Red hot bottom

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.

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.

Delicious

3 kinds of nipple clamps.
Chains and leather bands.
One big black flogger.
And an orgasm.

Oh yes.
And a massage.

I wasn't even going to say that much.
My Master seemed disappointed.
He said I should add "More to come."

Was he talking about another post?
Or another event like today's?

In any case, it was a wonderful way to welcome Spring.

Thank you, Daddy.
And... to the other guy.

Iron rings in the concrete floor

Chains or rope?

That is the question.

The carrot & the stick. Mainly, the stick.

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St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon

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Happy Lupercalia

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.

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.

In case you were thinking about anniversary presents

Three years....

Guess what I found out!
Three years...

It's our leather anniversary!

Just so you know.

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.

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?

Masturbation mania (8) - Cumming with the Fun Factory LAYAspot

So here it is. Part 2 of my 2-for-the-price-of-1 sex toy review. Yesterday you got the somewhat dispassionate account of my exploration of Fun Factory's LAYAspot, a clitoral vibrator that is the latest donation to my growing collection of sensually stimulating devices courtesy of my [contact? handler? friend?] at EdenFantasys. OK, it wasn't at all dispassionate, nor was it completely positive. Then again, nothing is perfect.

This was a type of toy I specifically wanted to try. As I said yesterday, I'm a clitoral girl when it comes to cumming. So why keep shoving pseudo-dicks up my pussy when it's my clit that wants the lovin'? Especially as this style of clitoral vibrator seems perfectly designed to fit the female shape.


Following are a selection from the in-action e-mails I sent my Master as I masturbated with the LAYAspot. The test and report are my thank-you to EdenFantasys, my part of the deal for the pleasure and fun they are adding to my life. But my orgasms - my body - my brain - my pleasure - all belong to my Master. So I participate in this program with his permission - with the understanding that he will benefit from it.

Enough of the high-minded slave stuff.
It's true, you know.
But when I write it, it can sound kind of stuffy at times.

Here's the juicy stuff.
Straight from the front.
Or from the pussy.
As it were.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I am evoking you, my Master.
Seeing you.
Feeling you.
Giving myself to thoughts of you.

Hot Jazz Saturday Night is on the radio.
Not long ago, my Lord, he had on Let's Misbehave.

I feel your body pressing me into the bed.
I feel your fingers.
Touching me.
Fondling me.
Fucking me.
Raping me.

I'm starting to go someplace different, my Master.
To the edge of that slave place I'm starting to explore.
I feel different, my Master.
You opened the door...
I peek through.
I'm not sure what I see.
But I can't stay away.

So as your property, my Master, I will arouse myself.

It will all be for you.
How can it be anything else?
Because I belong to you, my Master.
For real.

I turn down the thermostat.
I have to, my Lord.
You make me hot.

I free my curls from the restraining combs.
My hair tumbles forward onto my cheeks.
I dig in the bag for the device and the AstroGlide.
I come across the spoon.

I strip, feeling your eyes on me.

I stand before the mirrored closet, turning this way and that, peering over my shoulder, trying to see what might be left of the marks from the perfect beating you gave me to bring me back to where I needed to be.

[ . . . ]

Last time, my Lord, I didn't think the vibrator would need lubricating, since this device doesn't go inside me. But perhaps it will feel more gentle with the AstroGlide.

I wish it didn't sound like the dentist's polishing device.

mmm... that's nice, my Master... little noises... do you hear your slave's little noises, my Master?

The "mmm..." came from touching myself with the moistened end of the device, but without turning it on. Now it feels very pleasurable. Gentle. Arousing.

Definitely arousing.

[ . . . ]

Now I will go back to touching myself with the device, and then slowly exploring the vibrations and patterns.

Watch me.
Watch me writhe.
Watch me let myself relax into the pleasure.
Watch me remind myself of your teaching.
Hear my little moans.
My little whimpers.
Watch my tits rise and fall.
Watch my belly shake with longing for you.
Watch my pussy redden and swell with longing for you.
See my legs spread.
I'll remember the flogger landing on my inner thighs.
I'll remember how I yielded to you,
how I didn't protect myself...
just the thought of my obedience is make me drip.

Time to return to the testing lab, my Master.

Wherever you are,
you will feel me.

I know you will.

I'm at the 4th level of vibrations, my Master, taking it slowly, relaxing into my pleasure.

Your pleasure.

Somewhere during my lengthy exploration of the third level, a flash of the dependable fantasy of being whipped kicked in. The vague fantasy that is nothing like the real thing. Until then, I had been doing nothing but giving myself to the sensations.

For the first 3 levels, I was moving it back and forth over my clit and pussy lips as if it were two fingers but vibrating. Then, as the 4th level settled in. I noticed that I had stopped moving the device and instead was rocking my pelvis back and forth on it.

Fucking you, my Master.
I was fucking you.

Do you feel my pussy, my Master?

Now I'm sitting up in bed, the computer on my lap, and the little vibrator tucked under my pussy, which it is designed for. Designed for you to be able to lie on it. Its name is LAYAspot, after all.

I have only 2 complaints.
Although rated the same as my others, it seems rather loud.
And the sound isn't damped by being inside me.
It is for external use only.
The noise impinges on my concentration.

The other negative, my Lord, is that being so small, the vibrations go through the whole thing and thus through my fingers. Which feels kind of weird. When I use that little insertable lavender one [the Meany], I don't think it buzzes my fingers as much.

Still, this is a very enjoyable item.

Time to continue to the next level, my Master.

Listen for my whimpers...

One thing about these lab experiments is that I end up with very long masturbation sessions. Which is good for me, my Master. It's as you have been teaching me - to give myself to the sensations.

The sensations.

I worked my way up through a few more vibration levels and then the first of three patterns kicked in. It's like this:

<

Vroom.
A strong, deliberate build-up.
And after about every other one I'd have this little involuntary...
jump?

Very intense, my Lord.
The second pattern is like that but buzzing faster so in a way it is gentler.
The third one is a series of pulses.
It's the first of the three that really has an effect.

Then I turned it off for a bit, and let my pussy recover some. The problem with keeping a vibrator going externally like that is it tends to numb the area. The little Meany is the only one that hasn't been as much of a problem that way. I think perhaps because the tip is so soft. Remember I showed that to you, my Lord? Squooshy. Like a real penis. Rather cute.

I tried fondling myself with my fingers for a little, but by then I was too desensitized for anything but the device, so I turned it back on at one of the regular vibration settings. And let my mind go back to where it had been about 5 minutes before.

Being watched.

You took me somewhere, my Master.

You took me to someone else's place, where there were a number of men and they were watching me. They were standing over me and watching me touching myself and my face reflected everything that I was feeling but only you could really read it all. And having so many there (maybe 5, my Lord?) took me beyond feeling exhibitionist and made me feel completely objectified. And... I wasn't constructing the scene, my Master. It created itself in my mind.

They made comments.
They threw words at me and around me.
They were demeaning.
They called me bitch.

And then one of them asked you something, my Lord. I'm not sure what. I couldn't really hear. And you replied: "Of course she will. She's my slave."

And then there was another little shift in me - me now, me masturbating now, not in the fantasy - and I was... it did something... it put me in another place... and I was very aroused...

And eventually I came, my Lord.
I definitely came, although my pussy was kind of numb.

And then I cried and cried, my Lord, although it was a very weird cry. Not my usually heavy sobs, although it was certainly intense. It was a rather higher wailing... I've never done that before.

Anyway, my Master, there it is.
For you.
I wonder if you felt any of it?
Even if you didn't read the messages as they came in.

I wish you really had been here watching, my Master...

But you were.
Somehow or other you were.

I felt you.

It all belonged to you.
As do I.

My sweet and gentle and loving Master

It always happens.
Because he cares about me.
Because he does his best to protect me.
To protect me from himself.

My Master is not harsh and cruel and unloving.
He is sweet and gentle and caring and protective.

Sometimes he messes up.
Yup.
Guess what.
Even Doms are human.
Even Doms aren't perfect.

Doms, especially those who fancy themselves "Masters", like to think of themselves as perfect. Invincible. Gods. Hell, maybe they are. Some of them, anyway. Who I am to say? Except even gods make mistakes. Like those Greek and Roman gods who couldn't keep their immortal cocks in their pants. Poor Hera, always expected to stand beside Zeus as he confessed from the podium his straying ways. Must have gotten old after the first few times. Of course, they could have had an Olympic open marriage. Which I have no objections to. Except I remember hearing about some pretty big jealousy fits.

Speaking of straying, what was I talking about?

Oh yes.
Self-styled invincible Doms.
Ha!

So yes.
Things got out of hand the night we spent away.
Not that seriously, really, but too much for me.
So he is taking steps.
Steps to protect me.
New steps to protect me.

He is my Master.
He looks after his property.
And he knows what must be done to look after me.

Meanwhile...

He brought me a present!

I knew it was coming. He said it had arrived. It was made of wood, and was specially ordered, and he said that he'd enjoy it, at least, though he wasn't sure I would.

But I love it!

It's a paddle.
A beautiful hand-made wooden paddle.
Made, like the flogger, to his specifications.
But not made by his masochist slave.
Ordered special.
After consultation with assorted experts.
Made of a carefully selected and very beautiful hardwood.

The idea is that he likes to see my butt all pink and red, and feel it all warm and hot. He likes me to be down on my hands and knees with my butt thrust up in the air as I suck his cock so he can enjoy the view of it all round and rosy. And he likes to redden my butt shortly after he arrives, except then I'm not all aroused yet so it really hurts when he takes the wooden spoon to it, or strikes it with the long, ragged strip of wood he uses as a cane.

So he knew he needed something to whack my butt with that would make it all nice and rosy pink without hurting too much.

Hence my new paddle.
A gift that he'd been planning for months.

My Master does love making plans.

My beautiful new paddle did a great job.
It made my butt very pink and rosy.
But it did also hurt.
A lot.

The thing is, this beautiful hardwood that was decided on is very very hard. Very hard. And the paddle is... substantial. So it will take some practice on his part to find the right level of force. But he'll get there.

We'll get there.

We'll be just fine.
Even the occasional emotional tornado will not blow down this house we've built.

The dance of pain

Holiday weekends confuse me. Even though I'm not working, I have an inner sense of the pattern of the week that's almost physical. It's certainly visual. A holiday throws things off. I'm not sure where I'm standing.

What I do know is that tomorrow is Tuesday. And despite an impending change in my Master's schedule, Tuesday for now is still the day I serve him lunch and my mouth and my nipples - and my pale, round belly like a somewhat-smaller-than-before mound of rising yeast dough. And all the other parts of me he owns and enjoys and uses and fucks and hurts.

Tomorrow, Tuesday, he will be hurting me.
Or so it appears.

I have my instructions.
Special preparations.

Being currently minus a renter as well as minus a job, I have reclaimed the dungeon bedroom.

Place the flogger and the cane in the basement bedroom.
The flogger on the bed.
The cane in the closet.

The flogger is so beautiful.
I love my flogger.

Even more than the first one, which broke apart while he whipped me. But he'd decided that one was too hard for me to take, anyway. The ends of the cords were knotted. This one is gentler, plus 2 shades of blue and a sweet, soft brown. He can enjoy whipping me very hard and it doesn't hurt too much.

The cane, as I've said before, is not a standard cane.
It's a long strip of wood, ragged on one end.
A nasty thing.
He has to tap it against my butt very light to keep it from hurting like hell.
It usually hurts like hell.

He was thinking about hurting me this weekend.
He was obsessing about hurting me.

But you know? I'm not worried. Because I know he wants to hurt me. Needs to hurt me. I think one reason why our night in the hotel was such a shock was because that wasn't what either of us expected it to be. I was to be calm, peaceful, focused on pleasing him, focused on serving him. Our times together always end up intense because that's the way we are - although he does like to blame it all on me. But the night had been defined as calm.

Last year he beat my butt with the back of my hairbrush, but that didn't cause an upheaval because I knew I had screwed up a small but crucial task and expected to be punished. So he beat me and it hurt a lot but then it was over and I was cleansed of my guilt and then we went on and it was a beautiful night.

Tomorrow he needs to hurt me.
Because.
Because he needs to.

Maybe that's one of the differences between a sadist and someone who is merely sadistic. At times, my Master needs to hurt me. And then he will, while restraining himself as much as possible from hurting me more than I can bear.

He takes care of me.
He protects me.
Even as he is teaching me to embrace the pain.
To connect it with pleasure.
To want it.
To beg for it.

What I really want is to please him.
To serve him and to please him.

[dead air]

I just had to shake my head. I wrote those two preceding sentences and fell into an undefined reverie that was all feeling... all intimacy... that magical borderless union between the sadist and his prey...

He likes to use that word.
Prey.
And to some extent it is quite accurate.
But there is something else.
Something more.
When the victim is willing and loving and giving.
It's a dance.
A dark dance.
A sensuous dance.
A dangerous dance,
but sweet and intoxicating.

The sadist leads.
And when I'm in his arms
and he bends me back almost to the ground,
my nipples sparkling towards the sky,
he presses his mouth to my naked throat
and sinks his teeth into my neck.

My Master flogs it and makes it all better

Tuesday is the day my Master comes for lunch.
And other things.
Tuesday was the morning I woke up feeling...
detached.

Uh-oh.

Actually, I woke up feeling fine. Or so I thought. And then I knelt at the foot of the bed to do my morning ritual and... something felt off. I wasn't really there. I wasn't feeling it. And I was terrified that he would come and look in my eyes and not see what he expected to see and think I had been faking it and oh no, there we'd be again!!!

So I e-mailed him.
I emailed him
and told him
and said it just felt temporary
and at the same time he was emailing me
discussing some cocksucking pointers
that he'd wanted me to review
and which I had.
I had studied very hard.
And he said,
without having seen my message,
that maybe we'd do a little training
and then I started to cry,
because I realized that's just what I needed.
And then he read my own message,
and he knew what was needed,
including the training,
and flogging my tits
and flogging my pussy
while I held on tight to the edges of the futon
and did NOT protect myself.
And then he turned me over
and flogged my buttocks
and spanked me with the spoon
and beat me with the strip of wood he uses as a cane
and it hurt
and it hurt
but not more than I could take
because he knew what I needed
and knew how much pain was the right amount of pain
and I held tight to the edges of the futon
and yielded
and cried out
and later
as I knelt before him
I sobbed and sobbed
and he held me to him
and told me to let it out
and everything was ok
and everything will be ok
and he knew
he knows
he always knows
and then he does
exactly what was needed.

He says he knows this slavery thing will be hard for me. That there are things I'll struggle with. Things that will be hard for me. Which I know is true because while on the one hand we both know inside us what it means to us for me to be his slave, on the other hand I don't really know what that will mean for me as we continue from here. And while I know internally that yes, of course that is what I am because haven't I truly ceded my life to him - increasingly made everything else secondary to him because nothing means more and no one understands me better and makes me feel so safe even though I know he is dangerous and damn. I really do fall into these run-on sentences when I get really intense, don't I...

So here's the thing.

That word.
Slave.
It makes me uncomfortable.
Just the word.
It just...

And I'm not sure why. Because it's not the concept that I belong to him that's the problem. I just do. I do. I do belong to him. Not because of any formality but because I do. Because of what's between us. Because of who we each are and what we each are to each other and give each other and do for each other and mean to each other, and this connection...

Anyway.
I'm no longer worried.
I know we are what and who we are.
I know he will lead me to see and to understand
and that my life will continue to be richer
because I have given it to him.

Forced masturbation; the torture of pleasure (2)

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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

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

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[As the signal arrived for the next masturbation session]

Again?!
Already??!!!

Yes, my Lord...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[sent from my cell phone as I was masturbating]

Torment.

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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

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

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

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

"Everything, my Lord. Everything and more."

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

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

I belong to you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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

For you, my Lord...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now you may post.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you, my Lord.

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Time for another round, my Lord.

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And so, my Lord.
The last time.

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

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

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

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

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

We are both, perhaps, slaves to that.

I love you, my Lord.

And my body yearns for yours.

Masturbation mania (6) - submitting to the Fun Factory Bootie

As you can see from the photograph, responses to part 1 of my adventures with the Bootie butt plug inspired me to boil my little purple pal. Afterwards, I figured that I shouldn't have worried about the pot remaining suitable for cooking, as it would have been sterilized by the boiling. I ended up tossing in the other plug as well - although neither was betraying any hint of unwelcome perfume.

I only wish I had cleaned the stove first. Oh well. At least my butt plugs are spotless, even if my kitchen isn't.

Towards the end of yesterday's post, I gave a first hint of how my use of and intense reaction to the Bootie affected the sadist. I'll rewind my story a bit and then go on from there, as his response led to what happened to me the following day - and is why, a week later, my body still displays spots of green.

We were e-mailing back and forth during the hours of anal invasion.

me:
What do you want to do to me, my Lord?
Right now?
If I were naked before you right now?

Invaded and chained....

He:
Violate and degrade you.

me:
yes, my Lord.
i feel very small now, my Lord...
... and subdued.
a small, subdued, whimpering pet...

He:
I am going to take a brief nap now, and dream of degrading you. Keep the plug in until I awake.

And later, after his nap, after he ordered me to remove the plug:

He:
You will have it available for me when I visit. You may not use it unless authorized by me.

me:
Yes, my Lord.

You are sounding very stern, my Lord.
Hard.
Commanding.
You have gone to a certain place, also, I think...

He:
I have, my pet. And I may remain there until Tuesday.

me:
oh.
i see, my Lord.
from the thought of a butt plug, my Lord?
or rather, from the thought of my little butt hole being violated?

He:
All of it, including your reactions, have fueled my fire.

The beast was awake and on the prowl.

And it came to pass just as he predicted. His hunger didn't abate, and I felt the beast breathing on my neck all through Monday. I was prepared to be hurt. And I knew he would want to use the butt plug. The difference, though, was that, rather than being punished, I would be serving his sadistic side, which I don't often get to do because of how he protects me from his worst. And I didn't suffer his worst. Not at all. He continued to protect me, and for that I am always grateful.

I won't go into all the details of what he did that day, as they don't really relate to this review. What is important to note is the major impact (ahem...) this particular item had on both of us.

I've said that we don't play, and that is true. Everything we do is very real, very much an integral part of our relationship, even as there are things done and endured for my Master's pleasure. However, some of our interactions are more light-hearted than others. I don't feel it is inappropriate to refer to my vibrators as sex toys. But I just can't see calling this butt plug a toy of any sort.

And yes, he did whack at my butt with the cane.
He flogged me and spanked me
and twisted my nipples.
Some of that hurt like hell.
Some of it came after he aroused me
and was part of his new project
to forge a link between pleasure and pain.
Then I felt the impact
but it didn't hurt
and I begged for more.
Except for when he spanked my inner thigh.
That hurt like hell,
arousal or no.
He'll remember that for sure...

But back to the butt plug.

He ordered me to bring it to him.
To lube it up and bring it to him.

I slathered it with lube, remembering how it had hurt going in when I inserted it, and afraid of how it would feel when he rammed it through my little hole. I probably put on too much, because it wasn't quite as securely inside me as it had been on Sunday.

He ordered me down on the floor before him, on my hands and knees. He didn't insert the plug. He shoved it in. I think it took him but one false try before he got it inside me. Easier for someone else to do it, as he wasn't holding back in response to the immediate feedback of discomfort.

My memory becomes a little fuzzy here, but perhaps it was right after this that he started fucking my ass with the little hunk of purple silicone. Or, to use my Master's preferred terminology, butt fucking me. And here we hit one of the few weaknesses in the Bootie. It's great as a butt plug, it's great for long-term wear. It's comfortable yet... inspiring, and it stays solidly in. But because of the curve, it's not that good for butt fucking. Still. Nothing's perfect. And the sadist did a pretty good job with it anyway.

I was still on my hands and knees before him, the plug being moved back and forth in my ass, when suddenly he shoved two fingers into my pussy. Now I was being fucked in two holes at once.

Coldly.
Purposefully.

I was aroused as hell.
And I started feeling...
demeaned.

It surprised me.

I should be used to ambivalence by now.

I told him.
I told him how I felt.
Aroused and demeaned.
Humiliated by what felt like an old fantasy.
A fantasy we shared.

I'm starting to float away now as I recall it... what it felt like... and what it brought to mind... being forced down on one strange guy's cock while another one fucked me in the ass. Friends of his. While he watch and enjoyed seeing me used. Objectified...

Very powerful.

And then he had me where he wanted me.
Dripping wet.
Time for the next activity.
That's when he spanked me.
Harder and harder
and it didn't even hurt
but only made me want more.

There were other things that afternoon. But this is supposed to be a butt plug review. So I'll leave it there. Except to say that he allowed me to leave the butt plug in as long as I wanted and I only removed it because I really needed to poop.

I do love the Bootie.
I really do the Bootie.

And I think it will contribute to many more intense adventures for me and my beloved, sadistic Master.

The making of a masochist

I hate that word.
Masochist
It sounds so
clinical.

There's a chance that, one day, someone will apply that word to me.

Me, I prefer the word sensualist.

I don't think the sadist expects to make me into what he would think of as a masochist. But he has taken me by the hand and begun to lead me down that beautiful, dangerous path to that place where pleasure and pain are intertwined.

He's not usually one to go in for warm-ups. Usually, when he wants to hurt me, it is either for punishment or for his pleasure. In either case, warming up my butt doesn't figure into his plans.

This time was different.
This time the whole point was to go gradually.
The old frog in the pot of warming water trick.

I can't remember the exact order of things.
But I know I was already somewhat in that place.

I was ordered into position down on the floor. My ass was offered. He started with the wooden spoon. He tapped it very lightly, then a little harder, slowly increasing, probably reaching something that would have had me squirming if he had started off that way. Next came the flogger. It seemed as if he was whipping me with some energy, but it didn't hurt. It was just that wonderful flogging sensation, not the pain he has previously managed to inflict with a flogger that had been specifically designed not to hurt very much.

Then the cane.
Again, lightly at first.
And never very hard.
Though who knows?
Anyway, he said he just wanted to make my butt pink.
He likes to look at my rosy bottom
as I kneel before him,
ass in the air,
sucking his cock.

It was later that the real lesson commenced.
Again, I was kneeling before him.
The chain was wrapped tight around my neck
as it had been since soon after he arrived.
My right hand jerked his cock.
My left hand caressed my pussy.
Did he only use his hand?
Or the spoon, too?
He spanked me.
Gently to start.
Then harder.
And harder.
It hurt.
But never really hurt.
Even when it should have hurt.
It never really hurt.

When the spanking stopped, my butt kept ringing.

It was wonderful.

At the end, I was begging for more...
The door was open, and beyond lay dark sunshine.

Take me there, my Lord.
Take me there with you.

Lead me to that place where I will kneel at your feet and beg you to do those awful things that you dream of doing to me. The ones that wake you in the middle of the night...

Salad forks and spanking spoons

In fact, there was only one spanking spoon. Large and wooden. On the other hand, he did spank me briefly with one of the salad forks.

Sweetly.
He spanked me sweetly with a salad fork.
Little love pats with his salad fork that could barely be called a spanking at all.

Salad.
I made him a salad.
He came for lunch and I made him a salad.
He was with me for nearly 3 hours and nothing went wrong.
Nothing went wrong and his face kept lighting with beautiful smiles.

It was a very good salad.
Baby greens and sweet peppers in red and orange and yellow.
Sweet tiny grape tomatoes.
Sweet and crunchy sugar peas.
Tiny slices of salty olives.
Crumbled gorgonzola.
A healthy shot of basil.
Extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

Thank you, Trader Joe's.

I've never given him food before. It felt so domestic. And a little disconcerting at first. A sudden leap. A shift. A new role. Everything so new and different and beautiful and loving and sweet.

We kissed for about ten thousand years. We kissed with passion more than lust, with wonder, with tenderness, with desire that was a desire to connect, to melt, as much as or more than a desire for sex. We learned each other's mouths as if it were for the first time.

And in some ways, it was the first time.
Or maybe the first plus some, since the door had been opened on Saturday.
But Saturday was when we knew we were all right.
Saturday we welcomed that
we
were WE.
We are.

Today we began our new life.

When we talked, there was a difference.

We talked in person the way we used to talk by e-mail only. Only more so. He was open. There were no sharp edges. His face... I kept gazing at his face. At his eyes. And he would smile. There was so much happiness in that room that we were drunk on it.

He ate the salad.
He sat in his chair and ate his salad.
I sat at his feet and ate mine.

Then he called me to him, and took a tender green leaf and gently passed it over and around my left breast, circling the nipple that was smiling for him. He anointed my breast with oil and vinegar, then took my breast in his mouth and gently, sweetly, lovingly, sucked the dressing off.

My right breast was next.

"Lie down on the floor," he said.
I did as I was told,
lying on my back,
spreading my legs,
thinking he was going to flog my pussy.

Instead, he knelt beside me and slowly, tenderly, lay a trail of leaves in a delicate row down my body that began between my tits and ended above my pussy.

Then he ate them.
Off my body.
Slowly, tenderly, he ate his salad off my body.

Later, he told me that Daddy had returned.
Daddy, who had been hiding when things were bad.
Daddy, who was back and longing for his baby girl.

Daddy, who gave my baby bottom one hell of a spanking with the wooden spoon.

I made my Daddy very happy.
I made this man very happy.
The room was filled with smiles and happiness.
And we rejoiced in each other's arms.