One slave, returned. Did not meet product specifications.

Warning: Read product description thoroughly before making your purchase. Never make assumptions that go beyond the specs.

 

He told me that.

Over and over.

Never make assumptions.
And yet, he did.

Over and over.

 

He had this idea of who I was, of what I was, of what I could be, of what I should be, and then would get angry when I didn’t live up to expectations. He had a plan, a training strategy, which more often than not didn’t work as much due to his distraction as it was to my disobedience or inadequate performance.

 

Again and again, I was a disappointment. 

 

And after numerous ruptures, numerous resets, numerous attempts on my part to get away, he finally said enough. He was ridding his life of things that didn’t give him pleasure, and I was now one of those things.

 

I did not protest.

I was frankly relieved.

He would never let me go if it wasn’t by HIS choice.

I was never quite sure what he thought I was.

What he was convinced I was.

 

There was something he saw in my old profile on Fetlife that made him pursue me for a week, announcing to his masochist slave that he would have me in a week. And that he did. But I think he thought I could be trained into perfect obedience. And it both angered and, I think, wounded him when I resisted. He thought he’d found some treasure, but he hadn’t read the fine print.

 

And yet he couldn’t stay away.

Then again, neither could I.

On and off for 12 years.

So here I am.

But where, exactly?

 

He wasn’t all wrong.

Nor was I wrong about my desires.

And those haven’t gone away.

The question is what to do about them.
The question is what path to follow.

The question is how to be true to myself.

And who is that, anyway?

Given my age, I’d better get down to finding out.

Wild Fire

 Maybe it’s a hormone storm. 

How can I be having a hormone storm?

 

Or maybe it’s begun. Four years of fear folding up their tents and slipping away, leaving behind piles of brush and dead branches to be consumed by flames. 

 

I’m burning. 

 

Conflagration, sweeping up and down from my brain into my cunt and then up into the phantom womb. Desire so strong I want to scream and moan - not with pleasure but in desperation. Images that grow wilder, harder, starker, darker than I should want, darker than I could bear, but everything is burning, burning, and the only escape is obliteration. 

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.

It is not a game

 “There is this little universe where a few people offer their freedom and renounce their will and give it to another. One goes into what we call ‘the bubble,’ where what’s outside no longer exists and inside one person is possessed by another. It is not a game; it is a spiritual experience.”

Beverly Charpentier, as quoted in The Thin End of the Whip, an article about Catherine Robbe-Grillet in the January 2014 issue of Vanity Fair.
 
http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2014/02/catherine-robbe-grillet-french-dominatrix

I remember reading La Jalousie, but Catherine's late husband Alain Robbe-Grillet. French class. I don't remember the details of the book (common for me) but I remember that the tone impressed me greatly. Who knew back then that there would be this connection?

And yes. 
I'm fine. 
Just nothing much to say. 
Life goes on. 
We go on. 
How fortunate we are! 

Begging

Please.
Please!
Please, Daddy...

In pain.
In nipple clamps.
Writhing against the bonds and the pain.

Please what?

Pause.
Breathe.

Focus.
Accept.

Absorb.

Yield.

Please... please let me suffer for you more...

You know what submissives are like

Desperately in need of reassurance.
Always.

Whether presenting our bodies for admiration, or abuse. Whether offering sexual pleasure or having pleasure wrested from us. Whether smiling prettily, sending sensual poems, or whispering phrases guaranteed to incite our owner to cum. We need reassurance that we are beautiful and sexy, clever and enchanting, small and soft and vulnerable and whatever else we are required to be.

Writers - especially those of us who bare our brains as well as baring our tits and ass - we can be the worst of all.

So thank you.
Thank you, old friends.
Thank you, my fans, as he likes to call you.
It's good to know you're out there.
Still or again.

And I'm sorry I'm so insecure that I had to summon you all now. Especially as I will surely do it again on Love Our Lurkers Day, which is coming up soon. Unless I forget. Because I do tend to forget things...

Except, see? I didn't forget to post today!

Good girl.

Soft and moist and serving beneath the spray

Soft.

Sweet.

Moist.

 

No.

Not talking about my pussy this time.

It was a different sort of intimacy.

A morning shower.

Finally, after all these years.

All the yearning.

We had enough morning for me to serve him in the shower.

 

And no.

It was nothing like in my story.

He didn't fuck me.

Not in my ass.

Not in any other orifice.

He went into the bathroom,

and allowed me to enter,

and bade me run the shower

and to follow him into the shower.

 

And I knelt down under the little bit of spray that slipped past his body, and washed him with the soap in my hands, and washed him with my bare soapy hands, and took in my hands his poor tired cock, and washed with my hands his sweet worn-out cock, which had worked so hard all through the evening and most of the night and again in the morning before he allowed me to join him in the shower

to join him in the shower
and worship him under the spray.

Pain and joy and submission.

Nothing much to report.
Bruises are fading, though still dramatic.
And I wrote the first draft of a poem.

It's been a while.
The poem.
And it felt good.
A relief.

The spanking.
The whipping.
The hair brush that broke after just a few swats.
The hard slaps to my face that did not leave a mark.
I can never understand why they don't leave a mark.
And I hate...
I hate that I respond to it.

See? I guess there is something to report... 

There have been changes during these many quiet months. The relationship has evolved over time. Deepened. Survived more of our usual crises. Survived crises in our other lives. In what you might think to call the real world but to me only the hours we spend together are the real world and the rest is the illusion that provides a structure of practicality within which our real world exists.

I won't talk about the complications of his life except to say that there was no way they couldn't affect our own interactions. As for me, my mom had a stroke a year and a half ago and finally died late last June. It was time. And a relief. My dad is still alive, edging towards a hundred, with creeping dementia. He's become a lot sweeter though, and I know I'll mourn him when he's gone. I even wish I lived closer, which is a first. So few years of a good relationship. Too few years. But better than nothing.

I became unhappy at my job, because my department head was micromanaging me until I couldn't breathe. And now - poof! - he was forced out. Happy me! No guarantee how things will turn out, but at least one sure bad thing will be gone in a week and a half. And so. I repeat. Happy me.

Happy pet.

Which goes back to last weekend.
Punishment.
Correction.
Training.
I did something quite bad.
Thoughtless.
Explainable.
But he doesn't take explanations.
And anyway, I should have known better.
The bad thing happened last July.
We're slowly working our way back.
And then I...
It doesn't matter really.
A small thing but a telling thing.
So the whipping.
And all the rest.
Punishment and correction and training.
And eventually just for his pleasure.

In the end, it worked. Not just to convey the lesson, but also to cleanse me. To center me. To beat out of me all the accumulated emotional debris as well as the dust bunnies and fog clouding my (his words) beautiful brain.

A deepening of my submission.
An appreciation.

Because the beauty, the glory, the transcendence of such an abuse of my body is not the pain - although I do admit that up to a point (quickly reached) there is some measure of pleasure in it and - here comes the part that always embarrasses me and perhaps some of you as well - I grow sloppy wet as he beats and pinches and whips and slaps and... But the true beauty of it all, the part that feels best of all, is the submission. The offering. The acceptance. So that even as he brings his whipping belt down hard (for me) on the sensitive, vulnerable, screaming tissues of my sweet pink pussy, I try ever so hard to keep my legs open and accept whatever his own pain and desire drive him to do to me. And later, after, lying close and soft and warm next to his sated body, listening to the murmurings of his for-now eased mind, I feel the joy of having yielded to him everything I am. Of having given him everything in irrational and unlimited trust.

And my reward is the safety and comfort of the sadly not physical cage in which he keeps me, and the hours lying beside him with his collar around my neck.

PS - No. He most certainly did not allow me to cum, although he deliberately brought me very close.

4 years

It was on Labor Day 4 years ago.
4 years ago, I begged him to take me in his service.

The day after, I wrote this:

people suddenly appear, people far beyond what i could have imagined. and then there is no choice. all i can say is “yes, Sir” and obey.

And now?

I had no idea.
No idea at all.

In captivity, I am free.
In my chains, I am strong.
In submission, I am beautiful.

And oh, yes.
I lost 5.4 pounds in the first week.

St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Ultimate Guide to Kink (1)

What's even better than being offered a book to review?
Being offered a book you've already decided to buy.

I really wanted a copy of The Ultimate Guide to Kink: BDSM, Role Play and the Erotic Edge, edited by Tristan Taormino. My order was placed on Amazon, but hadn't shipped yet as there was a delay on some of the other items. (Yes. I feel guilty about ordering on Amazon. I'd really rather buy directly from the author or publisher, or from that rare creature, the local independent bookstore. But I'm so disgustingly broke from my happily-ended second extended bout of unemployment that any money savings counter that other guilt from buying anything at all. Ah, yes. Hypocrisy.)

I'd heard about the book from Laura Antoniou, whom I met with her wife in a non-BDSM setting. She is smart and funny and incisive, and has a chapter in the book, which seemed a good enough reason to add to my hopeless accumulation of debt.

That's one of the big attractions of The Ultimate Guide to Kink. No, not my debt. The chapters. Each chapter has a different author, and the sections are meditations on the topic at hand (or on the hand smacking your butt) as well as directions, hints, suggestions, and warnings. For a further peek inside the experience, personal observations from additional people are scattered throughout the pages.

Up to now, I've only skimmed, but already there are little colored flags marking notable quotes and sections I want to contemplate further. For example, consider this, from Madison Young's chapter "Submissive: A Personal Manifesto": an internal stillness that exists only in absolute surrender. I've known that stillness, the perfection of it, the purity that is almost holy in nature. This is far more than saying: "Hey folks, this is hot, you should try it to spice up your sex life!" Not to say the latter isn't a valid approach. But there's more than that. There can be more than that. So much of what BDSM has to offer is mental. Emotional. I would never claim it's for everyone. But Tristan and her team of authors are doing a service by letting readers know what they might find if they let themselves explore.

Now remember.
All I've done is skimmed.
This little essay, the first in a series, can't stand as a proper review.
But I'm looking forward to reading further.
With focus.
Particularly because of this little phrase in Tristan's introduction.
On the very first page.

She's talking about the people for whom the book is meant. And tucked in among talk of erotic horizons and power and pain and the like is this:

For the people who . . . cultivate consciousness in sex and relationships.

Exactly.
I think that is what gives BDSM its power to be extraordinary.
The consciousness.
Of each other.
Of yourself.
Of who you are and how you relate and what you can discover.

I think it's that need for a special consciousness that leads to the deep, exquisite, piercing intimacy that can come from the pure vulnerability of an honest BDSM relationship.

Whew.
See what just skimming inspired?

Two final notes for now.

The first is that I know that my own experiences have given me what some might see as a rarefied perspective on BDSM. I don't go out in the community. I don't play in public. In fact, I've been known to say more than once "I don't play." I can be horribly serious about who I am and what we do and all that stuff. I'm sure it can be pretty annoying at times. But at least I'm fierce about insisting there is no One Right Way. No One True Religion of BDSM. So I'm vowing to remember that as I read and discuss The Ultimate Guide to Kink. (Do you think I should refer to it as TUG Kink?) I promise I will try not to act superior to people who are into any of the variations on BDSM just for the hot sex. There is nothing wrong with hot sex. It was S-- who taught me about sex as a recreational activity. S--, who is a skilled, gentle, and considerate lover. He's not at all into inflicting pain. (Not of the physical kind, anyway, and he has apologized a number of times for how he hurt my emotions in the past. Bruised feelings don't heal as fast as the welts from a cane. Oops. Sorry for the detour.)

The second is that there was a little slip-up. About a week after my copy of TUG Kink arrived, just in time for me to take it with on my trip north to see my parents, a second copy arrived. Now I could have offered to my faithful readers in some sort of contest, in thanks to those of you who have stuck around during these relatively silent months. But instead, I decided to maximize the benefit.

I offered the extra copy to my Master.

So, as time permits, he will be reading it as well and offering comments, which I hope he'll allow me to share. He'll take a special look at passages I direct him to. (Me! Directing my Daddy! What a concept!) I'm particularly looking forward to what he has to say about the chapter on sadism.

And you?
Consider buying the book.

The Ultimate Guide to Kink: BDSM, Role Play and the Erotic Edge

Yeah.
That book.
And join the discussion here.
Even if you haven't read the book.
You can still weigh in on the issues.

Remember that my comments so far are based only on samples. But if I had seen those samples as I browsed in a book store (remember book stores?), I would have snatched up a copy and slapped my worn-out Visa card on the counter. Especially after stumbling on a passage such as this one, which brings us back to Laura Antoniou and my belief that there is no One True Religion of BDSM. It comes from her chapter on "How to Train Your Sex Slave":

Training, like the rest of our kinky relationship styles, is above all personal. Never try to use someone else's training program! What do they know about your preferences, your style, your relationship, your lovers? Nada, zilch, zip. using their training would be like using their underwear; it might look like it fits, but wouldn't you rather have your own?

So consider getting your own.
Copy of the book, I meant.
Not underwear.
Though underwear's ok, too.
If you're allowed to wear it.
And then - let's talk.

Leather and heels; feminism and sucking cock

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

A challenge

This song came up on the bluegrass station.
A gospel song.
I'm not a Christian.
I can't say for sure whether I believe in God.
But I do like religious music of various sorts.
Stained glass bluegrass.
Black gospel for sure.
Early music masses.
My tastes are most definitely eclectic.

And then there's the sadist.
And me.
And his ownership.
And my struggles.
Can I really yield as completely as he wishes me to.

This song came up.
The words...

I wanted to send the lyrics to him
but wasn't sure I could swear I was ready to mean them.
To promise that full a commitment.

I want to.
I try.
But it scares me.

To cede everything...
that does scare me.

Here is the song, by the artists I heard on the radio.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TkBywnSwd6Q

And here are the first verse and the chorus.

The Lowest Valley, by Pearl Mullins

Lord I don't want to do one thing on my own
Put me where you want me Lord where I belong
Give me the strength Lord to do thy perfect will
And when I'm in the lowest valley I can climb the highest hill

   Lord I want to be what you want me to be
   Lord I want to do the things you want me to do
   Lord I want to stay in the center of thy will
   When I'm in the lowest valley I can climb the highest hill

Home again, home again, jiggedy jog

Reporting in, having survived far too many hours in Thanksgiving traffic, 4 nights with my parents, and a cold, dry turkey that my father's normally sensible cousin insisted on bringing up to Connecticut from Brooklyn.

My stuffing and gravy were great.

I suspect Ketzel peed somewhere she shouldn't have while I was gone, but I'm not sure where and am too tired to sniff out the exact spot. More important is that they gave me a warm and loving welcome, acting as if they hadn't eaten in a week, which is their way of saying they missed me and needed reassurance of my love.

Having not seen the sadist on our usual Tuesday earlier in the week, I will be especially thankful to be reunited with him this coming Tuesday. Don't know how much he'll allow me to tell you about what he has planned, but the preparations have been intense. I do try to remind him - every single time - that a trip to see my parents is not a happy thing, and that any added pressing of sensitive buttons is bound to unleash a heavy emotional reaction. Luckily, after triggering in me a spell of depression, he offered something akin to an apology - at least for him - and reassured me that the ritual he has planned does not in fact contain any risk of my being traded in for a new model. Great relief and outpouring of gratitude and affection.

Hot Jazz Saturday Night (WAMU-FM) is now playing I Can't Give You Anything but Love. For a sadist, of course, that won't do. He requires service. Obedience. Unquestioning submission.

Luckily, he enjoys my struggles.
And does treasure me.
So I'm safe.
For now.

But tired.
So enough for tonight.
Hope you all had a happy Thanksgiving - or at least a good weekend.

A perfect autumn day for a walk along a wooded, creek-side trail.
Alone.
And yet not.

He's always with me.
I always feel him with me.
I walk beside the creek and he is with me.

I talk to him in my head.
Especially when I'm out walking.
And now and then I stop and send him a message on my phone.
When the thoughts become too big to stay inside my head.

He rarely answers.
But I know he's with me.
I know he hears the soft whispers in his ear.
I know they make him smile.
And sometimes his cock will smile, too.

All along my walk were people walking their pets.
On leashes.
Dogs.
There could have been the other kind of pet, too.
My kind of pet.
But if I did pass any, they weren't on leashes.
Not physical ones, anyway.

I was on a leash.
I am always on a leash.
A chain.
The sadist holds one end in his hand.
The other end is locked around my neck.
Always.
Hard steel links that could be the softest silk.
Wherever I am
wherever he is
he holds me on his leash.

Exactly where we both want me to be.

This is not something I do.
This is what I am.
Deep inside and all over me,
this is what I am.

He is my life.
Everything else is secondary.

Well...
maybe not the cats...

Trapped

I learn this lesson again and again.
Each time there's a struggle.
A chasm.
A blow-out.
Each time he scares me by what is required.
Each time I scare him that I don't really mean it.

It truly is not a game.
It is very much for real.
I do belong to him.

There is no escaping it.
For either of us.

Ever.

Coming Out - but only so far

It's National Coming Out Day.
So I came out.
Sort of.
Part way.

A lot of my friends and "friends" already knew that I'm bi.
Some didn't but wouldn't really care one way or another.
I do have some ethnic friends who didn't know.
Attitudes in those circles aren't always so open.
But now they know.
That I'm bi.

I posted it on my Facebook page. It's a rather impassioned statement denying some myths about bisexuals and saying that I'm one. A friend shared it as her status and now I'm curious to see how long it takes to go around the world and back to us...

But I didn't tell everything.

A Famous BDSM Author has turned up in town and joined my shul. Of course, the whole list of Facebook friends knows that The Author is kinky, and no one is surprised about the sexual orientation, either. Still, I was jealous, wishing that I, too, could announce that I was kinky along with everything else.

But I didn't.
I don't.
Even though being submissive is far more for me than sex play.
It isn't play at all.
It's who I am.
How I am.
Whom I love.

So why is this so different from being bi or lesbian or whatever?
Partly because it just feels more... personal.
And partly because people would worry about me.

We've come a long way in our attitudes towards sexual orientation. But BDSM? A joke. Something to be sneered at, or to crop up on mainstream sex toy websites as pink furry handcuffs. Something really sick. Pink furry handcuffs? They might tease me. A certifiable sadist who leaves his knife in the car to protect me from himself?

What do you think?

So I made a big bold statement about bisexuals, which was in fact a really good thing to do. And it was good to be part of the stream of statements on this day - especially as I've never done it before. But I knew I was holding things back.

And I wish I didn't have to.

From behind the gauze curtain, the naked silhouette speaks

She confesses.
The title of this post means nothing.
But I wanted something more creative than"Update."
Or "Yes, I'm still here."

There's been this and that.
A cold.
Yom Kippur.
Continued cautious work on our relationship.

I was supposed to have been heading north this weekend on a ridiculous task for my parents, but happily my participation has been cancelled for a variety of reasons. However, that meant the fiend had not set aside time for a visit tomorrow - which is just as well as he is one of the few men I know not to claim that he never gets sick. So he wouldn't have come anyway. I don't know if he can manage a visit on any other day this week.

Things are still in one of their periodic states of flux. He is feeling sensitive, I think, and has told me to avoid words that imply ownership. So I address him as Sir and as Daddy. I am still his pet. I am still his little girl. There is still a struggle over one particular issue.

Leading up to Yom Kippur, I was very penitent and distressed at my role in our upheavals. He said I had nothing to atone to him for. I was touched. We both struggle - with what we feel, with what we expect, with what we hope for, and with who we are. I'm starting to believe those struggles will never end. Sometimes a hard steel wall comes down in front of my feelings, and I imagine myself walking away.

Eventually, always, I realize I can't.

I am who I am now because of him.
Because he freed me to be myself.
Because my service gives me strength.
Because he believes in me and wants me to believe in myself.

Yom Kippur was wonderful. All the High Holy Day services were particularly meaningful this year, on both a spiritual and a personal level. There was a theme of doubt and questioning and struggle and faith. Elie Wiesel said that without doubt there could be no faith. A new friend - a Jew by Choice (one of many in our GLBT congregation) - said that when she converted she was asked all sorts of questions but never whether she believed in God. As someone who is extremely uneasy about this whole God business, I found the whole discussion very comforting and accepting.

And as I write about it now, I find reassurance on a personal level as well. Perhaps the doubts, the struggles, with respect to exactly what the sadist sees me to be and expects me to do, perhaps these recurring upheavals make me stronger. Make my submission stronger. I am continually renewing the covenant. My submission, my devotion, my obedience, my service - none of this is taken for granted.

I suffer.
I struggle.
And when I kneel,
when I serve,
I yield with a clear mind
and a focused will.

Meanwhile, the sun returned.
And stayed out for days.
Where there is sun, there is hope.

There is also a scab on my left butt cheek from where the fiend bit me last week. We both hope it will leave a scar.

Is there a schedule for these upheavals?

No longer angel

no longer slave

I fold my useless wings

and mourn the broken chain.

Happiness eludes me.

I smile at ghosts of flowers

that whip around and slash my face with thorns.

Someone.

Please.

Give me a map.

Or maybe I’m deluded

and there is no path here after all.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There are issues. A standing, recurrent issue. It comes up again every so often. As it did this weekend. I keep disappointing him. And then we slowly work our way back, until things seem more glorious than ever, and then he again starts thinking about the part that doesn't meet his expectations, and grows angry, and nothing I can say will make it right. And then the cycle resumes. But it's wearing me out.

Or maybe it's just that it feels like it's been raining for 2 months now.

He needs to hurt me a little

He will hurt me tomorrow.
He needs to hurt me tomorrow.

A little.
He needs to hurt me a little.

I don't think "a little" refers to the extent of his need.

I'm... uneasy.

He says it will be "different."
I have no idea what that means.
I scare myself in speculation.

He understands my uneasiness, he says.
He'll try to be careful, he says.
I am his treasure.
I do not doubt that.
He will try to protect me.
But whatever he's going to do, it needs to be done.

It's all my fault, of course.
I knew this would happen.
Because I sent him a picture.

He had given me an assignment on Sunday. When I finished the task, I lay there naked on the bed, deep in that place. The laptop was open on the nightstand next to me, in case he e-mailed while I was working for him, but by the end the screen was black. Empty, except for my reflection as I lay there before it, posed like one of my beloved odalisque paintings. I wished he could see me. Right at that moment.

So I took a picture.
A lot of pictures, actually.
And sent him the best of the lot.
Ignoring the way the position made my neck folds sag.
Knowing what that view of me would do to him.

I know what he likes.
I know what gets to him.
This is part of my job.
As his pet.
As his slave.
To serve him.
To please him.
So I gave him what I know he likes.

And I knew he would want to hurt me.

So I have no one to blame but myself.

On top of which...

Well, you know.
He's going to hurt me.
In a different way than he has till now.
Which scares me.
And arouses me.
And that embarrasses me.

I won't like it while it's happening.
And I'm nervous about it now.
But I... I admit that I want it.
I want him to have that pleasure.
I want him to do to me what needs to be done.

I will offer myself without hesitation.
I will accept whatever he needs to do.
I will trust him to protect me.
I will scream and cry and tell him he's hurting me.

And after?
There will be that special intimacy that comes from his hurting me.
And I will be disgustingly, embarrassingly aroused by the memory.