The limits of Google when arranging an illicit tryst

I have an assignment.
A research assignment.
A multi-part project, researching possibilities.
For next weekend.

For a clandestine getaway.

Hotels.
Bars.
Restaurants.

But for the town we'll be visiting, I'm not coming up with what we need. At least, not when I try to search for it according to our true parameters.

Google does not recognize the word "tryst."
Nor does it want to consider "illicit."
The closest Google gets is "illegal."
And "trust."
Not quite what I was after.

"Clandestine"?
Nothing.

What I really want is a restaurant with small private rooms... red velvet drapes... a fainting couch... privacy and discretion. A place thick with atmosphere for a man whose cock is thick with desire in which he can enjoy an assortment of sensual pleasures.

Where we could count on not being disturbed if he decided to drink his champagne from the trough formed by his pet's back. And if by chance he were disturbed, he could count on the offender stealing silently away and making no comment to anyone.

If he were disturbed.

For I, of course, will be expected to maintain my focus on serving his pleasure no matter where we are or who might join us or what might happen. I will be merely one of the objects assembled to assure him a pleasurable weekend of self-indulgence.

Sometimes it is hard to really believe that. But then, when he wraps his belt around my neck, this man who isn't really into leather but likes it on me takes me to a place, to a time, to a condition... more Roman than antebellum, really, where owning another person was... I'm slipping away now as I write this... slipping back to where I was a mere 4 hours ago, as I knelt naked before him, the belt wrapped round and round my neck... my pussy is convulsing now... I can't think... can't focus... we had been apart for three weeks due to this and that... and then... I'm not supposed to use that word now... the "s" word... but I was there.

The belt around my neck, the leather, it took me there.

Tomorrow, I will be with S--.
Daddy wants me to be.
I'm to fuck him.
Please him.
Make him feel good.
And all the time see the man who owns me standing there.
Watching.
Listening.
Enjoying.

And should S-- comment on the welts left by Daddy's belt on my pale, round ass... I am to say "He whips me."

The multiplication of pleasure

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.

Being sub #5 (#6? #7?)

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On the road again

I'm on a little road trip, gracing family and friends with my overdue presence. Currently I'm in Boston, visiting my sister, meeting her married lover, and then moving on to an old and neglected friend. I realize that I isolated myself over the last few years - partly because of yielding to the sadist and partly, too, because of the effects of my now non-existent job.

I am not telling anyone about the fiend, although oddly enough, he seems eager for me to let people know about him in an anonymous sort of way. He even suggests I hint a little about his power over me.

I recoil at the thought.

S-- was in town before I left, and my impending departure shortened our visit. We spent a lovely few hours exploring a Nature Reserve on the way home from the airport, had a pleasant dinner and visit with friends, and then headed home for bedtime. Somehow I guessed that he would want to sleep with me again, despite the fact that he had previously stated that he wasn't having sex with people he wasn't in love with. We were very comfortable with each other, and it sounds as if perhaps things aren't quite as close now with our once-mutual lover. But (much to the sadist's annoyance) I turned him down. There were some very practical and sensible reasons for this - mainly that I needed a full night's sleep before the trip (sex with S-- can last for hours and I don't usually sleep well the first night with someone, even if that someone is an old lover). Plus there had been some performance issues previously (on his part) which caused some tension between us. He attributed them to his mixed feelings about sleeping with me considering that he was indeed in love with our once-mutual lover (and she in love with him, although there was no way they could actually be together due to their varied quirks and needs and her major psychological problems).

So it was a wise decision to say no. And how lovely to be able to do so, however gently, to someone who had treated me rather inconsiderately during the years we had a rather confused sexual relationship. He and the once-mutual love hurt me a lot due to their own confusion about each other and what they could handle.

But I also didn't want him to see my Master's mark. I suppose in a few more weeks it will be a vaguer scar, and I can brush it away. But I had no interest in any of the suggested comebacks that the sadist suggested:

In fact it might make for interesting conversation-you could make up whatever story you wanted or tell him it's none of his business or you're not allowed to disclose or whatever.

S-- and I have always been open with each other about our other relationships. Details aren't necessary, but the basic facts are usually proffered. I'm just not yet at the point where I feel comfortable saying anything at all, after these 2 years of keeping it all a secret. It just feels too personal to me, and an admission, even without details, feels too naked.

My owner is disgusted. He reminds me that my destiny is to serve the sexual satisfaction of men, and that I should take all opportunities that present themselves. I have also turned down another old friend and occasional lover - again because of wanting to protect our relationship. I love the power of saying no to people who said no to me.

But the fiend is right.
It is time to give of myself.
I think I'll e-mail the architect...

Integration

It's a new year, and the threads of my confused life are weaving a complicated tapestry.

For 24 hours I was immersed in Judaism as I know it. I lit the Shabbos candles before a crowd of hundreds, I prayed with friends, I was a welcoming warmth, I spoke as Jonah, impressing with my theatricality, and I made people think I am sweet and generous. Which I am. Sometimes.

Even there, I was a cut and marked woman. Property of a raging sadist. The scabbed scarlet letter on my butt was covered with gauze, and its healing distracted me with its itching. Prayers and readings reminded me of the man who owns and tortured me, and I made notes relating what I read to what I feel and how I live. And I told my leatherman friend that I'd had a BDSM story published after hugging a young masochist friend whose partner had unexpectedly died of a heart attack a few weeks ago.

I welcome the crossover.

I have a new housemate. Young, sweet, and musical, she has brought good vibes back to my house. She's away for the weekend. I miss her. What joy to have a housemate I can miss!

Musical friends are in town. Tonight they perform at a club in DC. They play Eastern European music and they are great. I'll go see them with other friends from that part of my identity. The guy who started the band is gay. We talk about it. Well, mainly he talks... But he doesn't know I'm submissive. I keep that from most of my gay friends.

S-- comes to town on Tuesday. I'll pick him up at the airport, we'll spend some time at a nature sanctuary, and then have dinner with our mutual friends. The ones I'm going out with tonight. S-- will stay over, but not in my bed. I have to scurry and clean up the guest room, evicting Ketzel from her nest. We are friends now, S-- and I, but no longer have sex. It's better that way. A week ago I had wondered if he would want to sleep with me after all. But I can't now. My Master marked me. Whether or not he wanted that outcome, I won't want to have vanilla sex until the thin line of dried blood disappears and the scar fades.

He will think about his mark, my Master will. The sadist who hacked at my left butt cheek with his knife as I screamed and cried. The beast who burst from his shackles. He took pictures of his handiwork, and of me posed on the floor as if for some centerfold, my eyes red, my cheeks streaked with tears, holding the knife point to my belly per his precise instructions. He is always very precise.

Wednesday I head north for a week, visiting family and friends as I make my way to Boston and back.

None of these know about the fiend.
None of these know about my story.
None of these know about the mark.

I will e-mail my tormentor, and text him, and leave voice mails if allowed. He will make sure that I don't forget who I am. Not that I could. Because any time I'm alone, I will loosen my jeans and reach behind, under the waistband of my plain white cotton panties, and run my finger over the simple, scabbed outline of the first letter of his name.

And I will feel myself return to that place.
That place I never really leave.
That place where all my other identities disappear
and I am nothing but his.

I am happy.
I am scared.
I am grateful.
I am marked.
I am his.

Lick me

I lie here feeling sick and weak.
Bored with feeling sick and weak.
Days and days in bed,
barely eating,
sleeping bare.

I'm weak but feeling restless. I kick back the blankets and let the draft caress my body. But an invading breeze is not what I need.

I need a girl to lick me.

I need a girl to bury her head between my legs, to push them apart so I know that she is in charge. How good she will make me feel is up to her.

She will make me feel very very good.
Teeth and tongue, lips and fingers,
all are conspiring to make me feel very very good.

I remember being a camp counselor the summer after my freshman year in college. I came down with a very bad summer cold, and could always be seen with a big box of Kleenex. (This was a long time ago. Back before Puffs Plus. The dark ages of facial tissues. Things were rough in those days of the Vietnam War.) One afternoon I went off to some secret empty little cabin and indulged in some very serious petting with one of the other counselors. Male. I didn't know yet... And I discovered a most wonderful thing. Sex can be almost as good as spicy food for clearing nasal passages! I think it must be the endorphins. Even without a spanking.

So I think I need some serious petting - or whatever - with someone new. Someone female. Someone not afraid of my germs. Someone who wants to lick me. And then stop. And lick me some more. And stop. And lick me and lick me and have me begging to be allowed to cum and then, of course, she will have to text the sadist, asking for permission to make me cum.

And he'll say no.
Not yet.

Some things aren't yet clear in my head. I see her being younger than me (that's easy) and pretty. Soft and sweet with pretty tits so that I will love to feel her lying on top of me, rubbing herself into me, and then we will roll over and I will desperately push myself into her and her skin will be soft and her cunt will be wet and she will pinch my left nipple with her right hand and an urgent message will run from that little stab of pain down to my pussy, there must be synapses directly connecting one to the other, and she will be on top of me and hurting my nipple and sinking her teeth into my neck...

When I started writing this, I wasn't sure if I wanted a girl to hurt me. I do want her to be in control. I do want her to lick me. I do want her to hurt me in some standard sexy ways.

I do want her to teach me.

I really am bisexual. It's not just a question of playing around sometimes with women. I am bisexual in that I am not limited by gender as to who will draw me, who will spark my desire, who will inspire my love. Bisexual is a deceptive term, really. It sounds so binary. This or that. This and that. I try to explain it to those who don't understand, who just think it's so sexy and don't really understand. It's like saying that sometimes I'm attracted to a blond. Sometimes I'm attracted to someone dark. Too often, it seems I'm attracted to the Irish... It's something inside as well as outside that draws me, and it doesn't mean that I must have one of each.

Maybe I should just say I'm unbounded.
Open to possibilities.

But it's easier to use standard terminology, I suppose. So yes, I'm bisexual, and I do find women attractive. I have dated one lesbian and one bi woman and fallen in love with one woman who is bi but rejects that part of herself... she broke my heart.

I do get my heart broken much too easily.

But the only one I had a sex life with was that last one, and what we did together was intense and passionate and exploratory and based on the amazing sex we each had with S--, who was seeing both of us but was in love with her. What a mess. But I digress.

Because the point is now. Now as in right this minute. Now as in an hour ago when I was leaving a comment on Saturday's deliberately masturbatory post, a reply to Liras' perfect little comment, and I realized "I think I need a girl to come over and lick me."

Someone sweet and delicious and commanding and experienced, who can teach me and arouse me and lick me and fuck me and teach me to please her and then I'm not sure what. Perhaps tie me to the bed but not hurt me the way the sadist does. A little erotic pain will do, but...

No one can replace my Master.
No one.

Still, a sweet young female tongue...

Why I Have Sex

In her contribution to lg's orgasm extravaganza, meg gives a link to an article called Ask an Academic: Why Women Have Sex. Which of course immediately caused me to ask the same question on a more personal level.

Why do I have sex?

It wasn't a very challenging question.
I have known the answer for a long time.

It's for the intimacy. The actual web of psychological reasons doesn't really matter. It's the need that counts. An almost desperate need for closeness, for connection, for intimacy.

Back in the 60s, as we fought the sexual revolution in our uniforms of bare skin, many of my contemporaries were after pleasure pure and simple. And certainly there was pleasure to be had, though being young and naive and leery of the efficacy of condoms in barring a baby from taking up residence in my 18-year old womb, I refrained from intercourse until I got my hands on The Pill.

mmm... I'm remembering... damn but the pleasure is intense when you're 18 and finally away from home. I'd happily take my clothes off for anyone. But it wasn't really the search for pleasure that drove my minor adventures in what could hardly be termed promiscuity. It wasn't really my rioting hormones. It was that need to touch. To be close. To achieve some illusory semblance of intimacy.

Cut to 40 years later. (You cannot imagine how scary it is to write that... 40 years later... can it really be that long? can I really be that old? Nope. Burn the birth certificate. If people who see me think I'm 40 then so be it. Let my young doms think that they're the ones with a sweet young thing. They certainly manage to make me feel very small and submissive - I've learned never to argue with a dom. Especially when he's a sadist.)

So here I am now. I've learned some things over the years. 10 years ago, S-- taught me about sex as a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon. An evening. A full 23 hours with almost no sleep. He taught me how very pleasant it could be, and in how many ways. And now there is Evan, who fucked me with energy and delight and control and enthusiasm and many many orgasms, and whom I do think I will be seeing again when next we get our schedules to mesh. He's a sweet man, is Evan, if a thoroughgoing workaholic and more than a little cautious. But he makes me feel safe and comfortable and satisfied and happy, and I do look forward to having sex with him again for the pleasure.

And the intimacy.
A relaxed intimacy.

And then
and always
there is my demon muse.
My Master.
My Lord.
My owner.
My life.

As far as sex goes, the sadist has one goal, and one goal only.
His own pleasure.
If I derive pleasure from our time together,
it is purely a side effect.
He's in this for his needs alone.
Or so he says.
If I get to cum, it is for the pleasure he will derive.
If I get high on serving him,
I must never let that interfere with my focus on the job at hand.
Or mouth.
Etc.

If I had read about this a year and a half ago, I would have been enraged. But now...

I'm getting what I need.
I always get what I need.
I get the intimacy,
which is
deeper,
closer,
fiercer,
sweeter,
and infinitely more naked
than anything I have ever known
and anything that you can imagine.

Even with all the rules, the walls, the regulations, the compartmentalization, the limitations, I have never in my entire life felt closer to, more bound to, more intimate with anyone I have every known or talked to or touched or kissed or fucked.

Never.

No one.

Ever.

And I will do anything for such a union.

How can a mere orgasm compare to that?

What does it feel like...

A male friend, a fine writer, was speaking of his curiosity. I am poorly paraphrasing, I am protecting his privacy, I am protecting my privilege of access.

What? he wonders.
What appeals?
What doesn't?
What does it feel like?

What does it feel like, he wonders, these sensations that you experience that physically I can never know?

I know these questions.
I've had them myself.
Especially when in bed with the woman I thought I was in love with.

My clitoris wanted to be a cock.
My clitoris thought it was a cock.
My clitoris wanted to fuck her.

It was very very frustrating.

As some of you may remember, we were both involved with the same man. We were both involved with S--. And it was all at a distance. I was with her, and she would be with him the following weekend, and I couldn't help thinking that he would be able to do with her, to her, what I couldn't.

He could fuck her.
He could take his thoroughly lovely cock and move it inside her.

I knew what it would feel like for her.
I knew exactly what it would feel like for her.
What would it feel like for him?

Like my friend, I'm always wanting to know what it's like for the other side. It obsesses me. I was always asking the philosopher, I was always asking blogging doms, what does it feel like?

I posted this to craigslist as well as here, both as a lure and as an honest attempt at exploration - and received a very special response.

But I want more.

What does it feel like to have a cock?
What does it feel like to be a cock?
What does it feel like to swell at the thought of me?
What does it feel like to swell when you read my words?
What does it feel like to swell at the sound of my moans in your phone?
What does it feel like to slide inside me?
What does it feel like to push inside me?
What does it feel like to cum inside me?

What does it feel like to want me?

I know what it feels like to want you.

Kitten Sucks Cock

I'm a very happy little cocksucker.
And by all accounts a very good one, too.
Certainly, I received very warm and effusive praise this weekend.
But something was missing.

Truly, I've always enjoyed making love to a penis with my mouth. I lose myself in it, I'm transported into an almost dreamlike state. Perhaps all these years that has been my little peek into heaven, my taste of subspace before I even knew such a glorious place existed.

I'm a very oral person, and a very sensual one. I eat too much because I enjoy the ACT of eating, the taste and feel of the food in my mouth, the different textures as well as the flavors, the colors that I experience with my tongue. The different languages I speak I experience the same way. They each feel different in my mouth, they force my mouth into different shapes, they call up different vibrations in my throat.

I of course pay due attention to my overall performance as a cocksucker, and am attuned to the sighs and moans of the man to whom the cock is attached as well as to the little physical manifestations of my success given by the member itself. I love knowing that my services have been appreciated, whether I am overtly praised or rewarded with a simple but precious "good girl" or drawn up from my position of oral worship to be taken in his arms in a simple act of such intimacy [...]

Damn.

I had this post all cleverly planned out. And then ...

The ellipsis in brackets, after the word "intimacy" - that stands for me bursting into tears.

Because it all comes down to this. The man in my bed with was not the man I wanted to be with.

And anything after that would be saying too much or too little.

So please excuse me while I return to crying my heart out.

The Invisible Orgy

I was with three men this weekend.

One was in my bed.
One was in my mind.
And one was in my heart.

If you had climbed up a ladder and peered in my bedroom window, you would have seen me with but one man: tall, grey-haired, somewhat overweight, not really good-looking, sweet, comfortable, attentive, and flaccid.

But two more men were most definitely in residence.

The man in my bed knows my body, and many other female bodies as well, and used his gentle talents to deliver pleasures that many women would have envied. But I couldn’t cum, I couldn’t rise to that muscle-straining state of tension and then let go of the railing and tumble over the edge in the free-fall of release without filling my mind with memories and fantasies of the fiend and his words and plans and threats and tortures.

And when I did cum… over and over again… when I came again and again and cried, as I always do, my breast was torn with heaving sobs and the pain, greater than any caning, of love and loss and longing.

And the learning continues.

Awaiting punishment

Things have been so glorious that I don't really want to write this. And yet, in all fairness, I must. Because life, in fact, is not all happiness and victory and telephonic union. Sometimes, life is painful. And I don't mean that metaphorically.

I am, alas, very prone to typos, and becoming more so as the weeks go by. I put it down to aging, perpetual perimenopause, ADD, and a disintegration of concentration brought on by SAD and the dwindling days.These are explanations. They are not excuses.

There is no excuse.

I have grown lax. I have let my vigilance slip. And the collector has been too tolerant for too long. Finally, today, he snapped.

Work was crazy.
Work was insane.
I was being bombarded by phone calls.
During a short pause I wrote a short poem.
Images of objectification that accorded with the morning.
That accorded with my mood.
That accorded with a scenario
looming in the future.
The poem was short.
Not a lot of words.
I proofread carefully -
or so I thought.
I ran a spell check.
But one error remained,
an error that was a real word
that the computer wouldn't catch.

He was livid.
His glaring eyes
and cold voice
cut
through the words on the screen.

He had allowed me to go on in this way too long. Not that I didn't know I was getting away with orthographical murder - an ironic sin for a Junior High spelling champion. I'm a really good proofreader - as long as I'm proofing someone else's works. I did try to be vigilant. But those typos - I just didn't see them. I really didn't see them. Still, that's an explanation. Not an excuse.

There is no excuse.

He made a very interesting point, did this punishing pervert. One that impressed me more than anything else he has said on the topic. I accept that it is a sign of disrespect to submit messages and pieces without perusing them to insure perfection. I accept that in fact there need be NO reason for his insistence on perfection. My job is to serve him, and whatever he requests - no, commands, orders - I must supply. No excuses, no arguments, no exceptions.

Sounds reasonable, no?

But this time, he made a very powerful point, in very powerful words. He spoke of the typos as polluting his artworks. He does regard my poems and stories as works of art, he takes them quite seriously, he pursued and acquired me to serve him as his poet, his provider of literary delights created for his own personal pleasure. Would a painter deliver a commissioned portrait with a long stray drip of foreign hue? Certainly, the Venus do Milo was not originally missing her arms. Any fault in my offerings, if such there be, should be due only to a failure of talent, and I must work very very hard to become better and better so as to make my collector properly proud of his property. My talent must not fail.

So I am due a punishment and I deserve a punishment and it will be very very painful. He will enjoy delivering it, of course, sadist that he is. But the purpose of the spanking and caning and I think that's all but who knows... the purpose of all this awful pain will be my punishment, not his pleasure, and somehow the very same level of pain feels a whole lot worse under such circumstances.

[Note to the philosopher, who has retained the right and intent to worry about me: nothing will stop you from worrying about me, and in fact I love that you worry about me. But please try to be reassured that I am basically safe, and have TWO bags of frozen peas waiting in the freezer.]

I don't exactly know when my punishment will take place. The fiend's visits usually don't receive much advance notice, and finding a good intersection of our schedules can be a challenge. The final weeks of the election have made things that much harder. And there has been one more complication...

Marks and bruises.

By this weekend, I needed to be sans marks and bruises. The bruises are gone. The mark? You can still see traces if you know what to look for, but barely, and I no longer feel the raised edges under my fingers.

I'm having a visitor. S--, the male member of the tremulous trio, the murky ménage à trois. His other girlfriend (and his great love, I think) broke my heart after becoming my first female lover, but he and I have achieved a comfortable balance and are continuing as friends who some times have sex. And very good sex it is. Vanilla but pure natural vanilla, sweet and rich and creamy and attentive and long lasting and the best way he knows to break through the walls and truly connect.

S-- comes to town around every 6-9 months, to see his mother. Last time, he stayed here for a night or two, but we were chaste. I still belonged to the philosopher and he was all I wanted. (I will refrain from the sentence that you know damn well comes next.)

This time, I can do as I wish. But I do NOT want him to ask uncomfortable questions. And my assaulting art collector does leave obvious reminders of his teachings. So this will be the calm before the storm. Instead of aftercare, there will be the gentleness, the loving fucking - softening me up and increasing my vulnerability, for the punishment to come.

And come it will.