxe) from Unspeakable Axe
Joan Price (@JoanPrice) from Naked at Our Age – Better Than I Ever Expect
Oatmeal Girl (@oatmeal_girl) from Submission & Metaphor
Dark Gracie (@darkgracie) from Dark Gracie
Mistress Lilyana (@MistressLilyana) from Mistress Lilyana
Kyle Jones (@butchtastickyle) from Butchtastic
Cheeky Minx (@LoveHateSexCake) from Love Hate Sex Cake
Adam from The Mind of a Married Man
Dr. Marty Klein (@drmartyklein) from Sexual Intelligence
Lady Pandorah (@ladypandorah) from Lady Pandorah’s Sanctuary
Holly (@pervocracy) from The Pervocracy
Brooke from Puppy Tales
Lady Dragonfly (@miladydragonfly) from Lady Dragonfly
nilla (@swirlednilla) from Vanillamom’s Blog
Wilhelmina Wang (@wilhelminawang) from Heartbreak Nymphomania
Holden (@packingvocals) from Packing Vocals
25 Things from 25 Things About My Sexuality
Thumper (@thumperMN) from Denying Thumber
Kake (@poeticerotica) from Poetic Erotica
Lucas (@top2bottom) from Top to Bottom
Ms. Diane D from Bi and Large – Cuckolding with a Twist
Betty Dodson and Carlin Ross (@dodsonandross) from Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross – Sex Information Online
Kat (@shackledkat) from Prowling with Kat
The Gentle Nibbles Writing Team (@gentlenibbles) from Gentle Nibbles
Pandora (@pandorablake) from Spanked, Not Silenced
Molly (@mollysdailykiss) from Molly’s Daily Kiss
Vixen from Secrets of a Blue-Eyed Vixen
DDD from Dick Dyke Dick
Jade (@piecesofjade) from Pieces of Jade
Jiz Lee (@jizlee) from Jiz Lee
Sin from Finding My Submission
Kris from The Phone Courtesan
SapioSlut from SapioSlut
Rockin’ (@RockinwithaCock) from Light Switch
Rachael (@rabbitwhite) from Rachel Rabbit White
Neo Dom Tom from A Bedroom Dom
Daisy Danger (@daisydanger) from The True Life Sex Adventures of Daisy Danger
Violet & Rye (@UCAppetites) from Uncommon Appetites
Kaya from Under His Hand
Lilith (@lilith9465) from Lilith Land
Lady Grinning Soul (@LadyGrinSoul) from Lady Grinning Soul
Septimus from Dirty Art by Septimus
Roxy (@sroxy) from Uncommon Curiosity
Anakin (@AnakinDarth) and Padme (@padmeamidala) from Journey to the Darkside
Dr. Charlie Glickman (@charlieglickman) from Adult Sexuality Education
Lily from theblackleatherbelt
Arabella (@askarabella) from Bombshells & Rockstars
SN from Peel It Off!
Bre from Owned, Collared, Loved
Adriana Ravenlust from Of Sex and Love
Delilah (@definingdelilah) from Defining Delilah
Arthur and Annabelle (@lustandconfused) from Lust and Confused
Lorelei (@suggestive) from Suggestive Tongue
Kitty Stryker from PurrVersatility
Mollena (@Mollena) from The Perverted Negress
Naughty Lexi from Exploits of Lexi
Karen Blue (@kissinbluekaren) from Kissing Blue Karen
Arti (@ArtiAbsinthium) from Absinthe Cocktail
Figleaf (@talkingfigleaf) from Real Adult Sex
Miranda and Aarron from The Swingers Attic
Blacksilk (@BlacksilkBlog) from Blacksilk’s Boudoir
Violet (@violetscreaming) from Screaming Violet
Ferns (@Ferns__) from Domme Chronicles
SlipperyWhnWhet (@SlipperyWhnWhet) from A Slut’s Memoir
Fruit Taster (@fruittaster) from Fruits of Libido
Mrs. Discontented (@DiscontentedMrs) from Mrs. Discontented
Aisha from Being Aisha
Ruby Ryder from Pegging Paradise
Chrystal Bougon from Better Sex Radio
Lipstick Lori (@lipsticklori) from Rarely Wears Lipstick
CarrieAnn (@CarrieAnn_) from A View from the Floor
Dangerous Lilly (@dangerouslilly) from This Could Be Dangerous
Electronic Doll (@electronic_doll) from Post Modern Sleaze
Jerome from Let’s Talk About Sex
Dusk (@dusk_in_chains) from Dusk (in chains)
Innocent Loverboy (@innocentlb) from Innocent Loverboy
RHS from The Redheaded Slut
Violet Blue (@violetblue) from Tiny Nibbles
Amy (@AnalAmy) from Anal Amy
Curvaceous Dee (@curvaceousdee) from Curvaceous Dee
Jason Stotts (@Jstotts) from Erosophia
Mistress Kay (@mistress_kay) from Kinky World
Viemoira from Cavern of the Beast
Lucid (@lucidobsession) from Lucid Obsession
♀ & sss (@sweatshopsissy) from Sweat Shop Sissy
Kat from She Makes the Rules
Yummy from Sexual Adventures of a Married Woman
YOU! – As always, I want to leave a place on this list for ALL the awesome sex bloggers out there! So please leave a comment on Between My Sheetswith your name/URL to tell us about your sexy blog.

He whipped my butt with his belt

2011-11-15T14:05:00.001-05:00

He did.
Today.
For the first time.
He whipped my pale soft bottom with his belt.

I was lying on my belly on the futon.
Soft and pale - and naked, of course.
I'm naked when I greet him at the door.

I lay on my belly while he took off his clothes. I felt him lay the belt across my naked back. I knew it was his belt. Even before he asked "What did I lay on you, my pet?" And I knew then that he was going to whip me with it.

Belts.
I have a thing for belts.
For being beaten by a belt.
The philosopher would use his belt on me.
And it figured heavily in my fantasies.
But the sadist had never used it.
Until now.
An hour or so ago.

He didn't use it that hard.
He whipped me.
My buttocks.
The tops of my thighs.
It hurt.
But not that bad.
And it thrilled me.
It aroused me.
Just the words...

He whipped me with his belt.

I felt the stripes.
Even after he stopped.
It felt as if the whipping went on and on
even after he stopped.

My pussy is pulsing like mad now.
I 'm glad he said I could masturbate.
I'm going back down to the dungeon
to lie on the futon
to think about the belt
to relive the whipping
to hold a buzzing silicone-coated creature against my clit
before thrusting it up inside me
moaning
writhing
cumming
remembering
how he put the tip of the belt in my mouth
and then the side of the belt in my mouth
as if a leather bit for a horse
and he he didn't wrap it around my neck
except I felt it being wrapped around my neck
and the end threaded through the metal buckle
and the loop pulled snugly around my throat
as if it were a collar
and I wished it were a collar
and then he did order me down
with my head on the floor between his feet
and I could hear him gather up the belt
and fold it over
and silently I begged him
as I prepared for the pain
and knew how soft it would make me
soft for his pleasure
soft for his use
and there was no need for begging
as he whipped my soft, marked butt,
his angel's soft pale butt,
with his supple leather belt.

This film sucks!

2011-11-15T14:00:00.000-05:00

I'm just wondering, though. Did you look at my blog? Or just get me off last year's list of top sex bloggers?

There it was. Another request for my expert opinion. Usually they want me to link to their miserable site, or put up a banner, or review a sex toy. submission & metaphor is not a vibrator review blog. I get one a month from EdenFantasys - and wow. Did I get a bang out of the latest one! If life stays stable I should have the review on that one ready by the end of the weekend.

I also don't post ads.

The only ad is the one for the anthology containing my story.

Anyone looking at my blog can tell that I don't post ads.

So when they ask, I think they haven't bothered looking.

This one definitely sounded like they hadn't bothered looking. The message began:

Hey Oatmeal Girl,

Our firm is working ona new movie, “Hollywood Sex Wars,” which basically chronicles thesuperficial Hollywood dating scene in ahumorous and raunchy way. We’d love to send you a copy in hopes that youmight write a quick blog about it. Whether you love it or hate it, we’dlove to get your thoughts on the movie.

About the movie:
“Hollywood SexWars” is an unapologetic, comedic satire of the 20-something’ssingle life.[...]

OK.

Stop right there.

This is when I wondered if she had even looked at the blog.

I'm 62-years old.

I'm a poet.

I live in metaphors.

Do I sound like someone who would appreciate this sort of thing?

She said they had checked out my blog. That they wanted a variety of opinions on it. And she added:

[...] this film is raunchy and fun; purelyentertainment, but we would love to get a variety of opinions and thoughtsabout it, so we’re reaching out to many different film reviewers and bloggers fortheir thoughts.

OK, I thought. I like fun. I like raunchiness. My facility with double entendres can make the toughest man blush. And if nothing else, it will give me something to be snarky about. So sure. Send it.

I must have been feeling really desperate for blog material.

Especially as I agreed to it even after watching the trailer.

What was I thinking?!

Not much, obviously.

So yes, the DVD arrived, while S-- was here, and I whisked away the envelope to be sure he didn't see the contents. I was embarrassed to have it in the house. (Unlike the sweet little DVD of vintage erotica I bought a few years ago for the enjoyment of the philosopher and me. Lovely, that one. I wish I knew what I did with it...)

Friday night I watched it.

Hollywood Sex Wars.

It was not fun.

Not at all fun.

There was one good thing about it.

The DVD was in letterbox format.

I really appreciate letterbox format.

It transfers the film to your TV while respecting the director's artistic intent.

Artistic intent?

This?

Ha!

OK.

Scrap that.

Let me back up.

And let me try to be fair.

When I told the sadist about my new little project, he replied with the following:

I think your perspective will be valuable to them, as long as you keep in mind their goal. Movies, or any art form really, can only be judged fairly on its own terms. A participative watcher/reader/listener/consumer will meet the auteur at least halfway, entering his world, but if he then breaks his own rules, negative criticism is appropriate.

I always take the sadist's opinions seriously, and he did make a good point here. Though I do think that using the word auteur in this case is stretching it a bit.

So ok.

What was their goal?

Making money.

And from whom?

14-year old boys maybe?

I dunno.

I'm just speculating here.

Who would be satisfied with

inane dialogue,

cartoon characters,

minimal plot,

and sophomoric sex obsession?

13-year old boys?

I wouldn't know.

They do get rewarded with lots of naked tits.

Naked, pumped up, silicone-filled tits.

Ugly.

Not soft and sweet like mine...

So if that is all the "auteur" was after, he succeeded.

And who can fault him for wanting to make money?

For wanting to be one of the 1%?

And I'll bet the 14-year old bloggers are giving him a great review.

As for me?

Here are excerpts from my real-time notes:

Cannot relate to this whatsoever.
Probably meant only for men.
Boring and superficial.
Antisemitic.
Supposed to be satirical, but just boring.
So bad it was depressing.
And not even porn!

Not only wasn't it arousing; it was anti-arousing.

If I'd paid for it, I'd want my money back.
Since I didn't, I want my time back.

After it was done, I switched to a powerful old episode of Law & Order. It was called "Mushrooms" and featured brilliant performances by S. Epatha Merkerson and Regina Taylor. I was grateful for spending an hour with quality.

(If you really want to find out more, the official website is www.HollywoodSexWars.com. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Addendum: I do need to give the writer one bit of well-earned credit. And it's an important one. In the only scene that has any sense of honesty, there's a firm lesson - delivered as a lesson - on the importance of safe sex. I hope the 14-year old boys pay attention before returning to the bouncing boobs.

On my own but never alone.

2011-11-13T21:41:00.001-05:00

I've enjoyed the last few days.
I've enjoyed being on my own.
Because being on my own means being with the fiend.

Not that I've been hanging out at home alone. It's been a busy time. I stayed home Friday night and now I can't even remember what I did. I was very tired. I think I went to bed early. And earned Daddy's praise by waking up early on Saturday.

I do love earning Daddy's praise.

He was so pleased that he phoned me from his car.
He almost never phones me.
It was a special treat for both of us.

I love my Daddy's voice.

He ordered me out for a nice long walk on Saturday. I got air and exercise and sunshine and lots of pictures of fall foliage. Happy pet. And happy Daddy. Because as usual I sent him messages from along the trail.

I'm walking briskly, Daddy.
On the trail by the creek.
People are out with their kids and their pets.
The pets are leashed.
As am I, Daddy.

I took a lot of pictures.
I was very happy.
Daddy was happy.
He didn't reply but I knew he was happy.
He loves being with me on my walks.

A housewarming party later.
Followed by a project I'll report on in a few days.
This morning he allowed me to masturbate.
Checking out a new sex toy.
Yum.
He let me cum.
I'll report soon on that, too.
Daddy, of course, got his report in real time.
Lucky Daddy.
Lucky, aroused Daddy.

The rest of the day.
Brunch.
Home.
Nap.
Supper with friends.
And always.
Always.
I felt him with me.
I felt soft and warm and sweet and happy
and he was with me.
Always with me.

Happy Daddy.
Happy pet.

The multiplication of pleasure

2011-11-11T19:12:00.001-05:00

An old lover was in town this week.
S--
He spent two nights in my bed.
Per order of the sadist.

Our sexual relationship had ended a couple of years ago. S--'s decision. He "realized" he could no longer have sex without a love relationship. Interesting - and a big reversal for him. A year later he reversed again, but I turned him down - partly because I was afraid it might screw up our friendship relationship but mostly because I was completely absorbed with the sadist.

The sadist, however, was not happy.
He says I was born to provide sexual pleasure.
He wants me to have sex with other men.
He wants me to focus on their pleasure.
He wants what I do to reflect what I've learned serving him.
He wants me to feel that in the act I am serving him.
And then he wants a complete report.

Because it arouses him to think of his pet slut serving other men at his command. This isn't a cuckolding thing, because he is always in control. What I do is in obedience to him - especially since it's not necessarily something I am always comfortable with. What finally changed things for me was when I really understood that it would be arousing for him. Something clicked, and then I was fine.

So I felt his eyes on me, as if he were standing over the bed watching S-- make a delicious meal out of my pussy. Delicious for S-- and delicious for me and properly arousing for the sadist.

Everyone ended up happy.

Check back for more details.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.
Life has me busy.

PS - when the sadist was here last Tuesday, he deliberately made sure not to mark me. He thought it would be impolite, knowing that the next night I would be with S--. On the other hand, he was also tempted to be sure to mark me. His mark of ownership. But good manners prevailed.

Casino sunset

2011-11-08T14:29:00.000-05:00

Greedily, the sunset filled the sky,
painting marks of pink and rose
on everything it washed.
Squashed against the chilling glass,
my pale tits blushed in fervid light,
mimicking the hot spanked butt
that ached to take your cock.

Written for the sadist
and offered by him for publication,
it was recited as I knelt naked before him,
serving his pleasure.

More on that love thing

2011-11-06T22:20:00.001-05:00

And the conversation continues across blog lines.

I began this post while watching Once Upon a Time.
Prince Charming.
Love at first sight.
All that.

It was not love at first sight with my demon muse.
Not even love at first message.
I laughed at his first message.
I laughed and was intrigued.
Intellectually stimulated.
Trapped, of course.
He knows how to do that.
He knew what I was and knew what bait to use.

But love?
It took me by surprise.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you for the comments left here and on sin's original post, as well as to sin and others for their follow-up posts. This is an important topic to explore, and it's important to see the various perspectives.

Damn.
Snow White just saved Prince Charming's life.
I'm embarrassed by the warmth I feel and the tears that flow.

I know most of you didn't read the comments here, so I'll share and address them now. swan was the first. I can always count on her for an intelligent and analytical approach. Analytical and and incisive. You can read her own post on the topic over at her place. Part of her comment to my post was this:

I also think that it is hard to describe the sort of love that arises out of and alongside D/s because our culture is so attached to the fairy tale version of happily ever after treacle sweet imitation that the messy, difficult, rough and tumble of human animal emotion and attachment doesn't even have words most of the time...

"it is hard to describe the sort of love"

We have a word.
We use it as a convention.
Love.
We say it but we don't all mean the same thing.
And we can't really describe what we do mean.
What we do feel.

What I felt for the fiend,
what I called "love"
when it grabbed my head and forced me to look in its eyes,
was not what I felt for the philosopher,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #2,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #1
or for the woman who broke my silly, vulnerable heart.
And the love I felt for the sadist 3 years ago
was not the same as what I feel now.

I don't think I would ever have called it romantic love.

It is what it is.
Which does complicate the conversation.
I'm grateful that at least he knows what it is.
And accepts it.
Values it.
Appreciates it.
Even if he doesn't return it in the same currency.

Which brings us to Florida Dom's very valid question:

You explained the situation very well, but am curious how you are dealing with it. Is it difficult for you that he is holding back his love or do you accept that is the way it is?

The thing is, I don't experience it as holding back his love.
We are - all of us - what we are.
We feel what we feel.
We order our lives in a way that makes sense to us.
I know that I am important to him.
I know that I add to his life.
There is a connection...

And then there's this.

Between when we met and when everything fell apart, ex-hubby #2 and I were together for 20 years. I thought he loved me. He said he loved me. Hell, he married me! And never - never once in all those years - did I ever feel the kind of connection I have had, in all its various incarnations, with the sadist.

Never did I feel he was really thinking about me.
Never did I feel he really knew me.
Never did I feel he really cared about me.

Even at his most objectifying, the sadist has always made me feel more respected, more valued, and more treasured than my ex-husband ever did. Ever. Even during what were supposedly the good years.

The lack of the word "love" is trivial compared to that.

I'll come back to this. Meanwhile, do check out the full comments on yesterday's post, including a long one from mamacrow - who should not apologize for its length. Her input is welcome - and that post began with my own over-long comment on sin's original post - which you might want to read if you haven't already, as well as sin's follow-up post and with all the comments and sfp's post on the matter as well.

And please - do leave your thoughts here as well.
However long they may be.
I love the conversation.

D/s and love - like a horse and carriage?

2011-11-04T23:01:00.000-04:00

With her latest post, called Love, sin has started another of those discussions she's so good at inspiring. The first few lines present the question:

Does D/s mean I love you?

It sounds like a simple question. No D/s doesn't necessarily mean love, though it can.

As usual, my comment was much too long, so I decided to be efficient and reprint it here (slightly edited) as my own post. Maybe a few of you will even comment in here? In any case, do follow the link to sin's place and add your voice to the discussion. Because of course I don't believe there is one right answer, and I am always interested in knowing how other people solve the equations of life and love.

Here's how it has played out for me and the sadist:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A rich topic, sin.

I don't think D/s HAS to mean love. But I'm not surprised that it so often ends up that way. It requires such nakedness, such intimacy - far deeper than the mere physical. For it to really work, so much has to be revealed on both sides.

Plus you're dealing with such basic needs. Acceptance. Approval. Again, on both sides. Because doesn't the sub's obedience imply a non-judgmental acceptance of the dom's darkest fantasies?

When the sadist first approached me, and for about the first month and a half, I never expected I would end up loving him. I was excited, I was enthralled, I was obsessed. But not in love. It was the connection beyond D/s that did it: literature, music, a general enjoyment of intelligence... I was almost outraged when I saw it happening. He just laughed. He said I'd been in love with him all along.

And the sadist? His feelings for me are deep and unnamed - except in the negative. Deep but not love. Was it inevitable? I'm not his only sub, and his relationships with the others are each very different. Sometimes I think that what happened with me caught him by surprise. I think it did to an extent, but only perhaps in its intensity. It seems he knew when he spotted me on Fetlife that this would be something else. From early on, he called me his complication.

But the sadist is very good at compartmentalizing. And maybe that's what a dom must be to hold back the love. That - and blessed with a talent for coldly regarding a sub as no more than a source of amusement.

I'm curious to hear from more doms on this.

Betting on the shoes - and winning

2011-11-03T23:04:00.001-04:00

It was the shoes.
The shoes did it.
Those black spike-heeled shoes.

Of course, the shoes couldn't do it all on their own. The whole point of the shoes was to show off my extraordinary calves. The sadist is absolutely smitten with my calves - and really, they have always been very shapely. It's nice to have them appreciated.

Nearly everything was perfect.
Very close to perfect and no major catastrophes.

Although there wasn't any major tension hanging over this tryst, I think we both knew how important it was for things to go well. The last one left me shaken, the previous one was ill-advised, and the first one, though basically glorious, showed my tendency to miss details. This one was just for us. Just for him and just for us. Not tagged on to something else into which he was squeezing me.

Two things strayed from perfection.
One was my dress.
He had it in mind that I'd be wearing a Little Black Dress.
That's what he was picturing.
And I ended up in a soft green sweater dress.
A lovely dress.
Soft.
Short.
Swingy.
Embracing my tits.
Defining my hips.
Lingering above my knees.
But he was disappointed.

Next time, I'll be in black.
I've already begun the hunt.

The other flaw was that we didn't have as much time as we'd hoped. Work kept him into the afternoon on Tuesday, and he had to leave at 9 am on Wednesday. That was particularly annoying as check-out wasn't till noon. But we made the best of it.

And then there were the shoes.
And my calves.

The normal plan is for me to book the room, arrive early, prepare myself, the bed, the lights, and other details, and then wait. I text him the room number as soon as I've checked in, and then wait. I wait for him to come up to the room.

But this hotel presented a complication.
You couldn't ride the elevator up to the rooms without a key card.
You needed the card to select a floor.

The sadist wouldn't have a card.

New plan.
He texts his arrival.
I wait for him in the lobby, just inside the doors.
When I see him, I turn and walk towards the elevators.
Slowly.
Of necessity, slowly.
I'm not used to walking in any sort of heel, let alone spikes.
I feel him following me.
Watching me.
His eyes on my body.
On my butt.
On my calves.
Especially on my calves.

I know that other people are probably watching me, too. As does he. I stand out. It's a beautiful, marble lobby, but I'm the only one who looks worthy of being there. The only one nicely dressed. Casinos aren't what they used to be. Or what I imagine they used to be. I'd never been to one before. I was sort of wishing for Monte Carlo.

So I walked to the elevators
with the sadist following,
his eyes on my calves,
and his cock aimed at my butt hole.

We were off to a good start.

Perfect. Just perfect.

2011-11-02T21:38:00.000-04:00

Floating.

Still smiling.

But I know I owe you something.

Let's make this a group effort.

Maybe you guys can supply the captions?

He took me away with him

2011-11-01T22:00:00.000-04:00

I'm away tonight.
We are away tonight.
We are away together.
And we'll be together all night long.

The title says he took me away with him, although that's not quite accurate. He didn't physically take me away. What with differing schedules and points of origin, we couldn't travel together. A pity, that. Though I expect the intensity would have been nearly unbearable.

So we will have met.
A few hours from home.
At a hotel.
With a casino.

I've never been to a casino before.

I love it when he takes me out of my comfort zone.

I wrote this Monday night. A day ahead of when you're reading it. So I don't know what will have happened. I'm assuming - hoping - that all has gone smoothly. Our on-time departures. Not too much traffic. The reservation. My room preparations. His arrival. My greeting.

Me,
serving him a drink,
wearing
a black bra,
black panties,
and
(here it comes)
black spike heels.

Not one of the pairs I got cheap at the thrift store. Turns out they looked like the right size but were way too small. So I went shopping and got a proper pair at Payless Shoes for just $20 with heels around the same height but much skinnier. I think he'll like them better. And they fit better. Plus I did get gel inserts to ease the torture.

I think he'll be pleased at the sight of me.
Men do have their fantasies.

Then dinner.
And the casino.
And after...

Maybe, when I get home, I'll tell you about after.

Then again,
maybe not.

Why don't you write the story?

Masturbation mania (15) - Kiki purrs and o.g. cums

2011-10-31T22:00:00.000-04:00

I love being efficient.
I'm not efficient very often, but when I am I'm very pleased with myself.

As you know, the sadist owns my orgasms.
Among other things.
I may only masturbate, not to mention cum, with his permission.
And then he expects a report.
Written.
With details.
Just saying:
I rubbed,
I came,
I cried,
I slept
isn't enough.

So when I test new sex toys, I end up with an account of the experience written either in the heat of the experience or else right after. I arouse the insatiable fiend and make notes for my review at the same time. Clever, no?

Here, then, are excerpts from my reports to the sadist on the two tests I ran on Kiki from PicoBong, LELO's new "youth-oriented", attractively priced line of sex toys. (As an example of the pricing, EdenFantasys sells Kiki for $39.95, whereas they sell LELO's rechargeable Siri for $98.99. Both have multiple vibration patterns on top of a few levels of straight buzz. Both are silicone. Part of Siri's extra cost is likely from being rechargeable, and I suspect it is stronger, given that Kiki runs on a single AAA battery. Plus, as you can see from the above picture, Kiki is really small. Get a little satin pouch for it (Siri already comes with one), and you could easily keep it tucked in your bag for emergencies.

A couple of functional notes before the sexy stuff. I previously learned that even clitoral vibrators benefit from a touch of lube. But given my desperate arousal and fuzzy post-service mental state when I embarked on my first trial run, I forgot that I wouldn't be inserting Kiki and doused her with too much AstroGlide. I think that reduced her effectiveness. The second time I was more careful, and Kiki brought me to an orgasm on her own.

The controls are seemingly simple and obvious, but I found that they don't lie quite where my finger wants them to be. There are just 2 buttons, which you can see in the picture above and can feel with your finger. However, they are in line with the word PicoBong, and I sometimes had to run my finger down the indented design to the right spot and then push a bit hard. you also have to read the instructions carefully and then count your way through the vibration levels so you know when to press and hold the (+) button in order to shift to the different patterns. The first time, I never did make it into the patterns. I suspect that with use I'll get better at it, but for a start it was a bit of nuisance, especially the time I removed the vibrator from my clit to check the placement of my finger.

Still, overall, I'm very fond of the little thing. Gentle, cute, and quiet are good for me. And she certainly works beautifully as an appetizer.

Here, then, are my lab reports, as written for the sadist.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

October 18

I feel unbelievably soft right now, Daddy. So now I'm going to masturbate... with the softness... feeling you still here on the bed... next to me... stroking me... watching me... feeling me tremble next to you... watching my calves stiffen with the arousal... my hair spread out on the pillow...

[...]

And I did masturbate, Daddy. Not long after you left. So that you would still be with me.

You are with me even now, Daddy.
I feel so close to you.

[ . . . ]

I just had to haul myself back from soft memories.

So yes, I masturbated.
Gently.

I pulled back the covers and lay down all soft and naked on the blue sheet and lubed up my cute little new pink toy. It's the sweetest little thing (named Kiki), but I'll have to give it another trial at least before writing the review as I forgot the trick to getting it to switch to the different patterns. You have to bring it all the way up to the top vibration level and then hold the + button down for 2 seconds. The problem was I didn't get it all the way up to the top level, and didn't realize I hadn't.

It's very quiet, Daddy, and very gentle, which is just what I wanted. It doesn't make my poor little clitoris go numb, which some vibrators do. And when that happens, using your fingers after just doesn't work. But this one was gentle, and the thought of how it looks made me feel happy, and thoughts of you made me happy. And then I switched back to my fingers, rubbing my clit which was now all wet from pussy juices and from lube... and I thought of you spanking me and then I came. Not a huge orgasm, Daddy, but a nice orgasm. Just right for today. And then I took a gentle nap.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

October 28

Awake after a short post-orgasmic nap.
I set the timer, Daddy, to be sure I didn't sleep too long.

Thank you so much for letting me masturbate, Daddy! Your poor pussy was so aroused [from an event we had been discussing] that I came very fast, even though my new little toy isn't very strong. But I like it, Daddy. I love the velvety texture, and how the tip is flat so it presses perfectly on your little girl's clit. Plus it's so quiet! Which is at least partly connected to not being very strong. But it did the job, Daddy, because I was already so aroused, so I had a first little orgasm very fast, even before I made it to the fancy vibration patterns.

I did think about being your toy, Daddy. Which made me even more aroused. And this time I didn't put too much lube on my little pink toy, so the friction was just right. It's so small and quiet I could easily carry it in a little purse, Daddy, in case of emergency...

So I had one little orgasm, Daddy, but didn't cry and wasn't ready to stop. So I switched to the big black vibrator that feels so good inside [the Sinfonia]. I lubed that up and slipped it in and used it to do Kegel exercises around. And then I fucked myself with it while it was buzzing away, knowing that I'm your pussy and I was created to be used, to be fucked, and this vibrator is perfect for fucking myself, Daddy, being shaped sort of like a curved ice cream cone, except velvety smooth and elegantly black. So I slid it in and out of me, and then took it out and pressed the buzzing tip against my clit and came again. Though again, Daddy, not a giant body shaking orgasm. And no crying.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And so it was.

So when I'm feeling particularly sweet and soft and pink, I just might reach for Kiki. because there's something about her, some indefinable personality, that makes me want to say "Come, Kiki. Come kiss my clit."

Masturbation mania (14) - LELO's young, cute bargain line

2011-10-30T23:23:00.000-04:00

"Look, Daddy! Isn't it cute?"

Naked, used, I held out the hand that cradled the small, hot pink vibrator.
He eyed it dubiously.

"Very cute, my pet."

He paused.

"But aren't you afraid it might get lost?"

"Oh no, Daddy!
It doesn't go inside.
It's for my clitoris!
It's got this nice flat top that nestles up against it.
And feel it, Daddy!"

For one of the very few times in our relationship, the sadist did what I said, extending his hand to stroke the soft pink velvety silicone of my sweet new toy.

"You're right!"
Why did he sound surprised?
"Very soft."

"So may I masturbate, Daddy?
May I try it out?
For your pleasure, of course.
I'll think of you
and cum for you

and send you a full report."

"Yes, mt pet.
You may masturbate."

And with that, he left.

As I've said a few times before, I have this thing for LELO sex toys. The design, the packaging, the fact that they're made in Sweden... I have this thing for them, but I don't have a single one. They're expensive. Too expensive of course for me to buy, and too expensive for EdenFantasys, generous as they've been, to send me for review.

So I continue my unrequited lust.

Recently, however, LELO came out with a new line of toys, called PicoBong. Don't ask me why "PicoBong." Who am I to try to penetrate the minds of marketers? The point is, they are trying to appeal to "a younger clientele at a more affordable price point." Personally, I think they're trying a bit too hard on the dedicated website, whose atmosphere is quite different from the elegance of the LELO site. But the idea is a good one. Not everyone can shell out a hundred bucks for a silicone orgasm inducer, as much as some of us may want to.

Hence, PicoBong.
Small devices.
No fancy packaging.
No recharging.

On the other hand, you do get my main requirements of safe, velvety silicone, stunningly quiet operation, thoughtful design, and - let's not forget - an orgasm. At least for me.

My chosen introduction to this cheaper, snappier incarnation of LELO was the Kiki C-Vibe. Since clitoral vibration is my best route to an orgasm, I'm always up for exploring new clit vibes. And it did look awfully cute. Plus I knew right off that the flat tip was a good design choice.

Ketzel thought it was cute, too.

Kiki is the first toy she wanted to play with.
She batted it around like a toy mouse.
So we both enjoyed it!

There was one thing about Kiki I knew right off that I'd enjoy. When she arrived (and how could such a cutie not be a "she", no matter what the marketers named her), I immediately stuck in a battery to be sure she worked. *A* battery. One little battery. One very little battery. One little triple A battery. How much noise can a single AAA battery make?

Not much.
Not much at all.
I finally had a truly quiet vibrator.

Of course, as those of you with quick minds have already figured out, how much power can one AAA battery produce?

Not all that much here, either.
Kiki is a very gentle vibrator.
Which is fine for my delicate clit.
But not necessarily for everyone's.

Still, I did cum.

How much was due to still feeling the sadist's nakedness next to mine? And to his scent and his power lingering in the air of my bedroom and the blue cotton of my sheets? And to the time I had spent serving his needs while my own arousal served only to fire his?

Who can say... but it was the second time I tested it, which wasn't right after a visit, that Kiki quickly made me cum on her own.

Summary: this 62-year old sadist's pet will be happy to adopt youth-oriented PicoBong Kiki as a pet of her own. And come back Hallowe'en night for the lab reports I made to the fiend to find out if she'd be a good addition to your own menagerie.

Pussy on stilts

2011-10-28T23:39:00.000-04:00

I bought heels today.
2 pairs of 3 inch heels.
This is a big deal for me.
I don't wear heels.

Well, I do have one pair I wear occasionally.
But they're Dansko's.
The people who also make my clogs.
They're not very high and they're pretty cute.

But he said I have to wear heels.
For a special occasion.
And that won't be the last time I wear them.
Though maybe the last time I wear them with anything else, he said.

Luckily, I was already at the thrift store when the order came down, and within 20 minutes of receiving the message I had found 2 pairs that looked as if they've only been worn once. The tops are all thin straps, so my toes don't suffer the usual feeling of confinement. Except for my occasional foray in clogs, I almost always wear Birkenstocks, either sandals or closed shoes, so my toes are used to spreading out. My toes are used to being happy. Which makes it hard to find shoes that have enough room for them. An array of skinny straps solves that problem.

They do NOT solve for a lack of cork in the sole. The heels on both pairs are relatively solid, so I should manage to walk without immediately falling over, but the soles are very thin and merely trying them on as I stood there in the thrift store made my feet hurt.

The man is truly a sadist.
Though I doubt he has any idea how uncomfortable they are.
Not that he cares, of course.
And neither should I.
If it turns him on,
if it amuses him,
if it arouses him
to see his little pussy in heels,
then so be it.

But I'll have to walk very slowly.
Carefully.
As if my ankles were shackled.

Makes my pussy twitch just to think of it.

Another way to be chained...

I will love suffering for him.

How Can I Keep from Smiling?

2011-10-25T21:05:00.000-04:00

Damn.
I did it again.
And I was reminding myself not to!

Smile, that is.
I smiled when he arrived.

Not at first.
He came in the door and I stood there naked and adoring.
Not smiling.
Feeling his eyes inspect me.
Approve of me.
A brief smile graced his lips and was gone.
His smile was gone and I was lost.
Because my mouth couldn't keep from responding to his.

It was just a small smile!
And was gone as fast as his as I realized what my mouth had done.
How my mouth had betrayed me.

Of course, he saw the smile.
And saw the Oops! in my eyes.

No.
He didn't beat me.
He said nothing.
Not until I mentioned it myself at the end of his visit.
He could have done something.
But that's not where he wanted to go this time.

On the other hand, he did spank me.
Three times, I think.
Plus some occasional swats here and there.
Delicious.
Perfect.
With a later one that was quite hard but didn't really hurt.
I could feel that the impacts were quite hard, but they didn't hurt.
They just took me deeper and deeper into that place...

And now, hours later, I'm still all floaty and soft.

And very happy.

2011-10-23T20:48:00.001-04:00

A perfect autumn day for a walk along a wooded, creek-side trail.
Alone.
And yet not.

He's always with me.
I always feel him with me.
I walk beside the creek and he is with me.

I talk to him in my head.
Especially when I'm out walking.
And now and then I stop and send him a message on my phone.
When the thoughts become too big to stay inside my head.

He rarely answers.
But I know he's with me.
I know he hears the soft whispers in his ear.
I know they make him smile.
And sometimes his cock will smile, too.

All along my walk were people walking their pets.
On leashes.
Dogs.
There could have been the other kind of pet, too.
My kind of pet.
But if I did pass any, they weren't on leashes.
Not physical ones, anyway.

I was on a leash.
I am always on a leash.
A chain.
The sadist holds one end in his hand.
The other end is locked around my neck.
Always.
Hard steel links that could be the softest silk.
Wherever I am
wherever he is
he holds me on his leash.

Exactly where we both want me to be.

This is not something I do.
This is what I am.
Deep inside and all over me,
this is what I am.

He is my life.
Everything else is secondary.

Well...
maybe not the cats...

Trapped

2011-10-20T22:12:00.000-04:00

I learn this lesson again and again.
Each time there's a struggle.
A chasm.
A blow-out.
Each time he scares me by what is required.
Each time I scare him that I don't really mean it.

It truly is not a game.
It is very much for real.
I do belong to him.

There is no escaping it.
For either of us.

Ever.

Prioritizing

2011-10-19T23:37:00.000-04:00

It's hard to get up enthusiasm for the hunt for a proper full-time paying when I know that landing one would mean giving up my ability to serve the sadist whenever he wanted me.

We've been so spoiled this last year.
Very spoiled.

How I do love you, Daddy!

When nice means so much more than "nice"

2011-10-18T15:35:00.000-04:00

It was nice, he said.
We don't do nice, he said.
And yet, it was nice.

Who knew that nice could mean so much?
That nice could give him such a smile?
That nice could bring us oh so close?

I was his pet today.
And his sweet, cocksucking little girl.
But there was something more.
Something rare.
At times...
and under it all...
dare I say?

We felt like lovers.

Not two people in love.
I would never say that.
Although I do love him.
You know that - and he knows it, too.
But like lovers.

Hours and an orgasm later, I still feel so soft.
So gentle.
So cared for.
So appreciated.
I feel his nakedness next to mine.
I see his smile.

And I hear the welcome ferocity of his voice as he declared:

"You belong to me."

If it isn't one thing...

2011-10-16T20:24:00.000-04:00

I had a cold.
And was supposed to be out of town anyway.
So I didn't get to see the fiend on Tuesday.
And he didn't get to see if his bite left a scar on my butt.

And then he said he could come by Saturday afternoon.
Meaning yesterday.
And I was so happy.
Cause I missed him

And I still miss him.
Because as I was giving Marko breakfast...
I realized I was sick.
Again.
Damn.
And he's not one of those guys who never catches things.
So an hour or two before he was due to arrive, I had to cancel.

The good news was that I could watch the Michigan-Michigan State game.
The bad news was that we lost.
"We" being Michigan.
I don't know why I thought it would be different this time.

Plus...
and this is both good news and bad news -
I evicted my current renter.
Well, told him he had to move out.
I have to give him a month unfortunately.
Wish it could be right away.

It's a bunch of things. Officially, it's because I had advertised for a non-smoker and a few days after he got here I knew for sure that he smoked. Not in the house - he wouldn't dare - he KNOWS I didn't want a smoker so he was hiding it. But the smell comes in with him, sometimes strong enough that it sets me coughing. And of course it clings to his clothes, so transfers to other things.

Now aside from not wanting a smoker living here, there's the fact that he lied by implication in answering an ad that specified non-smoker and not revealing that he was one. But there's also his general mental and emotional state, and the fact that he lives a vampire's schedule. I need someone here with energy. And happy vibes. Someone with a regular life, who gets up in the morning and goes to work and goes to sleep at night and provides an atmosphere that will stimulate me, especially during the dark months. This guy seemed like good company at the beginning - and he was VERY cooperative about clearing out on Tuesdays so I had full use of the dungeon when the sadist came to visit - but I could feel that he was disintegrating. And that it was having a bad effect on me.

So - and here's where I'm very proud of myself, which somewhat makes up for renting to someone with clear red flags which I managed to ignore - rather than trying to stick it out for a year, or trying to make him miserable enough that he would want to leave, I spoke up and told him it wasn't working out and -

And at that point he made an angry comment and stalked off downstairs.

I mean really.
He's the one who misrepresented himself on a number of points.
And obscured other things.
And implied that he was a non-smoker when he wasn't.

(Note: I'm not making a value judgment about smokers here, folks, so those readers who do smoke should please not feel defensive. But I have asthma and a sensitive nose and it's my house and I have a ridiculously hard time with even third-hand smoke. )

So I gave him a month and he's trying to find a new place, but he'll be out whether or not he does. He's got a mother around here he could crash with if necessary. From things he said, I think she doesn't think much of his dependability, either.

The sad thing is that he's been good for the cats. They've calmed down a lot since he moved in. And Marko adores him. Go figure.

As for the next housemate - no decisions until I've thought about it for at least a day. Even if it means I lose a prospect. I need time for those doubts in the pit of my stomach to worm their way up to my foolish brain.

Coming Out - but only so far

2011-10-11T22:31:00.000-04:00

It's National Coming Out Day.
So I came out.
Sort of.
Part way.

A lot of my friends and "friends" already knew that I'm bi.
Some didn't but wouldn't really care one way or another.
I do have some ethnic friends who didn't know.
Attitudes in those circles aren't always so open.
But now they know.
That I'm bi.

I posted it on my Facebook page. It's a rather impassioned statement denying some myths about bisexuals and saying that I'm one. A friend shared it as her status and now I'm curious to see how long it takes to go around the world and back to us...

But I didn't tell everything.

A Famous BDSM Author has turned up in town and joined my shul. Of course, the whole list of Facebook friends knows that The Author is kinky, and no one is surprised about the sexual orientation, either. Still, I was jealous, wishing that I, too, could announce that I was kinky along with everything else.

But I didn't.
I don't.
Even though being submissive is far more for me than sex play.
It isn't play at all.
It's who I am.
How I am.
Whom I love.

So why is this so different from being bi or lesbian or whatever?
Partly because it just feels more... personal.
And partly because people would worry about me.

We've come a long way in our attitudes towards sexual orientation. But BDSM? A joke. Something to be sneered at, or to crop up on mainstream sex toy websites as pink furry handcuffs. Something really sick. Pink furry handcuffs? They might tease me. A certifiable sadist who leaves his knife in the car to protect me from himself?

What do you think?

So I made a big bold statement about bisexuals, which was in fact a really good thing to do. And it was good to be part of the stream of statements on this day - especially as I've never done it before. But I knew I was holding things back.

And I wish I didn't have to.

From behind the gauze curtain, the naked silhouette speaks

2011-10-10T17:42:00.001-04:00

She confesses.
The title of this post means nothing.
But I wanted something more creative than"Update."
Or "Yes, I'm still here."

There's been this and that.
A cold.
Yom Kippur.
Continued cautious work on our relationship.

I was supposed to have been heading north this weekend on a ridiculous task for my parents, but happily my participation has been cancelled for a variety of reasons. However, that meant the fiend had not set aside time for a visit tomorrow - which is just as well as he is one of the few men I know not to claim that he never gets sick. So he wouldn't have come anyway. I don't know if he can manage a visit on any other day this week.

Things are still in one of their periodic states of flux. He is feeling sensitive, I think, and has told me to avoid words that imply ownership. So I address him as Sir and as Daddy. I am still his pet. I am still his little girl. There is still a struggle over one particular issue.

Leading up to Yom Kippur, I was very penitent and distressed at my role in our upheavals. He said I had nothing to atone to him for. I was touched. We both struggle - with what we feel, with what we expect, with what we hope for, and with who we are. I'm starting to believe those struggles will never end. Sometimes a hard steel wall comes down in front of my feelings, and I imagine myself walking away.

Eventually, always, I realize I can't.

I am who I am now because of him.
Because he freed me to be myself.
Because my service gives me strength.
Because he believes in me and wants me to believe in myself.

Yom Kippur was wonderful. All the High Holy Day services were particularly meaningful this year, on both a spiritual and a personal level. There was a theme of doubt and questioning and struggle and faith. Elie Wiesel said that without doubt there could be no faith. A new friend - a Jew by Choice (one of many in our GLBT congregation) - said that when she converted she was asked all sorts of questions but never whether she believed in God. As someone who is extremely uneasy about this whole God business, I found the whole discussion very comforting and accepting.

And as I write about it now, I find reassurance on a personal level as well. Perhaps the doubts, the struggles, with respect to exactly what the sadist sees me to be and expects me to do, perhaps these recurring upheavals make me stronger. Make my submission stronger. I am continually renewing the covenant. My submission, my devotion, my obedience, my service - none of this is taken for granted.

I suffer.
I struggle.
And when I kneel,
when I serve,
I yield with a clear mind
and a focused will.

Meanwhile, the sun returned.
And stayed out for days.
Where there is sun, there is hope.

There is also a scab on my left butt cheek from where the fiend bit me last week. We both hope it will leave a scar.

Thank you, Steve Jobs

2011-10-05T21:50:00.000-04:00

This blog is written on a MacBook Pro.

Anger vented, pet protected

2011-10-04T22:14:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite lines from my story You awake ahead of the alarm (printed in M. Christian's anthology Best S/M Erotica Vol. 3) is this:

She has no gradations of grief at disappointing you. Any failure feels like the end of the world to her.

This is horribly, unfortunately true. I am terrified of failure because I'm terrified of rejection. That by not being good enough I won't be wanted. That one way or another, I will be shut out. As I beg the sadist whenever we have one of our episodes: "Please don't send me away."

I trace this back to my parents. Which is a whole other story that I won't go into. But I realized last night that I developed a very strong fight or flight instinct. And the flight part manifests itself in two ways: as a physical urge to leave, quit, get out, give up... and as a flight to inner safety, behind a strong wall that locks away any feelings.

This, in some ways, was the scariest part of this little episode. I shut down inside. I stopped having any feelings for him - or rather, I walled them off so I thought they had gone. I thought - all right then, I'm not what he wants me to be, I can't be, I never was. I won't walk away from him, but if he sends me away I'll be relieved. Because I can't stand disappointing him.

But - with him - it never ends up that way. Even the separation early in our first year... I had never meant for it to be over then. I merely misunderstood, and was angry, and then he... well, obviously we made it through that.

Tuesdays are his usual day with me. He was curt this morning. Short, economical e-mails relative to his plans. The first was but 3 words. And then he told me to take the cane, the paddle, the wooden spoon, and the chain outside and lock them up in my car.

You see?

He does protect me!

Besides, he has ways to hurt me far more powerful than implements of pain.

He has words.

He has silence.

We had a lot of time.

And we worked our way through.

He even gave me the gift of what could almost be termed an apology.

He also left a very serious bite mark on my left butt cheek.

(Again, he looked after me, advising me to cleanse it. I wiped it down with rubbing alcohol. It stung, so I knew I was doing the right thing. Then I coated it with antiseptic ointment and covered it with a bandage. Human bites do carry a danger of infection, and a visit to the doctor for treatment of a big butt bite would be highly embarrassing...)

The last couple of months have been hard on both of us. He's been under a lot of stress from many sources. One thing ends, another immediately erupts, and then something else lands on top of it all. Thinking about it dispassionately, I'm not surprised we had a blow up on Sunday.

As for me... well, we've had 2 months of rain. Two months of rain with sun promised in just another few days and then it would be pushed back and pushed back and pushed back...

Finally.

Today.

It arrived.

Autumn.

Sunny and cool and dry.

For at least a week.

I am sorely tempted to shout "Praise be to God" even though - if I believe in God at all, which isn't quite certain - I don't believe in that sort of God. But in this case... well it feels like credit ought to be apportioned somewhere.

The point is that 2 months of rain when you have SAD and are still supposed to be recharging your personal solar battery is NOT A GOOD THING. I've been struggling. Concentration has been shaky at best, moods not all that firm, and my ability to think minimal.

Plus the issue is a persistent one. This won't be the last time we'll bump up against it. If only we could keep from reacting on such a deep emotional level!

Still, we made it through. And at the end, as we talked about ordinary things, he enthroned in the Eames chair and me, still naked, sitting on the floor at his feet with my head resting on his right knee, I felt the gentleness of his hand stroking my hair and the love flowing back through me and knew that I couldn't make him so angry if I didn't also make him feel so good.

Is there a schedule for these upheavals?

2011-10-03T20:40:00.000-04:00

No longer angel

no longer slave

I fold my useless wings

and mourn the broken chain.

Happiness eludes me.

I smile at ghosts of flowers

that whip around and slash my face with thorns.

Someone.

Please.

Give me a map.

Or maybe I’m deluded

and there is no path here after all.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There are issues. A standing, recurrent issue. It comes up again every so often. As it did this weekend. I keep disappointing him. And then we slowly work our way back, until things seem more glorious than ever, and then he again starts thinking about the part that doesn't meet his expectations, and grows angry, and nothing I can say will make it right. And then the cycle resumes. But it's wearing me out.

Or maybe it's just that it feels like it's been raining for 2 months now.

Masturbation mania (13) - Yielding to the elegant Sinfonia

2011-10-02T22:49:00.000-04:00

Here, in part 2 of my review of Close2You's Sinfonia g-spot vibrator, is a purely subjective evocation of a delicious masturbation session as reported to the sadist. You can read Part 1 of my review here, which, while not totally objective, at least includes some solid details. And don't forget that if you check out the Sinfonia (or any other sex toy) on EdenFantasys' website, they have a very handy comparison tool to help you choose between different items. I use it myself when choosing which of several options I want to review next.

Before proceeding, I should note that I had to work very hard to get the above shot. The cats have been showing very little interest in my goodies, but at least Ketzel, despite her boredom, was willing to return to the box again and again when I called her. She did, however, show a distinct preference for having the top of the box closed.

And now, here is what happened the second time I gave myself to the elegant and alluring Sinfonia, as related to my Master in a series of in-flight messages....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I'm horribly aroused, Daddy, so I'm going to masturbate now.

I've laid out my chosen toys. I seem to have a standard array now, Daddy. The pink clitoris vibrator (what's it called? Oh yes, the LAYAspot). My beloved little lavender Meany - short and stubby and sweet and wonderful. And then whatever new thing I have.

In this case, that classy black and grey Sinfonia.

Last time I was so desperate I couldn't pay attention to the different vibration patterns. I wonder what will happen this time...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Oh, Daddy...

I started with the pink one, holding it against my clit where it's buzzing gently at the very lowest setting... and my pelvis is tipping up while my pussy searches for your cock.

I love when I feel your cock just grazing my clit and labia, Daddy.
I hunger for your cock, Daddy.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I turned the setting up, Daddy, and now there's the feeling of being whipped, with a single thin lash landing straight across my butt hole.

Not a fantasy, Daddy.
Purely a sensation.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I lubed it up and slid it in and ohhh.... it felt so incredibly good, my Master. And for a while I didn't turn it on, just did Kegel exercises around it. And then I turned it on, and it started buzzing inside me, and I kept saying out loud Oh God Oh God Oh God... because of how wonderfully good it feels... and then I found myself wondering how I would respond to the cane if I had the Sinfonia buzzing away inside me and then I thought uh-oh I shouldn't tell you that but I had the thought so I couldn't not tell you.

And now I think I won't write again until after I cum.

Except that I feel you watching me, my Master, and had that feeling of objectification again... and of someone standing over me... watching me masturbate...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ohhh, Daddy...

Thank you, my Master.

I just wish there had been more time... it felt so wonderful... and my reactions were so powerful... if you had been watching you would have received the gift of a symphony of moans and whimpers and grunts and then variations on the theme of breaths... and I had that same response as last time, Daddy, of feeling very objectified. Of things being done to me that I had no hand in... An image came of me bound to the bed with the beautiful black curve of a vibrator shoved up inside me and kept in place by surgical tape... a torture of pleasure while you watched and listened and took pictures and video clips and took notes on which patterns elicited what response...

I didn't have time to stop and write down which patterns had what effect, Daddy, but what I can say is that the effects were powerful. And then it was getting late so first I just fucked myself with it for a while on a plain vibration, and then I held the tip to my little butt hole... I think... I had trouble finding it and getting the tip in so I just held it kind of over where I thought it was. Maybe I should give up on the idea of a vibrating butt plug. I'm awfully small and tight.

Finally, I switched to the plush lavender Meany - inside me a little and also rubbed over my clitoris because I was aiming to cum. And I discovered by accident that I had forgotten that the Meany has different patterns, too! But because it's so plushy I don't think they are as powerful. That was a nice reminder, though. Mainly, I let it buzz away and rubbed it gently against my clit and had a lovely orgasm inside me... with the real feel of going up and over the waterfall. And then I cried a little and kept the Meany going and had a couple more small orgasms (I hope that was ok, Daddy?). And then I had to stop. I rested for just a few minutes and then got up to write you. Leaving just a little time to pull on my clothes, feed the cats, and run off to baby sit.

Thank you so much, Daddy.
This was most delicious.
I love love love this toy!

But nowhere near as much as I love you.

Masturbation mania (12) - Testing the elegant Sinfonia

2011-10-01T23:30:00.000-04:00

Another winner.
A really big winner.

I feel almost worshipful about my new vibrator, the very elegant Sinfonia from Close2You, an upscale (but not high-end) German manufacturer of sex toys. The look, the feel, the simplicity of form... and that doesn't even get into my physical and emotional response! I'm drawn to it with an adoring lust...

They have a theme, this company.
A musical conceit.
Their toys have names derived from classical music.
Sinfonia.
Harmonia.
Allegro.
Legamento.
They're decorated with symbols from music.
The Sinfonia even looks somewhat like a bass clef.

I've been doing very well lately with the items my contact at Edenfantasys has been sending me to review. I've put a lot of thought into my choices, researching the options, and making my selections based on the steadily increasing knowledge of my body all this toy testing has given me. So it did sound as if I would enjoy the Sinfonia. However, I admit that the final choice was based on physical attraction.

I just loved the way the thing looked.

Elegant.
Truly elegant.

Oh, it had all the right specs: silicone (which I always specify now for its texture, safety, and ease of clean-up), waterproof, not uncomfortably fat, and theoretically relatively quiet.

But it's the look of the thing...

Now normally I don't choose black vibrators. I dunno... for some reason they don't appeal to me. Something scary about them. But this one... Elegant. I kept coming back to the word elegant. So I asked for the black rather than the rose. It reminded me of a tuxedo, such as a male classical musician might wear. (Not that a woman couldn't perform in tails. But it's not that common.) I was a little nervous about it. But when it arrived - in record turnaround time - I was glad I had been brave. because it was not scary at all.

Merely elegant.

The packaging didn't hurt. It's a very solid cardboard box with 2 drawers and a top that opens to reveal the Sinfonia nestled in its form-fitting bed. The second drawer has goodies. Useful goodies. Toy cleaner, a cock ring, lube... and best of all batteries (!!!) and a dark wine-colored velvet pouch! The batteries can't cost Close2You that much, but they are such a thoughtful addition that their presence made me immediately inclined to like the company. I love the box, but as my collection grows I find I'd rather have pouches in which to store my toys.

A note here on silicone toys. First, do remember that you should use ONLY water-based lube. Not silicone. And second, silicone can attract lint. Some more than others. So even though you have, of course, washed your mechanical friends before putting them away, it can often be a good idea to give them a quick rinse before playtime.

The Sinfonia is billed as a g-spot vibrator. As you can see, it curves up towards the tip. What I especially like is how it is very slender at that tip, growing steadily wider as you move to the base, which makes it easy to slip in but provides for very satisfying pressure near the pussy mouth. Yum. This is particularly good for someone tight like me.

I didn't even notice until I saw it pointed out in another review that there is a thin seam running up opposite sides of the shaft. I felt nothing, though, even without using a condom (an advantage of silicone toys). What I did feel was wonderful. So wonderful that my first trial was not a very observant one.

Here, then, are excerpts from the report I made to the sadist on that first occasion. As my regular readers know, I must always report to my Master any time I masturbate, as my pussy and my orgasms belong to him. Come back tomorrow for further experiences, which again demonstrate how well the Sinfonia is working as a member of my little chamber orchestra of instruments of pleasure.

In summary:

The Sinfonia?
Bravissimo!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My housemate came home mid-afternoon, Daddy, so I thought maybe I'd wait till bedtime to cum for you. But the weather... it really made me want to crawl into bed, Daddy, and I wanted to feel close to you again by touching myself for you... and cumming for you.

So I gathered my toys together and selected my favorites: the short stumpy lavender one with the squooshy tip and the two-tone hot pink one that cups in my hand for doing nice things to my clit. And then I took out that new one - the elegant black and grey one.

I started with fingers, to feel my pussy all sweet and soft the way you felt it when you touched me.

I had turned on the elegant black toy, the Sinfonia, when Iinstalled the batteries, so knew it was loud and strong. It didn't feel like something I wanted to start with. So I decided to warm up slowly and, as I said, used my fingers first. And while I was relaxing and softening, Daddy, my mind suddenly somehow connected with being spanked. And my pussy woke up.

Next came my pink clit vibrator. I've learned to pour lube on it, even though it doesn't go inside me, which has me liking it more than I did when I first tested it. I kept it on the first level and, again, just relaxed into it. So nice... such pleasure... sweet pleasure, Daddy... not urgent...

The little lavender Meany took over, still only on the first level. I can't remember if I put it inside me at all, or just ran it gently over my clit and labia. And this too, Daddy, was such sweet pleasure...

Then suddenly my pussy was wide awake, Daddy, and wanting... so I lubed up the elegant black Sinfonia...

Knowing it was loud, and that my housemate was downstairs, I waited until it was inside me to turn it on. So nothing distracted me from the pure sensation of its insertion.

It's a neat shape, Daddy. Curved, pretty narrow and nearly pointed at the tip, widening substantially as it continues to the base. It slipped in easily, just 2 tries to get it all the way in, and the bulk at the base provided such delicious pressure against the perineum. And then oh my, when I turned it on...

It's very buzzy, Daddy, a little harsh, as well as noisy, though not as bad inside me. And like the first toy I was sent, it has lots of settings. 3 levels, I think, of a straight vibration, and then all these different patterns.

For some reason or another, my Master, it had this very powerful mental effect on me. It made me feel as if things were being done to me, as opposed to my being in bed enjoying the pleasure you had granted me. It wasn't even a question of my fantasizing that. The vibrations just put me there. Which of course works very well with my psychology.

I was watching the time, Daddy, wanting a chance to nap after my orgasm before I had to go babysit, so I didn't linger too long on any of the settings. I chugged along from one to the other - and never made it to the end before I could feel myself getting very close.

Then I switched back to the little lavender Meany, because I was afraid the Sinfonia would be too harsh. Perhaps I wouldn't have if I had been alone in the house. But I wanted something right against my clit, and knew I'd be muffling the sounds of my cumming.

It was delicious, Daddy.
In two stages.
I came
and then I kept the soft lavender tip on my clit
and I came some more.

I cried softy,
and rolled over on my side,
and wished I was snuggled against you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[come back tomorrow for more...]

Welcoming the sun and the new year

2011-09-30T17:40:00.000-04:00

Rosh Hashanah.
The Jewish New Year.
The anniversary of the birthday of the world.

(Yesterday, we learned that in fact this birthday celebrates the sixth day of creation, when man came into the picture, and not the first day. I could write reams on that alone, but am too tired after 2 days of services and - the true reason for the exhaustion - getting up early.)

We had a special celebration today, the second day of Rosh Hashanah, as the sun deigned to make a full-out appearance. For a while, in any case. Enough to make me wish we could be a little more pagan in our observance and move it up the road to Rock Creek Park. Still, throughout the holiday, there has been plenty of gratitude expressed for the beauty and glory of nature, as well as references to our responsibility to safeguard and, now, restore it.

Tikkun olam.
Healing the world.
We have our tasks.

I expect to return to the issues raised by the various themes of the High Holy Days as we move through the Days of Awe, culminating in Yom Kippur next Friday night and all day Saturday. But for now, here is a poem that is included in the Rosh Hashanah prayer book compiled by my unaffiliated, GLBT synagogue, which seems particularly appropriate to both the birthday of the world and the return of the sun. (We could get into a whole other discussion about the third verse, as this year's services have been addressing issues of doubt and questioning, struggling with issues of belief. Doubting, questioning, challenging... a very Jewish approach to everything. Including God. If there is a God...)

The poem, then.
And wishes to all who celebrate for a sweet new year,
filled with health, happiness, love, and peace.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

i thank You God for most this amazing
by e.e. cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

A few hours later...

2011-09-27T22:30:00.000-04:00

He got what he needed from me.

Though not in the way he had led me to believe.

The rest
is for him and me alone.

He needs to hurt me a little

2011-09-26T21:47:00.001-04:00

He will hurt me tomorrow.
He needs to hurt me tomorrow.

A little.
He needs to hurt me a little.

I don't think "a little" refers to the extent of his need.

I'm... uneasy.

He says it will be "different."
I have no idea what that means.
I scare myself in speculation.

He understands my uneasiness, he says.
He'll try to be careful, he says.
I am his treasure.
I do not doubt that.
He will try to protect me.
But whatever he's going to do, it needs to be done.

It's all my fault, of course.
I knew this would happen.
Because I sent him a picture.

He had given me an assignment on Sunday. When I finished the task, I lay there naked on the bed, deep in that place. The laptop was open on the nightstand next to me, in case he e-mailed while I was working for him, but by the end the screen was black. Empty, except for my reflection as I lay there before it, posed like one of my beloved odalisque paintings. I wished he could see me. Right at that moment.

So I took a picture.
A lot of pictures, actually.
And sent him the best of the lot.
Ignoring the way the position made my neck folds sag.
Knowing what that view of me would do to him.

I know what he likes.
I know what gets to him.
This is part of my job.
As his pet.
As his slave.
To serve him.
To please him.
So I gave him what I know he likes.

And I knew he would want to hurt me.

So I have no one to blame but myself.

On top of which...

Well, you know.
He's going to hurt me.
In a different way than he has till now.
Which scares me.
And arouses me.
And that embarrasses me.

I won't like it while it's happening.
And I'm nervous about it now.
But I... I admit that I want it.
I want him to have that pleasure.
I want him to do to me what needs to be done.

I will offer myself without hesitation.
I will accept whatever he needs to do.
I will trust him to protect me.
I will scream and cry and tell him he's hurting me.

And after?
There will be that special intimacy that comes from his hurting me.
And I will be disgustingly, embarrassingly aroused by the memory.

Cognitive dissonance and BDSM

2011-09-25T18:57:00.000-04:00

It took four and a half days. Finally, someone was brave enough to leave the comment I had been expecting from the moment I finished writing the post I called Ouch. Screwed up again.

This morning, goodgirl wrote:

Hello
For reasons I can not even explain nor understand myself your last sentence, "a man has the right to beat his slave" prickled me to my very core. To each his/her own; freedom of speech and choice I believe but reading those words felt offensive and is just one of the many reasons why I feel conflict with the exchange of Dominance/submission; Sadism/masochism; Master/slave.

You appear very happy in your relationship and that is truly all that matters for you and the exchange you have.

For me though, this entry just fills me with sadness.

The full quote, the last two lines of my post, is this:

Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.

Here, an admission.
I felt extremely uncomfortable as I wrote it.
And I left it in as a challenge.
A challenge as much to myself as to my readers.

Because that is a horrible thing to say.
As a concept, as a tenet, it is absolutely inexcusable.
And yet.
I thought it.
I felt it.
At that time.
In that context.
As I wrote.
But if I let myself truly think about it, my stomach clenches.

So I tried not to think about it.

An exquisite example of cognitive dissonance.

As I write about it now, I'm suddenly reminded of something very different. Or maybe not so different as a psychological experience.

I was raised an atheist. A third-generation left-wing Jewish atheist. While my parents gave us a strong sense of Jewish identity, they were very clear on the non-existence of God. Religion was something that distracted people from improving the lot of the masses and making the world a better place. (Knowing very little about Judaism, they didn't know that tikkun olam, healing the world, is precisely the job we were given, but that's another discussion entirely.)

Eventually, I was drawn - felt compelled - to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. I talked with a rabbi, I read, I went to services, I found things I could relate to. But largely I preferred services that were mostly in Hebrew. Despite the fact that I didn't know what I was saying.

In fact - precisely because I wouldn't know what I was saying.

Because otherwise the highly rational part of me would push past the part that found meaning and fulfillment in ritual, the part that sensed the existence of something else, and while poking at my stomach would say: "How can you say this stuff?!?"

I rarely ascribe things to "God." Notice that above, when I spoke of tikkun olam, I didn't say it was the job that God gave us. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. And yet, I really have, on a few widely disparate occasions, become disconcertingly aware of something else.

I do not like talking about those occasions.
They make me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet they were very real.

Cognitive dissonance makes us very uncomfortable.

There is another psychological state that walks hand-in-hand with cognitive dissonance. And that is suspension of disbelief. A very deliberate suspension of disbelief.

Yes, I am very happy in my relationship. But I am admittedly uncomfortable enough about a few of its aspects that I don't reveal it to friends who are not part of this world. They would worry about me. And really, rationally, how could I blame them? Aside from everything else, I should be out looking for someone who will commit to looking after me as I grow older. Who could take care of me, financially and otherwise. Instead I have made a commitment to a man who... well, you know. Or some of it at least. You've read it here.

In order to write what I do, not to mention do what I do, I push away my thoughts of real slavery. Of real abuse, sexual and otherwise. Of forced prostitution, of children who are sold, of children whose real daddies do things to them that no child should have to endure. Things that no daddy should even think of doing. These are real horrors in the world - realities we should not close our eyes to, realities we should not close our minds to, realities we must acknowledge even as we do things that some of us, at least - perhaps precisely because our awareness is so keen - feel we must keep from those who care about us.

So I write from another place.
That place from which I can say
a man has the right to beat his slave.
For pleasure or punishment.

But there was no way I could go deeply enough into that place to enable me to write that line without cognitive dissonance standing on my shoulder, like an angel of good intent, whispering into my ear the true horror of the words I left for you to read.

So thank you, goodgirl, for being honest enough to admit what you felt.
Because if we didn't have those feelings,
at least sometimes,
we would have to seriously question our own humanity.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A reassurance, for my new readers and for those who may have forgotten. None of us, in any relationship, can truly say that our safety is assured, whether physical or emotional. The old hit-by-a-bus possibility. But I can say this. This man I write about - this sadist - is aware of the potential dangers and works very hard to protect me. And it is that level of consciousness that feels like the greatest protection of all.

Why I was beaten for smiling

2011-09-21T23:31:00.000-04:00

There were 2 comments on my last post, which I had cleverly titled Ouch. Screwed up again. I do hope you all recognize that at times my titles are deliberately selected to lure readers. It certainly worked this time. My stats shot right up. Whether any of those first-time visitors will return is a separate issue. But it sure gives me a sense of power, knowing how easily I can lure them over for an initial peek.

Anyway.
Back to the post.
Back to those 2 comments.

The core of the post was this:

Don't smile when he comes in the door.

It's inappropriate.

It seems from jcn's comment that maybe I should define my terms more carefully.
It's not that I'm never allowed to smile.
And I do smile at times.
As does he.
At times.
But not when he comes through the door.

It's inappropriate.

One comment he made about the issue was a reminder that
it's not about me.
It's not about how I feel about seeing him.
It's about him.
It's all about him.
I am there to serve him.
I am there to please him.
How I feel at the moment of his arrival is irrelevant.

The second comment said:

Won't it be nice for you both when
he's trained you not to smile? I
wonder what your face will show then
when he appears.

I guess I should point out that I don't usually smile on his arrival. Really. I don't. Certainly in the beginning I didn't smile. If you knew this man from a submissive position, you'd know that his presence does not inspire smiles. But as various things developed... well, one day I couldn't help it. He arrived and a smile of joy and love flooded my face.

But that is not what he usually sees.

What he usually sees is
submission
respect
focus
obedience
adoration
and worship.

Behind all this is love.
And I'm sure he sees that, too.

Ouch. Screwed up again.

2011-09-20T21:57:00.000-04:00

I do know.
I do!
Sometimes I even think about it.
And remind myself.

Don't smile when he comes in the door.

It's inappropriate.

But every so often I forget.
I can't help it.
I'm so happy to see him!

He came in the door
and a smile spread over my face
and I thought
"Damn."

No smiling.
It's inappropriate.

There are smiles later.
Sometimes.
But not when he arrives.

So I was punished.
Beaten.
With the strip of wood he uses as a cane.
Which hurt.
And I cried.

And afterwards, I was even softer.
And deeper in my slave space.

I learned a lot about my slave space.
But that's another story.

Maybe I'll tell you.

Meanwhile, there's this.

I realized this.

Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.

Summer dances with Fall

2011-09-19T18:08:00.000-04:00

Summer passes Fall

going through the door.

Songs for a cocksucking slave

2011-09-17T19:43:00.000-04:00

'No Language Like Song' is an interesting article in the New York Times comparing songs of American slaves and Russian serfs. Both scholarly and readable, it includes a link to Paul Robeson's versions of 3 of the referenced songs. Given that Robeson was veneered as something of a saint in my atheist, left-wing Jewish home, this made the article particularly enjoyable. Add to that grandparents that all fled Russia/Ukraine/Poland, whose borders were prone to wandering, and you can see why I was attracted to it.

Then there's this quote from Frederick Douglass:

the heart has no language like song

Poetry is song without music.
Or rather, the music is inherent in the words.

Anyway.

Obviously, the article is dealing with a far different flavor of slavery than mine. For one thing, the songs deal, often only slightly covertly, with either escape (among American slaves) or rebellion (the Russian serfs). There's an interesting explanation for the difference. I, of course, have no interest in escape, and outright rebellion would trigger the end of the relationship.

But my errant imagination can't help but think that the world - our world, at least - could use some songs for slaves such as we. Songs to sing as we work, sings "to regulate the movement" of our mouths and our hands as we strive to please the ones who own us.

Songs to be sung with a cock in one's mouth.

Suggestions, anyone?

Written while sitting on my sore, hot butt

2011-09-13T21:00:00.000-04:00

He needed to spank me today.

My Daddy has been dealing with a lot of aggravation lately, and he needed to spank his little girl. So he did. A lot. And hard. Though not as hard as I'm sure he wanted to.

He wanted to see his little girl's butt turn pink and then red. He wanted to feel it hot beneath him as he lay on top of her and pushed his Daddy cock against her tight little puckered butt hole until it hurt and she cried out "Ow! Daddy! It hurts!"

He loves when she tells him that he's hurting her.

So he spanked her as she was lying flat on the futon, with her panties pulled down below her knees and her Daddy straddling her legs so both those things made her feel restrained. And then he spanked her as she knelt before him sucking his cock, and as she rose up on her knees and he pulled her close to him while he sat on the chair that is his throne, and then as she lay on the futon facing in the other direction. He spanked her extra hard then, facing in the other direction, so her butt went from pink to red and grew very hot and was especially red on her right side because that's the side that shines in the light from the window when she kneels before him and sucks his cock.

He spanked me a lot.
He spanked me hard.
And I kept crying out that he was hurting me.

And later he spoke of how he had beaten me. which seemed rather a strong word to use for a hand spanking, except that the phrase arouses me, and it arouses him, and it makes me want him to beat me even though I probably - I know - I know I couldn't handle what he really wants to do.

When he hurts me, it makes me softer.
My mouth.
My tits.
My belly.
Everything softer.
Every time.

He spoke of how he wants to torture me.
Not of exactly what he wants to do.
He never tells me that.
But of part of why he wants to torture me.
Not for my screams.
But for my breath.
For the sharp intake of breath that would precede a scream.

He protects me.
He prevents himself from torturing me.
He denies himself.
He suffers to protect me.
Because to give in to the beast would be to destroy us.
And what we have, what we are, is too precious.
He wouldn't risk that.

But he does let himself spank me.
And now my bottom is still pink.
My bottom is still warm.
My bottom still hurts.

My Daddy spanked me.
And I'm so glad he did.

Ex-marital aids

2011-09-12T23:58:00.000-04:00

On the bed, in shades of pink and lavender,
an array of devices formerly known as
marital aids. No lump of silicone could save
that wretched marriage, but now they stall
a tantrum by sparking explosions elsewhere.
Displaced from their once leading role,
pouting fingers hold and thrust, consoled by
drops of mead milked from passion’s mouth.
Half the action’s higher up in any case,
as memory
and fantasy
fill the void that waits for you alone.

Masturbation Mania (11) - orgasmic explosion from the Silky G

2011-09-11T15:00:00.000-04:00

I do keep my promises.
Eventually.

Here at last is Part 2 (read Part 1 here) of my review of the Silky G vibrator from Evolved Novelties, my August adventure in sex toy exploration courtesy of the kind folks over at Eden Fantasys. This really has been an adventure. I've gone from a monogamous devotion to clitoral love from the first two fingers of my right hand to constructing orderly plans of which devices to use and in what order.

I'm hooked!

Given my persistent state of unemployment, it's a good thing I don't have to buy the things. Despite having firm preferences, I'm always hoping that the next shipment will bring a new thrill that will eclipse my passion for the latest favorite.

The Silky G definitely fell into that category.

Go back to Part 1 for the story of how I made my selection, an initial description, and the reason I didn't finish writing my review at the time. And now... now that the sun has finally come out again... here is a moan by moan description of what the sweet thing did to me.

The following is edited from e-mails I sent my Master during and after my two main toy trials, as well as during the session that cut short my previous attempt at writing this review.

From August 5th:

Good morning, Daddy.
I had one great orgasm last night.
Yummy.
I'll write back shortly with more details.

My only regret, Daddy, is that it got me so excited I couldn't take much time to explore the sensations. I'll need to try one more time before I write the review. Whenever it's all right with you, my Master, who owns my orgasms and everything else.

[...]

So the thing about this vibrator, Daddy, as I think I said yesterday, is that it strikes me as so cute that it makes me want to use it. The tip looks like the top curvy point on a soft-serve ice cream cone. And it's got these 2 curves on it that bulge while generally being slender that just make me want to stick it up inside me.

Technically, my Master, it's not all that fancy. Just 3 speeds, no complicated vibration patterns, and I'll bet a lot of women would think it's not strong enough. Or fat enough. But for your little girl... perfect. It slid into me as if it had been designed with my pussy in mind.

It's supposed to be a G-spot vibrator. So is the little lavender one I like so much. But this is longer, and has that cute little point on the end in which are concentrated the vibrations. So I pushed it inside me and didn't even fuck myself with it. Just kept it there. And then I started feeling these things, Daddy! Right up in my womb! And I was only on level 1 or 2 of the vibrations.

Wow.

I couldn't think about anything but the physical sensations, my Master. Fantasies? Scenarios? Barely. I wanted to take more time with it, to explore it more, and I just couldn't. I fucked myself a little, and felt the little bulges push in and out of me, which I liked, but mostly it was just those vibrations deep inside and I just couldn't prolong it, Daddy! I did manage briefly to recall that sense of objectification, but then that was it. I pulled my new purple friend out and pressed the pointy tip against my clit. Didn't take long at all.

No little moans.
Loud shouts instead.
And then I came.
Boom.

Still not like my orgasms used to be - and I'm still not sure how much of that is due to age and how much to all my meds - but it did feel big. Followed by a very strong crying fit that was completely tension release. No upset in it at all.

Great.
Really great.

I love my new toy, Daddy!

But I do need to try once more, if possible this weekend, so I can write it up before I go to camp. May I, Daddy?

[As you can tell from the following, permission was granted.]

August 7th:

Your naked slave, sitting up in bed, having slept off this morning's orgasm.

Thank you, Daddy my Master. I did need to give my new toy one more test. Plus I woke up early and hoped that cumming would help me go back to sleep for a bit.

This time I let myself enjoy the pure form of it, Daddy, before turning on the vibrations. It's got these couple little bumps in it, rather than being one, smooth form. Which is nice, as it really is very slender. And it's also good for me. Remember, how I've said that I actually need to fuck myself fairly regularly to keep my tissues young and pliable? But I haven't really had anything that I've wanted to shove up there. This is very comfortable, with that little extra bit of stimulation and stretch from the 2 bumps.

Oh, and it's got the pointy tip, Daddy. It reminds me of the end of those little chandelier light bulbs, that you can get with either a straight end or a curved end. This has the curved tip, Daddy, which makes it so very cute! Plus it helps it slip in. Nice...

So the upshot of all that, Daddy, is that it's good for maintaining your little slave's pussy.

The vibrations are nice, too. They go straight up into my womb. Very yummy. In the end, it wasn't as big an orgasm as last time, Daddy, but very good nevertheless, and it was all very pleasant. And I was very aware of how it was good for Daddy's pussy, and would make it all nice and fuckable when you finally bring your friends to shove their cocks up me.

[And then I was off to "Band Camp" followed by post-camp recovery and too much rain and who knows what and suddenly it was the end of August and I really needed to finish the review by the end of the month. So with Hurricane Irene on her way, and my Master out at a bar, I settled down on the couch with Ketzel and my purple-encased MacBook Pro, intending to write. But first there were my wake-up messages from bed.]

August 27th:

Good morning, Daddy. I woke up very early and had a bout of painfully aroused insomnia. Then fell back to sleep and dreamt that all these men wanted me, Daddy, and I was flirting with them. But I wanted only you.

My pussy is still twitching and whimpering, Daddy.

[...]

Another dream detail I just remembered, Daddy... one of the men... he kissed me and it was AWFUL, Daddy. He had thin, dry lips and didn't know how to do it right.

Not like you...

[Later...]

Twitching twitching twitching...

I'm writing up my vibrator report, Daddy, and describing how good it felt is getting your little slave very aroused... And oh, Daddy, it feels so good knowing I can't touch myself unless you give permission!

The chain of your ownership is cutting into your little slave's pussy, my Master.

I wrote that and the twitching kicked up a notch.
I feel you tormenting me, my Master.
And I embrace it.

Is it the storm, Daddy?
Or errant hormones?
Whatever it is, I'm falling deeper and deeper into that slave place...

[The sadist replies that I'm too sensitive not to respond to the storm. He says I may masturbate, but must report before, during, and after - which is what I normally do. I picture him reading my reports as he sits imbibing at the bar. I know what it will do to his cock...]

Oh, thank you, Daddy my Master!

I wish I were at the bar with you, my Master.
I wish I were standing naked beside you.
I wish you were offering me around to be touched and inspected.
I wish I were bent over a table to be beaten and raped.
I wish your chain were tight around my neck
so everyone could see
that I am your slave.

I am, my Master.
I'm your own little slave.
And now
I'll rape myself with silicone on your behalf.

[...]

In the bedroom, my Master.
On the bed.
Door closed.
Clothes off.

Except I left on those support knee hose and my socks with cats on them, Daddy. They somehow make me feel more naked. The contrast, I guess. And the socks... they make me feel younger.

I'll use that newest toy, my Master. To stick inside me. And maybe the lavender one, too.

[These descriptions of my masturbation alternated with episodes of what would be happening to me in the bar as the sadist offered me around to the other drinkers. This is a recurring, shared fantasy, but was written for my Master's pleasure and feels too personal to share. Anyway, I'm sure you can fill in details from what I wrote above.]

Oooh. Daddy...

It feels so good.
It slips right in.
No resistance except for that little extra pressure from the bumps.
And the curved tip is reaching towards my womb.

I haven't even turned it on yet, my Master.
And I'm afraid to think too much about what you will subject me to in the bar or I'll cum too fast.

I need to feel the torture of the pleasure.

[...]

I turned it on, my Master.
Just at the first level.
Not very strong but yes... it's torture.

Who would think that pleasure could be torture?

The vibrations from the curved tip are heading into my g-spot as they were designed to do. I'm suffering, my Master... it feels so good that it inspires a sense of short thin lashes flogging my pussy.

[...]

I've taken the vibrations to Level 2, my Master.
They are spreading from my pussy towards my tight little butt hole.

[...]

Turns out it accidentally went all the way to Level 3, Daddy. This pretty thing isn't very strong, my Master. But it fits perfectly.

I ran the curbed point of the tip in a semicircle over my outer labia and above my clitoris. Just around it, trying not to touch directly. And I pressed it into the pubic bone above my clit. Delicious, Daddy..
I'm trying very hard to prolong this...

This is tricky, my Master, typing on the laptop while lying on my back, knees up, vibrating purple silicone shoved up my pussy.

[...]

I pulled it out, my Master, squeezed on more AstroGlide, then shoved it firmly back in and started fucking myself with it.

It's no longer silicone.

It's my rapist.

[Insert a handful of fantasy installments here.]

I switched to the little snub-nosed lavender Meany at the end, my Master.
I love how its soft round nose feels against my clit.
It snuffled and poked at me and felt so good, Daddy!
Plus it's yummy inside me -
fatter than the other one, I think, though very short.

Whatever it is inside me that's been forcing these dark fantasies on me took me back to a place where my ass and my pussy door were being whipped. And I came. A real orgasm, my Master, inside, the rising up and rolling over, which I pushed for a little more even. It still wasn't super strong, but it was a real physical orgasm, Daddy, and I was - I am - grateful for it.

I rested a bit then.
But didn't let myself sleep.

And all that activity made me need to pee.

The new vibrator was buzzing away inside me, Daddy, all those times I wrote you once I said I had turned it on.

Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for allowing me to masturbate.
Thank you for allowing me to cum.
And most of all, thank you for having me share it with you.

[End of e-mail reports.]

So yes.
I really liked it.
A lot!

A couple of points to remember.

Including one thing I don't mention enough. I have a very strong preference for silicone toys. I love how they feel - so velvety! - and I love how well they clean up (especially when they're waterproof), meaning I don't have to bother with a condom. A big advantage. But remember that you need to use water-based lubricant only, and keep the toys from touching each other. Who knows what they would get up to in your toy box? (No, seriously, silicone and silicone don't do well together.)

Otherwise, remember that the Silky G is fairly slender, so could be unsatisfying for those of you who like something big and fat shoved up your cunt. Plus the vibrations aren't super strong, and there aren't any fancy patterns. Which obviously didn't interfere with my pleasure one little bit. But it's something to keep in mind if you're laying out your own money for your pussy's next best friend.

For me, though...

Wow!

PS - and no, I will not be posting anything about the 10th anniversary of September 11th. Observance is appropriate, and I don't begrudge people what they need. I certainly have not forgotten. But for me, once was enough.

Washed out

2011-09-09T18:17:00.000-04:00

I haven't been a very dependable a blogger lately.

Blame it on the weather.
There's been far too much weather.
Meaning rain.
Far too much rain.

Yesterday, I finally dragged my large lightbox upstairs, as my brain had completely shut down. I was so desperate for light that I overdosed. It didn't make me lively, but did keep me up till 3 am. Bad girl, because then I slept till 10 this morning, meaning I missed much of whatever morning light there was.

NOTE to those who are contemplating light therapy for winter sluggishness or depression or full-out SAD. You're supposed to start using it before you can tell that you've slowed down. Meaning in mid-August, just a few minutes as early in the morning as possible (yeah, right...) and then gradually increasing. But this was an emergency. I keep that big box in the dining room once the season starts, and have a Sunlight Jr. on the kitchen counter, with another Sunlight Jr. for my office desk when I'm fortunate enough to have paying employment. (At home, I mainly work at the thoroughly buried dining room table.)

Anyway, today the sun came out. Still somewhat feeble, but a promising sign nevertheless. And I actually managed to get some things done!

Lots left to do for the sadist, including revising a long-ish poem he assigned months ago. Plus I owe you all the second half of my review of the Silky G, after which I can write about my utterly delicious and delightfully classy new vibrator. In black and grey. Not like me at all, but it looked so elegant on the website and in fact it is. And damn, but it feels good... Whoo-ee!

But that's for another time.

(Though if you follow the link, you'll see that it's on sale...)

Oh, and everything is quite wonderful with me and the fiend. The things he says with his mouth but without words...

There.
Now you know I haven't forgotten about you all.
Feel better?

Ghosts

2011-09-06T19:11:00.000-04:00

Sunday.
He was somewhere we had been together.

He felt my presence.

Still.
After all that time.
My presence lingered.

And me?
I was elsewhere.
Wishing we could have been together.

So in the end, we were.
In our own way, we were.
Together.

[she sighs happily]

In case you were thinking about anniversary presents

2011-09-02T17:00:00.000-04:00

Three years....

Guess what I found out!
Three years...

It's our leather anniversary!

Just so you know.

Three years . . .

2011-09-01T18:26:00.000-04:00

There should be an adjective.

Three [something-or-other] years.

Perhaps that word my Master used when my physical service rendered him nearly speechless.

Three amazing years.
Or maybe:
Three extraordinary years.
Or even:
Three unlikely years.
Or how about:
Three years of struggle and joy.

For me, too, in this as in so many other things, words are inadequate.
Utterly, inevitably inadequate.
The richness and complexity of
who we are and
how we are and
what we are
cannot be pinned down.

What we have is an exquisite, elusive butterfly that you will never catch and nail to a board for a thorough and dispassionate examination.

There is nothing dispassionate about our relationship.

Below is what I posted on September 2, 2008, one day after I begged my Master to allow me to serve him, which happened a mere one week after he first found me on FetLife. He found me, wanted me, set his trap, and got me. All in the space of a week, which was exactly what he had predicted to his masochist slave.

You can read the whole post below, but you might want to go back and read it in situ. In context. with some of the surrounding posts. Including our first meeting in the flesh. (I notice that there, as so often now, I display an unwillingness to really describe our interactions.)

The following speaks of the philosopher as well as of the sadist - so I suppose I should offer this update that we've had some extended e-mail conversations in the last few months, kicked off by the death of Osama bin Laden. Which is good. What the philosopher and I had was also very special, and I was sad that we were no longer in contact. (Note: he did finally finish his dissertation. And does still read here.)

Here, then, is a remembrance and a tribute
to what was
and what is
and what will be.

A remembrance filled with love (and offered with uncorrected capitalizations).

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Life makes its own decisions

Sometimes, things happen very very fast. Which can really blindside you if you never imagined they existed.

This change in my life I never imagined existed. Not for me. Not now. And certainly not quite this fast.

In some ways I’m not even sure what happened. Or how. One day I start getting odd messages from an evil man whose over-the-top enthusiasm for my writing makes me laugh. A day or so later, I’m inspired to write a very dark piece which I don’t feel like posting here. By Saturday we were having some horribly long volleys of messages and I was still teasing him for the way he worshiped my words, but I was distracted and aroused and aching to please him.

On Monday, Labor Day, I begged him to let me serve him. I am perhaps the first literary service slut in history.

Monday was very odd. It could have been a very rough day – the day on which my poor philosopher would have called to discuss where we went from here – if he hadn’t already dismissed me by e-mail on the anniversary of his taking possession of me as his slave kitten, his selkie, and as his best friend. It could have been a very very difficult day.

But it wasn’t.

The philosopher wrote me after reading about the fiend and about my dream, acknowledging what the day would have been. I was so, so happy, spending all that time writing back and forth, talking about the film i had seen (Starting Out in the Evening, which I liked a lot), learning that the dissertation is going well now and that i’m free to ask about it whenever i wish. Things are good between us, however they might be defined.

Meanwhile, my demon muse and i continued to write throughout the day, and… and i have no idea what happened. I’m not going to share the conversation; it loses something in translation and feels too intensely personal. Too intense. Very personal. Mainly, there was all this frustration on both sides that the other just couldn’t understand what needed to happen next. My fault, really, for being so afraid of rejection and for not knowing the rules.

What i CAN say is that by Sunday i was desperately wanting to please him. The more nice things he said, the more intensely submissive i felt. i was drunk on it, i think… perhaps my intense desire to serve him was a way to jump in the barrel and drown in the sweet strong wine of his approval.

(and yes i know i have completely lost any consistency in my capitalization and i’m not going to correct it. you can see what happens to my mind as i write. certainly, when i’m feeling submissive “I” gets rapidly replaced by “i” – not as a conscious thing, just as a reflection of something very deep and very uncontrollable. except, of course, by someone who very much wants to control me.)

so yes. i am his service slut. his literary service slut. his imprisoned poet, his treasured pet. i'm not totally sure what he wants of me, but whatever it is, i will give, and will learn to anticipate. i do know that we won't see each other all that often - but then, i am used to that. and since much of what he is looking to accomplish with me is guiding and disciplining and inspiring my writing, e-mail works just fine. i am already seeing a difference. (and oh... i have a secret goal... aside from all the other things i hope to achieve through my demon mentor's training, i'd really love to be able to write a sonnet one day. i've wanted to write a sonnet for years.)

while i may not be totally sure of what my poetic dominant wants of me, it is quite clear and agreed upon what he doesn't want of me. he has no intention of being my boyfriend, and i am not looking for that from him. our goals are clear, the work will be hard, and our time together will be focused. it's true that i thought i was done with active BDSM for now, but every so often an opportunity comes along that is too rich and exciting and fulfilling and challenging to pass up. however, that doesn't change the fact that as far as Relationships go, with a capital "R", i'm feeling quite fulfilled at the moment.

because there is the philosopher. even as friends, even as we are, whatever we are to each other, i regard this bond between us as my primary relationship. and my sadistic jailer knows that. he respects that and he supports that.

i wonder if something like this would have helped things when the philosopher tried to break up with me as far back as last February. what with the stress of the dissertation, he has been feeling overwhelmed by the relationship for a long time. everything came to feel onerous – putting me to bed, giving me attention, giving me the control i needed, even accepting my love perhaps… i’m not totally sure, really. what if we had been able to think of this as a solution? someone for me to serve, someone to command my obedience, to give me attention, to praise me and to chastise me, to arouse me and control me, and to nurture my submission. i would still have belonged to the philosopher, we both would have had that to hug to ourselves to keep us safe and warm at night. but i would have been out of his hair and locked away safe until he was done and ready to resume life. and then we would have figured out together the new rules for a relationship that would work for us both.

but things don’t happen that way. we don’t always think of solutions when we need them, when life is coming apart, and i can’t imagine going shopping for someone to take me in hand. besides, that’s not how my life works. opportunities present themselves. people suddenly appear, people far beyond what i could have imagined. and then there is no choice. all i can say is “yes, Sir” and obey.

besides, the philosopher was always so possessive, even when he tried not to be, that i can’t imagine his having accepted such a thing.

so now he is my best friend, and i try not to say “yes, sir” when he calls me kitten. because i don’t ever want him to stop calling me kitten. and i still think of him a lot, i could never stop that, but am saved from brooding by this demon ex machina who commands my submission and demands my words and scares me and delights me and makes me tremble and makes me want to throw myself at his feet which maybe i can do later this week. how else should i feel about a man who likes my very feeble singing?

i am happy.

And today, I put the philosopher’s picture back on my desk. He is part of my life, whatever label we may stick on his role, and i like being reminded of that. Besides, he’s cute.

Daddy's little slave outdoes herself

2011-08-30T17:13:00.002-04:00

Imagine an Irishman left without words.

All that remained was one:

"Amazing."

Submitting to Irene

2011-08-28T20:55:00.001-04:00

A force of nature.
She was a force of nature.
Both in fact and in metaphor.

She fascinated me, like some mythological beast who won't let you look away, even as she draws nearer and nearer and prepares to devour you.

She swallowed me up.
I could not look away.

The storm wasn't even all that bad here. We were hit with nothing more than the fringes of her skirt and cloak as she twirled up the coast, enough to take down some trees but not enough to stop the city cold. I lost power for perhaps half a minute and no more, though others were not that lucky. We didn't even get a lot of rain.

But I couldn't look away.
I couldn't go to sleep.

Obsessively, I followed her path, swapping preparations, plans, and predictions with friends up and down the East Coast. We'd been talking all week anyway, not wanting to let go of the intimacy of our days at "Band Camp" and the surprise earthquake that came so soon after. I fed off Facebook and group e-mails, while Irene sank her teeth into my pale, bare neck and fed off me.

By the afternoon, I was insanely aroused, and not just from working on the first half of my latest sex toy review. It was Irene. She was tangled in my rowdy curls, winding her scarf around my neck, and blowing into my panting pussy. My Master was right to see that I was too sensitive not to respond to her.

I wanted to lay myself naked at her feet and feel her lash.

When she finally arrived at our latitude, she kept her distance. Like many people this time of year, she haunted the shore and merely breezed by the halls of power, monuments of stone already shaken by the rumblings of midweek. She treated us gently and I was disappointed.

I wanted more.

I needed more.

I wanted to walk out into the storm and give myself to her,
naked and unprotected.
I needed to offer myself.
I needed to submit.
I needed her to slap my face with gusts of wind,
to flog my breasts with sprays of stinging rain,
to cane my belly and buttocks
with switches of fallen branches.

I wanted her power.
I needed her fury.

But all she gave me was a hint.
A taste.
And roaring echoes of her passion.

It was my Master who gave me relief.
My Master who opened the locks.
My Master who said I could touch and could cum
and licked up the words that flowed with my passion.

He knew I couldn't help being drawn to Irene.

But he knows that I'm nobody's slave but his own.

Masturbation mania (10) -Testing the Silky G

2011-08-27T21:35:00.000-04:00

E-mail from me to Kayla, my contact at EdenFanatsys and steady supplier of sex toys:

I know you're at a conference and may not see it for a while, but just wanted to let you know that I tried the Silky G last night. It's so damn adorable that I couldn't wait. And I love it! A couple of things could be improved, and it wouldn't work for someone who needs things really strong or fat. But for me? Oh my...

And yes. It's VERY quiet.
Finally.

Thanks so much!

Flashback:

Having finally finished my rabbit review, it was time to select the next product to subject to my rigorous series of consumer tests. But the clitoral vibrator I had in mind wasn't available for review last month, and the hoped-for replacement for the much beloved but now deceased Fun Factory vibrator the philosopher gave me has been discontinued. (You can see it pictured in the photo at the bottom of the right-hand column.)

Kayla, however, had been paying attention to my comments over the last few months, and offered some suggestions based on my preference for silicone and my sensitivity to vibrator noise. My noise issue is not so much that my housemate will hear; rather the buzzing is distracting and ugly and offends my artistic sensibilities.

I studied the small list very scientifically, as my other concern is the surprising tightness of my 62-year old pussy. And I never did like fat cocks. Not only are they uncomfortable, but they are graceless.

Eventually, I selected a G-spot vibrator from Evolved Novelties called the Fleur de Lis Silky G. Like last month's rabbit from the same manufacturer, the Silky G comes in a really cool and creative package. In fact, in 2009 Evolved Novelties won an award for Best Packaging. My only complaint about the package is that it's a little fussy. You can't just pop the vibrator out of the container when your pussy starts screaming for attention. There's a little plastic ring you have to unscrew first. But its great for storage and isn't inordinately larger than the vibrator herself.

This one I do call "she" because she's so damn cute.
Perky.
Slender.
A bit saucy.
With a jaunty little curved tip that reminds me of
a soft-serve ice cream cone dipped in hardened chocolate.

Except it's not brown.
It's purple.
A lovely purple.
And silicone.
I definitely prefer silicone.
Feels soft.

[Writing interrupted at this point when my Master responded to my plaintive cries of painful arousal by granting me permission to masturbate with the stipulation that I write him before, during, and after. Which I did, affording my pulsing pussy much-needed relief, my Master a flood of entertaining and decidedly pornographic messages, and the Silky G another chance to show her stuff. Which she did. I'm smitten.]

And here, I think, I'll stop for now.

Check back for more on the Silky G, either tomorrow or as power outages allow.

Meanwhile, I'll sigh wistfully, wondering when my Master will let me play with my new friend again. Something about this storm is making me unbearably horny...

Be prepared.

2011-08-26T21:35:00.000-04:00

Hurricane's coming.
Are you ready?

Make sure you've got extra batteries for your vibrators.

But first, make sure you have permission to masturbate.

This has been a public service announcement.

Naked wrestling with jealousy

2011-08-25T19:34:00.001-04:00

sin has been talking about jealousy lately.
Here.
And here.
Specifically, jealousy in response to her Dom's interactions with another submissive.

I tossed in my opinion, and given that I've been feeling extremely disinclined to post since coming home from "Band Camp", as the philosopher calls it, I'll take the lazy way out and reprint my comments below. Not that there's anything new in them. You've heard it before. I know the sadist has numerous other submissives. More than the ones I've specifically been informed of. I've met 3 of them and expect to meet more, though surely not all. And it doesn't bother me.

It used to.
A lot.
Back when I knew of only the one.
His masochist slave.
Now I'm fine.
Which isn't like me.

Anyway, you can read my blathering below.

But first, a question.

sin wrote specifically about jealousy towards other submissives. But:

What about towards a Dom(me)'s significant other, if there is one?
If that jealousy and resentment exists, is it of a different nature from feelings toward other subs and/or slaves?
Does it make a difference if the wife/husband/partner is also a submissive?
What if the other person is another Dom(me)?
How do you feel if you are a submissive spouse/partner knowing that your Dom(me) has other submissives and/or slaves?

The underlying assumption is that the submissive has not willingly and with intention entered into a polyamorous relationship. Rather, the person holding the power has set the ground rules and the sub is trying to deal with them. The issues arising in a true poly relationship seem somewhat different; I do hope swan will toss in something on this.

Please do weigh in.
And please do visit sin's blog.
It's the least I can do for appropriating her topic.

Now here's what I wrote over at her place:

I can't say that I'm turned on by knowing that the sadist has other submissives. But I no longer have a problem with it. In general I am very insecure, and have a great fear of being rejected. Earlier in our relationship, I did have a strong sense of competitiveness with his masochist slave. Now I'm just grateful that he has another outlet for his most extreme sadistic needs. His slave is part of the construct that protects both me and our relationship, and has literally saved my ass numerous times.

The main thing, though, is that I finally feel secure in that relationship. I have a stronger understanding of my Master's feelings for me and my special place in his collection.

It does surprise me that I'm so calm about it all. The only resentment I harbor is that perhaps he would have more time for me if he didn't have to manage such a big stockpile of submissives. On the other hand, our meetings are so reach and intense, I'm not sure that I could manage much more than one a week. Can one live on heavy cream? Even when spiced with hot pepper oil?

My acceptance amazes me, and I can't say I would feel the same about any other relationship, so I'm certainly not holding myself up as a role model.

Good luck.
I know it's hard.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I don't think jealousy is subject to logic. I can use logic to explain why I'm generally ok with my current situation, but logic didn't get me to where I am. And I definitely don't think that just because I'm ok, anyone else should be.

My recommendation? Don't beat yourself up about it. If the jealousy is to ease, it will happen over time. Work on the relationship as a whole. Focus on what YOU have with him, what you are to him, and what he is with you. Focus on your relationship FOR ITS OWN SAKE. What else is there?

And let yourself accept that yes, you are jealous, and that this is NOT an abnormal state to be in.

Perhaps the only other thing I might suggest is to try to avoid letting it affect your behaviour. You can't change your feelings by force of will, but you can try to control what you do. And that's one of the gifts of serving as a submissive: learning self-control. Learning to move our focus outside of ourselves and onto someone else, and basing our behaviour on someone else's needs and requirements. We willingly agree to change that focus and, in a relationship with a skilled, responsible, thoughtful Dom(me), we learn and grow.

It's hard.
I know it's hard.
That's ok.

I think if submission weren't hard, weren't a challenge, we wouldn't gain so much from it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So what do you think?

Sometimes, the earth really does move

2011-08-23T23:16:00.001-04:00

He asked when it had hit.
It seems earthquakes are not as detectable when you're driving.

I was really hoping it was when I was with you.
Don't think I would have noticed.

He says I need direction

2011-08-20T20:35:00.000-04:00

"You need my direction. Remind me Tuesday."

Well, of course I need his direction!
Especially now, having been on my own for a week.
There's a reason I respond to ownership.
A reason I gravitate towards dominance.

I need it.

And not from just anyone.

I had a good time.
And in some ways, it was good to have the freedom.
But I always carried him within me.

And coming home,
leaving where I was,
leaving the people I was with,
was a lot easier knowing I was coming home
to resume being
who I really am.

(Boy, would my friends be surprised...)

The pause that refreshes

2011-08-12T23:22:00.000-04:00

Does he really think it's that easy?

I'm on my way to my annual music and dance immersion.
Playing music,
dancing,
hanging out,
living in a cabin with 15 other people...

He says it's good to cleanse the palate occasionally.
He says I should concentrate on my artistic endeavours.
He says it would be good to clear my mid of thoughts of him

Really?
He really thinks I will?

I'll be like a kid at an artsy summer camp.

"Listen, Daddy!
Listen to what I learned to play today!
Isn't this a beautiful tune?
Look at our beautiful cabin!
Taste this delicious food!
Look at how I'm glowing because I'm so happy.
Listen in on my mind, Daddy!
Hear how I never stop thinking of you."

I won't try hard to avoid thinking about him.
But I'll take it as absolution in advance for focusing on other things.

I had hoped to schedule a few other posts for while I'm gone, including my very happy review of my latest toy. But that will just have to wait until I get back. Meanwhile, go delve into the archives, or re-read some of your favorite posts, until one day I pop up smiling again.

Have a good week, you guys.

As for me,
this night on my own in a hotel in Scranton,
I have permission to masturbate.
Yippee!
I only hope I don't fall asleep first...

Between two people

2011-08-09T20:00:00.000-04:00

He was here.
And that's all I will say.

Some things are too personal...

Not dead. Just busy.

2011-08-08T22:48:00.002-04:00

The new bathroom is all done except for a few details.
So I've been cleaning up after that.
Clearing out the dungeon bedroom for the new tenant.
He moved in tonight.
We talked for far too long.
Plus I'm leaving soon for music camp.
Way too much to do for that.

And Daddy is coming tomorrow.
He says he's feeling very predatory.
I'm glad.
With all the current distractions
and then a week away at camp
I need to feel the power of his control.

I am deliciously nervous...

Please say you like me!

2011-08-03T21:25:00.002-04:00

Those submissives, you are thinking.
Always so needy.
Always needing approval.
Down on their knees, begging for those magic words.

"Good girl."

Well...
yes.
But not only.

There's this top sex bloggers thing.

Last year, completely to my surprise, I ended up on the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2010. I didn't even know I'd been nominated, and only found out I'd been included (at #34) when my stats shot up like a runaway helium balloon. I felt honored. And moved. Especially because what I do is rather different from what you'll find on most sex-related blogs. BDSM or otherwise.

It wasn't just the honor.
It wasn't just the new readers.
There were the unexpected extras.
The invitations to test drive sex toys.
And my favorite:
a request to submit comments for a journalism textbook
on writing about sex.
Very thought-provoking.

So who can be surprised?
I'm a greedy little thing.
I want more.

And as some of you may have noticed elsewhere, the call for nominations is out. So if you happen to particularly like what I do here - and/or particularly like what some other bloggers are doing - go here to get all the rules and details and then make your nominations for the Top Sex Bloggers of 2011. As rule #6 says: "You can nominate as many bloggers as you like, but please try to limit to your very favorites."

Just please don't dawdle.
Nominations close August 31.

And if I'm one of your very favorites - let them know!

[shameless... I know... ]

His hand, my butt

2011-08-02T17:00:00.000-04:00

He spanked me.

So "Nu...?" you say. Or would say if you were one of my long-dead Yiddish-speaking grandfathers. Either one. The Socialist or the Communist. Take your pick.

Where was I?
Ah yes.

So "Nu...?" you say.
He's a dom.
A sadist.
I should be surprised?

Well, yes. Because there hasn't been much spanking of this slave's smooth, soft, sumptuous bottom lately. The sadist has been cautious, hoping not to awaken the beast who has been lolling around in the heat of these past few weeks. Still, a man has appetites. Not to mention a precious toy which it's a pity not to use to full advantage

So he spanked his treasure's bottom.
And pinched his little slave's nipples.
And renewed the bite marks on her neck and lower lip.

It wasn't a bad spanking.
Just enough to leave a lingering pain a few hours later.

A treasured, ringing reminder
of pain
and love
and the hour or so I spent worshiping his cock with my mouth.

Assignments commandments taboos

2011-07-30T21:29:00.000-04:00

They're like the Ten Commandments.
Sometimes thou shalt.
Or else thou shalt not.
This for his pleasure.
That for my safety.
Laws and rituals
designed and decreed.
This to learn.
Recite it on Tuesday.
That do not mention
ever again.
I make a note.
I schedule reminders.
I take no chances.
This is how I worship.
For him,
I am orthodox.

Daddy's slave seeks a housemate

2011-07-29T21:00:00.000-04:00

Dear potential housemate,

Thank you for your interest in renting my basement bedroom. As I have asked a lot of questions about you, it is only fair and appropriate that I reveal a little about myself.

I'm a pornographer.
Or perhaps a better word would be eroticist.
But pornographer gets straight to the point.

In any case, I'm somewhat of a lapsed pornographer, as there's always something to keep me from churning out the amount of fiction you would think I could manage. These days, the distraction is this housemate hunt. And construction noise from having the bathroom re-done so I can attract a relatively high standard of housemate. Meaning one who won't claim to recycle, won't pretend he's recycling, and then really smuggle his water and soda bottles into the trash in plastic bags. Meaning one who won't put things through the garbage disposal after I specifically said DON'T put anything down the garbage disposal. Meaning one who won't get all huffy when I explain that yes, there really is a right way to load the dishwasher.

Which is a whole lot different from claiming that there is one right way to have a BDSM relationship.

Speaking of BDSM...

There's this man.
He comes to the house.
I am naked when I let him in.
I am naked when he lets himself out.
And in between I suck his cock.
For an hour.
Maybe more.
He might spank me.
If he thinks it safe.
If he thinks he can do it without loosing the beast.

You really don't want to know about the beast.

But you do need to know about the man.
Because I'll be counting on your being at work when you say you are.
If you come home unexpectedly...
Let's just say it's better if you don't.
You might see and hear things you'd rather not.

Speaking of seeing things... don't ask about any bruises on my neck. Around my throat. He likes to mark me. He likes to squeeze my throat until the world starts to spin. Sometimes he'll bite my lip. Usually the other marks you won't see. Though I don't seem to get many of those any more. Still, you never know.

And you will.
Never know.
But just in case.
And in a spirit of full disclosure.

Because the room you would be renting is part of the dungeon.
And the walls have absorbed their share of screams.

Still interested?

Masturbation mania (9) - there's a rabbit in my bed! (the Marvel)

2011-07-28T21:11:00.000-04:00

The cats wanted to kill it.
To them, it wasn't a rabbit.
To them, it was a fiercely buzzing bug.
To them, their duty was clear.

I only wish my fingers hadn't been covered with AstroGlide. I wanted nothing more than a picture of their faces and alert bodies as they stared towards the sound emerging from my pussy.

But to back up.

It's sex toy review time again in the oatmeal bowl. It took me quite some time to pick what I wanted to try next. I had 2 lists of items from my contact at EdenFantasys, and conducted serious and time-consuming research to find the best possible candidate. My goal is always to find something I'll really enjoy. Unfortunately, I have very demanding standards and expensive tastes, and the item I'd had in mind in my ongoing search for the perfect clitoral vibrator wasn't available for testing this month.

The good part of my research was that it pushed me to analyze what I want and what I need in a sex toy. One thing I realized was that I don't really like to shove anything very fat up my cunt. So I carefully compared the width of every insertable vibrator I was offered, based on the small circumference of my sweet lavender Meany (3-1/2" per the EdenFantasys website).

In the end, I chose the Marvel, a rabbit from Evolved Novelties (4-1/4").
My very first rabbit vibrator.
And a pretty basic rabbit at that.

Or so I gather from my research.
A mere 3 speeds.
No fancy patterns.
No complicated controls.
No beads bouncing around in its belly.
No cute little ears or butterflies on the clit-tickling end.

I had my concerns starting out. My material of choice is silicone. I like the texture, and I especially like that it is so hygienic that if I wash it well (which is easy) I don't have to use a condom. Just my trusty AstroGlide. (They really should send me a lifetime supply for all the promotion I give them!) But the Marvel is a jelly rabbit. (I can see it now... hopping around town at Easter time, leaving a delicate trail of jelly bean turds...) So out came the condoms again.

On the other hand, the Marvel is flexible. Bendable. And I had read enough rabbit reviews to realize that if manufacturers can't get clothing sizes right, it's even less likely they'll be able to design a vibrator that can simultaneously hit the clit while deeply inserted in every woman who uses it.

And on the third hand, the reviews I read claimed the Marvel was quiet. And as my regular readers know, I have this problem with vibrator noise.

Which brings us back to the cats.

The beasts were banished from my bedroom for a long time, due to continuing hostilities which kept me up at night and resulted in the occasional unwelcome deposit left by Ketzel as a sign of her displeasure. Recently, though, my furry darlings have demonstrated their superiority to the US Congress by deciding to coexist in a surprising state of relaxation, even cooperating in presenting their demands for prompt meal service. As a reward, they have been allowed back onto the Garden of Eden of my bed, where they had joined me for a nap.

I woke up horny, with thoughts of my Master and a sentimental song wandering through my mind - a perfect condition for running one last rabbit test before writing my review. The cats decided to stick around for the fun.

Given that the sadist controls my orgasms, any masturbation I indulge in is for him. He requires a report, of which the following is an excerpt:

They were both on the bed with me, Daddy, when I turned on the rabbit. It buzzes horribly, with a much rougher sound than anything except that first little lipstick vibe. Like a big bee in your ear. And as soon as I turned it on both cats were on the alert, staring at my pussy, looking as if they were considering an attack. I had to laugh!

Eventually, Ketzel jumped off the bed, leaving Marko to do battle alone. At that point, he decided the sound was coming from my foot. He moved slightly closer, raised his paw, and swatted in its direction. Now I was really cracking up. It's very hard to get your head into the right erotic place when a cat is eying your foot while wondering if it's predator or prey.

Which brings me back to the noise.
A very nasty buzz.
Maybe it's not that it's so loud.
Maybe it's just the quality of the sound.
Nasty.
Harsh.

So even though the Marvel itself is slender and flexible, I experienced it as something harsh. Which is particularly odd as its vibrations aren't even that strong. I didn't feel very much inside me. The bullet in the clit part was stronger, and that little nub of flesh more sensitive, so when I position it just right (which I did) the vibrations can be almost numbing. To get any real pleasure from the phallic part I had to fuck myself with it. It was very lovely for that, being long and slender, but I think I would have preferred something a little less pliable for that function.

My goal had been to think about being watched, objectified, returning to the lesson of Tuesday's visit. But the buzzing was too distracting and the stimulation not quite right. Still, it worked hard on my clit, and I came much faster than I meant to. It was only a partial orgasm, though, in that my body peaked but there wasn't the usual crying release. I let my clit rest briefly, allowing the numbness to subside, and then used my fingers and my imagination to finish the orgasm and release the tears. A few sobs later, I was done.

As with everything I review, I must add the caution that my comments are very personal and you must take into account your own body and preferences. I'm sure that most people aren't as fussy about noise as I am, unless it's a matter of eavesdropping housemates or a partner from whom you are hiding the fact that he or she isn't giving you everything you need. (And really, how can one person give you everything you need?) Maybe it's the ADD - the noise of this thing definitely interfered with my pleasure, and makes my other toys seem not so bad.

On the other hand, the Marvel is relatively inexpensive as such things go. And the packaging is great! A really neat metal box with a form-fitting plastic insert and metal clasps resembling those on a Mason jar. Perfect for storage and pleasing for its creativity.

In the end, I think I do better with simple, expensive silicone toys designed mainly for one thing. They end up doing more for me. But I am glad I finally got to try a rabbit.

And I'm grateful that the cats didn't take a swat at it while it was inside me!

Lingering on the edge

2011-07-27T23:29:00.000-04:00

More details.
In my comments on yesterday's post, I promised more details.

Edge play.
Keeping him on the edge of cumming for over an hour.

It's by his choice, of course.
His directive.
His training.
Never up to me.
He knows what he wants.
He taught me how to deliver.
And gets from me even more.

I do it with my mouth.

With my hands, too, of course, but especially with my mouth.
With my lips and my tongue and my teeth...
And my words.
My breath.
My sighs.
My moans.
My whimpers.

Get one of your recent toys, he said.

I should have picked the latest one. The new purple rabbit. I needed another session with it. You'll read about that tomorrow. But instead I reached for the LAYAspot. I think I may be growing fonder of it than I wrote in my review. And it's perfect for what I knew my Master wanted.

To watch me.
To watch me arouse myself.
To listen.
The noises I make...
My voice, my breath, they do something to him...

I spread out an old red bathmat, to keep from staining the carpet with AstroGlide and pussy juice. I spread my legs, turned on the lubricated little clit vibrator, and pressed it gently against me.

He watched.
With concentration.
He watched and I started rising...
It seemed like a long time but I guess it wasn't long enough.

"I may cum, Daddy. If I'm cumming, may I cum for you?"
"Don't rush," he said gently.
"Don't reach for it."

I let myself fall back.

I never did cum.

I felt his eyes on me.

I began to talk.

I felt as if I were in a peep show. Behind glass. Not because I wanted to be working there, but because I had to. I felt eyes on me. Other men's eyes, though sometimes he came to watch, too. At times I felt the chain... around my neck, on my ankle, pulled taut so I felt constrained, restrained... not that I would have refused, resisted, but to be sure I felt that none of this was for me. It was all for those watching, who got off on knowing that I felt their eyes, that I felt them watching.

That I knew I was no one.
That I had no volition.
That I was there as a slave.

And that if they fucked me, if later they fucked me, they would use me as if I were one of those masturbation toys for men that simulate cunts and mouths and tight little butt holes.

At one point, as these words leaked from my lips without my intention even as I knew that they'd please him, the sadist leaned forward in his throne of a chair. I was on the floor before him, and he leaned forward and observed me with the detachment of a researcher. He observed me. He listened. Closer, he caught every little morsel of sound.

Later, I sucked his cock. Or maybe before and after. I can't really remember. It's all part of my service. Taking as much time as he wants. As much time as he has. Teaching me to feel. To feel him feeling me. Have you tried that yet? I felt what his lips and tongue felt as they enjoyed my mouth. I felt what his cock felt as my mouth traveled up and down over him, pulling, sucking, pressing my tongue down against the base before suddenly releasing him and running my tongue or finger tips over his balls.

"Bitch!"

He cries that out sometimes when I suddenly desert his cock.

But it's what he wants.
To take him up and back.
To lead him along the path of pleasure
and keep him teetering on the edge,
only to pull him back
before leading him to the edge
again
and again
and again.

Until it's time.
And then he cums.
And I'm his sweet baby girl.

I lay my head in his lap,
and wrap my arms around his waist,
and he strokes my hair
and he feels all soft and sweet
and he tells me how good I made him feel
but he doesn't even have to say it.
Because I know.

All his tension is gone.

And my only regret is that soon he'll have to leave.

PS - I left some things out...

Edge play

2011-07-26T21:42:00.000-04:00

New definition:

keeping him on the edge of an orgasm for over an hour.

Disappearing act

2011-07-25T22:22:00.000-04:00

Family obligations.
Parental anniversary.
Lots of driving.
Lots of traffic.
Nasty accidents.

I think the heat sapped everyone's common sense.

But now I'm home.
It's Monday night and I'm home.
And Tuesday afternoon, my Master will be here.
Daddy.
My Master.
The center of my life.

Tuesday afternoon.
For a good couple of hours.
So he can take his time with me...

It's good to be back.

I missed him...

Free to be you and you and me

2011-07-21T15:42:00.000-04:00

What does the word "polygamy" make you think of?

[pause inserted here so you can examine your gut reactions]

An admission.
It makes my stomach tighten.
And not because I'm trying to either hide or strengthen those lazy muscles.

To me, the word "polygamy" implies oppression of women. A religious and/or cultural system which sees women only as property. Self-centered, narcissistic men needing to be catered to. Fawned over. Worshiped.

Yeah... I know... some of that does sound like the sadist, doesn't it?
Hold that thought.

But what if we say "polyamory"?
"Multiple relationships"?
"Open marriage"?

Then many of us might say - oh yes!
How forward thinking.
Open-minded.
Loving.
Great if you can make it work.

There's a challenging and informative op-ed article in the New York Times on just this issue. It's called One Big, Happy Polygamous Family and is definitely worth a read. The Utah family featured in the TLC reality show Sister Wives is challenging the state's law which criminalizes polygamy. The author, Jonathan Turley, is the lead attorney on the case. And the case comes down to whether such plural relationships are covered by the right to privacy established in the 2003 Supreme Court decision Lawrence v. Texas.

Turley says things so well that it seems best to quote a few key sections of his article, send you off to read the whole thing (don't worry, it's not super long) and then hope you'll come back here to comment and discuss.

One might expect the civil liberties community to defend those cases as a natural extension of its campaign for greater privacy and personal choice. But too many have either been silent or outright hostile to demands from polygamists for the same protections provided to other groups under Lawrence.

The reason might be strategic: some view the effort to decriminalize polygamy as a threat to the recognition of same-sex marriages or gay rights generally. After all, many who opposed the decriminalization of homosexual relations used polygamy as the culmination of a parade of horribles. In his dissent in Lawrence, Justice Antonin Scalia said the case would mean the legalization of “bigamy, same-sex marriage, adult incest, prostitution, masturbation, adultery, fornication, bestiality and obscenity.”

Personally, I think it's also due to that pit of the stomach reaction, especially as so many of us automatically tie it in with patriarchal religious oppression and devaluing of women. But stop and think.

How would most Americans characterize the kinds of relationships that you and I and many of the readers of this little edge of blogland?

How many of you play with or have sex with more than one person?

How many are involved with someone who has a spouse or significant other who is not you?

In how many of these cases is there some agreement, whether tacit or clearly defined, for people to have other relationships of various kinds?

How does this honest acknowledgement of how hard it is for one person to meet all of another's needs - including but not limited to sexual needs - compare with pretending to be monogamous while sneaking around on the side?

Meanwhile, the quote from Justice Scalia left my mouth hanging open. I've heard that little list before, with its lumping together of homosexuality and bestiality. But I never noticed the inclusion of masturbation before. Masturbation??!!? Excuse me, buster. Although I may not agree, I can at least see the reasoning behind his opposition to the other items on the list. But masturbation? Talk about a victimless crime. Especially when women do it, because (I'm going all Biblical here) there's no issue of depriving a baby the right to be born by our spilling our seed on the ground.

I can see the irony, though, considering the huge contribution Mormons made to outlawing same-sex marriage in California. Just imagine Mormons marching side-by-side with supporters of gay rights in one grand united movement to protect our right to privacy.

[T]here is nothing uniquely abusive about consenting polygamous relationships. It is no more fair to prosecute the Browns because of abuse in other polygamous families than it would be to hold a conventional family liable for the hundreds of thousands of domestic violence cases each year in monogamous families.

And finally:

Civil libertarians should not be scared away by the arguments of people like Justice Scalia. We should fight for privacy as an inclusive concept, benefiting everyone in the same way. Regardless of whether it is a gay or plural relationship, the struggle and the issue remains the same: the right to live your life according to your own values and faith.

This is where it comes back to hit every one of us.

The right to live our lives according to our own values.

The right to use birth control if we wish to.

The right of consenting adults to give or get an erotic spanking.

Never take your freedoms for granted.

To read about one example of polyamory, spend some time with The Heron Clan, one man and two women in a long-standing relationship. Like all of us, they have their crises, with the last few years being particularly challenging. Most of the posts come from swan, who sometimes comments here. She is warm, thoughtful, and analytic, and well-worth visiting.

Your wish is my command

2011-07-19T17:13:00.000-04:00

You need a blow job, my Master?
Today?
At noon?
With my house commandeered by workmen?

Of course, Sir.
No problem.
No arguments.
No sputtering as to how this could be potentially embarrassing.

Our motto:
You swell.
We suck.

I admit, that makes me sound much more blasé about the matter than I really was. Here are these 2 guys, with whom of course I've become friendly (no, you nasty people, not that friendly!), who've been spending hours and days in my house, re-doing the basement bathroom along with related projects, and I have to tell them... well, I said that for an hour or so I'd be home but not available to answer questions or anything. Of course 5 minutes before the sadist is due, one of the guys is out front asking if the electric outlet in my non-functioning outdoor light gets power. Quickly, I answer and remind him that I won't be available for the next hour or so and then disappear back inside.

I text my Master a warning that one of the guys is out front.
The sadist doesn't care.
Not one bit.

By the time he arrives, both guys are out there in the disgustingly thick hot air, hanging out, drinking water, eating lunch, and (one of them, cutting back) smoking half a cigarette. My Master strides up the walk as if he owns the place. Which, in a manner of speaking, he does, since he owns me and I own the house.

I am very grateful that he gave me permission to greet him clothed. With plain white bra and panties under my little jumper over a pale green t-shirt. Flat Mary Jane shoes.

He said I looked around nine.

Sometimes, you just have to do your job.
Not matter what the working conditions.

Anyway, when you're a slave, there's no negotiating.
You do as you're told.
Which I did.

He left here feeling a whole lot better.
And that's all that matters.

Sex toys, bathrooms, and blow jobs

2011-07-18T21:05:00.000-04:00

Well.
That sums it up.

I now have a purple rabbit.
One grey tabby,
one tortoiseshell tabby,
and one purple rabbit.

So yes.
There will be a review of the purple rabbit.
By next week for sure.

I also have a bathroom.
Actually, 2 bathrooms.
The second bathroom is the dungeon bathroom.
It gets rented out with the dungeon bedroom.
And it's horribly funky.
Well, it was horribly funky.
Now it's a pile of rubble.
In a week or so it will be beautiful.
But for now - chaos.

Which means I'll have a workman or two hanging around the house for the next number of days while the cats do their best to make themselves invisible. The sadist, however, will not be invisible. No way in hell. Workmen or know, he needs a blow job and he expects his little whore to deliver.

Which I will.
Tomorrow.

Hopefully, the guys will be making a lot of noise.

And I've been given special dispensation.
I can greet my Master at the door fully clothed.

Whew!

Senior sex? Who you calling a senior?

2011-07-14T22:30:00.000-04:00

Every so often, I call attention to how old I am.

Sometimes because it puzzles me.
The number.
It puzzles me.
I can't relate to it.

And sometimes because it's good to let people know that "older" people can still have - and do have - sex. Hot sex. Satisfying sex. Kinky sex. Moon-about-it-for days-afterwards sex.

More than sex.

A life-changing,
unacceptable,
transgressive,
admittedly risky,
and thoroughly preoccupying
relationship.

It doesn't end with your first grey hair.

Of course, I don't have that many grey hairs. Which is part of my confusion. When I look in the mirror I see beauty. Not just because the sadist taught me to see it. It's because somehow my looks improved as I got older. Odd, no?

And then there's this mane of red hair.
A head of bouncing and thoroughly natural red waves and curls.

Unless I look at my hands, it's hard to connect with the number.
Ever not sure how old someone is?
Look at the hands.
We lose that lovely, plumpifying collagen as we age.
The skin thins.
Sags.
Wrinkles.

But most people don't know to look at the hands.
So they think I'm still 40 or 45 or so.

Oh yeah.
You new readers.
Waiting for the number?

62.

Red mane,
perky nipples,
slurpy pussy,
raging libido,
the works.

I'd probably still be masturbating daily if the sadist hadn't staked a claim to my orgasms, to be doled out one by one for his pleasure - and sometimes as a reward for good service.

I'm 62.
Those 40-year olds do keep flirting with me.
(Today's guy was very tempting...)
I haunt the dreams of the man who owns me.

I'm 62.
I ooze sex.

I'm 62.
I am pussy.
Every inch of me is pussy.
In and out, every inch of me is pussy.

Just ask my Master.

I am female.
I am alive.
I am sexual.

That about covers it.
No?

My Master lets me share his teachings

2011-07-12T22:41:00.001-04:00

"Feel what I am feeling," he said.

And I did.
Just like that.
With a slight shift of focus.

It wasn't a completely new idea. I've done something a little like that before. After divorce #2, after I'd moved back out East, back when I was suddenly free to hope that I would maybe, somehow, finally satisfy the desire that was so deep that it hurt.

The desire to finally be with a woman.
Sexually.
And - I hoped - more.

But that's another story.

What happened one day, as I lay in bed touching myself, was that I wanted to feel it from the other end. I wanted to feel what it would be like to caress a woman. I wanted to know what someone would feel if she were touching me.

So I switched the focus of my brain into my hand.
And I felt it.
So soft.
So rounded.
So beautiful.
Nipples so tempting.

I was shy about touching my pussy that way.
Mostly I remember caressing my breasts.
They were so very, very soft...

For this lesson with my Master, I had to take it one step further. As I touched him, as I licked him, as I sucked him, I put my mind inside his body. Instead of focusing on what I was doing, I started to feel what I was doing. I was his cock. I felt my tongue, licking "I love you." I felt the pull of my sucking - first tender, then deep. I felt the scrape of my teeth on one side as my tongue pressed hard against the other. I felt the tip of my tongue lazily circling the tip of his cock which was now almost my cock because I felt it.

I felt it.

And he felt that I felt it.
He felt the difference.
A deeper yielding.

He caressed my tit, so sweetly, so gently, and I felt what his hand felt as it touched me, treasured me, marvelled at my vulnerable softness.

Then he said, "Feel my enjoyment of you."
And he kissed me.

With him, a kiss is never just a kiss.
A kiss is never without thought.
Without intent.
He explores.
He tastes.
He takes.
He feels.
He enjoys.

And I felt it.
I felt his enjoyment of me.
His pet.
His poet.
His slave.

I was his mouth enjoying my mouth, which took me somewhat outside my self yet made me even more present. I didn't float away on my pleasure. I focused on his pleasure. Which resulted in my giving myself even more to his pleasure. Which he felt.

And oh... the intimacy. I felt his pleasure and mine even more intertwined... the bramble and the rose...

And when he smacked my bottom, I felt the sting of the impact on his palm.

I was amazed.
Delighted.
He showed me a whole new world.
How could I have known there was anything as beautiful as this?!

You really must try it.
Even in a vanilla relationship.
It's extraordinary.

I do know that for many of you it may not be as easy as for me. I'm horrendously suggestible. I'm such easy prey. But it's worth working on. You'll see...

I was such a good girl. He rewarded me with permission to masturbate. So I did. Still naked, with the heavy steel chain wrapped around and around my neck, I gathered my toys and went upstairs to my bed. As I slid my vibrating little lavender Meany inside my ever-so-soft and moist pussy, I slid my mind inside the short, slender, silicone cock - still my favorite toy of them all. And I felt myself. I felt the slippery velvet of me. I felt my muscles closing and holding and sucking. And then my mind went inside my fingers, and felt the swollen desire of my labia, and how my clitoris smiled and melted under my touch.

I felt myself being enjoyed.
I felt the pleasure being taken from me.
I felt it
and I opened to it
and I surrendered.

I gave it all to you, my Master.

It all belongs to you.

Peaceful, easy feeling

2011-07-10T23:25:00.001-04:00

I am utterly devoid of thoughts.
No words of wisdom.
No spurts of poetry.

It feels very nice, actually.
Calm.
Peaceful.

I'm sure I'll have something to say tomorrow.

Thought control

2011-07-09T20:02:00.001-04:00

You run your mind gently across my lips and let it slip down the soft slide of my left breast. Your thoughts nibble at my provoking nipples, one tiny red pillow adorned with the barest remnant of a scab. Memories poke up their tousled heads. You chase them away, and force your errant brain deep into the yeast dough mound of my pale belly. Your ruminations tickle my clit before slipping into my pussy.

Miles away, I groan, and wish I had permission to touch.

Masturbation mania (8) - Cumming with the Fun Factory LAYAspot

2011-07-08T16:00:00.001-04:00

So here it is. Part 2 of my 2-for-the-price-of-1 sex toy review. Yesterday you got the somewhat dispassionate account of my exploration of Fun Factory's LAYAspot, a clitoral vibrator that is the latest donation to my growing collection of sensually stimulating devices courtesy of my [contact? handler? friend?] at EdenFantasys. OK, it wasn't at all dispassionate, nor was it completely positive. Then again, nothing is perfect.

This was a type of toy I specifically wanted to try. As I said yesterday, I'm a clitoral girl when it comes to cumming. So why keep shoving pseudo-dicks up my pussy when it's my clit that wants the lovin'? Especially as this style of clitoral vibrator seems perfectly designed to fit the female shape.

Following are a selection from the in-action e-mails I sent my Master as I masturbated with the LAYAspot. The test and report are my thank-you to EdenFantasys, my part of the deal for the pleasure and fun they are adding to my life. But my orgasms - my body - my brain - my pleasure - all belong to my Master. So I participate in this program with his permission - with the understanding that he will benefit from it.

Enough of the high-minded slave stuff.
It's true, you know.
But when I write it, it can sound kind of stuffy at times.

Here's the juicy stuff.
Straight from the front.
Or from the pussy.
As it were.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I am evoking you, my Master.
Seeing you.
Feeling you.
Giving myself to thoughts of you.

Hot Jazz Saturday Night is on the radio.
Not long ago, my Lord, he had on Let's Misbehave.

I feel your body pressing me into the bed.
I feel your fingers.
Touching me.
Fondling me.
Fucking me.
Raping me.

I'm starting to go someplace different, my Master.
To the edge of that slave place I'm starting to explore.
I feel different, my Master.
You opened the door...
I peek through.
I'm not sure what I see.
But I can't stay away.

So as your property, my Master, I will arouse myself.

It will all be for you.
How can it be anything else?
Because I belong to you, my Master.
For real.

I turn down the thermostat.
I have to, my Lord.
You make me hot.

I free my curls from the restraining combs.
My hair tumbles forward onto my cheeks.
I dig in the bag for the device and the AstroGlide.
I come across the spoon.

I strip, feeling your eyes on me.

I stand before the mirrored closet, turning this way and that, peering over my shoulder, trying to see what might be left of the marks from the perfect beating you gave me to bring me back to where I needed to be.

[ . . . ]

Last time, my Lord, I didn't think the vibrator would need lubricating, since this device doesn't go inside me. But perhaps it will feel more gentle with the AstroGlide.

I wish it didn't sound like the dentist's polishing device.

mmm... that's nice, my Master... little noises... do you hear your slave's little noises, my Master?

The "mmm..." came from touching myself with the moistened end of the device, but without turning it on. Now it feels very pleasurable. Gentle. Arousing.

Definitely arousing.

[ . . . ]

Now I will go back to touching myself with the device, and then slowly exploring the vibrations and patterns.

Watch me.
Watch me writhe.
Watch me let myself relax into the pleasure.
Watch me remind myself of your teaching.
Hear my little moans.
My little whimpers.
Watch my tits rise and fall.
Watch my belly shake with longing for you.
Watch my pussy redden and swell with longing for you.
See my legs spread.
I'll remember the flogger landing on my inner thighs.
I'll remember how I yielded to you,
how I didn't protect myself...
just the thought of my obedience is make me drip.

Time to return to the testing lab, my Master.

Wherever you are,
you will feel me.

I know you will.

I'm at the 4th level of vibrations, my Master, taking it slowly, relaxing into my pleasure.

Your pleasure.

Somewhere during my lengthy exploration of the third level, a flash of the dependable fantasy of being whipped kicked in. The vague fantasy that is nothing like the real thing. Until then, I had been doing nothing but giving myself to the sensations.

For the first 3 levels, I was moving it back and forth over my clit and pussy lips as if it were two fingers but vibrating. Then, as the 4th level settled in. I noticed that I had stopped moving the device and instead was rocking my pelvis back and forth on it.

Fucking you, my Master.
I was fucking you.

Do you feel my pussy, my Master?

Now I'm sitting up in bed, the computer on my lap, and the little vibrator tucked under my pussy, which it is designed for. Designed for you to be able to lie on it. Its name is LAYAspot, after all.

I have only 2 complaints.
Although rated the same as my others, it seems rather loud.
And the sound isn't damped by being inside me.
It is for external use only.
The noise impinges on my concentration.

The other negative, my Lord, is that being so small, the vibrations go through the whole thing and thus through my fingers. Which feels kind of weird. When I use that little insertable lavender one [the Meany], I don't think it buzzes my fingers as much.

Still, this is a very enjoyable item.

Time to continue to the next level, my Master.

Listen for my whimpers...

One thing about these lab experiments is that I end up with very long masturbation sessions. Which is good for me, my Master. It's as you have been teaching me - to give myself to the sensations.

The sensations.

I worked my way up through a few more vibration levels and then the first of three patterns kicked in. It's like this:

<

Vroom.
A strong, deliberate build-up.
And after about every other one I'd have this little involuntary...
jump?

Very intense, my Lord.
The second pattern is like that but buzzing faster so in a way it is gentler.
The third one is a series of pulses.
It's the first of the three that really has an effect.

Then I turned it off for a bit, and let my pussy recover some. The problem with keeping a vibrator going externally like that is it tends to numb the area. The little Meany is the only one that hasn't been as much of a problem that way. I think perhaps because the tip is so soft. Remember I showed that to you, my Lord? Squooshy. Like a real penis. Rather cute.

I tried fondling myself with my fingers for a little, but by then I was too desensitized for anything but the device, so I turned it back on at one of the regular vibration settings. And let my mind go back to where it had been about 5 minutes before.

Being watched.

You took me somewhere, my Master.

You took me to someone else's place, where there were a number of men and they were watching me. They were standing over me and watching me touching myself and my face reflected everything that I was feeling but only you could really read it all. And having so many there (maybe 5, my Lord?) took me beyond feeling exhibitionist and made me feel completely objectified. And... I wasn't constructing the scene, my Master. It created itself in my mind.

They made comments.
They threw words at me and around me.
They were demeaning.
They called me bitch.

And then one of them asked you something, my Lord. I'm not sure what. I couldn't really hear. And you replied: "Of course she will. She's my slave."

And then there was another little shift in me - me now, me masturbating now, not in the fantasy - and I was... it did something... it put me in another place... and I was very aroused...

And eventually I came, my Lord.
I definitely came, although my pussy was kind of numb.

And then I cried and cried, my Lord, although it was a very weird cry. Not my usually heavy sobs, although it was certainly intense. It was a rather higher wailing... I've never done that before.

Anyway, my Master, there it is.
For you.
I wonder if you felt any of it?
Even if you didn't read the messages as they came in.

I wish you really had been here watching, my Master...

But you were.
Somehow or other you were.

I felt you.

It all belonged to you.
As do I.

Masturbation mania (7) - Testing the Fun Factory LAYAspot

2011-07-07T16:00:00.003-04:00

(I started writing this weeks ago, very late at night, before deciding it might be smart to go to bed. Since then... well, you know... trip prep, trip disappointment, trip recovery... So I'm back to finishing 2 weeks later but not inclined to throw away the beginning. So let's pretend... it's June 23rd...)

It's hard to review a sex toy when you're not allowed to masturbate.

Let me rephrase that. I certainly did subject Fun Factory's LAYAspot to my usual rigorous battery of tests. But weeks later, as I am writing this review, I am not allowed to masturbate.

These days, my Master often allows me to masturbate after he has visited. Occasionally he has me touch myself for him. Even more occasionally, he allows me to cum for him, one end of the chain clipped tight around my neck, the other end clutched firmly in his controlling hand so that my breath is restricted.

Given that he was here yesterday, I might have been able to renew my acquaintance with the LAYAspot before writing. But as he left, he specifically said that I may not masturbate. I'm not complaining. I know why. Saturday night we will be together in the hotel. Back in the room with white linens. He wants me to save everything for him.

It all belongs to him anyway.

Back to the subject at hand.
Or not at hand.
My pussy and her latest little friend from Edentoys.

Luckily, when I'm in the lab, I take copious notes.
And I send them in real time to the Professor.
I mean, my Master.
Which means that
no matter how long I postpone the final write-up,
I can still pass on my immediate responses.

So what is this LAYAspot and how did I feel about it?

I'm not a vaginal orgasm girl. I do love the feel of a cock inside me - as long as it's not too big. I'm still very tight at 62, and even with plenty of AstroGlide I'm not that hot for a big, fat cock. Not even in my mouth. I gag much too easily! But we're not talking mouth sex. We're talking pussy sex. With a cock. Or a pseudo cock.

I do like fucking.
The closeness.
The weight of a man.
The different flavours of the dance.
A well-choreographed partner routine
or a strong, determined male lead,
where he takes what he needs
and gives me what he wants me to have.
If anything.
Perhaps he just takes.
Uses.
Invades.
There are so many options.

I'm submissive.
Very submissive.
I like when he leads...
Though on top can be fun...

I'm losing focus.
The sadist is always on me about losing focus.

The point is, with me and cocks, it's not just the phallic sensation. It's the interaction. The relationship. Even if just a momentary relationship. So a cock - a phalloid pleasure object - a battery-powered super-dick - all on its own, that's not such a big deal. Especially since dicks don't normally do it. They usually don't make me cum. Not on their own.

I'm a clitoral cummer. I've been rubbing myself since I was maybe 2. So what I really wanted to try was one of those clit vibrators that are shaped to nestle in the palm of your hand and then nestled up against your sweet, needy pussy to add a little oomph to what you normally do.

As some of you may remember from back in December , what I've been lusting after is the lovely Siri from LELO. My friends at EdenFantasys weren't able to manage that at the moment, but they did send me something similar: the LAYAspot from Fun Factory. I've been very pleased so far with my Fun Factory sex toys, so had high hopes for this one. And though I had to make a change from my Variations on a Theme of Purple motif because I wasn't all that taken with the violet and vanilla model, I was able to get the one being eyed above by Ketzel. Magenta and pearly rose. How could I resist?

But the first time I tried it, I was disappointed. Part of that may have been the mood I was in. As I wrote the sadist:

I did masturbate last night. I wasn't trying to relieve any sort of urgent, persistent arousal. As I've said before, I do tend to feel some measure of release when you cum, as I've been riding your own waves as I give you pleasure. But last night it was more wanting to prolong a general sense of physical pleasure, from having been close to you... from my body having been close to yours... under yours... lying alongside of yours... and finally all that sweet time together after you came when you stroked my head...

But somehow it didn't quite come together. Or maybe, my Lord, I should have stayed with my fingers. I did follow your advice to try not to push it. I let myself enjoy the physical sensations as I fondled my clit and caressed the shaved area just above. I pushed in, which felt so good, and I thought of how you like me to push in there...

And then I tried that new little vibrator, which sort of shut things down. It has a harsh sort of buzzy sound, my Lord, and doesn't have that soft padded area that the little lavender Meany has, which makes it soft and comfy. Or maybe I really didn't want something artificial at the point. In any case, I didn't like it and dried up and was annoyed.

In the end, I abandoned the LAYAspot and did quite nicely with my fingers and my fantasies - which, as I keep learning, are sadly much more extreme than I can tolerate in real life.

About a week later, I tried again, and quickly discovered one of the reasons my previous test run hadn't been very successful. Silly me. I thought gee... I'm not putting it inside me... why do I need lube? I'll avoid the mess and use it as is.

As I said.
Silly me.

Cause this time, when I brought out the trusty AstroGlide, it felt much better! Plus I took my time in making its acquaintance. At first I rubbed it gently around my clitoris and labia, greased up but not turned on and then pressed the little + button to slowly explore the different levels and patterns of vibrations.

Tomorrow I'll share with you my on-the-LAYAspot reporting of my experience and responses. Here, though, is a summary of the results.

although given only 2 bees for noise level, which is the same as the other toys I've tried, it seems much louder. Perhaps that's because it is for external use only, so my body isn't dampening the sound. Whatever the reason, it seemed rather loud, which was distracting.
the toy is quite small, meant to snuggle under your sensitive bits. So the vibrations go through the entire thing and into my fingers. It's weird. It's annoying. The Meany is small, and does in fact vibrate up to the cap, but doesn't bother me as much.
a problem I've found with other vibrators as well is that when I keep it going for a long time it makes my pussy kind of numb. At that point, I can't feel much if I switch to my fingers. Again, the Meany is the only one for which this isn't that big a problem - perhaps because of its sweet, soft, squooshy tip.

As you'll read tomorrow, I did get my orgasm from the LAYAspot. And it was a perfectly fine orgasm. But when I think of reaching for silicone assistance... Oh. Wait. Silicone...

The LAYAspot is not silicone. I've become a big fan of silicone playmates. But this little baby is something called Elastomed. It's ok. But not silicone...

Anyway, come back tomorrow and follow my clit as it dances with the LAYAspot.

NOTE: Tuesday July 5 - after our very pleasant and extended lunchtime rendez-vous and excellent service on behalf of this devoted slave to his cock, my Master said I might masturbate if I wished. And oh yes, I wished. I gave myself a long, leisurely masturbation session and - all on my own - I reached for my little lavender Meany. And used it only on my clitoris. Or... have you ever tried this? Pressing it on that area at the top of your pelvis? Just above the bone? Yummy... Anyway. It was delightful. For about an hour. And I didn't go too numb. And it gave me an orgasm all by itself. So for me, in or out, my Meany is still #1!

Needing and feeding

2011-07-06T20:48:00.000-04:00

Today at lunch - yup, second day in a row - we talked about different kinds of submissives. What it is they need.

You, he said, need to serve.
And to please.

Well, hell, I knew that.
I need so badly to please.
And to know that I have pleased.

The precious coin of "good girl."

He's been very generous lately.

My sweet and gentle and loving Master

2011-07-05T21:00:00.000-04:00

It always happens.
Because he cares about me.
Because he does his best to protect me.
To protect me from himself.

My Master is not harsh and cruel and unloving.
He is sweet and gentle and caring and protective.

Sometimes he messes up.
Yup.
Guess what.
Even Doms are human.
Even Doms aren't perfect.

Doms, especially those who fancy themselves "Masters", like to think of themselves as perfect. Invincible. Gods. Hell, maybe they are. Some of them, anyway. Who I am to say? Except even gods make mistakes. Like those Greek and Roman gods who couldn't keep their immortal cocks in their pants. Poor Hera, always expected to stand beside Zeus as he confessed from the podium his straying ways. Must have gotten old after the first few times. Of course, they could have had an Olympic open marriage. Which I have no objections to. Except I remember hearing about some pretty big jealousy fits.

Speaking of straying, what was I talking about?

Oh yes.
Self-styled invincible Doms.
Ha!

So yes.
Things got out of hand the night we spent away.
Not that seriously, really, but too much for me.
So he is taking steps.
Steps to protect me.
New steps to protect me.

He is my Master.
He looks after his property.
And he knows what must be done to look after me.

Meanwhile...

He brought me a present!

I knew it was coming. He said it had arrived. It was made of wood, and was specially ordered, and he said that he'd enjoy it, at least, though he wasn't sure I would.

But I love it!

It's a paddle.
A beautiful hand-made wooden paddle.
Made, like the flogger, to his specifications.
But not made by his masochist slave.
Ordered special.
After consultation with assorted experts.
Made of a carefully selected and very beautiful hardwood.

The idea is that he likes to see my butt all pink and red, and feel it all warm and hot. He likes me to be down on my hands and knees with my butt thrust up in the air as I suck his cock so he can enjoy the view of it all round and rosy. And he likes to redden my butt shortly after he arrives, except then I'm not all aroused yet so it really hurts when he takes the wooden spoon to it, or strikes it with the long, ragged strip of wood he uses as a cane.

So he knew he needed something to whack my butt with that would make it all nice and rosy pink without hurting too much.

Hence my new paddle.
A gift that he'd been planning for months.

My Master does love making plans.

My beautiful new paddle did a great job.
It made my butt very pink and rosy.
But it did also hurt.
A lot.

The thing is, this beautiful hardwood that was decided on is very very hard. Very hard. And the paddle is... substantial. So it will take some practice on his part to find the right level of force. But he'll get there.

We'll get there.

We'll be just fine.
Even the occasional emotional tornado will not blow down this house we've built.