The story I wrote that was too dark for ME

Look!

billierosie reprinted my story The Branding here. Seems she's been haunted by it for years. It haunted me after I wrote it. When the sadist loved it, which is testimony to its darkness.

Enjoy.

Forced masturbation; the torture of pleasure (2)

Continued from yesterday's post, a slightly edited version of the day's correspondence; day devoted to orgasm-less masturbation, every 2 hours. An activity meant to submerge me in my service as my Master's sex slave.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I am feeling chained by this schedule, my Lord. The frequency of my duties pulls on my leash every 2 hours. I both resent and crave it and, most of all, feel your ownership.

This time, my Lord, I pulled off my jeans and left them lying on the floor by my bed. Only my plain white cotton panties were pushed down below my knees as I lay in the bed. My body knew what it wanted. What it needed. I felt its desperation. It wasn't content to passively receive the vibrations. First my need commanded my hand to move the little device back and forth over my clit. Then it ordered my body to thrust back and forth under the silicone, seizing the stimulation it craved while knowing that its real desire would go unfulfilled.

For the first time today, I wanted to shove the instrument of your torment inside me. I reached down to spread my lips and came across the Tampax string. Oh well... Yet another stage in the torture.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I'm feeling crazed, my Lord.
Desperate.
Imprisoned.
Frantic.
Tortured.

That pleases you.
Doesn't it, my Lord...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Please, my Lord. May I use an edited version of my reports, plus your initial assignment, in a blog post? Not the [xxx] part, though. That's private. Thank you, my Master.)

My Master.
Yes.
Very much that.
You are exercising your power today, my Lord.
Reminding me of how powerless I am.
Reminding me that everything I do - everything - is for you.
Reminding me how I rejoice in my suffering as you choke me with your chain.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[As the signal arrived for the next masturbation session]

Again?!
Already??!!!

Yes, my Lord...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You may [post the reports], but make sure you give me a special session of torment for the next one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[sent from my cell phone as I was masturbating]

Torment.

Right now, my Lord.
I've wedged the little vibrator between my legs.
Between my lips.
The tip is making my anus buzz.
I see nothing but scenes of torture...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My eyes are glazed with the pain of pleasure of pain of pleasure... I'm no longer sure where one leaves off and the other begins... it's a wave... flowing.... a stream of pleasure and pain pouring from my womb, propelled in a green river as the pump contracts with sharp stabs...

"Beg me, my pet."
Your words are sweet, gentle, honey tinged with poison.

"Please, my Lord..."
I can barely get out the words.
"Please, please, may I cum? Please may I cum... for you..."

"And what will you give me if I let you cum, my pet?"

"Everything, my Lord. Everything and more."

You seize the chain clasped tightly around my neck and drag me to the coffee table. You shove a pillow under my belly and tightly bind my wrists and ankles to the table legs.

I hear the match strike.
I smell the sulphur.
I sniff the singeing of the wick, the melting of the wax.
I see you take a paper clip from your pocket.
I watch you bend it.
I observe your hand close around the pliers.
I watch the thin metal rise in the air and approach the candle flame.
I do not look away as the silver turns to red.
I breathe deeply and and give thanks for my unbearable arousal.
I gasp as you press the tiny brand against my butt cheek.
I feel the tears rise in my throat.
I do not yet see the tiny letter you have seared into my skin.
But I know it is there.
I cry with pain and joy.
I forget about cumming.

I belong to you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My pussy lips are red and swollen, my Lord.
They hurt.
I am stunned and dazed, my Lord.

For you, my Lord...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now you may post.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you, my Lord.

And thank you for allowing me to distract you all day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Time for another round, my Lord.

My pussy now exists only for you.
And so I suffer more pleasure.
All for you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My body is desperate to cum, my Lord.
My brain is firing wildly.
Image after image bounced off the walls of my mind.

You force me to live like this for the rest of my life.
Every 2 hours for the rest of my life.

I am restrained and touched and prodded and bombarded with stimuli.

You take me to the casino, controlling a vibrator embedded in my pussy. At first you administer pulses here and there but soon it is going non-stop and I'm wriggling and moaning as you scold me for not concentrating on the craps game.

We are up in the hotel room.
The one at the casino.
Or the one with white linens.
The images move swiftly.
I'm on my belly.
Or bent over.
You flog me.
Cane me.
Beat me with the hairbrush.
The pain isn't in the images.
I don't relive the pain.
I just see you.
And the implement
coming down on my butt.
And then man after man
using me
fucking me
from behind
always from behind
ramming his cock into my poor abused butt hole.

My body and mind have joined forces, my Lord, to say how much I need to cum.

I know it won't make any difference, my Lord.
I know it is forbidden.

The next time I touch myself, my Lord, we will be watching The Borgias together.
And you will feel my agony...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And so, my Lord.
The last time.

I reclined back on my pillows as I watched The Borgias from my bed. Naked, the chain clipped tight around my left ankle, the butt plug firmly in place - all these things as they still are. I was distracted, my Lord. The phone rang twice during the first half hour - calls from my parents that I didn't answer as they very belatedly returned my call from earlier in the evening. I was distracted. I searched for the sense of you with me and I couldn't find you.

The warning came at 10:25. The 5 minute warning to once again touch the pussy you hold captive for my torment and your pleasure. I held the little purple vibrator in my hand until the 5 minutes passed, then turned it on and settled it gently against my tired tissues.

Tired.
My pussy was tired.
My pussy was tired and the armies were preparing for war.
This time, the little device didn't make me crazy.
Instead, it settled me down.
It calmed my distraction.
It brought me home to you.

I belong to you, my Lord.
I belong to you, my Master.
I am yours in a way that is far greater than these titles,
these modes of address,
these rituals of my devotion can possibly convey.

I am deeply and truly yours, my Lord.
My Master.

We are both, perhaps, slaves to that.

I love you, my Lord.

And my body yearns for yours.

Masterpiece

The girl is on display, a treasured piece,
her value greater after months of training
and control. She wears his mark, a curving
burning scar that only hints at searing
pain she welcomed when he made the brand.
She'd smiled her tears, knowing that the act of
marking showed his faith in what she was
and what he'd make her be.

So here she is -
naked, marked, and on display, soon to
give her hands and mouth and cunt and ass
to all who wish to sample the great Master's
latest work. The line is long. A line of
hungry, horny men, and women, too,
appetites aroused by what they see
and by the tales they've heard. They nearly drool,
bringing a wry smirk to eyes and mouth
of he who owns and offers her to all
who'd like a taste.

And now the fun begins.
One by one they take their turns - flogger,
cane, and spanking hand to start them off,
before invading every hole presented
to be raped. She's dripping cum, eyes
grown numb from such abuse, but deep inside
a glow because she knows her Master's pleased.

And when her torment's done, it's time at last
to serve the man to whom her soul was lost.
She does what he demands, submitting to his
evil whims while peering round the corner
just in case the Beast appears. She swallows
fear. He has her heart. And though he keeps it
in a jar with all his other trophies,
she still murmurs of her love while kneeling
there before his cock.

Her life is his.

My Master's Mark

He branded me.
Not with his initial in red-hot iron.
But with his teeth.
He left his mark on the back of my neck with his teeth.

I'm going on vacation.
We're both - we're each - going on vacation.

I'm leaving town early Saturday morning and will return a week later. I'll actually have my laptop with me, and even wireless Internet access, but only in one place and with limited privacy and limited time. And sexy blogs are blocked. Besides, my goal is to play music most of the time. And hang out with my friends. Not live in my head and through an electronic connection with my secret, sadistic Master.

My Master who may also be away part of the time.
My Master, who will be able to read my e-mails
but perhaps not be able to answer.
My Master, who wants to be sure
I know who owns me.

I know who owns me.

And now he has left his mark.

He arrived just before noon. As required, I met him at the door, this time still wearing my panties (white) and bra (also white). He passed his eyes over me quickly, and then ordered me down to the dungeon and against the wall.

He came up behind me, as he often does. He pressed himself into my white-cotton covered ass as I pushed back towards him. He ground himself into me as I fanned the flames of his lust with words I knew would excite him. This is my job, and I've learned to do it well.

And then he took hold of my long dark red hair, wrapping it around his fist. He pulled it up on top of my head, and then deliberately - I could tell without seeing how deliberate it was - he sank his teeth into the back of my neck. And he bit. And kept on biting.

If the photo reproduces the way it shows on my computer, dark and intense, you can see his tooth marks. A little more, and I would have bled.

I wish he had drawn blood.
I wish he had taken my blood the way he takes my breath.

I knew exactly what he was doing, even as it was happening.
And after he left, I confirmed my suspicions.
A dark, red mark of the beast on the back of my neck.
I had expected to wear my hair up while away.
In the heat, or when playing music, I thought I'd put my hair up.

Not a chance.

My Master branded me.

And I don't need to parade his mark to be reminded that it is there. I will never forget that it is there, nor will I forget that I am his. Not for one minute.

Besides, he gave me an assignment for while I am gone. A very challenging performance piece to create before I leave, and which I must practice in bed every night while I am gone.

He knows I have trouble remembering things. So he put me over his knee and spanked me to be sure I would remember. He put me over his knee and spanked me and left me with a pair of beautifully rosy ass cheeks and a pain deep in the muscles.

So many souvenirs...
a mark on the back of my neck
a sore, rosy butt
the taste of his mouth in mine
a burning in my tender nipples
and the memory of his fingers dancing lightly over my clitoris.

I love you, my Master.
I love you and I'll miss you.

And now I get to masturbate...

There's a bruise on my neck

There's a bruise on my neck. I knew there would be one. The spot has been tender for days. I knew there would be one and I wanted one. I've been surprised there hasn't been one before this.

There's a bruise on my neck. I can hardly see it. I have to angle my head up and try to catch the light without creating shadows with my chin but then I can't look down into the mirror to catch sight of what must by now be a little greenish.

When the philosopher put his hands around my neck it was a guaranteed trip into subspace. His hands needed only hover over my throat and I felt the chute open and I was sliding fast. I loved it. They would close around my neck but never press hard. He didn't need to. The threat alone would do the trick, just as the threat of horrible spankings, of merciless canings, of (shudder) branding, would hoist me up and over the dam and tumbling down into a body-wrenching, soul-rending orgasm.

It was magic, it was art, it was a dance, and it was beautiful.

It was totally safe.

I think I am still totally safe. What collector would risk the very existence of a valued object that he pursued and won and brought back for his own? So I don't expect he will strangle me to death. But oh, the glorious steps along the way...

I am not allowed to write about what happens during my torturing tutor's visits, about what he does to me, except as specifically allowed. And I was allowed to just this once, which should give you at least a taste. Of course, given that my life as my demonic dom's pet could be subtitled The Perverted Education of Kitten, things progress from lesson to lesson, a progress I will not detail until and unless I am instructed to.

Still and all, there is a bruise on my neck. And in the earlier post I spoke of his chain and his hands. And my neck. And I stand naked before him and offer my neck in trust and obedience and frank adoration, and there is such intimacy in such pure trust and things become a little hazy and I am never afraid and he has shown that I need never be afraid and I look in his eyes and I'm never afraid. Not from this.

And then he gives me my life. Not in giving me back my breath. That's easy. Anyone can do that. But he gives me myself. Myself as a writer. I still struggle with my neuroses and my whole alphabet of mental disorders and my stubborn feelings for you-know-who and on and on... I won't bore you with the mundanities of my silly life. They mostly don't cast such big shadows any more. Mostly.

But I feel strong. There's the strength that comes from submission, feeling taller, prouder, such an odd thing when it comes from submitting one's will to another. But then it's a strength that comes from saying yes, this is who I am, this is how I live best, knowing that someone is looking after me, to one extent or another, whether by making sure I get to bed on time or making sure I'm not tossing away my talents, which he believes in.

So therefore I believe in them. Which makes me stronger.

He takes me seriously, my menacing muse, my perverted professor, and he makes me better. He makes me work. He focuses me. He told me I'm beautiful and I looked in the mirror and I saw it. He says I'm a writer, not just someone who writes, and I look at my poems, I look in my mind, and I can almost see what he sees. He believes in me, I am his treasure, he takes a cloth to me and he makes me shine.

And he takes my breath away.

Thank you, Sir.

Thank you for giving me my life.

The Branding

I wrote this for the philosopher at his command. There were in fact supposed to be two stories, one about branding and one about a tattoo. In my mind, the tattoo story would have been a sweet one. It never got written. My dark fantasies about branding seized my mind and possessed it until the following story was written. Or perhaps "wrote itself" would be a more accurate description. It was so dark that I couldn't shake it for days afterwards, and the philosopher was, I think, disturbed by what had crawled out of the mud of my soul. He didn't want me to share it. This was for him alone. But he doesn't own me any more. He sent me away. And I took my stories with me. This seems a good time to reveal what festers below.

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

You approach the cage where she cowers hopefully. Wordlessly, you unlock the door, reach in, and haul her out by her hair. She scrambles after you, tears springing to her eyes from the pain. There is always pain. But she doesn’t complain. This is her lot. And this is her joy. This is her safety.

“Get dressed, slave. Today you will be branded.”

There is in fact no need for words. No requirement for explanation. But you play her emotions like a freshly-tuned harp. You like the fear that springs to her eyes.

You push her towards the bed, where you have laid out the day’s clothes. A tight pink t-shirt, stretchy and clingy. Tight clingy jeans with a thick hard seam that will cut into her cunt as she walks without the protection of panties. Sandals. Once she has clothed her nakedness (damn those public indecency laws), you replace her cold metal choke chain with the black leather band embossed with Celtic knots. Hooking a leash to the collar’s O-ring, you wrap the chain around your fist and with close control almost drag her out of the house and towards the car. You know such brutality is unnecessary. Just addressing her as “slave” sends her so deeply into subspace that she would do anything. But there is something dark in each of you that needs to be nourished, and you have both become addicted to the intensity.

Unquestioningly, she assumes her place in the driver’s seat. There is an odd irony to the fact that you don’t drive, but the power is always yours as she guides the machine.

For safety’s sake, you address her as “kitten” when you give her the directions. Her consciousness is too far depressed when you call her “slave” for her to be trusted behind the wheel.

You arrive at a featureless warehouse. One of many. Again, you use more force than necessary to remove her from the car and push her towards the door. You don’t need to knock. They are expecting you.

As the door is opened, a scream of such terror and pain issues forth that you almost regret the decision to come. But you harden your heart, and your cock hardens, too. You know it is time. This is the final test.

Scream aside, you are greeted with a business-like cordiality due any customer. At the reception desk, your reservation is confirmed and your credit card taken. You have elected to perform the procedure yourself. You are given a sheet of instructions, which are reviewed as she trembles by your side. You don’t look at her. You just sense her trembling. Again, a small part of you tries to cry out its doubts, but you quickly gag it. As you will gag her.

You are ushered into a medium-size room. Something about the rough wood lining the walls gives it the atmosphere of a stable stall. It is unadorned save for the assortment of implements hanging from wrought iron hooks. You can tell that she has caught sight of the display by the way she quickly lowers her head and drops her eyes. She had returned to subspace as soon as you removed her from the car, you had sensed it immediately, and now the potential for torture is sending her even further. Good. When she is that far away, she is protected from the worst of the pain. You like to hurt her. She wants you to hurt her. But there is a line you never want to cross. The damage to her soul could be worse than to her flesh. You’re just not sure where that line is.

In the middle of the room stands something between a sawhorse and a massage table. The top is padded; the legs are slightly splayed, with O-rings at the base of each one. A rectangular space is cut out of the top towards one end.

“Strip, slave.”

She obeys with despatch. Wearing so little, she is done in seconds. You propel her towards the table and with an extra little shove push her face down. She lies still. You know that she would hold position for whatever you chose to do, and the absoluteness of her submission thrills you. But it is imperative that she remain perfectly still for what is to come, and there is something in the act itself that makes you want to see her bound in place.

From your messenger bag you take a set of four shackles. No soft leather bands today. You snap the shackles around her wrists and ankles, run short chains between the rings on the metal bands and those on the table legs, and with a sharp snap secure each limb with a lock. The locks are another excess, another symbolic demonstration of her helplessness. You are getting off on all the symbolism. Your mind is cold. Your cock is hard. Your resolve is firm.

Her breasts are hanging down through the opening in the tabletop. Sliding under the table, you adjust her tits so they are perfectly placed. You twist each nipple, pleased to find them already erect. Fear drives her arousal. In your hand you hold a set of Japanese clover clamps. Dispassionately, as if connecting jumper cables, you attach one end to each nipple, then give a sharp tug on the chain to drive the clamps deeper into the tender flesh. She gasps, but does not cry out.

You aren’t done. You want to impress on her how owned she is, how helpless, how subject to torture and invasion. Your casual claiming of her every hole will inspire the sense of humiliation which is yet another trigger for her submission.

The bag yields a butt plug, a dildo, a ball gag, and a blindfold. Silent all this time, you now accompany your actions with the words that you know will destroy whatever is left of her spirit and dignity.

“Look at you, slave. Your cunt is dripping. What a pain slut you are. Well, there will be plenty of pain for you soon enough. The only lube this butt plug will get is what it can scoop out of your slut-hole.”

You fuck her cunt roughly with the butt plug, then spread her ass checks and drive it into her anus. A few strokes with the dildo are followed by dire warnings of what will happen if she lets it drop.

You walk around to the front of the table and yank her head up by the hair.

“I love to hear you scream with pain, slave. I love to hear you scream. But today I will gag you, slave. You hate to be gagged. And so I will gag you. I will gag you so there will be no doubts. I will gag you, slave, because you are mine.”

And so you do.

There’s only one thing left. One thing left to drive her deeper inside herself until she completely floats away. And so you blindfold her.

It’s almost time. You walk back to the foot of the table and contemplate her ass. At first, you thought you’d brand her right cheek, at the fleshiest part, but then thought better of it. You want it somewhere that will be safe from your hand and your belt and the cane. So you choose a spot on the upper thigh, where it is still padded but unlikely to be struck. You eye your canvas, fixing the image in your mind before you change it forever. Then you walk to the wall and press a buzzer next to the door.

A man appears and hands you a rod of iron. It is the brand. If you strike within the next minute, it will be the scientifically determined temperature to inflict enough damage to leave a perfect impression without risking a trip to the emergency room and the dangers of the questions that would raise.

The brand was designed to your specifications. Now seen in reverse, the blunt simplicity of its form mirrors the simple brutality of the way you treat your slave. Two plain letters. One vertical line serving them both. This is your hallmark. She is your creation. But it is not purity that will be guaranteed by this stamp. Your hallmark is a sign of the depth of debauchery to which you both have sunk. A purity of sorts, perhaps, for nothing mars the strength of the bonds which, you must admit, enslave you as much as they do her.

But no time for introspection. You must, in truth, strike while the iron is hot. Resisting the temptation to soothe her hair and whisper assurances, you take your position behind her, raise the iron rod, take a breath, and press the glowing tip down into her soft flesh.

Your slave’s skin sizzles, a steak on the grill.

A muffled cry of torment issues from behind the gag as her body jerks slightly despite the tight bondage. You count off the recommended number of seconds as the odor of burning meat rises off the table. You choke back a wave of nausea.

In seconds it is done. The brand is removed. You stand there with the implement in your hand, swollen with power. Then tossing the iron to the ground, you stride around to your slave’s head. Wordlessly, you tear off the blindfold. Wordlessly, you unbuckle the gag. Wordlessly, you unzip your pants, and with cock in one hand and her hair in the other, plunge your heated erection down her throat.

You are beyond holding back. The rape is short and savage. It is one more act of claiming.

She is yours.

You hold her head to your crotch as you subside, your fingers still entwined in her hair. And as the fever passes, your grasp eases into caresses. Gently, you disengage her jaws from your wet, soft cock. Keeping one hand on her body at all time, you reach under the table and remove one nipple clamp and then the other, massaging each screaming nub as it is released. Continuing to the back, still in constant contact, you slide out first the butt plug and then the dildo, smiling with wry reassurance at the juices that drip from her cunt. Finally, you unlock the shackles from the table and remove them from her limbs.

She has started to shake. With sobs and with shock. You gather her in your arms and whisper words of love and bemusement.

“What a pain slut you are, slave.
What a cock whore.
What an obedient little cunt.

I own you, slave.
I own you.
Your body bears my initials.
Your flesh bears my brand.
There is no escape.

You are my kitten.
You are my slave.
You are my selkie.

You are whatever I want you to be.

You are mine.”



19 April 2008

Solitary confinement

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The Loneliness of the Long Distance Dommer ...cont.

i did everything he ordered me to do. and more.

i made all my phone calls.
i exercised.
i did one load of laundry.
i practiced.
i even tuned first! (a major task.)
i returned the equipment to the fired cable provider.
i picked up groceries.
i cleaned up my dishes.
i didn't get to clean off the table, though.
it's a never-ending job.
i had a last minute invitation to a party.
i got home very late.
i ran the dishwasher.
and then i embarked on the ritual.

he is so amazing at manipulating my mind, my master. which is why i say he does really own me. i carefully watch the clock, placing my call based on the time on the phone. we both use verizon - hooray for free phone calls! - so i know our times will be synchronized.

i press 2. he is first in my speed dial after the pre-set 1 for emergencies. i press 2, the phone rings, and my brain turns to mush. my voice changes, it becomes higher, it becomes gentler, it becomes much younger, and sometimes it is hard for me to get the words out. my thoughts become vague, my prodigious vocabulary becomes inaccessible, and i feel myself floating away into subspace.

he thinks it's very funny.

we are playing with the idea of branding.
it is play.
but it is very serious.
it is very powerful.
and it catapults me into subspace.

it was very late by the time i performed the ritual last night.
my message with the required photos wasn't posted until 2:40 in the morning.
but i wasn't falling asleep over it.

the room was warm with the glow of 5 red candles in candlesticks, plus a white tea light in a red glass holder. Marko of course was on the bed. i worked hard on the design for the brand, knowing basically what i wanted to do but wanting to get the balance right. not too delicate but not too heavy. strong but artful. i sketched it out first, rejected what i thought would be the final version, and then accepted a second try.

i photographed it under the candles, without flash, to capture the warm glow of the room. i was pleased with the photo i ultimately chose. it is, of course, a little artsy. i will share it only with the philosopher's permission, as i don't know that he would want to reveal his true initials.

writing with the ashes didn't come out so well. but i tried my best.

here is the message i sent with the photos. i have not corrected the typos, which are way worse than what i usually do. i present the message unedited as testimony to the state of my mind.

the philosopher owns my mind.

thank you sir.

it is done.

i hope you liek the brand id esigned. there is seomthing particularly perverted about making a slave design the brand which will be brunt into her own flesh.

i wanted to eb sure my body udnerstaood what was happening. i burnted the paper in a little custard cup, and then held the bottom of the cup to my things, where the brand might go, so i could feel the heat. it was a pwoerful moment.

the rubber band hurt a LOT. especially teh second snap. amde me a little nasueous. but at least by then i was in subspace from the burning.

i did my best to write good kitten with teh ashes, but as you can swee it is utterly illegible, it took a lot of effort to manage what i was able to do. i'm sorry not to have done better.

thank you for the tasks and the ritual. the idea of branding realy is frightening, but part of me years for the chance to demonstrate the depth of my submission.

i sent one more message, with three bonus photos:
- the welts left by the rubber band
- my naked torso with the chain collar falling down between my breasts
- a close-up of my breast, golden like a low-hanging full moon.

when i got home from the party, my orders for today had already been sent. as you can see. my first phone call is due at noon. i'd better get going. i have lots to do.

thank you master.

Subject: Ritual II

Again. . .your usual chores: exercise, cleaning, practice, whatever.

And again: messages at 12 noon, 2:34, 5:17 and 9:45.

And then: "The Tattoo.

You are to dress in your slave shirt, jeans, sock and shoes. . .and the collar.

Nothing else.

You are to go for a walk through your neighborhood. . .and this can be done in the course of doing other chores. You are to find and pick three different colors of flowers. . .bright, spring colors.

When you return home, you will draw a design for a tattoo, on an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of blank white paper. It should consist of the word "Slave" in elaborate script and ornately decorated in several colors. Use magic markers, and decorate the design with the flowers you have picked. Fasten them to the design with tape or glue.

Send me a picture. . .and preserve the original design. I will want to see it.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Dommer

As the philosopher continues to arise from his mid-winter meltdown and resumes in full glory his mantle of being my master, he is returning with enthusiasm to the job of controlling me and my life.

He didn't tuck me in last night, as his weekend is plump with tasks of his own. But he sent me these strict instructions at 12:31 am, having already promised that he would be keeping me busy.

Subject: Ritual

Saturday

You will call and leave a message at 11:59 am, 2:03 pm, 6:30 pm and 8:00. . . SHARP. . .pm

In addition, you will do your normal chores: clean off the table, laundry, go to the gym, practice santouri for 15 minutes or so.

Then, at some point during the day, or evening, you will perform the following ritual:

"The Branding"

You will gather the following objects: candles with holders, matches, plate, paper (the size of a post it note), a black magic marker, rubber band, chain collar, a glass of water, digital camera.

You will strip naked, and put on the chain collar. This is how you would be dressed for the real thing; bare, vulnerable, chained. . . OWNED.

Put a rubber band around your thigh.

You will turn off the lights of whatever room you are in (this should ideally take place in the dungeon, but privacy will dicate where you are able to do it.)

Kneeling on the floor you will light the candles, as many as you need for illumination.

With the magic marker and the paper, you will design a brand: my initials, simple and readable, yet aesthetically interesting. Do a good job. . .this is the mark that will be BURNED into your flesh. How do you want it to look?

Take a picture of your design, to be sent to me later.

Then, with a match, burn the paper on the plate (BE CAREFUL. I don't want you burning down the house. Have some water ready to extinguish the flames if they get too high). Watch as the paper burns. . .and is consumed. Imagine how much a brand will hurt. Snap yourself with the rubber band 3 times.

When it's all burnt, take the ashes and write "Good kitten" across your belly. Take a picture.

Send me the pictures, kitten. . . and check your e-mail tomorrow morning for the next ritual.

There are a couple of other tasks I have to do which are time-limited, such as returning my now unused digital cable equipment to Comcast now that I have freed myself from their incompetence. And the health club (from which I have now returned) closes at 4 pm on weekends. Plus I had a decidedly lazy morning in bed with Marko, and (having forgotten the philosopher's threat of a weekend full of chances to demonstrate my obedience) didn't check for mail from him until almost a quarter of 11. I've attempted to scurry since then, but Saturdays tend to be my day of rest so it has taken some effort to overcome sloth and now I will have to scramble. On top of all that, I've just been invited to an evening beer tasting at a nearby friend's (despite my not being able to drink much in the way of alcohol; I'm ignoring the issue of yeast and Passover...)

So I won't babble on now about the assignment, except to reiterate that I love having to leave phone messages at specific times throughout the day. And his rituals always have tremendous power.

Thank you, master.

And yes, I AM naked as I write these words. And yes, Marko is lying beside me beside the bed, knowing instinctively that he must protect me from any stray perverts that might wander by. Such a good kitten.

As am I...

Iron and Ink

do you really want to brand me?
scar my flesh with your initials.
or how about a sweet tattoo,
nestled there above my ass.

there’s no need to bind or chain me;
i will offer up my body.
go ahead and leave your mark.
stake your claim.
i am yours.

Submissive? Who, me?

While extracting the pieces of Lupercalia from a long series of e-mails, I stumbled on the following conversation, which had inserted itself between the final episodes of the story. At the time, while I was delighted to be playing out my fantasies with a willing partner, they were still very much fantasies. We were just beginning to have me act things out at the philosopher's command, and as yet had not spoken on the phone. Remember, this was just 10 days into our acquaintanceship, and although we both felt that this was deeper than we expected, and I was so horny that I was contemplating throwing caution to the winds and jumping into bed with this stranger who already didn't feel that much like a stranger, we thought of this as a game we were playing.

Well, at least the philosopher did. I'm not sure about me. I was in such a haze of desire and wonderment then that I'm not sure I can recall things clearly except through messages we exchanged.

For a long time we referred to it as the game. We would check with each other weekly to be sure we wanted to go on. And then... certainly the relationship became real. The D/s? I'm not sure. I suspect it is more real for me than for the philosopher. Or maybe I'm more honest about that. I do think that it provides very real structure for my life and my psyche, a structure that is very beneficial. After all, my psychopharmacologist has declared my master to be "a stabilizing influence." And if anyone knows that I need one, it is she. (No, she does not know about the D/s, but she's a very smart woman so perhaps has figured some of it out. As it isn't relative to being treated for SAD and perimenopausal madness it doesn't seem that awful to leave it out of our discussions.)

Now I'm not one of those submissives who really thinks she is "owned" by another human being. And no, I don't really believe I am his slave. But there is something inside that finds great comfort in the idea of being owned, that really does feel owned, and that is grounded by that certainty. He DOES take care of me. Sometimes that is through his efforts at regulating my life. Sometimes it is through exploring our darkest of desires, which perhaps, in the sharing, frees us from any sense of unworthiness for having such thoughts. (We are currently creating some very dark scenes of branding, just the mention of which sends me so far down into subspace that I can barely speak. I can't imagine ever going through with it for real, but we are investigating ways of simulating the experience when we are finally together again.)

I CAN say that I am Pavlov's kitten, catapulted into twitches by the oddest things. I may not be conscious of my submission every minute of the day at work, but it does strike me from time to time. And as soon as I leave the room, it is there again. So yes, despite what I said over a year ago, I AM submissive in life. Just not to everyone.

Not to anyone but you, master.
Not to anyone but you.

[The following conversational volley began shortly after I came, an intense reaction to the tale the philosopher had been feeding me. I've cleaned up some typos, but otherwise this is as it burbled from our fingers. I found it rather amusing to read in light of how things eventually developed.]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Cum from my words. . .my mastery of you is complete.

You are now, quite literally, my slave.

= = = = = = =

i know. (do you hear the slight puzzlement in my voice?) it's beyond any deliberate choice. i couldn't resist you if i wanted to...

from where did you get such power?

= = = = = = =

How did you come to be so submissive? This can't have come from nowhere.

= = = = = = =
it has been there in fantasies. if we want to get freudian, it's probably a way to avoid being responsible for the magnitude of my sexual desires. i've never played it out with anyone. i've dropped hints, but no one has ever picked up on it.

i'm not really submissive in life. well, i'm dual. i was always the good girl, didn't want anyone angry with me, have horrible fears of rejection, the usual... but i remember as ... i'm not sure how old, maybe pre-teen? i'd have fantasies of being chased thru a forest, captured, tied to a tree... and then it went vague, i didn't realize the sexual component, i was pretty naive about sex altogether tho i was a champion masturbator from being a very small child.

i chafe against authority that i don't respect.

i've been wondering a little at how deep into this i am. i think a large part is the feeling of being safe, cared for. the ownership in our game is a gentle and loving one at core, and our interactions are playful, even when there is rough sex described.

and i am moved incredibly by the depth of emotions. i don't know how much of it is our minds being affected by our play, and how much is some mysterious and puzzling connection. but (and here i'm starting to cry again, i'm afraid) no man, including a (blissfully ex-) husband of 20 years has ever spoken, or written to me with such warmth, such passion. the men i've been involved with have been loathe to express emotion, and i have doubts as to how much they even had.

i have no idea how things would be if i tried to incorporate such play into a "real" relationship. i suspect it would be an aspect of the sexual relationship, which would be exciting, there would be pet names and such.

my ex-husband had a chronic illness which he refused to take care of, or wasn't capable of being responsible for. i dealt with a lot of crises. it feels good, here, to be the kitten, who is owned, petted, taken care of. it is good to be your slave, to be desired, to have a full and rich sex life, even if only in fantasy.

i don't know if that answers your question. i guess i don't really know what the answer is. i have a strong imagination, i have always been prone to sink into the atmosphere of the moment (it took me a long time to snap out of it after seeing Pan's Labyrinth). i lose myself in what we create together but don't feel lost. and i don't do anything i don't want to. i suppose i feel a little triumphant in a way at being able to experiment after all the lone fantasies.

do i seem too weird to you? I don't want to.

= = = = = = =

Not weird at all. . .you just have the most powerful imagination I have ever seen. Your ability. . . and desire to get swept away in a story is, apart from being really arousing. . .just fascinating to watch.

There's all sorts of control issues here, self-control, losing control, seeming to lose control. . . but I guess fantasy makes it all safe.

This dominance/submission dynamic is very powerful. . .and enjoyable.