this one's for you, master.
this one's just for you.
it's been such a hard week. more than a week. perhaps coming after the delight of having you here made it harder still. the heat. the power outage. the work stress. exhaustion. the stress of the housemate hunt. two sprained ankles. more exhaustion. more heat. more work stress.
and i had a melt-down. more than one. and despite your own exhaustion after struggling with the heat without the benefit of air conditioning, you were right there for me. even from 250 miles away i felt you were there for me. you were still in bed as i cried to you over the phone at 9:30 this morning, and you knew just what to say. you were there for me as surely as if you had your arms around me.
i obeyed, of course. when i went home for lunch i did just what you said. and a little bit more. i went to the bedroom. i took off my pants and purple panties. i opened the bottom drawer of my bedside table. i took out the toy box to remove a rubber band. but first i removed the collar. the pink dog collar with hearts on it. i fastened it around my neck and already felt safer. then i pulled out a rubber band, lay down on the bed, and pulled the rubber band over my foot and up to my thigh.
i stopped to breathe. then i pulled it out from my inner thigh as far as i could, silently counted down from three, and let it go.
SNAP.
it didn't hurt as much as i expected. or hoped. perhaps it is feeling worn out. like me. but i took in the pain, gave it time to echo through skin and muscle, and then repeated the exercise two more times.
i know you didn't mean this as a punishment. you did it to help cleanse me, to center me. i felt it as the gift it was.
after the third snap, i rolled over onto my side and let the tears flow, then got up and ate my lunch. i remembered to remove the collar before i went back to work. but i'm wearing it again as i sit naked on the bed writing these words.
i feel so guilty about all these times you take care of me. you are so good at it, when i need you it's like a little fire alarm goes off in your head and you are right there. i know what that feels like. i feel so grateful and so guilty and so afraid that you will tire of it.
yes of course, i know i've been there for you, too. and there are things i accept about you that belie the portrait of perfection that i love to paint. but still. i'm a fearful kitten, and insecure, certain that any day i'll be bundled up and deposited at the animal shelter.
and yet...
i came across a book yesterday. i stole but a few minutes to glance at it, but clever serendipity guided my fingers to just the right page and my eyes to just the right lines.
the book is An Uncertain Inheritance: Writers on Caring for Family edited by Nell Casey. the last story, by Julia Glass, is called "The Animal Game", which the author used to play with her young son Oliver. She came down with breast cancer and was in the two-sided situation of caring for her children while being very much in need of care herself.
the first section i came across, and which brought tears to my eyes, was this. which is for you.
[...] Dennis would rise, too, and we'd sit in bed, next to each other, awake for different reasons. "This really, really, really hurts," I'd gasp.
"I wish there was something I could do," Dennis would answer quietly. He didn't touch me; the mere idea of being touched was horrendous to me.
What I didn't tell him, but should have, was that he was doing something just by being awake with me. I began to understand that taking care of someone doesn't always mean doing something for that person; there isn't always a hot toddy or water bottle or an ointment to soothe. Being is just as important as doing. Being awake. Being present in the next chair. Being funny. Being smart in a surprising, useful way. Being sympathetically perplexed. Being a mirror for the expression of pain.
i wanted to read more, but couldn't. i was at work, already stressed from having too much to do, and the book hadn't come for me. but i looked ahead to the end of the story. the end of the book. and this is what i found. and this is for you.
I am reminded of the Animal Game, Oliver's wishing first to be the baby, then the protector; then next morning, the baby all over again. If we're fortunate, we trade these roles back and forth - dependence and dependability, helplessness and helpfulness; odd mixtures of both - in ever more complicated relays, all our lives, to the very end. Grown children care for parents, wives for husbands, brothers for sisters, friends for friends. Pretend I am just being born; we say when we are struck down by illness. Pretend I am resting because it was hard. Clean me. Hold me close. Take care of me - and then, let me take care of you.
Showing posts with label rubber band. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rubber band. Show all posts
Friday, June 13, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Dommer ...cont.
i did everything he ordered me to do. and more.
i made all my phone calls.
i exercised.
i did one load of laundry.
i practiced.
i even tuned first! (a major task.)
i returned the equipment to the fired cable provider.
i picked up groceries.
i cleaned up my dishes.
i didn't get to clean off the table, though.
it's a never-ending job.
i had a last minute invitation to a party.
i got home very late.
i ran the dishwasher.
and then i embarked on the ritual.
he is so amazing at manipulating my mind, my master. which is why i say he does really own me. i carefully watch the clock, placing my call based on the time on the phone. we both use verizon - hooray for free phone calls! - so i know our times will be synchronized.
i press 2. he is first in my speed dial after the pre-set 1 for emergencies. i press 2, the phone rings, and my brain turns to mush. my voice changes, it becomes higher, it becomes gentler, it becomes much younger, and sometimes it is hard for me to get the words out. my thoughts become vague, my prodigious vocabulary becomes inaccessible, and i feel myself floating away into subspace.
he thinks it's very funny.
we are playing with the idea of branding.
it is play.
but it is very serious.
it is very powerful.
and it catapults me into subspace.
it was very late by the time i performed the ritual last night.
my message with the required photos wasn't posted until 2:40 in the morning.
but i wasn't falling asleep over it.
the room was warm with the glow of 5 red candles in candlesticks, plus a white tea light in a red glass holder. Marko of course was on the bed. i worked hard on the design for the brand, knowing basically what i wanted to do but wanting to get the balance right. not too delicate but not too heavy. strong but artful. i sketched it out first, rejected what i thought would be the final version, and then accepted a second try.
i photographed it under the candles, without flash, to capture the warm glow of the room. i was pleased with the photo i ultimately chose. it is, of course, a little artsy. i will share it only with the philosopher's permission, as i don't know that he would want to reveal his true initials.
writing with the ashes didn't come out so well. but i tried my best.
here is the message i sent with the photos. i have not corrected the typos, which are way worse than what i usually do. i present the message unedited as testimony to the state of my mind.
the philosopher owns my mind.
thank you sir.
it is done.
i hope you liek the brand id esigned. there is seomthing particularly perverted about making a slave design the brand which will be brunt into her own flesh.
i wanted to eb sure my body udnerstaood what was happening. i burnted the paper in a little custard cup, and then held the bottom of the cup to my things, where the brand might go, so i could feel the heat. it was a pwoerful moment.
the rubber band hurt a LOT. especially teh second snap. amde me a little nasueous. but at least by then i was in subspace from the burning.
i did my best to write good kitten with teh ashes, but as you can swee it is utterly illegible, it took a lot of effort to manage what i was able to do. i'm sorry not to have done better.
thank you for the tasks and the ritual. the idea of branding realy is frightening, but part of me years for the chance to demonstrate the depth of my submission.
i sent one more message, with three bonus photos:
- the welts left by the rubber band
- my naked torso with the chain collar falling down between my breasts
- a close-up of my breast, golden like a low-hanging full moon.
when i got home from the party, my orders for today had already been sent. as you can see. my first phone call is due at noon. i'd better get going. i have lots to do.
thank you master.
Subject: Ritual II
Again. . .your usual chores: exercise, cleaning, practice, whatever.
And again: messages at 12 noon, 2:34, 5:17 and 9:45.
And then: "The Tattoo.
You are to dress in your slave shirt, jeans, sock and shoes. . .and the collar.
Nothing else.
You are to go for a walk through your neighborhood. . .and this can be done in the course of doing other chores. You are to find and pick three different colors of flowers. . .bright, spring colors.
When you return home, you will draw a design for a tattoo, on an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of blank white paper. It should consist of the word "Slave" in elaborate script and ornately decorated in several colors. Use magic markers, and decorate the design with the flowers you have picked. Fasten them to the design with tape or glue.
Send me a picture. . .and preserve the original design. I will want to see it.
i made all my phone calls.
i exercised.
i did one load of laundry.
i practiced.
i even tuned first! (a major task.)
i returned the equipment to the fired cable provider.
i picked up groceries.
i cleaned up my dishes.
i didn't get to clean off the table, though.
it's a never-ending job.
i had a last minute invitation to a party.
i got home very late.
i ran the dishwasher.
and then i embarked on the ritual.
he is so amazing at manipulating my mind, my master. which is why i say he does really own me. i carefully watch the clock, placing my call based on the time on the phone. we both use verizon - hooray for free phone calls! - so i know our times will be synchronized.
i press 2. he is first in my speed dial after the pre-set 1 for emergencies. i press 2, the phone rings, and my brain turns to mush. my voice changes, it becomes higher, it becomes gentler, it becomes much younger, and sometimes it is hard for me to get the words out. my thoughts become vague, my prodigious vocabulary becomes inaccessible, and i feel myself floating away into subspace.
he thinks it's very funny.
we are playing with the idea of branding.
it is play.
but it is very serious.
it is very powerful.
and it catapults me into subspace.
it was very late by the time i performed the ritual last night.
my message with the required photos wasn't posted until 2:40 in the morning.
but i wasn't falling asleep over it.
the room was warm with the glow of 5 red candles in candlesticks, plus a white tea light in a red glass holder. Marko of course was on the bed. i worked hard on the design for the brand, knowing basically what i wanted to do but wanting to get the balance right. not too delicate but not too heavy. strong but artful. i sketched it out first, rejected what i thought would be the final version, and then accepted a second try.
i photographed it under the candles, without flash, to capture the warm glow of the room. i was pleased with the photo i ultimately chose. it is, of course, a little artsy. i will share it only with the philosopher's permission, as i don't know that he would want to reveal his true initials.
writing with the ashes didn't come out so well. but i tried my best.
here is the message i sent with the photos. i have not corrected the typos, which are way worse than what i usually do. i present the message unedited as testimony to the state of my mind.
the philosopher owns my mind.
thank you sir.
it is done.
i hope you liek the brand id esigned. there is seomthing particularly perverted about making a slave design the brand which will be brunt into her own flesh.
i wanted to eb sure my body udnerstaood what was happening. i burnted the paper in a little custard cup, and then held the bottom of the cup to my things, where the brand might go, so i could feel the heat. it was a pwoerful moment.
the rubber band hurt a LOT. especially teh second snap. amde me a little nasueous. but at least by then i was in subspace from the burning.
i did my best to write good kitten with teh ashes, but as you can swee it is utterly illegible, it took a lot of effort to manage what i was able to do. i'm sorry not to have done better.
thank you for the tasks and the ritual. the idea of branding realy is frightening, but part of me years for the chance to demonstrate the depth of my submission.
i sent one more message, with three bonus photos:
- the welts left by the rubber band
- my naked torso with the chain collar falling down between my breasts
- a close-up of my breast, golden like a low-hanging full moon.
when i got home from the party, my orders for today had already been sent. as you can see. my first phone call is due at noon. i'd better get going. i have lots to do.
thank you master.
Subject: Ritual II
Again. . .your usual chores: exercise, cleaning, practice, whatever.
And again: messages at 12 noon, 2:34, 5:17 and 9:45.
And then: "The Tattoo.
You are to dress in your slave shirt, jeans, sock and shoes. . .and the collar.
Nothing else.
You are to go for a walk through your neighborhood. . .and this can be done in the course of doing other chores. You are to find and pick three different colors of flowers. . .bright, spring colors.
When you return home, you will draw a design for a tattoo, on an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of blank white paper. It should consist of the word "Slave" in elaborate script and ornately decorated in several colors. Use magic markers, and decorate the design with the flowers you have picked. Fasten them to the design with tape or glue.
Send me a picture. . .and preserve the original design. I will want to see it.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Dommer
As the philosopher continues to arise from his mid-winter meltdown and resumes in full glory his mantle of being my master, he is returning with enthusiasm to the job of controlling me and my life.
He didn't tuck me in last night, as his weekend is plump with tasks of his own. But he sent me these strict instructions at 12:31 am, having already promised that he would be keeping me busy.
Subject: Ritual
Saturday
You will call and leave a message at 11:59 am, 2:03 pm, 6:30 pm and 8:00. . . SHARP. . .pm
In addition, you will do your normal chores: clean off the table, laundry, go to the gym, practice santouri for 15 minutes or so.
Then, at some point during the day, or evening, you will perform the following ritual:
"The Branding"
You will gather the following objects: candles with holders, matches, plate, paper (the size of a post it note), a black magic marker, rubber band, chain collar, a glass of water, digital camera.
You will strip naked, and put on the chain collar. This is how you would be dressed for the real thing; bare, vulnerable, chained. . . OWNED.
Put a rubber band around your thigh.
You will turn off the lights of whatever room you are in (this should ideally take place in the dungeon, but privacy will dicate where you are able to do it.)
Kneeling on the floor you will light the candles, as many as you need for illumination.
With the magic marker and the paper, you will design a brand: my initials, simple and readable, yet aesthetically interesting. Do a good job. . .this is the mark that will be BURNED into your flesh. How do you want it to look?
Take a picture of your design, to be sent to me later.
Then, with a match, burn the paper on the plate (BE CAREFUL. I don't want you burning down the house. Have some water ready to extinguish the flames if they get too high). Watch as the paper burns. . .and is consumed. Imagine how much a brand will hurt. Snap yourself with the rubber band 3 times.
When it's all burnt, take the ashes and write "Good kitten" across your belly. Take a picture.
Send me the pictures, kitten. . . and check your e-mail tomorrow morning for the next ritual.
There are a couple of other tasks I have to do which are time-limited, such as returning my now unused digital cable equipment to Comcast now that I have freed myself from their incompetence. And the health club (from which I have now returned) closes at 4 pm on weekends. Plus I had a decidedly lazy morning in bed with Marko, and (having forgotten the philosopher's threat of a weekend full of chances to demonstrate my obedience) didn't check for mail from him until almost a quarter of 11. I've attempted to scurry since then, but Saturdays tend to be my day of rest so it has taken some effort to overcome sloth and now I will have to scramble. On top of all that, I've just been invited to an evening beer tasting at a nearby friend's (despite my not being able to drink much in the way of alcohol; I'm ignoring the issue of yeast and Passover...)
So I won't babble on now about the assignment, except to reiterate that I love having to leave phone messages at specific times throughout the day. And his rituals always have tremendous power.
Thank you, master.
And yes, I AM naked as I write these words. And yes, Marko is lying beside me beside the bed, knowing instinctively that he must protect me from any stray perverts that might wander by. Such a good kitten.
As am I...
He didn't tuck me in last night, as his weekend is plump with tasks of his own. But he sent me these strict instructions at 12:31 am, having already promised that he would be keeping me busy.
Subject: Ritual
Saturday
You will call and leave a message at 11:59 am, 2:03 pm, 6:30 pm and 8:00. . . SHARP. . .pm
In addition, you will do your normal chores: clean off the table, laundry, go to the gym, practice santouri for 15 minutes or so.
Then, at some point during the day, or evening, you will perform the following ritual:
"The Branding"
You will gather the following objects: candles with holders, matches, plate, paper (the size of a post it note), a black magic marker, rubber band, chain collar, a glass of water, digital camera.
You will strip naked, and put on the chain collar. This is how you would be dressed for the real thing; bare, vulnerable, chained. . . OWNED.
Put a rubber band around your thigh.
You will turn off the lights of whatever room you are in (this should ideally take place in the dungeon, but privacy will dicate where you are able to do it.)
Kneeling on the floor you will light the candles, as many as you need for illumination.
With the magic marker and the paper, you will design a brand: my initials, simple and readable, yet aesthetically interesting. Do a good job. . .this is the mark that will be BURNED into your flesh. How do you want it to look?
Take a picture of your design, to be sent to me later.
Then, with a match, burn the paper on the plate (BE CAREFUL. I don't want you burning down the house. Have some water ready to extinguish the flames if they get too high). Watch as the paper burns. . .and is consumed. Imagine how much a brand will hurt. Snap yourself with the rubber band 3 times.
When it's all burnt, take the ashes and write "Good kitten" across your belly. Take a picture.
Send me the pictures, kitten. . . and check your e-mail tomorrow morning for the next ritual.
There are a couple of other tasks I have to do which are time-limited, such as returning my now unused digital cable equipment to Comcast now that I have freed myself from their incompetence. And the health club (from which I have now returned) closes at 4 pm on weekends. Plus I had a decidedly lazy morning in bed with Marko, and (having forgotten the philosopher's threat of a weekend full of chances to demonstrate my obedience) didn't check for mail from him until almost a quarter of 11. I've attempted to scurry since then, but Saturdays tend to be my day of rest so it has taken some effort to overcome sloth and now I will have to scramble. On top of all that, I've just been invited to an evening beer tasting at a nearby friend's (despite my not being able to drink much in the way of alcohol; I'm ignoring the issue of yeast and Passover...)
So I won't babble on now about the assignment, except to reiterate that I love having to leave phone messages at specific times throughout the day. And his rituals always have tremendous power.
Thank you, master.
And yes, I AM naked as I write these words. And yes, Marko is lying beside me beside the bed, knowing instinctively that he must protect me from any stray perverts that might wander by. Such a good kitten.
As am I...
Friday, April 18, 2008
re-connection
i write here for a lot of different reasons and audiences.last night's precipitous cry of despair in miniature was for my master. my lover. my best friend.
this morning's post is for you.
the public.
because of course i over-reacted. i often do, it seems. my emotions sit on my skin like a layer of baby oil. keeping me soft and ready to burst into searing flames at the slightest hint of friction.
the philosopher called. there was that technological glitch. he thought i was busy and had turned off my phone. so he turned off his phone, as he always automatically does - silly master - and dozed off. and just as i finished last night's post, he called back.
of course i was punished for last night's mishap. i'm getting punished a lot these days. i see this as a good sign. the philosopher is now very much my master again, the depressed and despondent grad student of last February has gone into retreat.
so i was punished.
scolded and punished.
ordered to put on the punishment panties.
i hate the punishment panties.
i was ordered to create them long ago, for who knows what infraction. once they were an ordinary, worn pair of white cotton panties. hanes. the kind the philosopher despises precisely for their ordinariness. i was ordered to write "BAD KITTY" across both the front and the back. in front, the K of KITTY rests just above my cunt. behind, BAD adorns one butt cheek and KITTY the other.
i get very fretful in the punishment panties. it is amazing and somewhat embarrassing, the power they have over my hyper-suggestive mind. a very bad punishment indeed.
this was followed by a rubber band caning. 5 strokes at the top of my left inner thigh. i knew this was meant as a bad punishment, so each time pulled the rubber band as far out is it would go before releasing it. the thin rubber band bit and cut and had me wriggling with pain.
it left welts.
and i had to take a photo.
it's not very focused, as i don't use flash for these close-in shots to prevent the subject from being washed out. but the welts are very clear.
the punishment did its job
as the the punishments always do.
my master was appeased
his slave felt very owned
his kitten was forgiven
the panties were removed
and 250 miles apart
we fell asleep in each other's arms.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Forced Absence
i was not allowed to blog yesterday.
i was being punished.
i had been a very bad kitten.
actually, i was a very unhappy kitten. you could blame hormones, i suppose. one can always blame hormones and i did in fact have pms (at my age!!!) and an accompanying migraine.
but i was also suffering from the separation. i haven't seen the philosopher since Martin Luther King Day. and it will likely be a long time until i see him again. he has this weird idea that it's better for him not to see me until he finishes his dissertation. i sure hope that's serving as good incentive, because for me it's torture. though of course we do know that he likes to torture me...
anyway, sunday i was feeling down, and sunday night he didn't call, and didn't write that he wouldn't call, although sunday nights in fact are just a sometime thing. it's all in my expectations.
by monday i was in full pout mode.
my wake-up call was not what you would want to hear first thing in the morning.
at lunch time i found this message in my inbox. its disapproving tone was magnified by having come from his regular account, not our private one, which meant that it was under his own name.
Subject: Sullen Kitten
You sounded a bit sulky this morning, kitten.
A wakeup call should be bright and cheerful, or else
what's the point?
Plus, you used a rubber band without my express
permission. It is not your place to hurt yourself,
kitten. That is for me alone.
Punishment:
No blogging today. And when you get home, write out
the phrase "I will not be a sullen kitten" 50 times,
then send me a picture.
Is this clear?
i didn't like being denied blogging. but i appreciated the punishment. writing lines works well for me. being punished works well for me. it is focusing. it gives me the control i need. and it makes me feel taken care of. especially when i have pms or am otherwise moody, i need to feel taken care of.
(the rubber band reference was to my having snapped one around my wrists that morning, hard, in hopes of jolting myself out of my bad mood. it didn't work. it just got me into more trouble.)
i did write the lines when i got home.
and took pictures.
and sent them.
i do try to be obedient.
and then we had a long bedtime phone call, and i cried, and admitted to being afraid of saying how unhappy i was at his absence, even as i try to accept it because the most important thing is for him to finish. i carry fears of triggering another episode like last february, i'm afraid that if i cry over missing him that he'll put me out and lock the cat door and not let me back in. but he was sweet and comforting and accepting and said it was ok to cry, and did the best he could to gather me in his arms and soothe my hair and kiss away my tears considering we were 250 miles apart.
and then we talked about my trip to Harrisburg as a missionary for Obama, and we talked about the Catholic church, and we talked about this naked blogging business, and we talked about the cats. and i was his slave kitten and i was his girlfriend and i miss him horribly and i love him very much and i'm still suffering from pms today and still have a bit of a migraine but i won't be a sullen kitten and will at least sound sweet when i call if not quite perky.
and now i'd better get dressed and feed the cats and take the garbage out and go off to work and be a productive member of society.
though i can't help thinking...
memorial day is a national holiday.
it's a 3-day weekend.
even grad students need a little vacation sometimes.
don't they?
i was being punished.
i had been a very bad kitten.
actually, i was a very unhappy kitten. you could blame hormones, i suppose. one can always blame hormones and i did in fact have pms (at my age!!!) and an accompanying migraine.
but i was also suffering from the separation. i haven't seen the philosopher since Martin Luther King Day. and it will likely be a long time until i see him again. he has this weird idea that it's better for him not to see me until he finishes his dissertation. i sure hope that's serving as good incentive, because for me it's torture. though of course we do know that he likes to torture me...
anyway, sunday i was feeling down, and sunday night he didn't call, and didn't write that he wouldn't call, although sunday nights in fact are just a sometime thing. it's all in my expectations.
by monday i was in full pout mode.
my wake-up call was not what you would want to hear first thing in the morning.
at lunch time i found this message in my inbox. its disapproving tone was magnified by having come from his regular account, not our private one, which meant that it was under his own name.
Subject: Sullen Kitten
You sounded a bit sulky this morning, kitten.
A wakeup call should be bright and cheerful, or else
what's the point?
Plus, you used a rubber band without my express
permission. It is not your place to hurt yourself,
kitten. That is for me alone.
Punishment:
No blogging today. And when you get home, write out
the phrase "I will not be a sullen kitten" 50 times,
then send me a picture.
Is this clear?
i didn't like being denied blogging. but i appreciated the punishment. writing lines works well for me. being punished works well for me. it is focusing. it gives me the control i need. and it makes me feel taken care of. especially when i have pms or am otherwise moody, i need to feel taken care of.
(the rubber band reference was to my having snapped one around my wrists that morning, hard, in hopes of jolting myself out of my bad mood. it didn't work. it just got me into more trouble.)
i did write the lines when i got home.
and took pictures.
and sent them.
i do try to be obedient.
and then we had a long bedtime phone call, and i cried, and admitted to being afraid of saying how unhappy i was at his absence, even as i try to accept it because the most important thing is for him to finish. i carry fears of triggering another episode like last february, i'm afraid that if i cry over missing him that he'll put me out and lock the cat door and not let me back in. but he was sweet and comforting and accepting and said it was ok to cry, and did the best he could to gather me in his arms and soothe my hair and kiss away my tears considering we were 250 miles apart.
and then we talked about my trip to Harrisburg as a missionary for Obama, and we talked about the Catholic church, and we talked about this naked blogging business, and we talked about the cats. and i was his slave kitten and i was his girlfriend and i miss him horribly and i love him very much and i'm still suffering from pms today and still have a bit of a migraine but i won't be a sullen kitten and will at least sound sweet when i call if not quite perky.
and now i'd better get dressed and feed the cats and take the garbage out and go off to work and be a productive member of society.
though i can't help thinking...
memorial day is a national holiday.
it's a 3-day weekend.
even grad students need a little vacation sometimes.
don't they?
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Abstinence
Given that this is supposed to be a sex blog, there's not an awful lot of sex here. But then, there's not an awful lot of sex in my life these days.
What with the 250 miles separating me from the philosopher, and the chapter-and-a-half separating the philosopher from his PhD, there in fact hasn't been much body-to-body contact at all in the last year. But there was still plenty of sex. And a lot of denial of sex. Which can be pretty sexy in its own right depending on how it's done.
I hate not being allowed to cum.
I love not being allowed to cum.
Because I love being controlled.
Orgasm denial makes me feel ropes around my wrists. I feel a collar around my neck. Not the hard cold metal choke collar that the philosopher bought for me in the pet aisle of his neighborhood CVS or Rite-Aid or whatever they have out where he lives. It's a leather collar I feel, snug and definitive. There is a leash attached. Despite spanning 4 states, the line is taut. The philosopher looks up from his writing and notes the rising musk, as my fingers absently twine amongst the trimmed red cunt curls. He gives a tug, and cuts short my brief rebellion against his clear command of "No touching. No cumming."
Recently, as things grew difficult, he relaxed the order. Touching was ok but cumming was still out. The fondling was comforting but not all that satisfying. Still, it was better than nothing.
But now our words are few and far between. There are new rules as we curtail our interactions for the greater good. Since we started this diet about a week ago, I have been granted but 3 wake-up calls to him and the one precious night when he called to tuck me in. No long meandering sadistic loving babbling tormenting phone calls, though he did leave me with some beatiful rubber band welts when he put me to bed Friday night.
So there has been no discussion of my needs. And as the stress grows greater, I've gone beyond just touching. Not out of rebellion but out of need. There have been orgasms, efficient and powerful orgasms, with great heaving sobs and torrents of tears.
And what do I want now that I've confessed my sins? I'm not sure really. The philosopher is usually delighted to have an excuse to punish me. Of course, as he never fails to remind me, he doesn't need a reason, he can cane me whenever he wants. (He spanks me, too, and has a fine old time with his belt on my ass, but caning seems to possess an inherent air of punishment.) I'm not sure whether it's his Catholic upbringing or what, but he seems most satisfied when the beating is preceded by a recitation of my sins. He loves how upset the scolding makes me, even when the sins are either totally fabricated or highly embroidered versions of the high-strung behaviour that any kitten will manifest, even one that has been enslaved and should know better,
I could, in fact, use a good punishment. I feel cleansed afterwards, and leave behind significant wet spots. But a proper punishment requires a lot of attention, and the philosopher has set aside much of his sadism while he crawls at the feet of his cruel dissertation. So I don't expect a punishment. And that still wouldn't solve the problem of relieving my stress until my master can resume his duties.
I don't think a free hand in the matter is what I need, either. I've been feeling so much stronger and clearer since the philosopher has been controlling at least parts of my life that especially now, when I need to use my submission to get through this period of semi-detachment, prescribed limits would help.
So maybe a finite number of orgasms per week would do. Can one dom onesself if one's owner can't fulfill all his responsibilities due to other pressing matters? I doubt I could make myself feel the tug on the leash. But maybe it's worth a try.
Until then, those remembrances of canings past triggered a bout of nether twitching that needs attending to...
What with the 250 miles separating me from the philosopher, and the chapter-and-a-half separating the philosopher from his PhD, there in fact hasn't been much body-to-body contact at all in the last year. But there was still plenty of sex. And a lot of denial of sex. Which can be pretty sexy in its own right depending on how it's done.
I hate not being allowed to cum.
I love not being allowed to cum.
Because I love being controlled.
Orgasm denial makes me feel ropes around my wrists. I feel a collar around my neck. Not the hard cold metal choke collar that the philosopher bought for me in the pet aisle of his neighborhood CVS or Rite-Aid or whatever they have out where he lives. It's a leather collar I feel, snug and definitive. There is a leash attached. Despite spanning 4 states, the line is taut. The philosopher looks up from his writing and notes the rising musk, as my fingers absently twine amongst the trimmed red cunt curls. He gives a tug, and cuts short my brief rebellion against his clear command of "No touching. No cumming."
Recently, as things grew difficult, he relaxed the order. Touching was ok but cumming was still out. The fondling was comforting but not all that satisfying. Still, it was better than nothing.
But now our words are few and far between. There are new rules as we curtail our interactions for the greater good. Since we started this diet about a week ago, I have been granted but 3 wake-up calls to him and the one precious night when he called to tuck me in. No long meandering sadistic loving babbling tormenting phone calls, though he did leave me with some beatiful rubber band welts when he put me to bed Friday night.
So there has been no discussion of my needs. And as the stress grows greater, I've gone beyond just touching. Not out of rebellion but out of need. There have been orgasms, efficient and powerful orgasms, with great heaving sobs and torrents of tears.
And what do I want now that I've confessed my sins? I'm not sure really. The philosopher is usually delighted to have an excuse to punish me. Of course, as he never fails to remind me, he doesn't need a reason, he can cane me whenever he wants. (He spanks me, too, and has a fine old time with his belt on my ass, but caning seems to possess an inherent air of punishment.) I'm not sure whether it's his Catholic upbringing or what, but he seems most satisfied when the beating is preceded by a recitation of my sins. He loves how upset the scolding makes me, even when the sins are either totally fabricated or highly embroidered versions of the high-strung behaviour that any kitten will manifest, even one that has been enslaved and should know better,
I could, in fact, use a good punishment. I feel cleansed afterwards, and leave behind significant wet spots. But a proper punishment requires a lot of attention, and the philosopher has set aside much of his sadism while he crawls at the feet of his cruel dissertation. So I don't expect a punishment. And that still wouldn't solve the problem of relieving my stress until my master can resume his duties.
I don't think a free hand in the matter is what I need, either. I've been feeling so much stronger and clearer since the philosopher has been controlling at least parts of my life that especially now, when I need to use my submission to get through this period of semi-detachment, prescribed limits would help.
So maybe a finite number of orgasms per week would do. Can one dom onesself if one's owner can't fulfill all his responsibilities due to other pressing matters? I doubt I could make myself feel the tug on the leash. But maybe it's worth a try.
Until then, those remembrances of canings past triggered a bout of nether twitching that needs attending to...
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