The Taste of Christmas Present

Love is an offering of leftover homemade pâté, made with his own hands and Cuisinart, and snatched from the possible consumption by member of his family - who admittedly had little interest in the item which is, perhaps and annually, made as much for the pleasure of the process as anything else and we do know, of course, that any sadist worth his whip maintains a keen interest in the process as well as in his own eventual hedonistic pleasure -  said thick slice of ground and spiced and molded meats to be presented to his mistress for his pleasure in her pleasure.

She moaned.

And dispelled with any concern about indecipherable run-on sentences.

Love in the frame

We made love today.

This is not our usual habit.
Not that we don't love each other.
We each love the other.
I say it often.
He has said it rarely,
which makes the words
more precious. They still
hang there
in the air,
in my ears
barely heard,
never gone.

So yes.
We love.
But we don't usually make love.

Oh, we have sex.
Lots of sex.
Every week.
Occasionally,
very occasionally,
when possible,
twice a week.

But we don't usually make love.

We are together in many other ways. All the other ways that we are, all the other people that we are, to and for each other. Not pretending, not role-playing, not "How about I be the older married writer and you be the younger married waitress and I follow you home and fuck you in the outdoor shower." (If you haven't been watching The Affair on Showtime you really should. Really. Rich. Intense. Painful. Real.)

So no.
It's not a game.
I've said that before.
We've said that from the start.
Everything -
all the ways we are together -
this is our reality.
And we risk everything if we lose sight of that.

Besides.
He's a sadist.
And my submission is in the core of me.

But today...

Ah, today.
We sat together and talked as friends.
Which we are, you know.
Friends.
But that's probably even more
dangerous to admit
than our being in love.
We mustn't become confused.
Do you understand?

Still.
Today.
We sat on the bed and talked.
As friends.

I looked very beautiful today. White bra and white panties were his requirement for when I let him into the house, and I sat there on the bed in my white bra and white panties, looking overweight, yes, but beautiful, my still naturally red hair tumbling down my back and - for the first time - a white artificial gardenia pinned in the waves on the left side of my head. He smiled when he saw it, which was my intention, as he hadn't felt well and hadn't slept and I wanted to make him smile. He wanted me as his mistress today, and I wanted to make him smile.

So we sat on the bed and talked - mostly he talked - about his health and his night and the restaurant he'd be going to and a movie he saw. He was reclining slightly against a pile of pillows - his pasha throne - his shirt still on but eventually his jeans and underpants off and I sat there in my white cotton bra and white cotton panties with my right hand fondly fondling his cock and his scrotum and we were like the long-time lovers that we are but not necessarily the kind that are limited to once-a-week visits so there was no urgency, there was just happiness, until finally he figured fucking could be a good idea or else later he'd be desperate and his cock would scream at him and it would be too late, I wouldn't be there.

He must have flicked a switch in his brain, unleashed his cock, because suddenly it responded. It lengthened and swelled in my hand and even then there wasn't the urgency, the sadist was completely absent today, we were, dare I say it, a couple today, and as he eased me onto my back and lowered himself into me and brought his face to mine and his lips melted into my lips melted... have I ever said that his kisses are... but a description wouldn't do, how can you describe a perfectly ripe peach to someone who has eaten only apples?

And there were his eyes.
The sadist had stayed home.
My Daddy,
my Owner,
my Master,
they had all stayed home.

There was just love.
Soft comfortable love.

And when he came,
and after he came,
the smile in his eyes...

Beautiful, he said.
It was beautiful.
And this time, he wasn't just talking about me.

I suppose all this is my attempt to capture the moment. Keep it. Save it. So I won't forget because I do forget things, except this I don't think I will ever forget. There are moments together I have never forgotten and this must, surely, be one of them.

I want to pull it out of the crowd. I want to take this stone out of the little black velvet bag of so many precious stones, and lay it out on a cloth, and hold it up to the light, and set it in a ring so it can stand on its own and not get lost or diminished in all the memories of the past 6 years and the anticipated memories of the years to come. We worked hard to get to this point, we suffered a lot to get to this point, and today, I think today as our bodies joined in love and friendship, he showed that he trusted me with his vulnerability. And I trusted his trust so much that I allowed myself to mention it. And his carapace was so completely discarded, at least for the day, that all he did was softly smile.

Later, he sent me this song.

On Hallowe'en

I turn up at his door.
Naked but for the chains.
An Orientalist fantasy come to life.
The exotic Jewess
with nothing concealed.

Trick or treat, I say.
Being both.

He hides me in the back of his
closet, a secret stash of sweets
saved for when the need
becomes too strong.

She sulks

It's true.
I'm sulking.
I'm not proud of it.
But I won't deny it.

I'm like a deflated balloon, one minute bobbing around cheerfully on the end of my string - on the end of my chain, to be more accurate - and the next minute I go splat, all energy gone, falling asleep over my laptop. For real. Nodding off. Staring at the screen and nodding off and wishing a message from the joy and torment of my life would pop up but knowing it won't. And it doesn't.

Sulking.

Because life gets in the way.
It always gets in the way for us this time of year.
But this particuar year is worse than most.
And there's a good chance he can't visit this weekend.

Sometimes this arrangement sucks.

Grumble grumble

My Master is out of commission.
Temporarily, but still - confined to quarters.
He isn't happy.
His mistress is worried.

And, being his mistress, there isn't much I can do for him.
Very frustrating.
I want to be of assistance.
And I can't be.

So I content myself with sending little messages which he says do help. And I do research on this and that relative to his problem and related issues.

And I worry a lot.

Plus, of course, I don't get to serve him tomorrow.

Phooey.

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.

Verboten - Sturm und Drang

Nothing heavy today.
I have a job.
To serve him.
To serve his pleasure.
To ease his stress.

So nothing heavy today.
No discussions about whether we'll survive.
Just sweet, light, softly sexy words
to remind him of the delight his treasure brings.

To remind him of his mistress
and his loving little girl.

Cautious.
We were cautious.
And he's clearly disturbed about himself.
But at least he played along.

And who can resist a fantasy about a vintage Cadillac Eldorado convertible?

A very small vacation

I'm sitting in an armchair by the window of our room in a dumpy Holiday Inn. It's a good thing he doesn't like a lot of light, as 2 bulbs are dead. He's not here, anyway, being out with friends.

He's fretting, though.
He'd rather be with me.
He enjoys my company, he said.
 I know that.
Just as I knew I was his mistress.
Being a mistress is more than being a readily available pussy.
It's more than being a sex slave.
Though I am that, too.
Being a mistress
(not to be confused with a Mistress!)
means be enjoys your company.
Means being part of his life.
In whatever limited way is possible and appropriate.

I remember the first time we were here together.
Two years ago.

I remember waiting in the room, cold and naked, huddled cold and naked on the floor between the beds, waiting, waiting wondering what was lurking at the end of the wait. And now? He snuck away between engagements and met me in the bar downstairs. In public. In the bar. Sitting and talking, recounting his day. Enjoying my company. One ill-advised kiss beside his car and then he was gone, sending texts that he wished he could escape his friends and be back with me. To hang out. Not just to have his cock sucked.

Still.
Waiting, I am content.
Calm and confident and content.
I feel safe, too.
He is taking steps.
Precautionary measures.
Measures to protect me against the beast.
Steps to bar the beast from the room.


I am pleased.
And relaxed.
Relaxing after my work week in California.
I sit in the armchair
feet propped up
reading a book he told me about.
Reading a book he bought for me.
Reading a book that is exercising my mind.

I am happy.
I am relaxed.
And he will be here soon enough.

(Had to reformat this post once I got home. Blogger didn't recognize my iPhone's line breaks.)

If you beckon, I will come.

You can blog about this, he said.
I don't want to blog about this, I think.

What would it mean to list what we did?
Where we met.
What I ate.
What he drank.
What we watched.
How many times we each went to pee.

The hours we spent
talking and laughing
challenging Google
on Iris DeMent.

What would it mean
if you weren't there?

What would it mean
to describe his delight
as we sat there for hours
in a neighborhood bar,
feasting on chicken wings,
chatting with bar maids,
my bright blue eyes sparkling
from won games of chance?

What would it mean
if you heard what his eyes said,
or smelled the desire,
or touched the shared music,
as we made out like teenagers
wrestling the front seat,
parked by the dumpsters
yielding to need?

You can blog about this, he said.
But you must tell me every word.

So I'll show him every word.

But not every word was written.
Not everything gets spoken
when mere presence says it all.

We sang with eyes and kisses
which don't lie the way that words can.
We spoke with smiles and kisses
and then parted in the dusk.

Eyelashes

Of all things.
I never would have suspected.
My eyelashes.
He has a thing for my eyelashes.

You look at them.
Not the sort of eyelashes people normally admire.
They're short.
Sparse.
Hidden by the folds of my sagging, aging eyes.
Light, yes, but not a magical pale.

And yet.

As I looked up into his face
in the middle of one of my prize-winning blowjobs.
As he looked down
into the face of his mistress,
he saw my eyelashes
the way no one else ever has.
The way he has seen
everything about me
the way no one else ever has.

And one by one,
part by part,
he teaches me to see,
he teaches me to know,
he teaches me to
accept
that I am beautful.

The eyelashes are a bit of a stretch.

I'm working on it, though.

Mistress

Yes.
Mistress.
He said it.
He called me that.
His mistress.
He said he had only just realized it!
Me, I've known it for a while.

It felt good to hear him say it.
And he felt VERY good when I said it.
When  I called myself his mistress.

Damn, it turned him on.
Big time.
And made me very happy.

Something about the word. The concept. Maybe because it's recognized in the regular world. Even though nobody will hear it. But I'll hear it. Inside. And he'll say it to me.

It's not the same.
It's not the same as being his sub.
His pet.
His slave.
It's.. it's a more defined place in his life.
And it's definitely not being one of many.

Whatever he may say sometimes, I know I'm not just one of many.
I have known.
And now I know it more.

There were other things on this night we had.
A night and a hotel room.
Intimate things.
Things too intimate to share.
Private things.
Meaningful, sharing, intimate things.

And scary things.
It's spring.
The beast is on the prowl.
He scared us both.

But we'll be ok. Time and again we fight past the effects of these moments. Because what we have - who we are together - it's worth the effort. We are worth the effort.

And I'm his mistress.