Sometimes, he lets me cum

He let me cum today.

I asked yesterday.
After his visit.
After giving him what he needed so badly.

He said yes.
But not till today.
He enjoys knowing I'm masturbating for him.
But he also enjoys knowing I'm not masturbating.

He enjoys the power.

So it wasn't till today.
He rewarded his pussy.
He allowed me to touch his property.

And I did.
Gratefully.

He was watching the football game while miles away I was under the covers, half naked, my beloved little LELO Siri buzzing away against my clitoris. Oops. I mean, his clitoris. The whole day, I was aware that I would be touching myself for him. Cumming for him. And all day, he was aware of the same thing.


We have so many ways of being together when we're apart.
So many ways of feeling each other.
Touching each other.
And he has so many delicious ways of controlling me.

I thrive beneath his control.

Masturbation mania (17) - Harmonia hits a high G

 

Harmonia excited the cats no more than did my other sex toys. Marko preferred the view out the window, while Ketzel found more pleasure in washing her toes. She's always been a fastidious little thing.

I, however, found plenty of pleasure while playing with Harmonia, which I received free from EdenFantasys in exchanged for writing an honest (and uncensored) review. Yesterday's post was a relatively factual introduction. Today you get to read my reactions in the emails I sent to the sadist while I was conducting my lab test. When you're reviewing vibrators, you can't submit the kind of dispassionate report you might expect from Consumers Union about refrigerators.

So this is what my Master read, in installments, as Harmonia and I set out to entertain my G-spot.

It was a Sunday morning in November.

Nightgown off, Daddy.

I'm sitting up in bed, naked, my nice normal tits moving slightly as I type and as my breath flows in and out. My nipples and areolae have contracted with the chill of the room. I see the moon-like glow from the light of the window.

I'm going to start with one of my clitoral vibes, as I think this new one is too strong for warm-up. My clitoral vibe is pink, too. They coordinate nicely. Visual pleasure... all the sense are important.

I love you, Daddy.

~~~~~

 I apply a drop of lube to the tip of the clitoral vibe (LAYAspot), and gently rub it against my clit. Immediately, my arousal rises. Oh Daddy, it's so good to feel the familiar sensations, the practiced simulation that comes from knowing my own body! But there's also this extra sensation, this extra excitement of being touched by a foreign object.

I am being used.

For your pleasure.

I am a sacrifice to your pleasure, 

laid out on the altar of my bed, 

giving myself to you.

Time to turn on the small device before proceeding to the new one.
Before impaling myself with the new one.

~~~~~

My body undulates with pleasure.

Your little girl's body, writhing beneath the covers.
Writhing for her Daddy.

Your eyes see across the miles and beneath the layers of comforter, fleece, and sheet. You know her pleasure is all for you.

Time to insert the new device.

 ~~~~~

It popped right in, Daddy! I'm glad I warmed my pussy up first. Plus I think they know how to design devices that go in easily, no matter how big. They made the black one I like so much.

Once it is stuffed inside me, the noise doesn't seem so bad.

~~~~~

I pulled it out and held the bulbous end to my clit. The vibrations run up and down the whole shaft. I shoved it back in and bent it so the base buzzed against my clit while the rest was still inside me.

It's inside me as I write, Daddy.

I'm experimenting with angles and depths, trying to learn about my G-spot. Sometimes I think I hit it. I think of you watching the expressions on my face.

~~~~~

yes

there

do you here me cry out, Daddy?

~~~~~

left leg flat on bed

right foot on bed
right knee bent up
typing with 1 finger
device buzzing against G-spot

i feel it in deep in my womb
and all the way up in my diaphragm
an almost painful pleasure

i grunt

~~~~~

I came, Daddy.

Loudly.
For you.
I came for you
and now I feel it again, Daddy.
From our trip.
I feel us lying in bed,
peaceful and happy,
your nakedness next to mine,
warm and happy and peaceful and close.

That's the name of this toy company, Daddy.
Close2you.

I feel close to you.

I wish I had time to linger in bed longer.
Savoring it.
Savoring how close I feel to you.

To back up... the Harmonia was inside me, and I put both legs back down flat on the bed, bending the flexible silicone so the base was vibrating against my clit while the shaft buzzed through me and the tip was still buried up against my G-spot. G for groans. I wasn't even pushing it in and out, Daddy, just letting it vibrate, giving myself to the vibrations, giving myself to you and it was glorious, Daddy, but almost too intense, so I pulled it out and held the bulb against my clit and moved it over it gently - or maybe it wasn't so gently, Daddy, we know how arousal changes my perception of pain - and the pleasure built and built and you were watching me and it was all for you, Daddy, though I can't remember exactly what I was thinking and then the noises, Daddy... they weren't high and whimpering, they came from deep within me, they were deep and guttural and I came hard, Daddy, even with all the meds I'm on because of the time of year, and not as much heavy contractions because of that and age but it was a full orgasm nevertheless Daddy and it was for you Daddy and I only wish I had much more time to lie here savoring it.

Still.
I felt you afterwards, Daddy.
Lying there with me.
So close to me.
I was so close to you.
I AM so close to you, Daddy.
Right now.
Your own angel girl.

Can you feel me...?

Whew!

Reading that over now, as I transfer it from the e-mails, makes me want to give it another try. Right now. But, of course, I can't. The sadist has decreed that I may not cum this weekend. Since he's out of town. Since I didn't get to serve him. 

Except that I did serve him. 

Not with my mouth. 

Not with my hand. 

Not with my pussy.

With my words.

With my brain, as he likes to say.

With the e-mails I sent him throughout the day,

entertaining him,

distracting him,

informing him,

and

I am sure

making his cock wiggle in the prison of his pants.

I always find a way to serve.

Now if only pussy would stop twitching and pulsing and begging me to shove that lovely, flexible, hot pink Harmonia deep inside her!

Another time, pussy.

I promise.

Another time.

He says it with songs

I won't see him this weekend.
He's going out of town.
And then tomorrow I'm going out of town.
And then we're both in town
but the weekend after he's away
and the next two weekends I'm away...

It sucks sometimes.

Not a very poetic statement but why be poetic?

There was one real advantage to being unemployed.
It was easier to be together.
We had a lot more options.

Which reminds me.

Since I've been so stingy with my posts, head on over to the home of the Erotiterrorist and take a look at this suggestion for a story. Or a novel. Or a series. Trailer Park of Bondage. It reminds me of what Remittance Girl said in a review of a book that was billed as a well-written version of Fifty Shades of Grey: "Had this been a novel about two realistic, imperfect, damaged souls who struggled to negotiate a sexual and emotional relationship in the wake of those experiences, it would have been a very good, and very hot, novel." A statement that inspired me to start a piece that I think has potential but I was at work so couldn't keep at it for 3-4 hours and get the first draft churned out. So it is languishing.

I refuse to talk here about Fifty Shades of Grey.
Except to say that it, too, sucks.
Big time.

I'm avoiding what I actually came here to write about.

He's going out of town.

If I weren't going to be away next weekend it wouldn't be so bad. I get an extra day to try and get things done. Like clean the house. Pay my bills. Refinance my mortgage to include the massive debt I amassed during 17 months of unemployment and 8 months without a rent-paying housemate.

Happily, I have a new housemate arriving late August.
A woman.
Someone I know from a long time ago.
Someone I like.
Someone the cats like.

Why am I avoiding the reason for the post?

Because it's so personal.
Because he laid himself bare.
Without using his own words.

I asked him to give me some songs for the weekend. He likes to do that, compile songs for me to listen to. I always read too much into the lyrics. Or maybe I don't.

This time
with some of the songs,
I don't think I did.

And no.
I won't name the songs he gave me.

He gave me the list and then said: I spoil you.
And when I was done listening, I had to agree.
It was an amazing gift.

I won't list the songs.
We deserve some privacy.
But the last one was by Johnny Mathis.
And I'll listen again
in my bed
in the dark
and it will play all night in my dreams.

The limits of Google when arranging an illicit tryst

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

For a clandestine getaway.

Hotels.
Bars.
Restaurants.

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

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

"Clandestine"?
Nothing.

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

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

If he were disturbed.

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

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

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

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

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

Mouthing off

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

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

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

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

Or other stuff coming out.

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

Insecurity

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

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

I've been worried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's silly, I know.

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

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

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

Heading north

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

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

A theme.
A focus.

Service.

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

Reunion.
Punishment.
Recommitment.

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

What's a house without cats?!

Back home Saturday night.

Happy Thanksgiving, you guys.

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

Me?
I am very thankful indeed.

Separation anxiety

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

Tuesday.
My usual day of service.

Tuesday is blowjob day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it hurts.
Even now, it hurts.

I'll miss you, Daddy!

I miss you already...

Ghosts

Sunday.
He was somewhere we had been together.

He felt my presence.

Still.
After all that time.
My presence lingered.

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

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

[she sighs happily]

He says I need direction

"You need my direction. Remind me Tuesday."

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

I need it.

And not from just anyone.

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

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

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

The pause that refreshes

Does he really think it's that easy?

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

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

Really?
He really thinks I will?

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

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

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

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

Have a good week, you guys.

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

Disappearing act

Family obligations.
Parental anniversary.
Lots of driving.
Lots of traffic.
Nasty accidents.

I think the heat sapped everyone's common sense.

But now I'm home.
It's Monday night and I'm home.
And Tuesday afternoon, my Master will be here.
Daddy.
My Master.
The center of my life.

Tuesday afternoon.
For a good couple of hours.
So he can take his time with me...

It's good to be back.

I missed him...

Home to the cats and my Master

I'm back home for a tiny bit of R&R.
Two full days, with a travel day on either side.
Time for sleeping in my own bed.
Time for feline conflict resolution.
Time for working on my taxes.
Time for saying Kaddish on the occasion of my uncle's Yahrzeit.

Time for serving the sadist.

Saturday.
He thinks he can arrange a visit for Saturday.
And my orders are to recover from my trip so I can serve him with perfect focus.

We've been having problems again. Misunderstandings. The dangers of e-mail communication are well known. It's hard to get the right tone, the proper inflection, to clearly interpret what the other person has said. Still, it is rather ironic that two people who care for each other at whatever level and also care so much about language and specifically the written word should be so prone to misunderstandings.

I suspect it is precisely because we do care for each other. We are both very intense people, and I think it is too easy for each of us to believe that we have been rejected in some way. However we may see that manifested, it all comes down to the same thing. Believing that we've been rejected. Believing the other doesn't care enough. We may call it everything from lack of focus to disobedience to disapproval, but it is all the same thing.

And most likely to happen when life gets in the way.

Speaking of which... my dad is doing phenomenally! I can't get over it. Two days after the surgery, after having his chest cracked open and a bit of his heart replaced (yes, that tiny reference was deliberate), in an operation that lasted hours and hours and him having just turned 93... well, they had him up walking today! With a walker, but still!! He has been sitting up in a chair since yesterday. Today he is being moved out of the ICU into a regular hospital room and probably by Monday will be in a rehab facility.

I am so impressed!

The one we are worried about is my mom. From various causes, she has been showing signs of dementia (not Alzheimer's, though) for the past couple of years. And now it was looking worse. My sister and I aren't sure if her confusion and forgetfulness are being exacerbated by stress over my dad or whether it really has gotten that bad. So that both added to our worries and made our job harder. My sister is staying there till Sunday morning. I'll be returning Sunday night and remaining till next Thursday, but can't keep doing that. Neither of us can, and my folks do live in a place that can provide more care. The question is, at what point do we arrange for that, especially while my dad is recuperating. He will probably be home in 3-4 weeks, with some home care after that, but won't be fully recovered (meaning better than he has been for years) for 3-6 months. The stress of caring for her - worrying about her - will be hard on him.

Being with them, and with my sister, is hard on me. And hard on the sadist, and on the relationship, because even though I do always feel surrounded by him, and being owned by him makes me stronger, centered, contained, and happy, I can't give him as much of me while I'm with them as when I am on my own.

Still, we somehow make it through every upheaval.
And in spite of it all, and maybe even because of it, I end up loving him more.

Servitude, obedience, and family values

My dad's surgery has been moved up.
It will take place early Tuesday morning.
I had planned to drive up on Monday.
That has been moved up, too.
My mom needs help and company.
So this morning she asked me to drive up Sunday.
Tomorrow.
Which I will do.

Serving the sadist has made me more cooperative.

I'll drive up and leave the house and leave the cats and leave next week's visit from the sadist and go be the dutiful daughter and hope for the best. Which I do. So while my atheist parents would be horrified at the thought, I figure that what they don't know can't hurt them and who knows, it might even help. Meaning that if you're inclined to say a mi sheberach for him or to say any other healing prayers or send general cosmic good wishes and all that, it might be a nice thing to do.

I don't know when I'll get back to this blog. I'll be accessing my e-mails through my Blackberry, but don't know how much I'll get to post. I'm trying to decide whether to bring the new vibrator. I might just pack it cause you never know. It's not as quiet as I would like, but my mom is pretty deaf now without her hearing aids. On the other hand, my sister will probably be there most of the time I'm there, and she would certainly hear and figure out what it is.

I'm really used to living alone. Even when I was married I was alone, whether because ex-hubby #2 always wanted to be wherever he was not or because our connection was minimal. He was much more interested in his fiddle and his math books than he was in me.

Obviously, I'm feeling kind of moody today.

Things with the sadist go up and down. He is being rather quiet and stern at the moment. I wrote him a couple of desperate poems today, which I will not share, and his only response, to the first one, was:

All I will tell you is to concentrate on your servitude and obedience.

Which is good advice, I suppose.
But still, it is hard.

He sees my trips as good for me, thinking they will be "clarifying" times for me. I think he has a fatalistic streak, and is convinced that on one of these trips I will realize that I can't or don't want to serve him as he requires. Which makes me very sad. I think of being without him and I feel lost. Very lost.

He is not an easy man to serve.
He is not an easy man to love.
There are challenges...

But oh...
the rewards!

So I will keep trying.
I will keep trying to be what he wants me to be.
And maybe,
one day,
he will once more believe that I do love him
and that he is the core of my life.

Mostly home

I am back.
I am happy.
I am tired and scuzzy and happy.

(Hmm... what will one of those automatic translation programs make of "scuzzy"?)

It was very hard to leave. For a week every year, my friends and I live in a place outside of time and space. We live together in the same room, we eat together, we dance together, and - oh, ever so important - we make music together. What we have there is our only reality.

At least, it used to be that way.
Technology always gets the last word.
Meaning that now there are lots of words that weren't there before.
E-mails and texts.
Skype to friends abroad.
The New York Times on line.
Repertoire CDs downloaded to ubiquitous laptops.
Photos posted to Facebook the morning after.

And messages to my Master.

Saying what I'm doing.
Saying how I'm feeling.
Saying I'll obey him.
Saying that I love him.

So all that time, in that very special place, I swam in being his and glowed my secret smile.

And now, although sad that it is over, I am happy to be near to him again.

And so the next phase of my training commences.
He says it will be difficult.
His words frighten me.
And my panties are suddenly wet.

The Light Within

He said I’ll always be his kitten.

I have no idea what that means.
He may not know himself.
He may never even allow me to see him again.
I don't know.

But he said I'll always be his kitten.

And the moment he said that,
something changed.
Something returned.

When I was his kitten,
when I was his slave,
when I was his selkie,
there was this glow within me
an eternal light above the bima,
the child of a lighthouse beacon
and a hot water bottle.

Perhaps it is what some religious people feel when they say God is always with them. I don't know, and I'm certainly not comparing the philosopher to God. But I carried this peace within me, this certainty, this... glow. I can't come up with a better word. I felt that he was always with me, no matter how many months we went without seeing each other.

I lost that when he sent me away, and even though we started writing again, even phoning again, even though telephonically we spent Election Eve together, my eternal light never returned.

Until now.

He said those words.
He said I'll always be his kitten.
And although I don't know quite what that means
and have no expectations that it means anything at all
still
the glow
the peace
is back.

[sigh]

Re-writing reality

I'm very creative. That's why I fell into the clutches of my caning curator. But it's more than a question of talent. It's almost a compulsion. My brain works overtime.

It's not something I do deliberately. It's more as if they forgot to install an on-off switch. If my mind isn't engaged in some other activity that forces it to connect with the solid, present world, it is concocting poems, stories, scenarios...

This post took form as I transferred the laundry from the washer to the dryer. It continued as I prepared dinner, and acquired a title then as well.

This is not always a good thing.

When I arrive at work in the morning, I sit down at my desk and turn on the computer. At this point a responsible employee would settle down to work. And in a way, I AM being a responsible employee. Except not to the people who twice-monthly deposit my salary into my bank account. And I'm not acting as an employee exactly. I'm fulfilling my duties as a literary service slut, a wholly-owned pet poet, a modern-day Anaïs Nin creating on command for the erotic pleasure of my cruel collector. I sit down at my desk and poems rape my brain until I have to free them onto paper - or directly into an e-mail. Then I get in trouble because I rush them out and miss typos in my eagerness to say "Look, Sir! Look what I made for you!" like a child rushing home from pre-school with the day's finger painting, hoping to see it enshrined on the refrigerator.

My poems don't get hung on the refrigerator.

But it is not these creations that get me in trouble. I create scenarios. Fantasies of how I wish things to be. Fantasies that are so real, so plausible, so desirable, that I am disappointed when life has its own ideas.

You can, of course, see where this is going.

I wanted to believe that I could have a "real" relationship with the philosopher. I wanted to believe that he could be John, my boyfriend, as well as the philosopher, my party in playful perversion. He gave me almost no reason to believe that could be the case, he fought it every step of the way, he fled from almost anything that would be a step forward, and I adamantly, needily refused to see what was being shoved in front of my purple glasses. I hung on for dear life to the things that did speak of a real relationship, and took them to mean more than they really were.

He has a very hard time with the distance. If I lived nearby, he says, we could just be together, commune without speaking, get through the hard times on the strength of our uncanny connection on an almost soulful level. And then it might have worked. But there would have been another option as well. He could have come by for a few hours. We could have done our D/s thing, our whole scolding, punishment, redemption thing, gotten out of it what we each needed, and then he would have gone. We wouldn't have seduced ourselves with the perfection of the time we did spend together as... as together. As so close together. As so comfortable together. As so right together. Those rare amazing visits that made me think it was real, that made me write scenarios in my head, that made me expect, assume, WANT him to say he'd come down more often, he'd let me have dinner with his brother and sister-in-law, he'd resume our relationship on Labor Day...

I can't stop. I can't stop the fantasies. I see possibilities that seem reasonable and then I let myself in for disappointment when they don't come about.

I see him coming down for New Year's Eve.

I see him coming down for the Inauguration.

I see his mother, who was half-way to talking to me on the phone during those many long calls on Election Day - I see his mother saying "John, why don't you invite your friend up for Christmas?" And he goes pale, and gulps, and then says "Sure, Mom! I'll call her right now."

I set myself up for getting hurt.
I do it every time.
It's not his fault.
There is no one to blame but myself.

"Don't cry, kitten..."

touch me
stretch your arm past
limits of space
reach beyond time
run your hand gently
through tangles of hair
that I grew for your use
as a leash for my head.
eradicate distance
ignore the limits of
practical and possible
touch my wet cheeks
reach out your hand
stroke my hair
whisper those words
of comfort and –
what?
a feeling I dare not
risk with a name.
touch me.
soothe me.
kiss it and make it better.
and i will make you tea.

Long distance can sometimes seem not so far

we were together last night.
the philosopher and i were together
or as close together as we could be
with 250 miles between us.
he wasn’t here for the party
of a dozen people and
homemade soup
and somersault salutes
and champagne celebration.
but he was here.
he phoned.
and phoned again.
and again.
every half hour or so
he phoned and we talked
and exulted and rejoiced
and we shared the victory
and we shared the speeches
and we shared the inspiration
and we shared the history
and tears of joy
and we were together
and i feel him here still.

Aiming for Acceptance

It is tempting to think that this is merely a disruption in service, only the latest break-up as opposed to the Big One. After all, we've rescued this relationship so many times before.

But perhaps that's the point. In the last year and a half, the philosopher tried to end things between us 4 times before now - unless I'm missing one. At number 5 it may be time for me to accept that this is it. We're up against too much. The philosopher himself is up against too much.

And the distance made it harder. We couldn't have that casual, friendly, loving time together that makes a relationship a full part of life, that knits together the whole of two people rather than just their kinky connection. We had that when we were together, but we weren't together enough. It wasn't the D/s that suffered, although certainly it is more fully satisfying when you have the physical experience as well as the very powerful mental manipulation. It was the rest of it. All the rest of it.

But a long distance relationship takes commitment and effort, and for all sorts of reasons the philosopher wasn't up to it - isn't up to it. The reasons are many and I am not judging him for it. In any relationship, you have to accept each other for who you are. I have to accept him for who he is. I have to accept and I have to let go.

It will take a while. And yes, I'm crying - though not this time those body-breaking sobs that ripped up my body after July 1st. Deep inside, I knew this was coming. I'm grieving, but I'll be all right. Eventually...

Sure, I'd be... I can't even come up with the right adjective for how happy I'd be if he woke up one day thinking: "this was a big mistake, why did I let her go?" I had a dream last night... but it was just a dream, wishful thinking, not something to hug to myself, not something to bring that smile to my lips every morning that I used to have... I'd wake up, and I'd remember I was his, and I would smile...

So yes... if he wrote... if he called... even as a friend... it's hard to let go when I felt closer to him than to ANYONE I've ever known. I felt so close... and yet he never gave me his own home address and never let me visit there.

I love you, John. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for all my parts in this not working out. And if I could prostrate myself on an altar and prepare the appropriate burnt offerings so that you could be free of your internal chains, so that you could write, so that you could finish, so that you could come out into the sunshine and open yourself to love, I would do it. I don't hate you, I won't hate you, I'll never hate you, you are too amazingly special for me to want anything for you other than happiness and peace.

You were my master.
You were my lover.
You were my very best friend.
And it is perhaps the last of these that it is hardest to lose.