He took up the cane
not for my pain
but for color, for
heat, the rain of blows
restrained, traveling the
lane from the mounds
of my butt
down wincing thighs,
back to the blush of
white turned to pink
burnt to red.
"It hurts,"
I cried. "Daddy,
you're hurting me!"
I whined, as the
flow down my thighs
betrayed to his fingers
the truth of my need.
Showing posts with label caning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label caning. Show all posts
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Now it's you spanking my pussy
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.
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.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Beaten butt update. PLUS Honored Again!
Yes, it still hurts.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
The carrot & the stick. Mainly, the stick.
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Saved by the masochist slave
He gets these urges sometimes.
Seriously sadistic urges.
You know.
I've written about them before.
He wants to torture me.
Seriously torture me.
It keeps him up at night when he gets in that mood. He sees it. He tastes it. He hears my screams and sees my body writhing, my back rising and arching, hears me moaning, begging - and then screaming... His description sounds as if it could as easily refer to passion, orgasm...
Certainly his words catapult me into an agony of arousal.
But that's not the kind of pain he has in mind.
And the only guaranteed orgasm would be his.
He doesn't dare do to me what he wants to do.
He knows I couldn't handle that much pain.
He's afraid he'll go too far.
He's afraid it would destroy us.
And more than anything,
he doesn't want to lose me.
But the thought of it.
It's so seductive.
To me it's so seductive.
And he knows that, too.
He won't tell me what he wants to do to me. He won't tell me the horrible things he does do to his masochist slave. He has, in the past, mentioned some things that he knows I'll eventually accede to. As if I had a choice. Not that he would force it on me. He's more like a snake. Hypnotizing me. Knowing that I will never make him stop. The only thing I react against is when he slaps my face in a way that makes me worry about bruises. In a way that lets me know he's out of control. That scares me. And now scares him, because he doesn't realize things are going bad until the the next day. Until he reads my account of it the next day. He worries about that now. Because he... because of what he feels for me.
I wish I could give him what he needs.
I wish it were safe for him to torture me.
Whatever that means.
He has talked about electro-torture in the past.
Serious electro-torture.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
In a way, it scares him too, I think.
The thought of doing it to me.
Because, again, he's afraid of losing control.
Of going too far.
So he protects me.
He continues to protect me.
Because he has these feelings for me.
Feelings he says in every way he can
without saying those dangerous words.
He protects me.
And tortures his masochist slave instead.
He had been torturing the slave before. Before he found me. That's the point of owning a masochist, isn't it? And each of them has a need filled. Not just the giving and receiving of pain, but also being served and providing service. Relieving pain while receiving pain. For the sadist does suffer during these times. He suffers from the unbearable need to inflict pain, the overwhelming need to hear the screams, and the awful desire to have me be the one writhing and screaming and sobbing as he demonstrates his desire and feelings for me by making my suffering surpass his own.
It doesn't happen that often.
He doesn't have such attacks that often.
But he did last weekend.
And he found relief today.
He wants to figure out why the attack came on when it did. and why it was so severe. I have my own theories. One of those perfect storm things, part of which was being deprived of my body on Saturday because I was sick. Part of which was knowing that I was with S-- on Wednesday night. He's always very aroused at the thought of others enjoying his mistress. His treasure. So first there was his awareness of another man touching and kissing and fucking me, an awareness that filled him all through that night. And then he read the account of the night that I was required to send him the following day. Add to that a different sort of event on Friday - not a sexual activity but related to his activities. And here we return to his doing without me on Saturday, followed by an electronic conversation Saturday night that was frightening in its intimacy and new revelations.
He can't help himself.
Sometimes he tells me things...
So of course by Sunday the bars on the beast's cage had been bent apart and the hungry monster was prowling the halls.
Luckily, my Master had already arranged to use his slave today.
For some people, today was a holiday.
So the slave was home.
And the slave's ass saved mine.
Knowing it was for my protection.
Being told how grateful I was.
While I waited.
The fiend e-mailed me his ETA.
I was at work.
"You'll share the experience with me," he wrote.
My breath stopped.
I had been feeling tense all day.
Feeling his presence, his hands on my body,
slashes of the cane and of the single tail whip burning my butt.
Finally, lunchtime, I left the building.
A message arrived.
There was screaming.
He had almost called me.
I don't know that I could have tolerated the sounds of such pain.
I tried to walk, but instead sat outside on a low concrete ledge and waited. The screams had eased his desperation. All that was left was to cum.
Was for him to cum.
I was there with him.
Not physically.
But there with him nevertheless.
Waiting.
Not breathing.
He gave me a 4-minute warning of when he would cum.
The time passed.
My body let go.
I took a deep breath.
He was OK.
I knew he was OK now.
And I knew he had felt me there with him.
I had to be with him.
Because it all had to do with me.
He wrote me from the car.
He was feeling much better.
His slave was fine.
I was grateful for the reassurance.
I always feel guilty.
And especially now.
I think this was the first time the slave was explicitly told that it was all because of me. Another pain my Master inflicted. I felt bad. Bad and guilty and very, very grateful.
Grateful that my body was saved from horrors I can only imagine.
And grateful that this sadist I love was saved from the torments he visits on himself.
Love can hurt.
In so many ways.
Seriously sadistic urges.
You know.
I've written about them before.
He wants to torture me.
Seriously torture me.
It keeps him up at night when he gets in that mood. He sees it. He tastes it. He hears my screams and sees my body writhing, my back rising and arching, hears me moaning, begging - and then screaming... His description sounds as if it could as easily refer to passion, orgasm...
Certainly his words catapult me into an agony of arousal.
But that's not the kind of pain he has in mind.
And the only guaranteed orgasm would be his.
He doesn't dare do to me what he wants to do.
He knows I couldn't handle that much pain.
He's afraid he'll go too far.
He's afraid it would destroy us.
And more than anything,
he doesn't want to lose me.
But the thought of it.
It's so seductive.
To me it's so seductive.
And he knows that, too.
He won't tell me what he wants to do to me. He won't tell me the horrible things he does do to his masochist slave. He has, in the past, mentioned some things that he knows I'll eventually accede to. As if I had a choice. Not that he would force it on me. He's more like a snake. Hypnotizing me. Knowing that I will never make him stop. The only thing I react against is when he slaps my face in a way that makes me worry about bruises. In a way that lets me know he's out of control. That scares me. And now scares him, because he doesn't realize things are going bad until the the next day. Until he reads my account of it the next day. He worries about that now. Because he... because of what he feels for me.
I wish I could give him what he needs.
I wish it were safe for him to torture me.
Whatever that means.
He has talked about electro-torture in the past.
Serious electro-torture.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
In a way, it scares him too, I think.
The thought of doing it to me.
Because, again, he's afraid of losing control.
Of going too far.
So he protects me.
He continues to protect me.
Because he has these feelings for me.
Feelings he says in every way he can
without saying those dangerous words.
He protects me.
And tortures his masochist slave instead.
He had been torturing the slave before. Before he found me. That's the point of owning a masochist, isn't it? And each of them has a need filled. Not just the giving and receiving of pain, but also being served and providing service. Relieving pain while receiving pain. For the sadist does suffer during these times. He suffers from the unbearable need to inflict pain, the overwhelming need to hear the screams, and the awful desire to have me be the one writhing and screaming and sobbing as he demonstrates his desire and feelings for me by making my suffering surpass his own.
It doesn't happen that often.
He doesn't have such attacks that often.
But he did last weekend.
And he found relief today.
He wants to figure out why the attack came on when it did. and why it was so severe. I have my own theories. One of those perfect storm things, part of which was being deprived of my body on Saturday because I was sick. Part of which was knowing that I was with S-- on Wednesday night. He's always very aroused at the thought of others enjoying his mistress. His treasure. So first there was his awareness of another man touching and kissing and fucking me, an awareness that filled him all through that night. And then he read the account of the night that I was required to send him the following day. Add to that a different sort of event on Friday - not a sexual activity but related to his activities. And here we return to his doing without me on Saturday, followed by an electronic conversation Saturday night that was frightening in its intimacy and new revelations.
He can't help himself.
Sometimes he tells me things...
So of course by Sunday the bars on the beast's cage had been bent apart and the hungry monster was prowling the halls.
Luckily, my Master had already arranged to use his slave today.
For some people, today was a holiday.
So the slave was home.
And the slave's ass saved mine.
Knowing it was for my protection.
Being told how grateful I was.
While I waited.
The fiend e-mailed me his ETA.
I was at work.
"You'll share the experience with me," he wrote.
My breath stopped.
I had been feeling tense all day.
Feeling his presence, his hands on my body,
slashes of the cane and of the single tail whip burning my butt.
Finally, lunchtime, I left the building.
A message arrived.
There was screaming.
He had almost called me.
I don't know that I could have tolerated the sounds of such pain.
I tried to walk, but instead sat outside on a low concrete ledge and waited. The screams had eased his desperation. All that was left was to cum.
Was for him to cum.
I was there with him.
Not physically.
But there with him nevertheless.
Waiting.
Not breathing.
He gave me a 4-minute warning of when he would cum.
The time passed.
My body let go.
I took a deep breath.
He was OK.
I knew he was OK now.
And I knew he had felt me there with him.
I had to be with him.
Because it all had to do with me.
He wrote me from the car.
He was feeling much better.
His slave was fine.
I was grateful for the reassurance.
I always feel guilty.
And especially now.
I think this was the first time the slave was explicitly told that it was all because of me. Another pain my Master inflicted. I felt bad. Bad and guilty and very, very grateful.
Grateful that my body was saved from horrors I can only imagine.
And grateful that this sadist I love was saved from the torments he visits on himself.
Love can hurt.
In so many ways.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Don't you two have sex anymore?!
Why yes, now that you mention it.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.
First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!
So yes.
To answer your questions.
He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.
For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.
He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.
Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.
Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.
I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...
The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.
My lover.
That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?
I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.
There is no one word.
He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.
He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.
I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.
So now...
Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.
I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.
I didn't want him to stop.
I wanted him to cane me.
And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.
And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.
The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.
And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...
I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.
And now he seems to have stopped pretending.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.
First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!
So yes.
To answer your questions.
He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.
For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.
He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.
Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.
Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.
I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...
The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.
My lover.
That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?
I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.
There is no one word.
He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.
He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.
I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.
So now...
Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.
I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.
I didn't want him to stop.
I wanted him to cane me.
And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.
And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.
The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.
And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...
I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.
And now he seems to have stopped pretending.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Body modification
That's his word for it.
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
"You're higher than a kite!"
He tasted all the flavours of my tears today.
He wanted me to tell you that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written last Tuesday, after a truly sweet and long time together. I meant to write more, but it somehow never happened. He soothed and banished my grief and fears over the changes to come, with reassurances in words and kisses and especially in his eyes that nothing of what we are will be lost. And there was his hand and the belt and even the nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane along with the kisses and the words in his eyes and then his fingers on my pussy and the belt on my pussy and it was all wonderful and close and rich and I'm happy but it's too soon after the solstice for my brain to have kicked back in again so this is all you get. And I know that today he is thinking of me. His poet. His pet. His sweet little girl.
Who was, in fact, higher than a kite.
As he said.
And today?
For me, a good movie and way too much Chinese food lie ahead.
With the lighting of the menorah on the restaurant table.
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate.
However you celebrate.
With love.
Always love.
o.g.
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.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Another special, secret nothing
Special.
Very special.
And secret.
Which is the wrong word.
Private.
That's the right word.
More and more I've been wanting to keep things private.
And again, that's the wrong choice of word.
Not keep things private.
They are private.
They are already private.
They are a reflection of our relationship.
Like his taking me away with him to the casino.
Although what we did there, how we were there, was not at all shocking. But it seems almost easier to write about the really kinky stuff, the sadist as sadist, floggers and belts and strips of wood landing on my pale, reddening butt, than about smiles and laughs and shared dinners.
The inner intimacies cradle the true nakedness.
Very special.
And secret.
Which is the wrong word.
Private.
That's the right word.
More and more I've been wanting to keep things private.
And again, that's the wrong choice of word.
Not keep things private.
They are private.
They are already private.
They are a reflection of our relationship.
Like his taking me away with him to the casino.
Although what we did there, how we were there, was not at all shocking. But it seems almost easier to write about the really kinky stuff, the sadist as sadist, floggers and belts and strips of wood landing on my pale, reddening butt, than about smiles and laughs and shared dinners.
The inner intimacies cradle the true nakedness.
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, October 2, 2011
Masturbation mania (13) - Yielding to the elegant Sinfonia
Here, in part 2 of my review of Close2You's Sinfonia g-spot vibrator, is a purely subjective evocation of a delicious masturbation session as reported to the sadist. You can read Part 1 of my review here, which, while not totally objective, at least includes some solid details. And don't forget that if you check out the Sinfonia (or any other sex toy) on EdenFantasys' website, they have a very handy comparison tool to help you choose between different items. I use it myself when choosing which of several options I want to review next.
Before proceeding, I should note that I had to work very hard to get the above shot. The cats have been showing very little interest in my goodies, but at least Ketzel, despite her boredom, was willing to return to the box again and again when I called her. She did, however, show a distinct preference for having the top of the box closed.
And now, here is what happened the second time I gave myself to the elegant and alluring Sinfonia, as related to my Master in a series of in-flight messages....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm horribly aroused, Daddy, so I'm going to masturbate now.
I've laid out my chosen toys. I seem to have a standard array now, Daddy. The pink clitoris vibrator (what's it called? Oh yes, the LAYAspot). My beloved little lavender Meany - short and stubby and sweet and wonderful. And then whatever new thing I have.
In this case, that classy black and grey Sinfonia.
Last time I was so desperate I couldn't pay attention to the different vibration patterns. I wonder what will happen this time...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Oh, Daddy...
I started with the pink one, holding it against my clit where it's buzzing gently at the very lowest setting... and my pelvis is tipping up while my pussy searches for your cock.
I love when I feel your cock just grazing my clit and labia, Daddy.
I hunger for your cock, Daddy.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I turned the setting up, Daddy, and now there's the feeling of being whipped, with a single thin lash landing straight across my butt hole.
Not a fantasy, Daddy.
Purely a sensation.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I lubed it up and slid it in and ohhh.... it felt so incredibly good, my Master. And for a while I didn't turn it on, just did Kegel exercises around it. And then I turned it on, and it started buzzing inside me, and I kept saying out loud Oh God Oh God Oh God... because of how wonderfully good it feels... and then I found myself wondering how I would respond to the cane if I had the Sinfonia buzzing away inside me and then I thought uh-oh I shouldn't tell you that but I had the thought so I couldn't not tell you.
And now I think I won't write again until after I cum.
Except that I feel you watching me, my Master, and had that feeling of objectification again... and of someone standing over me... watching me masturbate...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Ohhh, Daddy...
Thank you, my Master.
I just wish there had been more time... it felt so wonderful... and my reactions were so powerful... if you had been watching you would have received the gift of a symphony of moans and whimpers and grunts and then variations on the theme of breaths... and I had that same response as last time, Daddy, of feeling very objectified. Of things being done to me that I had no hand in... An image came of me bound to the bed with the beautiful black curve of a vibrator shoved up inside me and kept in place by surgical tape... a torture of pleasure while you watched and listened and took pictures and video clips and took notes on which patterns elicited what response...
I didn't have time to stop and write down which patterns had what effect, Daddy, but what I can say is that the effects were powerful. And then it was getting late so first I just fucked myself with it for a while on a plain vibration, and then I held the tip to my little butt hole... I think... I had trouble finding it and getting the tip in so I just held it kind of over where I thought it was. Maybe I should give up on the idea of a vibrating butt plug. I'm awfully small and tight.
Finally, I switched to the plush lavender Meany - inside me a little and also rubbed over my clitoris because I was aiming to cum. And I discovered by accident that I had forgotten that the Meany has different patterns, too! But because it's so plushy I don't think they are as powerful. That was a nice reminder, though. Mainly, I let it buzz away and rubbed it gently against my clit and had a lovely orgasm inside me... with the real feel of going up and over the waterfall. And then I cried a little and kept the Meany going and had a couple more small orgasms (I hope that was ok, Daddy?). And then I had to stop. I rested for just a few minutes and then got up to write you. Leaving just a little time to pull on my clothes, feed the cats, and run off to baby sit.
Thank you so much, Daddy.
This was most delicious.
I love love love this toy!
But nowhere near as much as I love you.
Thank you, my Master.
I just wish there had been more time... it felt so wonderful... and my reactions were so powerful... if you had been watching you would have received the gift of a symphony of moans and whimpers and grunts and then variations on the theme of breaths... and I had that same response as last time, Daddy, of feeling very objectified. Of things being done to me that I had no hand in... An image came of me bound to the bed with the beautiful black curve of a vibrator shoved up inside me and kept in place by surgical tape... a torture of pleasure while you watched and listened and took pictures and video clips and took notes on which patterns elicited what response...
I didn't have time to stop and write down which patterns had what effect, Daddy, but what I can say is that the effects were powerful. And then it was getting late so first I just fucked myself with it for a while on a plain vibration, and then I held the tip to my little butt hole... I think... I had trouble finding it and getting the tip in so I just held it kind of over where I thought it was. Maybe I should give up on the idea of a vibrating butt plug. I'm awfully small and tight.
Finally, I switched to the plush lavender Meany - inside me a little and also rubbed over my clitoris because I was aiming to cum. And I discovered by accident that I had forgotten that the Meany has different patterns, too! But because it's so plushy I don't think they are as powerful. That was a nice reminder, though. Mainly, I let it buzz away and rubbed it gently against my clit and had a lovely orgasm inside me... with the real feel of going up and over the waterfall. And then I cried a little and kept the Meany going and had a couple more small orgasms (I hope that was ok, Daddy?). And then I had to stop. I rested for just a few minutes and then got up to write you. Leaving just a little time to pull on my clothes, feed the cats, and run off to baby sit.
Thank you so much, Daddy.
This was most delicious.
I love love love this toy!
But nowhere near as much as I love you.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Cognitive dissonance and BDSM
It took four and a half days. Finally, someone was brave enough to leave the comment I had been expecting from the moment I finished writing the post I called Ouch. Screwed up again.
This morning, goodgirl wrote:
The full quote, the last two lines of my post, is this:
Here, an admission.
I felt extremely uncomfortable as I wrote it.
And I left it in as a challenge.
A challenge as much to myself as to my readers.
Because that is a horrible thing to say.
As a concept, as a tenet, it is absolutely inexcusable.
And yet.
I thought it.
I felt it.
At that time.
In that context.
As I wrote.
But if I let myself truly think about it, my stomach clenches.
So I tried not to think about it.
An exquisite example of cognitive dissonance.
As I write about it now, I'm suddenly reminded of something very different. Or maybe not so different as a psychological experience.
I was raised an atheist. A third-generation left-wing Jewish atheist. While my parents gave us a strong sense of Jewish identity, they were very clear on the non-existence of God. Religion was something that distracted people from improving the lot of the masses and making the world a better place. (Knowing very little about Judaism, they didn't know that tikkun olam, healing the world, is precisely the job we were given, but that's another discussion entirely.)
Eventually, I was drawn - felt compelled - to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. I talked with a rabbi, I read, I went to services, I found things I could relate to. But largely I preferred services that were mostly in Hebrew. Despite the fact that I didn't know what I was saying.
In fact - precisely because I wouldn't know what I was saying.
Because otherwise the highly rational part of me would push past the part that found meaning and fulfillment in ritual, the part that sensed the existence of something else, and while poking at my stomach would say: "How can you say this stuff?!?"
I rarely ascribe things to "God." Notice that above, when I spoke of tikkun olam, I didn't say it was the job that God gave us. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. And yet, I really have, on a few widely disparate occasions, become disconcertingly aware of something else.
I do not like talking about those occasions.
They make me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet they were very real.
Cognitive dissonance makes us very uncomfortable.
There is another psychological state that walks hand-in-hand with cognitive dissonance. And that is suspension of disbelief. A very deliberate suspension of disbelief.
Yes, I am very happy in my relationship. But I am admittedly uncomfortable enough about a few of its aspects that I don't reveal it to friends who are not part of this world. They would worry about me. And really, rationally, how could I blame them? Aside from everything else, I should be out looking for someone who will commit to looking after me as I grow older. Who could take care of me, financially and otherwise. Instead I have made a commitment to a man who... well, you know. Or some of it at least. You've read it here.
In order to write what I do, not to mention do what I do, I push away my thoughts of real slavery. Of real abuse, sexual and otherwise. Of forced prostitution, of children who are sold, of children whose real daddies do things to them that no child should have to endure. Things that no daddy should even think of doing. These are real horrors in the world - realities we should not close our eyes to, realities we should not close our minds to, realities we must acknowledge even as we do things that some of us, at least - perhaps precisely because our awareness is so keen - feel we must keep from those who care about us.
So I write from another place.
That place from which I can say
a man has the right to beat his slave.
For pleasure or punishment.
But there was no way I could go deeply enough into that place to enable me to write that line without cognitive dissonance standing on my shoulder, like an angel of good intent, whispering into my ear the true horror of the words I left for you to read.
So thank you, goodgirl, for being honest enough to admit what you felt.
Because if we didn't have those feelings,
at least sometimes,
we would have to seriously question our own humanity.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A reassurance, for my new readers and for those who may have forgotten. None of us, in any relationship, can truly say that our safety is assured, whether physical or emotional. The old hit-by-a-bus possibility. But I can say this. This man I write about - this sadist - is aware of the potential dangers and works very hard to protect me. And it is that level of consciousness that feels like the greatest protection of all.
This morning, goodgirl wrote:
Hello
For reasons I can not even explain nor understand myself your last sentence, "a man has the right to beat his slave" prickled me to my very core. To each his/her own; freedom of speech and choice I believe but reading those words felt offensive and is just one of the many reasons why I feel conflict with the exchange of Dominance/submission; Sadism/masochism; Master/slave.
You appear very happy in your relationship and that is truly all that matters for you and the exchange you have.
For me though, this entry just fills me with sadness.
The full quote, the last two lines of my post, is this:
Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.
Here, an admission.
I felt extremely uncomfortable as I wrote it.
And I left it in as a challenge.
A challenge as much to myself as to my readers.
Because that is a horrible thing to say.
As a concept, as a tenet, it is absolutely inexcusable.
And yet.
I thought it.
I felt it.
At that time.
In that context.
As I wrote.
But if I let myself truly think about it, my stomach clenches.
So I tried not to think about it.
An exquisite example of cognitive dissonance.
As I write about it now, I'm suddenly reminded of something very different. Or maybe not so different as a psychological experience.
I was raised an atheist. A third-generation left-wing Jewish atheist. While my parents gave us a strong sense of Jewish identity, they were very clear on the non-existence of God. Religion was something that distracted people from improving the lot of the masses and making the world a better place. (Knowing very little about Judaism, they didn't know that tikkun olam, healing the world, is precisely the job we were given, but that's another discussion entirely.)
Eventually, I was drawn - felt compelled - to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. I talked with a rabbi, I read, I went to services, I found things I could relate to. But largely I preferred services that were mostly in Hebrew. Despite the fact that I didn't know what I was saying.
In fact - precisely because I wouldn't know what I was saying.
Because otherwise the highly rational part of me would push past the part that found meaning and fulfillment in ritual, the part that sensed the existence of something else, and while poking at my stomach would say: "How can you say this stuff?!?"
I rarely ascribe things to "God." Notice that above, when I spoke of tikkun olam, I didn't say it was the job that God gave us. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. And yet, I really have, on a few widely disparate occasions, become disconcertingly aware of something else.
I do not like talking about those occasions.
They make me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet they were very real.
Cognitive dissonance makes us very uncomfortable.
There is another psychological state that walks hand-in-hand with cognitive dissonance. And that is suspension of disbelief. A very deliberate suspension of disbelief.
Yes, I am very happy in my relationship. But I am admittedly uncomfortable enough about a few of its aspects that I don't reveal it to friends who are not part of this world. They would worry about me. And really, rationally, how could I blame them? Aside from everything else, I should be out looking for someone who will commit to looking after me as I grow older. Who could take care of me, financially and otherwise. Instead I have made a commitment to a man who... well, you know. Or some of it at least. You've read it here.
In order to write what I do, not to mention do what I do, I push away my thoughts of real slavery. Of real abuse, sexual and otherwise. Of forced prostitution, of children who are sold, of children whose real daddies do things to them that no child should have to endure. Things that no daddy should even think of doing. These are real horrors in the world - realities we should not close our eyes to, realities we should not close our minds to, realities we must acknowledge even as we do things that some of us, at least - perhaps precisely because our awareness is so keen - feel we must keep from those who care about us.
So I write from another place.
That place from which I can say
a man has the right to beat his slave.
For pleasure or punishment.
But there was no way I could go deeply enough into that place to enable me to write that line without cognitive dissonance standing on my shoulder, like an angel of good intent, whispering into my ear the true horror of the words I left for you to read.
So thank you, goodgirl, for being honest enough to admit what you felt.
Because if we didn't have those feelings,
at least sometimes,
we would have to seriously question our own humanity.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A reassurance, for my new readers and for those who may have forgotten. None of us, in any relationship, can truly say that our safety is assured, whether physical or emotional. The old hit-by-a-bus possibility. But I can say this. This man I write about - this sadist - is aware of the potential dangers and works very hard to protect me. And it is that level of consciousness that feels like the greatest protection of all.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Why I was beaten for smiling
There were 2 comments on my last post, which I had cleverly titled Ouch. Screwed up again. I do hope you all recognize that at times my titles are deliberately selected to lure readers. It certainly worked this time. My stats shot right up. Whether any of those first-time visitors will return is a separate issue. But it sure gives me a sense of power, knowing how easily I can lure them over for an initial peek.
Anyway.
Back to the post.
Back to those 2 comments.
The core of the post was this:
It seems from jcn's comment that maybe I should define my terms more carefully.
It's not that I'm never allowed to smile.
And I do smile at times.
As does he.
At times.
But not when he comes through the door.
It's inappropriate.
One comment he made about the issue was a reminder that
it's not about me.
It's not about how I feel about seeing him.
It's about him.
It's all about him.
I am there to serve him.
I am there to please him.
How I feel at the moment of his arrival is irrelevant.
The second comment said:
I guess I should point out that I don't usually smile on his arrival. Really. I don't. Certainly in the beginning I didn't smile. If you knew this man from a submissive position, you'd know that his presence does not inspire smiles. But as various things developed... well, one day I couldn't help it. He arrived and a smile of joy and love flooded my face.
But that is not what he usually sees.
What he usually sees is
submission
respect
focus
obedience
adoration
and worship.
Behind all this is love.
And I'm sure he sees that, too.
Anyway.
Back to the post.
Back to those 2 comments.
The core of the post was this:
Don't smile when he comes in the door.
It's inappropriate.
It seems from jcn's comment that maybe I should define my terms more carefully.
It's not that I'm never allowed to smile.
And I do smile at times.
As does he.
At times.
But not when he comes through the door.
It's inappropriate.
One comment he made about the issue was a reminder that
it's not about me.
It's not about how I feel about seeing him.
It's about him.
It's all about him.
I am there to serve him.
I am there to please him.
How I feel at the moment of his arrival is irrelevant.
The second comment said:
Won't it be nice for you both when
he's trained you not to smile? I
wonder what your face will show then
when he appears.
I guess I should point out that I don't usually smile on his arrival. Really. I don't. Certainly in the beginning I didn't smile. If you knew this man from a submissive position, you'd know that his presence does not inspire smiles. But as various things developed... well, one day I couldn't help it. He arrived and a smile of joy and love flooded my face.
But that is not what he usually sees.
What he usually sees is
submission
respect
focus
obedience
adoration
and worship.
Behind all this is love.
And I'm sure he sees that, too.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Ouch. Screwed up again.
I do know.
I do!
Sometimes I even think about it.
And remind myself.
Don't smile when he comes in the door.
It's inappropriate.
But every so often I forget.
I can't help it.
I'm so happy to see him!
He came in the door
and a smile spread over my face
and I thought
"Damn."
No smiling.
It's inappropriate.
There are smiles later.
Sometimes.
But not when he arrives.
So I was punished.
Beaten.
With the strip of wood he uses as a cane.
Which hurt.
And I cried.
And afterwards, I was even softer.
And deeper in my slave space.
I learned a lot about my slave space.
But that's another story.
Maybe I'll tell you.
Meanwhile, there's this.
I realized this.
Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.
I do!
Sometimes I even think about it.
And remind myself.
Don't smile when he comes in the door.
It's inappropriate.
But every so often I forget.
I can't help it.
I'm so happy to see him!
He came in the door
and a smile spread over my face
and I thought
"Damn."
No smiling.
It's inappropriate.
There are smiles later.
Sometimes.
But not when he arrives.
So I was punished.
Beaten.
With the strip of wood he uses as a cane.
Which hurt.
And I cried.
And afterwards, I was even softer.
And deeper in my slave space.
I learned a lot about my slave space.
But that's another story.
Maybe I'll tell you.
Meanwhile, there's this.
I realized this.
Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.
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.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Sometimes, the earth really does move
He asked when it had hit.
It seems earthquakes are not as detectable when you're driving.
It seems earthquakes are not as detectable when you're driving.
I was really hoping it was when I was with you.
Don't think I would have noticed.
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
