Don't kid yourself, Sir. Or do. It's all the same to me. Doesn't change the facts. You fancy yourself in control. Of your sub. Of your mind. Of your cock. Of your life. Even, perhaps, of me. You go looking for me. For someone like me. So you can insert yourself within the moist folds of my life, of the glimpses I give you of my life.
But, my horny reader. You're just the fish. And this time I'm the angler, dangling words and images on the end of my invisible line, casting them out into the waters of your search engine, until Google tosses you up on my shore.
I lick you. Those magic words are the tip of my tongue running up and down your pleading cock, barely touching at first, only teasing, only hinting, until I suck you in, take you all the way down, shove you between my cheek and my teeth, twirl my tongue around your swelling desperation, humming as I work, whispering the words you want, the words you need, the words you embroider into a dubious reality that you wish could be true, as you embellish my vignettes with visions of faces and tits and tight little pussies and even tighter little butt holes.
The words.
Like hand-tied flies,
never quite concealing the sharpened hook.
pussy
spanked pussy
caned pussy
flogged pussy
Daddy spanked his little girl's pussy.
You spanked her pussy, you spanked her cunt, you spanked her ass, you thrust your fingers inside her tortured orifice and found her hot and wet and tight and so red you could believe her pussy itself was blushing because she knows that the pain turns her on, not even a lot of pain, not even the action, just the words... like you it can be just the words... she can almost think herself into cumming... you can do it yourself, you know... just by whispering the words in her ear...
I need to hurt you, Baby.
I'm going to hurt you.
Bring me my belt, sweetheart.
Bring me the flogger.
Have the cane on the bed when I arrive.
I'm going to hurt you.
Or just the shift of your body.
I feel you raise your arm
as I'm bent over your cock,
serving your cock,
delighting your cock,
my ass up near your head,
I feel you raise your arm
and I know it's coming.
Your palm on my ass.
And by now I'm so deep into that place where you put me when you put your hand around my neck and push against my windpipe, just enough, not to stop my breathing but as a reminder, your hand as leather collar, reminding me I'm yours, reminding me of joy, flicking that little switch that always needs a little pain, a little force to take me to that place in which my face changes, my eyes change, and then I'm home.
I suck your cock.
I'm in that place.
You spank my ass.
You spank my pussy.
I'm so deep
I'm so high
I can tell you're hitting me hard
Yet barely register pain.
Please spank me, Daddy.
Please beat me.
Please whip me.
Please spank my pussy.
Please take your belt to my ass.
Please make me
moan
and whimper
and cry
and wriggle,
make me writhe and wriggle,
while you pinch my nipple
and your cock
jerks
at my gasp.
Well, that sure made me hot. How about you, Sir? Not the "You" who in reality got to spank me. You, dear reader, you don't get to spank me. Sorry, buster. You can pretend, though. No one can stop you from pretending. And I know this is what you want because you leave a trail of search words behind you. Pretty much the same ones all the time. So I sing the siren song of spanked pussies and draw you closer until you wreck on my shores.
At least I hope it helps you cum.
I do like to make men cum.
I like to see them lost in their pleasure.
And I like to feel them spurt.
To feel the action within their organs of which they are so proud.
Look how big I am.
Do you like a big cock?
I'm going to shove my big cock inside your little butt hole.
I'm going to make you scream.
You're going to suffer for me.
Is that what you'd like to be saying to me as you shove your swollen cock inside my pussy which is so damn hot because of how you tortured me first?
Think about.
That's your assignment.
Think about hurting me
spanking me
spanking my pussy
spanking my cunt
spanking my clit
whipping my ass with your belt
covering my ass with welts from your cane.
Then fucking me.
Hard.
Sodomizing me.
Using me.
Filling me.
Seizing my long red curls in your fist
And then cumming with a roar.
Like that?
I give you that as a gift.
And then I think of the man who loves me.
Who treasures me.
Who teaches me to treasure myself.
The man who didn't even try to look stern and domly when he came through my door yesterday because he was so damn happy to see me that his face was beautiful with smiles, that his eyes could hide nothing so discipline be damned, he was with his mistress, with his pet, with his slave and precious little girl and in two weeks we will have two whole days together - and nights, he says. Two whole nights.
And as of tomorrow, Labor Day in the U.S. where workers are denied May Day as their holiday, as of tomorrow September 1st it will be 6 years since I begged to be taken into my Master's service and he accepted me.
And in enslaving me, he freed me to be who I really am.
Showing posts with label breath play. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breath play. Show all posts
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Pain and joy and submission.
Nothing much to report.
Bruises are fading, though still dramatic.
And I wrote the first draft of a poem.
It's been a while.
The poem.
And it felt good.
A relief.
The spanking.
The whipping.
The hair brush that broke after just a few swats.
The hard slaps to my face that did not leave a mark.
I can never understand why they don't leave a mark.
And I hate...
I hate that I respond to it.
See? I guess there is something to report...
There have been changes during these many quiet months. The relationship has evolved over time. Deepened. Survived more of our usual crises. Survived crises in our other lives. In what you might think to call the real world but to me only the hours we spend together are the real world and the rest is the illusion that provides a structure of practicality within which our real world exists.
I won't talk about the complications of his life except to say that there was no way they couldn't affect our own interactions. As for me, my mom had a stroke a year and a half ago and finally died late last June. It was time. And a relief. My dad is still alive, edging towards a hundred, with creeping dementia. He's become a lot sweeter though, and I know I'll mourn him when he's gone. I even wish I lived closer, which is a first. So few years of a good relationship. Too few years. But better than nothing.
I became unhappy at my job, because my department head was micromanaging me until I couldn't breathe. And now - poof! - he was forced out. Happy me! No guarantee how things will turn out, but at least one sure bad thing will be gone in a week and a half. And so. I repeat. Happy me.
Happy pet.
Which goes back to last weekend.
Punishment.
Correction.
Training.
I did something quite bad.
Thoughtless.
Explainable.
But he doesn't take explanations.
And anyway, I should have known better.
The bad thing happened last July.
We're slowly working our way back.
And then I...
It doesn't matter really.
A small thing but a telling thing.
So the whipping.
And all the rest.
Punishment and correction and training.
And eventually just for his pleasure.
In the end, it worked. Not just to convey the lesson, but also to cleanse me. To center me. To beat out of me all the accumulated emotional debris as well as the dust bunnies and fog clouding my (his words) beautiful brain.
A deepening of my submission.
An appreciation.
Because the beauty, the glory, the transcendence of such an abuse of my body is not the pain - although I do admit that up to a point (quickly reached) there is some measure of pleasure in it and - here comes the part that always embarrasses me and perhaps some of you as well - I grow sloppy wet as he beats and pinches and whips and slaps and... But the true beauty of it all, the part that feels best of all, is the submission. The offering. The acceptance. So that even as he brings his whipping belt down hard (for me) on the sensitive, vulnerable, screaming tissues of my sweet pink pussy, I try ever so hard to keep my legs open and accept whatever his own pain and desire drive him to do to me. And later, after, lying close and soft and warm next to his sated body, listening to the murmurings of his for-now eased mind, I feel the joy of having yielded to him everything I am. Of having given him everything in irrational and unlimited trust.
And my reward is the safety and comfort of the sadly not physical cage in which he keeps me, and the hours lying beside him with his collar around my neck.
PS - No. He most certainly did not allow me to cum, although he deliberately brought me very close.
Bruises are fading, though still dramatic.
And I wrote the first draft of a poem.
It's been a while.
The poem.
And it felt good.
A relief.
The spanking.
The whipping.
The hair brush that broke after just a few swats.
The hard slaps to my face that did not leave a mark.
I can never understand why they don't leave a mark.
And I hate...
I hate that I respond to it.
See? I guess there is something to report...
There have been changes during these many quiet months. The relationship has evolved over time. Deepened. Survived more of our usual crises. Survived crises in our other lives. In what you might think to call the real world but to me only the hours we spend together are the real world and the rest is the illusion that provides a structure of practicality within which our real world exists.
I won't talk about the complications of his life except to say that there was no way they couldn't affect our own interactions. As for me, my mom had a stroke a year and a half ago and finally died late last June. It was time. And a relief. My dad is still alive, edging towards a hundred, with creeping dementia. He's become a lot sweeter though, and I know I'll mourn him when he's gone. I even wish I lived closer, which is a first. So few years of a good relationship. Too few years. But better than nothing.
I became unhappy at my job, because my department head was micromanaging me until I couldn't breathe. And now - poof! - he was forced out. Happy me! No guarantee how things will turn out, but at least one sure bad thing will be gone in a week and a half. And so. I repeat. Happy me.
Happy pet.
Which goes back to last weekend.
Punishment.
Correction.
Training.
I did something quite bad.
Thoughtless.
Explainable.
But he doesn't take explanations.
And anyway, I should have known better.
The bad thing happened last July.
We're slowly working our way back.
And then I...
It doesn't matter really.
A small thing but a telling thing.
So the whipping.
And all the rest.
Punishment and correction and training.
And eventually just for his pleasure.
In the end, it worked. Not just to convey the lesson, but also to cleanse me. To center me. To beat out of me all the accumulated emotional debris as well as the dust bunnies and fog clouding my (his words) beautiful brain.
A deepening of my submission.
An appreciation.
Because the beauty, the glory, the transcendence of such an abuse of my body is not the pain - although I do admit that up to a point (quickly reached) there is some measure of pleasure in it and - here comes the part that always embarrasses me and perhaps some of you as well - I grow sloppy wet as he beats and pinches and whips and slaps and... But the true beauty of it all, the part that feels best of all, is the submission. The offering. The acceptance. So that even as he brings his whipping belt down hard (for me) on the sensitive, vulnerable, screaming tissues of my sweet pink pussy, I try ever so hard to keep my legs open and accept whatever his own pain and desire drive him to do to me. And later, after, lying close and soft and warm next to his sated body, listening to the murmurings of his for-now eased mind, I feel the joy of having yielded to him everything I am. Of having given him everything in irrational and unlimited trust.
And my reward is the safety and comfort of the sadly not physical cage in which he keeps me, and the hours lying beside him with his collar around my neck.
PS - No. He most certainly did not allow me to cum, although he deliberately brought me very close.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Fuck me, damn it!
We spent the day in mutual masturbation.
Not with our fingers, though,
except for the action of fingers on keyboards.
It started with a scenario that, last night, inserted itself into his brain, playing over and over as he expanded and refined. It gripped him and, as he knew it would, gripped me as hard as his hand can close around my throat till I can hardly breathe.
This was a very large seed my Master planted in my brain. It germinated, rooted fast, and threw up shoots that envenomed like poison ivy. They touched him, infected him, and he tossed his visions back to me.
I was in pain for hours.
The pain of unrelieved arousal.
It was glorious.
He quite enjoyed my agony.
As did I.
We've been elsewhere mostly, this last month. Daddy's health issues, my SAD, assorted other problems in our lives, these have made for very different sorts of interactions. We are many things to each other, with each other, and we grew closer together in those other areas. What we were dealing with was hard, but how we interacted was beautiful and intimate, if not the kind of intimacy that involves the communing of body parts.
Underneath it all,
firmly underneath it all,
lay the foundation of his ownership.
We both know that without that
there would be
no "we."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At this point, I was interrupted. There was supposed to be more to this post. About how he told me to leave a message on his voice mail while he went out to scrape the ice of his car. A message from Daddy's baby girl. A message apologizing for asking for something - because it's true, she's never supposed to just phone, and she certainly is never supposed to ask for anything for herself but this time he ordered me to phone and ask, to beg, please, please Daddy, please stick your cock in my little butt hole and fuck me! Which I do in fact badly want, he knows I want it, need it, that it has been an obsession for years, to be taken in the ass, raped in the ass, sodomized, debased, with nothing erotic about it. A butt-fucking that can only be humiliating, that accentuates the extent to which I am owned property, that sends me further down into that place, not a pretty floaty place despite the endorphins that will flow through me instead of blood. A dark, dark, perfect place - a perfect place, don't you see it's a perfect place? It's a safe place even though it's a dangerous place because of the chance the beast will break past the spell cast around him to keep me safe.
It's a safe place.
Because I don't have to pretend.
I can yield to everything.
Leave everything else behind.
Because with
every
stab
of pain
in my ass
his cock
declares
over
and over:
This
is what
you are.
And what
you are
is Mine.
So now we are talking about his taking me off to a rustic cabin in the woods. For a week of training and torture and transformation. He used to go to the perfect place as a child. I've been pulling up pictures of cabin interiors to set the scene.
A shared fantasy and nothing more?
Perhaps.
If so, the psychological effects will be real.
Then again,
with Daddy my Master,
you never do know...
[That subject line? Never in the world, never never never, would I ever say such a thing to my Master. But oh... It's been weeks since he fucked me. And I've so badly needed to cum all damn day. I wouldn't even have to cum. I could merely pass my finger tip over my very swollen clit. Though no. Do you hear my sigh? All it would take would be that one little touch and you would hear my orgasmic cries from here to London and California. So no. No touching. No cumming. Poor Baby...]
Not with our fingers, though,
except for the action of fingers on keyboards.
It started with a scenario that, last night, inserted itself into his brain, playing over and over as he expanded and refined. It gripped him and, as he knew it would, gripped me as hard as his hand can close around my throat till I can hardly breathe.
This was a very large seed my Master planted in my brain. It germinated, rooted fast, and threw up shoots that envenomed like poison ivy. They touched him, infected him, and he tossed his visions back to me.
I was in pain for hours.
The pain of unrelieved arousal.
It was glorious.
He quite enjoyed my agony.
As did I.
We've been elsewhere mostly, this last month. Daddy's health issues, my SAD, assorted other problems in our lives, these have made for very different sorts of interactions. We are many things to each other, with each other, and we grew closer together in those other areas. What we were dealing with was hard, but how we interacted was beautiful and intimate, if not the kind of intimacy that involves the communing of body parts.
Underneath it all,
firmly underneath it all,
lay the foundation of his ownership.
We both know that without that
there would be
no "we."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At this point, I was interrupted. There was supposed to be more to this post. About how he told me to leave a message on his voice mail while he went out to scrape the ice of his car. A message from Daddy's baby girl. A message apologizing for asking for something - because it's true, she's never supposed to just phone, and she certainly is never supposed to ask for anything for herself but this time he ordered me to phone and ask, to beg, please, please Daddy, please stick your cock in my little butt hole and fuck me! Which I do in fact badly want, he knows I want it, need it, that it has been an obsession for years, to be taken in the ass, raped in the ass, sodomized, debased, with nothing erotic about it. A butt-fucking that can only be humiliating, that accentuates the extent to which I am owned property, that sends me further down into that place, not a pretty floaty place despite the endorphins that will flow through me instead of blood. A dark, dark, perfect place - a perfect place, don't you see it's a perfect place? It's a safe place even though it's a dangerous place because of the chance the beast will break past the spell cast around him to keep me safe.
It's a safe place.
Because I don't have to pretend.
I can yield to everything.
Leave everything else behind.
Because with
every
stab
of pain
in my ass
his cock
declares
over
and over:
This
is what
you are.
And what
you are
is Mine.
So now we are talking about his taking me off to a rustic cabin in the woods. For a week of training and torture and transformation. He used to go to the perfect place as a child. I've been pulling up pictures of cabin interiors to set the scene.
A shared fantasy and nothing more?
Perhaps.
If so, the psychological effects will be real.
Then again,
with Daddy my Master,
you never do know...
[That subject line? Never in the world, never never never, would I ever say such a thing to my Master. But oh... It's been weeks since he fucked me. And I've so badly needed to cum all damn day. I wouldn't even have to cum. I could merely pass my finger tip over my very swollen clit. Though no. Do you hear my sigh? All it would take would be that one little touch and you would hear my orgasmic cries from here to London and California. So no. No touching. No cumming. Poor Baby...]
Friday, December 14, 2012
On risk and life and death. Mostly death.
"Risky behaviour?" the allergy nurse asked.
She was taking a medical history for their new, computerized record system.
I just looked at her, at a loss as to how to respond.
She thought I didn't understand the question.
I knew she'd be taken aback by the answer.
"Like HIV..." she said, trying to be helpful.
I just shook my head no.
Except when the sadist closes his hands around my neck, my risky behaviour doesn't seem to have any bearing on my asthma.
And besides.
I've made my decisions.
My activities may not always be safe,
but they are consensual.
We'll leave aside the issue of my sanity.
Still...
risky behaviour.
A child going to school...
this should not be risky behaviour.
We should -
should! -
be able to count on their coming home alive.
But this is the United States of NRA,*
where guns are easier to get than treatment for mental illness,
and little children
bleed out
their lives
on a classroom floor.
This isn't the lesson they were sent to school to learn.
And the lesson that is so clear to so many of us? The lesson we learn over and over, from one senseless massacre after another? Our politicians are too chicken shit to act on it. The election is over, and they're still being choked by the NRA's chain.
And people say we're perverted.
* NRA = National Rifle Association, which vehemently opposes any form of gun control.
She was taking a medical history for their new, computerized record system.
I just looked at her, at a loss as to how to respond.
She thought I didn't understand the question.
I knew she'd be taken aback by the answer.
"Like HIV..." she said, trying to be helpful.
I just shook my head no.
Except when the sadist closes his hands around my neck, my risky behaviour doesn't seem to have any bearing on my asthma.
And besides.
I've made my decisions.
My activities may not always be safe,
but they are consensual.
We'll leave aside the issue of my sanity.
Still...
risky behaviour.
A child going to school...
this should not be risky behaviour.
We should -
should! -
be able to count on their coming home alive.
But this is the United States of NRA,*
where guns are easier to get than treatment for mental illness,
and little children
bleed out
their lives
on a classroom floor.
This isn't the lesson they were sent to school to learn.
And the lesson that is so clear to so many of us? The lesson we learn over and over, from one senseless massacre after another? Our politicians are too chicken shit to act on it. The election is over, and they're still being choked by the NRA's chain.
And people say we're perverted.
* NRA = National Rifle Association, which vehemently opposes any form of gun control.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
My butt hurts. My heart doesn't.
He says it.
Over and over.
Without the words, true, but as clearly as if he were shouting it from the top of the Washington Monument. Which is still closed for repairs of damage suffered in an unlikely earthquake a while back.
Like us.
That there is an us.
A very unlikely earthquake.
So many unlikely things...
Today, this man who declares he doesn't believe in aftercare, this man was lying next to me, luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm. The last few weeks have been very intense, it's been 2 weeks since we were together and he has made many wordless avowals for longer than that. So he's lying there, looking up at me, recovering, and I ask if he's OK, and he says yes - and then he asks if I'm OK. Which he never does. But it was very intense, "even for us," he says, and he has learned that he doesn't always realize if it has been too much for me, and now he has taken to worrying about that, to put it in the box of things he should be aware of as he tries to protect me from himself.
From the beast.
He said he took special steps yesterday to protect me. He wouldn't say what, but I suspect he went and unleashed some of his sadistic desire on another of the Others. To release the tension. There was still some left for me today - and why shouldn't there be? It's not just that he wants to cause pain. He wants to hurt me.
And I wanted him to hurt me.
Which he did.
He spanked me a lot.
Just with his hand.
But hard.
And often.
At various times during his 2 hours visit.
Harder and harder.
And the longer he was here
the harder he spanked me
and the less I could feel it.
Now I feel it.
I'm getting cold.
Some of the endorphins must be wearing off.
Not all of them.
I'm still very floaty.
But enough to allow my butt to hurt.
And it does really hurt.
I wonder if his hand hurts, too?
I'm happy that my butt hurts.
My pussy hurts, too.
From all the fucking.
Beautiful, beautiful fucking.
Some of it was fucking.
And some was making love.
The expression on his face.
That smile...
I'm very happy.
We were both very happy.
And very, very intimate.
He doesn't pretend any more.
That, he acknowledged.
He didn't say those other words.
But he did say he doesn't pretend any more.
And that's about as close as you can get.
And the words?
They could never say as much
as the smile
on his lips
and in his eyes.
But damn it.
My butt sure hurts!
Thank you, Daddy...
Over and over.
Without the words, true, but as clearly as if he were shouting it from the top of the Washington Monument. Which is still closed for repairs of damage suffered in an unlikely earthquake a while back.
Like us.
That there is an us.
A very unlikely earthquake.
So many unlikely things...
Today, this man who declares he doesn't believe in aftercare, this man was lying next to me, luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm. The last few weeks have been very intense, it's been 2 weeks since we were together and he has made many wordless avowals for longer than that. So he's lying there, looking up at me, recovering, and I ask if he's OK, and he says yes - and then he asks if I'm OK. Which he never does. But it was very intense, "even for us," he says, and he has learned that he doesn't always realize if it has been too much for me, and now he has taken to worrying about that, to put it in the box of things he should be aware of as he tries to protect me from himself.
From the beast.
He said he took special steps yesterday to protect me. He wouldn't say what, but I suspect he went and unleashed some of his sadistic desire on another of the Others. To release the tension. There was still some left for me today - and why shouldn't there be? It's not just that he wants to cause pain. He wants to hurt me.
And I wanted him to hurt me.
Which he did.
He spanked me a lot.
Just with his hand.
But hard.
And often.
At various times during his 2 hours visit.
Harder and harder.
And the longer he was here
the harder he spanked me
and the less I could feel it.
Now I feel it.
I'm getting cold.
Some of the endorphins must be wearing off.
Not all of them.
I'm still very floaty.
But enough to allow my butt to hurt.
And it does really hurt.
I wonder if his hand hurts, too?
I'm happy that my butt hurts.
My pussy hurts, too.
From all the fucking.
Beautiful, beautiful fucking.
Some of it was fucking.
And some was making love.
The expression on his face.
That smile...
I'm very happy.
We were both very happy.
And very, very intimate.
He doesn't pretend any more.
That, he acknowledged.
He didn't say those other words.
But he did say he doesn't pretend any more.
And that's about as close as you can get.
And the words?
They could never say as much
as the smile
on his lips
and in his eyes.
But damn it.
My butt sure hurts!
Thank you, Daddy...
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Leather and heels; feminism and sucking cock
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Sunday, December 4, 2011
Strangled
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Daddy's nun fetish
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Anger vented, pet protected
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.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Submitting to Irene
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.
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.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Daddy's slave seeks a housemate
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Lingering on the edge
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...
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...
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Hugging the pain to myself
And then he came
with a mighty cum
and said it was the best service
my mouth had ever given
which is saying quite a lot.
And then I lay my head on his lap
and he stroked my hair
and I swam in his ownership
and embraced the pain
that I was only then
truly starting to feel.
And I felt very close to him.
He is
my
Master.
And I am content.
with a mighty cum
and said it was the best service
my mouth had ever given
which is saying quite a lot.
And then I lay my head on his lap
and he stroked my hair
and I swam in his ownership
and embraced the pain
that I was only then
truly starting to feel.
And I felt very close to him.
He is
my
Master.
And I am content.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Breathless
We take each other's breath away.
He takes mine with his hand around my throat.
I take his with my beauty.
Which do you think scares me more?
I am not used to people being smitten with me.
I accept his assertions that I am beautiful.
I look in the mirror and yes, I can say that I'm beautiful.
Not in the way that models are, or movie stars.
But yes, I can see it.
And yes, I know that I'm smart and funny and sparkling and talented - and that for some reason he brings out versions of all that without the oddities that make me incomprehensible to so many. It feels extraordinary to be seen and understood and appreciated and whatever it is that he feels for me in lieu of love though these days I'm starting to wonder.
But he's smitten with me.
I'm not used to people being smitten with me.
I'm not used to people looking at me the way he does.
Smiling with happiness the way he does because we are now a We.
Sending me lists of romantic songs he thinks I'll enjoy.
Saying he wants me to watch the Borgias
because he'll be watching it at the same time
and the sexy young thing being fucked by the Pope
has god damned red hair
and she's making him crazy.
I love him and I get so scared.
He closes his hand around my throat
and I get scared of the power I have.
It comes in little flashes.
I snap out of my loving, submissive haze
and I wonder: who is this man?
And then it's over.
And I'm swimming again in the sweet warm pool of our union.
I'm 62 years old.
I've been married twice.
Nobody has ever treated me like this,
even those who claimed to love me.
It's beautiful.
It's amazing.
It's extraordinary.
Why do I keep believing that I'm not worthy
and that anyone who thinks that I am
must not be worth loving?
Why do I feel that it threatens the imbalance of power which works for us, which binds us, which exalts us, and which makes us happy?
I need to accept.
There is a balance.
We admire each other.
We love each other.
Love.
The word that must stand in for whatever else.
We are grateful to each other.
But when it comes down to it,
he owns me.
He
just
does.
So I'll focus on that,
I'll hang on to that,
I can understand that,
and I'll concentrate on the pull of his chain around my neck.
Love can make things very complicated.
He takes mine with his hand around my throat.
I take his with my beauty.
Which do you think scares me more?
I am not used to people being smitten with me.
I accept his assertions that I am beautiful.
I look in the mirror and yes, I can say that I'm beautiful.
Not in the way that models are, or movie stars.
But yes, I can see it.
And yes, I know that I'm smart and funny and sparkling and talented - and that for some reason he brings out versions of all that without the oddities that make me incomprehensible to so many. It feels extraordinary to be seen and understood and appreciated and whatever it is that he feels for me in lieu of love though these days I'm starting to wonder.
But he's smitten with me.
I'm not used to people being smitten with me.
I'm not used to people looking at me the way he does.
Smiling with happiness the way he does because we are now a We.
Sending me lists of romantic songs he thinks I'll enjoy.
Saying he wants me to watch the Borgias
because he'll be watching it at the same time
and the sexy young thing being fucked by the Pope
has god damned red hair
and she's making him crazy.
I love him and I get so scared.
He closes his hand around my throat
and I get scared of the power I have.
It comes in little flashes.
I snap out of my loving, submissive haze
and I wonder: who is this man?
And then it's over.
And I'm swimming again in the sweet warm pool of our union.
I'm 62 years old.
I've been married twice.
Nobody has ever treated me like this,
even those who claimed to love me.
It's beautiful.
It's amazing.
It's extraordinary.
Why do I keep believing that I'm not worthy
and that anyone who thinks that I am
must not be worth loving?
Why do I feel that it threatens the imbalance of power which works for us, which binds us, which exalts us, and which makes us happy?
I need to accept.
There is a balance.
We admire each other.
We love each other.
Love.
The word that must stand in for whatever else.
We are grateful to each other.
But when it comes down to it,
he owns me.
He
just
does.
So I'll focus on that,
I'll hang on to that,
I can understand that,
and I'll concentrate on the pull of his chain around my neck.
Love can make things very complicated.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Daddy comes for a blow job and finds peace
Daddy needed his baby girl today.
Badly.
I knew he would, even before I knew he did.
The world devours him this time of year.
At this time of year, the world feeds on him.
His life is not his own.
He's been surprising me.
I usually see him once a week.
More often than not on a Wednesday.
When work puts him near my home.
As jcn e-mailed me this morning:
But this time of year, with all the demands made on his time, I don't expect much. I didn't expect much. Or rather, I expected to go for weeks without seeing him, without engaging in more relaxed visits courtesy of Yahoo Instant Messenger, with little more than a quick e-mail here and there.
But Daddy needs his baby girl.
He needs his special little girl.
And week after week he has found time for visits.
I am his Daddy's baby girl. I give him something no one else can. And with me, he can free that part of himself, with all its sweetness and all its vulnerability, that no one else gets to see.
Now don't go thinking that my Daddy is a total cuddly fluff bunny when he has me naked at his feet, ecstatically sucking his cock. Or when he has me pressed against the wall - a fully clothed Daddy molesting his naked little girl - and he grinds his cock into the crack between my baby butt cheeks. There is nothing innocent about any of that. My Daddy is the sadist is my Daddy. They are not separate beings, just different facets. And they wallow in transgression.
So I settle down on my haunches, knees far apart, naked between his feet as he rules his kingdom from the chair that may or may not be a genuine Eames chair, and I suck his cock with my sweet baby mouth until he pulls me up and kisses me for what seems like hours and is never long enough. And when he releases my mouth I see all the sweet softness in his eyes, and he sees the love and perfect surrender in my mind, and he takes my left nipple between two fingers of his right hand and squeezes until the sweet pain dips its toe into hard pain and something changes and we are together in a place of perfect intimacy. And then he places his large hand against my throat and squeezes.
And I do not struggle.
I am his in pure surrender.
I am his special little girl.
I am his special treasure.
I do not struggle.
I am his in perfect trust.
And he protects me.
I am my Daddy's special little girl. And in my mouth, in the middle of insanity, he knows he can find relief. But it's more than the relief of orgasm. There are lots of people who can give him that. Who would love to give him that. But here...
Here he can be.
Here he is loved.
Here he is accepted as everything he is.
Here he can be my Daddy.
I love you, Daddy.
And I am here whenever you need me.
Badly.
I knew he would, even before I knew he did.
The world devours him this time of year.
At this time of year, the world feeds on him.
His life is not his own.
He's been surprising me.
I usually see him once a week.
More often than not on a Wednesday.
When work puts him near my home.
As jcn e-mailed me this morning:
It's Wednesday...[Some people are far too observant for their own good.]"...and in Silver Spring, MD, Wednesday is cocksucking day..."Oh, the Prince spaghetti ads of my youth...
But this time of year, with all the demands made on his time, I don't expect much. I didn't expect much. Or rather, I expected to go for weeks without seeing him, without engaging in more relaxed visits courtesy of Yahoo Instant Messenger, with little more than a quick e-mail here and there.
But Daddy needs his baby girl.
He needs his special little girl.
And week after week he has found time for visits.
I am his Daddy's baby girl. I give him something no one else can. And with me, he can free that part of himself, with all its sweetness and all its vulnerability, that no one else gets to see.
Now don't go thinking that my Daddy is a total cuddly fluff bunny when he has me naked at his feet, ecstatically sucking his cock. Or when he has me pressed against the wall - a fully clothed Daddy molesting his naked little girl - and he grinds his cock into the crack between my baby butt cheeks. There is nothing innocent about any of that. My Daddy is the sadist is my Daddy. They are not separate beings, just different facets. And they wallow in transgression.
So I settle down on my haunches, knees far apart, naked between his feet as he rules his kingdom from the chair that may or may not be a genuine Eames chair, and I suck his cock with my sweet baby mouth until he pulls me up and kisses me for what seems like hours and is never long enough. And when he releases my mouth I see all the sweet softness in his eyes, and he sees the love and perfect surrender in my mind, and he takes my left nipple between two fingers of his right hand and squeezes until the sweet pain dips its toe into hard pain and something changes and we are together in a place of perfect intimacy. And then he places his large hand against my throat and squeezes.
And I do not struggle.
I am his in pure surrender.
I am his special little girl.
I am his special treasure.
I do not struggle.
I am his in perfect trust.
And he protects me.
I am my Daddy's special little girl. And in my mouth, in the middle of insanity, he knows he can find relief. But it's more than the relief of orgasm. There are lots of people who can give him that. Who would love to give him that. But here...
Here he can be.
Here he is loved.
Here he is accepted as everything he is.
Here he can be my Daddy.
I love you, Daddy.
And I am here whenever you need me.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Soft and sweet and slightly spanked
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Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Che soave zeffiretto
He said I may blog about my breath.
He was here today, and as he prepared to leave
he said I might blog about my breath.
And only about my breath.
He said... I can't quite read my own handwriting, what I scrawled after he was gone so I would remember exactly except I was in another place... he said something like he had other attractions he meant to focus on today but it became about my breath. It's always about my breath...
And he gave me a little escape clause.
"If you don't understand, say that you don't understand."
Which is true.
I don't quite understand.
He has had a thing about my breath since very early on. My breath. My voice. My voice which I never had thought of as very breathy, and frankly I don't think it was very breathy. But he changes me. He has been changing me all along.
I think it was nervousness.
I think it was awe.
Around 19 months ago (imagine that), very soon after we met through the kind auspices of FetLife, he called me. Or had me leave him a voice mail. Honestly, everything is rather fuzzy today. And my voice went up and was soft and somewhat breathy and I always had this problem with positioning the phone so that he often couldn't distinguish my words but just got this voice. This breathy voice. And it made him crazy. And then it was just my breath...
He would allow me to touch, he would allow me to cum, but I had to cum for him in a voice mail. And he would hear my breathing, my gasping, the pitch going higher, the air rushing through my throat as I came closer and closer and then I would cum and sob and there would be these deep inhalations with little vocalizations behind... he would say my voice was killing him... but it was my breath... the breath behind and within the voice...
It belongs to him, he said today. And he has shown me that it belongs to him. But that has changed, too. He used to take it as a sadist does, in a show of power. I always gave it willingly, with love in my eyes, as he would close his large hand around my throat, as he tightened his grip and blocked my airways... but there was a roughness to it. A flavor of violence. He was strangling me. I would struggle even as I trusted. Even as I surrendered. But lately, and today...
He wasn't taking my breath.
My breath belongs to him.
He held it in his hands like a baby bird,
he pressed his finger against that magic off button in my throat,
but only enough to show that it belonged to him.
Only enough to show how much he... treasures it.
And do I understand?
Do I understand his obsession.
Do I understand his passion?
Maybe.
I'm not sure.
Some of it,
perhaps.
He loves beautiful things. He loves beauty in so many forms... and my breath...I don't know why it entrances him so... my breath... my voice... I hear it now, you know. The breathiness. Because my voice has changed. The breathiness has taken up residence. And I hear it at shul, when I sing... I hear the breathiness and I know I am changing... being changed... becoming more of the things that please him most. Not deliberately. It is just happening.
Perhaps because he is guiding me towards being who I really am.
And my breath?
Aside from its aesthetic value?
I think it has to do with vulnerability.
With pure, unguarded being.
With an essence that is just
there
And with my life
given freely
placed in his hands
whispered in his ear
offered to that one finger
pressing
softly
as my eyes say I love him
and my lips say I love him
and my hand says I love him
and my gasps say I love him
and this time
today
he took just enough breath
to say that I belong to him.
I'm probably all wrong, of course. I don't really understand. But I'm sitting here now in front of my laptop, knowing that I've utterly failed in understanding and making you understand. And I sit here and listen to my breathing, and suddenly (this is true, this isn't me trying to be all clever and artsy)... suddenly it sounds different. Suddenly I can hear it. I can hear my breath and it is so exquisitely beautiful, and honest and unprotected and generous and it glides out my nose and sighs from my throat and then floats gently between my lips and I am hearing it in a way I never did before.
This is my breath, this gentle breeze, and it belongs to my Master - who like any true artist, enables me to see things in ways I never did before.
He was here today, and as he prepared to leave
he said I might blog about my breath.
And only about my breath.
He said... I can't quite read my own handwriting, what I scrawled after he was gone so I would remember exactly except I was in another place... he said something like he had other attractions he meant to focus on today but it became about my breath. It's always about my breath...
And he gave me a little escape clause.
"If you don't understand, say that you don't understand."
Which is true.
I don't quite understand.
He has had a thing about my breath since very early on. My breath. My voice. My voice which I never had thought of as very breathy, and frankly I don't think it was very breathy. But he changes me. He has been changing me all along.
I think it was nervousness.
I think it was awe.
Around 19 months ago (imagine that), very soon after we met through the kind auspices of FetLife, he called me. Or had me leave him a voice mail. Honestly, everything is rather fuzzy today. And my voice went up and was soft and somewhat breathy and I always had this problem with positioning the phone so that he often couldn't distinguish my words but just got this voice. This breathy voice. And it made him crazy. And then it was just my breath...
He would allow me to touch, he would allow me to cum, but I had to cum for him in a voice mail. And he would hear my breathing, my gasping, the pitch going higher, the air rushing through my throat as I came closer and closer and then I would cum and sob and there would be these deep inhalations with little vocalizations behind... he would say my voice was killing him... but it was my breath... the breath behind and within the voice...
It belongs to him, he said today. And he has shown me that it belongs to him. But that has changed, too. He used to take it as a sadist does, in a show of power. I always gave it willingly, with love in my eyes, as he would close his large hand around my throat, as he tightened his grip and blocked my airways... but there was a roughness to it. A flavor of violence. He was strangling me. I would struggle even as I trusted. Even as I surrendered. But lately, and today...
He wasn't taking my breath.
My breath belongs to him.
He held it in his hands like a baby bird,
he pressed his finger against that magic off button in my throat,
but only enough to show that it belonged to him.
Only enough to show how much he... treasures it.
And do I understand?
Do I understand his obsession.
Do I understand his passion?
Maybe.
I'm not sure.
Some of it,
perhaps.
He loves beautiful things. He loves beauty in so many forms... and my breath...I don't know why it entrances him so... my breath... my voice... I hear it now, you know. The breathiness. Because my voice has changed. The breathiness has taken up residence. And I hear it at shul, when I sing... I hear the breathiness and I know I am changing... being changed... becoming more of the things that please him most. Not deliberately. It is just happening.
Perhaps because he is guiding me towards being who I really am.
And my breath?
Aside from its aesthetic value?
I think it has to do with vulnerability.
With pure, unguarded being.
With an essence that is just
there
And with my life
given freely
placed in his hands
whispered in his ear
offered to that one finger
pressing
softly
as my eyes say I love him
and my lips say I love him
and my hand says I love him
and my gasps say I love him
and this time
today
he took just enough breath
to say that I belong to him.
I'm probably all wrong, of course. I don't really understand. But I'm sitting here now in front of my laptop, knowing that I've utterly failed in understanding and making you understand. And I sit here and listen to my breathing, and suddenly (this is true, this isn't me trying to be all clever and artsy)... suddenly it sounds different. Suddenly I can hear it. I can hear my breath and it is so exquisitely beautiful, and honest and unprotected and generous and it glides out my nose and sighs from my throat and then floats gently between my lips and I am hearing it in a way I never did before.
This is my breath, this gentle breeze, and it belongs to my Master - who like any true artist, enables me to see things in ways I never did before.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Zero tolerance policy
I.
She lies curled in the corner of her cage.
She lies curled in the corner of her cage.
She has been there for 2 whole days.
His patience has expired.
He doesn't say a word.
He reaches in and pulls her out
by her hair. Deliberately, he slaps
each cheek. He plants her on his knees
and spanks her. 5 times a side.
He pushes her off his lap.
She crumbles on the ground between his feet.
Drawing herself up to her knees,
she sets to work with her mouth,
doing what she was trained to do,
tears streaming down her face.
He swells and moans.
Life is back to normal.
II.
He imposes a re-focusing routine. Naked as always, she is crawling back and forth across the floor. He ignores her (or tries to) and devotes himself to spreadsheets. By the end of the designated hour, she is clearly exhausted. She drags herself across the carpet, rug burns forming on her pale skin, tears staining her face.
In time...
III.
She kneels up naked between his legs. She presents her mouth, lips parted, tongue extended in invitation. He seizes her tangled locks and pulls her closer and straighter.
She gives him her eyes.
He takes her right nipple.
He starts to squeeze, slowly increasing the pressure, watching her expression change, watching her submission deepen, knowing that the honey is starting to pool in her pussy and seep down through her labia, leaving tracks on her legs.
There are traces of pain flecking the blue of her eyes. He transforms the squeeze into a twist. Tiny tears betray the struggle to hold his gaze. He knows she is fighting the urge to pull away. He twists again, and digs his nail into the little knob of flesh.
She screams.
"Say it," he says. His first words to her all day.
"I love you."
Another twist.
"I love you!"
More pain.
"I love you! I love you! Please, my Lord, I do love you..."
She is choking on her tears.
His hand leaves her tit for her hair. He grabs it close to her scalp, twines his fingers into the flow of red, and pulls her to his mouth. He devours her lips, her tongue, biting into her, evoking more screams, while she sobs into his greedy maw her pathetic words of devotion.
Her struggles are swelling his cock. He wants more. He surrounds her throat with his large hand. He exults in the beauty of her strangled croaks of love as he watches the light fade from her eyes. He stops just in time. He knows he could have gone on.
His cock is smiling.
"Good girl."
She sobs her joy.
He thinks about his knife.
Written for my sadistic Master after a pretty pathetic IM session in which I was clearly not concentrating on his desires as opposed to my own concerns. The imagined punishment reflects my own extreme displeasure with my failure, not his. Posted here with his permission.
II.
He imposes a re-focusing routine. Naked as always, she is crawling back and forth across the floor. He ignores her (or tries to) and devotes himself to spreadsheets. By the end of the designated hour, she is clearly exhausted. She drags herself across the carpet, rug burns forming on her pale skin, tears staining her face.
An alarm signals the end of the exercise. She collapses at his feet. He places a bowl of cool water before her. She laps gratefully. She takes him in her cool, moist mouth. There is nothing in her mind but to please him.
He accepts her attentions as his due. He is not yet ready to reward her with the two words he knows she craves.
III.
She kneels up naked between his legs. She presents her mouth, lips parted, tongue extended in invitation. He seizes her tangled locks and pulls her closer and straighter.
She gives him her eyes.
He takes her right nipple.
He starts to squeeze, slowly increasing the pressure, watching her expression change, watching her submission deepen, knowing that the honey is starting to pool in her pussy and seep down through her labia, leaving tracks on her legs.
There are traces of pain flecking the blue of her eyes. He transforms the squeeze into a twist. Tiny tears betray the struggle to hold his gaze. He knows she is fighting the urge to pull away. He twists again, and digs his nail into the little knob of flesh.
She screams.
"Say it," he says. His first words to her all day.
"I love you."
Another twist.
"I love you!"
More pain.
"I love you! I love you! Please, my Lord, I do love you..."
She is choking on her tears.
His hand leaves her tit for her hair. He grabs it close to her scalp, twines his fingers into the flow of red, and pulls her to his mouth. He devours her lips, her tongue, biting into her, evoking more screams, while she sobs into his greedy maw her pathetic words of devotion.
Her struggles are swelling his cock. He wants more. He surrounds her throat with his large hand. He exults in the beauty of her strangled croaks of love as he watches the light fade from her eyes. He stops just in time. He knows he could have gone on.
His cock is smiling.
"Good girl."
She sobs her joy.
He thinks about his knife.
Written for my sadistic Master after a pretty pathetic IM session in which I was clearly not concentrating on his desires as opposed to my own concerns. The imagined punishment reflects my own extreme displeasure with my failure, not his. Posted here with his permission.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Today's lesson
Today
he caressed me
he told me I'm sexy
he caressed my tits
he spanked me for his pleasure
he kissed me long and sweetly
he deprived me of air
he bit my neck
he pressed himself against me
he bit my lip
he had me touch him
just the way he likes it
he slapped my face
twice
for omitting something vital
he let me touch him
there
yes there
with the tip of my tongue
he said I didn't do well
that new task
I didn't do well
I cried
and tonight
he let me cum.
He said I had earned it.
he caressed me
he told me I'm sexy
he caressed my tits
he spanked me for his pleasure
he kissed me long and sweetly
he deprived me of air
he bit my neck
he pressed himself against me
he bit my lip
he had me touch him
just the way he likes it
he slapped my face
twice
for omitting something vital
he let me touch him
there
yes there
with the tip of my tongue
he said I didn't do well
that new task
I didn't do well
I cried
and tonight
he let me cum.
He said I had earned it.
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