The juicy stuff. You know you want it.

One of the Prime Directives which, I confess, I'm not always so good at observing:

     Give him what he wants.

     Not what he doesn't want.

I haven't been very good about that here, either.
First I give you nothing at all.
Then I blather about some married man nearly getting in trouble
because his wonderful wife is not where he is
and he's lonely for companionship.
How boring.

So I'll give you what you do want.
Just a small slice.

How we resumed our previous category of relationship after having been apart for over a year, followed by around 15 months as lovers.

Not sure what name to give the character of our relationship, as BDSM seems...
Inadequate.

And submission?
Something's missing from that term, too, although I can't nail down what.

In any case, a chance to return to that other way of being together was offered and gratefully, if nervously, accepted. Because, as he has always said and I agreed, this is not a game. Not for us. We're embarking back on it very seriously.

And there is real danger.

The Beast lurks, always lurks, though I've been warned not to refer to him by name and not to call to him. For various reasons, there are times when he can't be guaranteed to maintain control of his sadistic nature which is beyond someone who just enjoys inflicting pain as part of their sexual interactions. He loves me - he truly does love me and sometimes even manages to say the words. He doesn't want to risk injuring me, or doing something that would cause an irreparable destruction of the relationship.

"He."
I keep referring to him as "he."
I don't know what else to say.
I don't think of him as the Fiend anymore.
I don't really think of him as the Beast either - even if that name were not taboo.

We're going way, way back with my training, so I am not allowed to call him "my Master" anymore. Not there yet. And after years of calling him "Daddy" - which made us both feel ever so good - that's packed away for now. I may address him only as "Sir" but it seems weird to refer to him that way. So for now, it's just "he." "Him." No capital letter unless at the beginning of a sentence.

And today?
Today.

A ritual.
They always work so well.
Confession.
Punishment.
Forgiveness.

The confession pleased him.
I included the major sin which he was almost convinced I would omit.
And thus, my punishment was much lighter than he had planned.
Certainly lighter than I expected.
Which doesn't mean it was light.

He whipped my ass with his belt.
Hard.
Very hard, he says.
I was draped over a leather footstool and he beat me with great intent.
But he didn't lose control.

We continued in the bedroom.
Again, the belt.
On my ass, as I was bent over the foot of the bed, leaning on my forearms.

The belt.
One blow to each tit.

The belt.
Hard, between my spread legs on tissues that are much too tender to be treated that way.

And then?
The punishment was over.
He got in the bed, and had me get in, and held me to him while I sobbed, and he comforted me, and talked more about what had been said and what had been done.

And about love, too.

But the pain hadn't ended.
Hurting me for his pleasure.
As opposed to hurting me because It Needed To Be Done.

Whipping poor Pussy to make her swollen and sore, so she'd be extra tight around his cock and so it would hurt when he fucked me. Often he will spank her with his hand, hard, but this time he went back to whipping her with his belt. Hard. And then with the curled palm of his hand. Very hard. And I struggled so, because I'd made up my mind that I would not protect myself, that I would offer him whatever he felt I deserved and whatever would give him pleasure. But it hurt so much, God it hurt, the belt on top of the previous whipping, and then his hand on top of all that, and I couldn't bear it... I tried so hard to hold my legs open but our bodies must protect themselves and he was up on his knees looking down at me with a most fierce and determined expression and would have what he wanted and he pulled my legs apart, forced my legs apart, held my legs apart and I struggled but there was nothing I could do and he spanked me there over and over until I was almost beyond feeling it... everything was falling away and there was nothing but the pain and the helplessness... and I see him now. That image living in my brain.

And it's so vibrant.
So intense.
And I'm so grateful that he forced that pain on me.
So grateful that despite my struggles I offered it to him.
Willingly gave him my physical vulnerability along with the emotional.

And yes.
When he fucked me it hurt.
And yes.
I was red and tight and swollen inside.
And yes.
I whimpered and moaned and cried out that it hurt.
And he came with a roar.

And he loves me.

And no.
Of course I'm not allowed to cum.

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.

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! 

Iron rings in the concrete floor

Chains or rope?

That is the question.

Apart, yes. Lonely? No.

An Anonymous comment on yesterday's post asked:

No disrespect intended, but, are the four of you involved with married men? If you are, doesn't the loneliness outweigh any other benefit of the relationship? 

The sadist has an assortment of relationships, which serve his various needs. In fact, I'm very grateful for them. Certainly, you can understand my appreciation for his masochist slave, whose existence you've heard about before. Whose existence in physical fact saves my ass. My Master could never protect me to the extent he does without having his slave as an outlet for his most severe sadistic urges.

Lonely?
Not me.
Occasionally wanting more?
Sure.
Marriage to my Master?
Heaven help me, no way.
We are both very intense.
Very intense.
We'd combust.
I'd suffocate.
Think of a fine chocolate truffle.
High quality chocolate.
Dark chocolate, if it's for me.
Belgian, perhaps.
When you have one, you eat it slowly.
Savoring every mouthful.
The taste, the smoothness, the richness,
they linger in your mouth long after you're done.

But one truffle after another?
Throughout the day?
Every day?

Too much.
Too rich.
Too intense.

This isn't mere rationalization.
I'm not sure I'd want a regular boyfriend of any sort.
Or girlfriend, for that matter.

As it is, I have this intense relationship with an astonishing man. The connection is... probably not wholly explicable. And incredibly strong. Sometimes I think it would be nice to see him twice a week. But I'm not so sure. This way... it's not like we're only together during those couple of hours once a week.  We e-mail. We text. We feel each other. Plus it's not like I have no other life. No other interests. No friends. Certainly he has them. Not to mention the other submissives.

I've learned a lot from the sadist.

And confirmed my belief that there are many ways for people to be together. For all relationships as with those involving BDSM, it's about the people involved. What works for them. For some people this would not work. And I don't deny that there have been frustrating times. Like now. When he's been ill. But would I want to face him over the dinner table every night? Discuss utility bills? Know that he's heading out to beat the shit out of his masochist slave so he could suppress his desire to do it to me?

Then, I think, I'd be lonely.

The Soldiers' Whore - a story

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Love and lust and mutual mental masturbation

There's been a shift,
just the slightest change,
since my Master's last
implied confession
of his feelings
via a song he wanted me to hear.

Nothing major.
Not the kind of thing he has feared
in which the delicate balance of power
toppled
when my knowledge of his emotions
was added to one side.

I'm not even sure I can say exactly what it is. I certainly can't give a name to it. But it feels as if we're closer with the veil of pretense removed. I still and always will be on the controlled end of the chain. Neither of us would want it any other way, and he's right in think the relationship could not survive having it any other way. But it's almost as if a different sense of union has joined the D/s dynamic.

Which still doesn't seem like the right word.

Any suggestions?
I feel it so clearly inside.
In my head and my heart.
But I just can't pin it down.

It feels good, though.
Whatever it is.
And makes me feel both safer and bolder.
Isn't that nice?

Meanwhile, I almost came in my allergist's waiting room from the texts the fiend and I were exchanging. I can't believe no one noticed me writhing in my chair, pressing my pussy down into the seat, nearly moaning out load, and surely - oh definitely - grimacing as he described his exercise regimen in real time. (Ha! Surprised you! Doesn't sound a bit erotic, does it? Fat lot you know... we continued to make each other crazy all day, giving my plain white cotton panties a permanently sodden crotch. One touch and I would have cum screaming. If, that is, I were allowed. Which I'm not. There are many forms of torture...)

I'm so very happy.

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.

A gift

It's almost scary, what he said.
The offer to change.
Or if not necessarily change, at least to review.
To think about something he doesn't usually think about.

Because of me.
Because I'm important to him.
Because he wants me in his life.

His words made me breathless.

We are really so different, you know.
In so many ways.
If I made a list,
if I told my friends about him,
they wouldn't be able to see it.

How to explain what's inside?

And it's not just the D/s.  I really think it's more than that.  Although certainly the ways we relate on that level are pretty extraordinary.  But on the other hand, I made him crazy. Then again, maybe beyond-slaves always drive their Masters crazy.

There are many ways to say "I love you."

Negotiations

We're talking.
Dispassionately.

Dispassionately?
Yeah.
You're right.
There's no way we can be dispassionate.
We're much too intense.
In ourselves.
And about each other.

But we're trying.
And we'll come up with something.
Because we both care too much for it to be any other way.

And no, I'm really very sorry but I can't give you the details. Because a key part of it all would completely destroy his anonymity. In some ways, the details matter a lot. But in other ways, they don't. It's all about what's underneath.

It's always about what's underneath.
Trust.
Intimacy.
Passion.
Danger.
Love.
Whether or not any of those words are used.

Especially that last one.

Looming disaster. As always.

Of course... yes, of course, those who've been reading me for years should have seen this coming... while I've been waxing poetic over our relationship and the things he doesn't say, here off the page there's been a storm brewing. A lifting cloud for him, a flash of lightening for me, a new complication for us to face and discuss, a new reality to shake the ground.

And I'm so easily shaken. I start off, still floating, hovering over the perturbed sea, sure we can sort things out. Except that the more we allow comments to slip out our fingers onto the computer keys, the more we say things that don't have the effect we expect or intend.  And yes, I admit that my current hormonal condition, that every other week hormonal flare, has made me more prone to emotional turmoil.

Which of course makes him crazy.

I fully accept that dealing with me could make someone crazy.
Which is a pity.
Since till now he'd been feeling rather guilty.
Because the current problem is definitely his fault.
Which he knows.
And regrets.

And me?
So busy trying to keep things exactly the same,
so busy berating myself for my own part in it all,
and so busy trying to assure him of my love
that I can't allow myself to be justifiably pissed off.

Every time things are beautiful
poised in the air
posed in the light
peaceful and beautiful and sweet
something
always
happens.
It's in the stage directions.
Enter stage right.
Trouble.

The next Act is yet to be written.

She's so tight

"Where have you been?" they wonder.

Here.
There.
Around.
Living my life.

It's funny. I think of my relationship, which is still and always quite thoroughly a D/s relationships, and realize that it is also simultaneously more and more a relationship - unconventional as it may be. A committed relationship, without vows or rings and certainly without monogamy. But close and committed and intimate - not just physically intimate, either.

He has this fear that if he shows weakness, softness, vulnerability, I'll lose respect for him. It's not a totally stupid fear, as it was a way I have responded in the past to people who wanted me. A fear based on my own lack of respect for myself. "There must be something really wrong with him if he wants me that much."

A sudden realization... perhaps that's not a problem now because he has finally managed to make me believe in myself enough, to feel strong enough, that I don't feel threatened by someone who does want me that much.

In any case, it's not a problem now.
Not with him.
When he reveals his vulnerability, it makes me love him more.
Not that I didn't know it was there.
But when it's offered to me,
naked on a wooden plank,
knife by its side to use as I wish...

All I want to do is protect him.

So we've been living our lives.
Living our life.
With all our outside stresses inevitably impinging on our time together.
But we manage.

I am his refuge.
And he is my strength.

Both of my aged parents aren't well. My mom had the stroke I wrote of last spring, and 2 bouts of pneumonia, and what they're calling a silent heart attack. My dad was very ill with what may have been just a virus, but the high fever and just being in the hospital rendered him confused and sometimes downright hallucinatory. I was up visiting him a week ago and he kept trying to eat my hand. Very curious... He's coming out of it now, slowly, but when he finally leaves the hospital it's unlikely he'll go back to their apartment. Rather, he'll join my mom in the nursing wing of their continuing care place, leaving me and my sister to empty out the apartment and dispose of the stuff.

At least we are both very relaxed about all that and don't foresee any battles over who gets what. What a relief!

Of course, the fiend and I have our problems.
Old issues and new ones.

A brand new issue came to light the morning after he offered me that song that says what he will never say out of his own mouth. And he knows I'll laugh in his face (well, not really) if he denies the meaning of telling me to listen and then telling me to listen once more before trotting off to bed. There is no way he can claim he doesn't mean what he had to be meaning.

I'm happy.
Problems and all,
I'm happy.

We are so different in so many ways, we are probably protected by not being able to have a standard relationship because it would surely crash and split apart on the rocks of our differences. But now... what we are... what we are for each other... what we give each other...

[Excuse me while I go all moony for a bit.]

OK, that's enough. I have things to do before people come for tonight's debate party.

Oh?
You were wondering about the title of this post?

Ah yes.
Something he wanted you to know.

Tell them, he said.
Tell them you are very tight.
And not,
he said,
merely tight for someone your age.

So there.

PS - I lost 12 pounds in 6 weeks.

St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon

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Passion

Passion, he said.
That may be the rarest, most valuable thing I have introduced into your life.

I thought there was passion before, I wrote back.
But not like this.
Never like this.

Passion, he said later, in an unexpected late-night phone call.
Most people don't have it.
They have love.
But rarely passion.

Passion.
It's different from hunger.
Different from love.
Different from feverish sexual desire.
And he's right.
I know he's right.
Before,
before,
I never knew it before.

And now,
when we kiss,
streams of passion stream from our lips
leaving steaming puddles around us on the bed.

Summoned

We're working our way back.

Slowly working our way back towards where we were before the weekend we went away. Before the weekend when the beast bared his fangs, dripping with saliva, devoid of conscience.

Today, for the first time since that trip, he said the magic words.

Good girl.

But let's back up.

Saturday afternoon, the truth dawned.
A very telling truth.
Because consider this.
We were in such a place that we
each
could assume the other had decided to walk away.

A very sad state of affairs.

But there we were, on Saturday, realizing that he thought I had stopped communicating while I had thought he had stopped communicating.

I screwed up.
I really did screw up.

1. his statement when we began - that if I violated a certain rule (a very understandable rule with which I have no argument whatsoever) he would end it without another word - applied to one particular issue. One particular case. One particular topic. Very clearly defined. There was no reason for me to think it applied to anything else.

2. mostly because he is so busy and has so many responsibilities, it has happened before that he has gone more than a day without writing. In which case, when it has gone on so long that I'm worried something has happened to him or Yahoo has turned on him again or I unwittingly said something really wrong, I WRITE HIM and say Daddy? Is everything OK? Which is a perfectly reasonable thing for one person to say to another when they are in an intimate relationship. Even when it's a D/s relationship, and one that's as intense as ours obviously is.

But the various responses we had to our night away set this up.
And we each were hurting.
Badly.

He...

To understand how much I hurt him... making him think I had left... realizing how much I mean to him... not only did I feel terrible at having hurt him that way, but to know I could hurt him that way... to know I met that much to him.

I'm not used to meaning that much to someone.
It's hard for me to absorb.

Back to the weekend.

Saturday afternoon, we sorted it out.
I wrote my post.
And then wrote a long apology.
Which I couldn't send till the next morning.
Because he didn't want to hear any more from me that night.

The next morning, there was a one word message from around 1:30 am, asking why he should devote any more time to me.

Damn, I thought.
I thought we were going to be OK.
But I know what happens to him in the middle of the night.
I know what can happen as he lies awake in his bed.

I sent off my apology, and then tried to formulate an answer to his question. Obviously not an easy assignment. It's hard not to sound false when you're writing. Then a message came. Saying to stop trying to answer last night's message. He'd give me a chance to apologize in person. And to get him off.

I was to meet him at 11 am in a parking lot in his town.
Shorts and t-shirt.
No bra.

Which gave me just enough time to shower, dress, feed the cats, and snarf down enough breakfast to allow me to take my usual morning handful of medications. Luckily, as I'm finally losing some of my winter weight, I was able to fit into some very short shorts and a sweet little black short-sleeved sweater with a low neck that I had bought for his pleasure because it buttons all the way down the front. No bra as ordered. Also no panties. And a cute pair of Dansko heels.

He really likes tops that can be unbuttoned all the way down.
And he really likes me in heels.

I arrived early.
I waited in the parking lot of a sort-of fast food restaurant.
The parking lot was almost deserted,
as was the lot of the entire mall.
It didn't feel it ever had a lot of cars.

At 11, he pulled up alongside me and motioned me into his car. As I approached, I slowed down to make sure he saw how little of my body was covered with cloth.

I got in.
Not a word.
He drove towards the mall stores and then back around to the garbage dumpsters.

He left the car running.
We'd need the air conditioning.

He opened his fly and pulled out his cock.

With my hand,
with my mouth,
I did what I do so well.
What he trained me to do.
How to please him
HIM.
Not just any man.
HIM.

We all have our preferences.

And I blubbered, sobbing wildly.
I don't know if I've ever cried like that before.
Because I felt
so
fucking
bad!

We'd both messed up,
we both made faulty assumptions,
we were both so damn vulnerable
because we both care too much
that we each were open to the idea that
we'd obviously
been rejected
by the other.

Make sense?

Well, yes, I guess, if you are at all vulnerable and at some level can't believe that the one who claims to care really does.

So oh my God I cried and sobbed and was at least mildly hysterical as I sucked and jerked and really, it was the best thing that could have happened because there is NO WAY that anyone could have doubted my sincerity.

No way.

And he did cum.
In a reasonable amount of time.

This wasn't like one of his visits where the idea is to extend his pleasure for as long as his cock and his schedule will allow. This was an event with a goal. And the faster we achieved it, the better.

Actually, two goals.

Get him off.
And prove my sincerity.

He still sounded angry when he drove me back around the parking lot and delivered me at my car. But the process had begun. Cautiously, we started working our way back. And unlikely as it may seem, I could sense a difference in tone from the week before in the emailed instructions he sent that night.

And today?

Ah, today.
Tonight.
A little bit of the Daddy I had said I was missing.
Something interesting from his work day.
And a request for help in finding a long-lost song

I appreciated the incident from work.

And I found the song!
Found the song
and a great music video.

He'd been looking for the song for years.
And I found it.
He was very pleased.
He said he was pleased.

And then

in a separate message

this:

...

 

...  Good girl

I am a very happy pet.
And I think we'll be OK.


PS - To avoid any similar misunderstandings, he instructed me NEVER to stop writing. It didn't matter if he took an hour, a day, a week, or a year to reply. I was NOT to stop writing. No confusion there. And very reassuring.

Technological sabotage? Or brain death?

Thank you, Travis Tritt.

Can we put this one down to a failure at Yahoo?
Or just to a misunderstanding on my part?
I don't know.
I just don't know.
But I was moping around this afternoon,
trying to nap this afternoon,
listening to songs that made me cry,
or songs that crying makes me want to listen to,
and I couldn't help myself.

Even knowing (or thinking I knew) that he had chosen to turn his back and walk away because something I said distressed him so much, I couldn't stand to not reach out. I was listening to Travis Tritt sing Anymore, which makes me cry under the best of circumstances, and then subjected myself to whatever else on the same album of greatest hits seemed to fit my mood. Proving, I guess, that I'm a masochist after all. Emotionally, any way. Eventually, I hit Tell Me I was Dreaming.

Tell me I was dreaming  
That you didn't leave me here to cry  
You didn't say you don't love me anymore  
And it was just my imagination telling lies

And then?

I sent him the link to the song.

Because I couldn't stand the silence.

He responded with Dylan's You're a Big Girl Now.

I’m going out of my mind, oh, oh
With a pain that stops and starts
Like a corkscrew to my heart
Ever since we’ve been apart

My reply: My World is Empty Without You.

Shorthand.

Powerful.

But not the main point.

Here's the main point.

He said it had been my choice.

That I had stopped communicating.

Which I hadn't.

Or didn't think I had.

In fact, I thought it was HE who had gone silent,

in displeasure over my message of Thursday night.

I didn't go silent.

I heard nothing in reply but didn't go silent.

I sent a brief good morning on Friday,

and then heard nothing all day.

And nothing today.

I thought he had gone silent.

With displeasure.

Perhaps he just had nothing to say, and expected me to keep reporting in. Perhaps I was so upset Thursday night that I couldn't imagine his not responding in some way - whereas in fact it's true that sometimes he just doesn't respond. If he has nothing to contribute, he doesn't respond. Thinking about it more as I write here, he was probably just ignoring what he saw as a tantrum and expecting me to carry on with my assignment.

Without complaining.

Even as I write, it becomes clearer. 

It's not even what I thought as we wrote back and forth today.

I thought he must not have gotten my messages.

Maybe he didn't get the Thursday night message.

Or the Friday good morning.

That's what I assumed.

Whereas in fact he was just ignoring my emotional outburst.

Which was probably just as well.

Had my brain shut down due to the extreme heat?

Could be.

It was hovering almost to 100 the last few days.

This is how it happens.

Again and again, this is how it happens.

It's more likely to be misunderstandings than anything else.

And I was so upset Thursday night

that I didn't even realize the fault was mine.

Even as, this afternoon, he gave me the chance to beg to be allowed to crawl back, I couldn't understand why he was pissed with me when I was sure it was just a matter of lost messages. It has happened before. Yahoo (which I don't use) can really mess up sometimes. But it wasn't that at all. He was Daddy, waiting for his little girl to settle down and get back to my chores, eventually thinking I had run away from home, and feeling the hurt and rejection that I felt when I thought he had been the one to walk away.

I'm not to bother him again tonight.

We'll see what happens when we talk again tomorrow.

Oh.

And the last song I offered?

After the begging?

Love Has No Pride.

But if you want me to beg,

I'll fall down on my knees.

Asking for you to come back.

I'd be pleading for you to come back.

Begging for you to come back to me.

Choosing the Beast

 It didn't really end that way, of course.

That whole turn-into-a-prince thing.

And frankly, the prince seems rather insipid,
his face exaggerated in its handsomeness,
his clothes too ornate by half.
He seems too full of himself.
Lacking humility.
Lacking vulnerability.

Vulnerability can be as lethal as raking claws and tearing jaws.

And la Bête (the Beast - it's a French film, Jean Cocteau, you really should see it if you haven't) - la Bête certainly has vulnerability. You can see it in his eyes. Especially when she catches him after he's been feeding on his prey. He is mortified to be seen in all his need. And clearly now believes there's no hope she can ever love him.

Don't try to change your beloved into someone else, they always say. It won't work. It can't work. It's bound to lead to disaster.

But behaviour can change. 
Attitudes can change.
Adjustments can be made.
Acceptance can be found.

What would be a truer ending, then?
No unnatural transformation.
The magic of her loving him as he is - that's magic enough.
Why water it down by giving her something else?
It's all about sex, anyway.
Learning to love his animal nature.
Don't prettify it.
Sex can be sweet and gentle.
Sex can be rough and wild.
Passion, need, they take many forms.
We need to embrace them all.

But Beauty,
la Belle,
better perhaps were she spared the sight of your teeth
shredding the corpse of your latest catch.
She'll gladly leave a portion of the forest to your hunt,
and you'll try your best not to rip out her throat.

Seems a fair exchange, don't you think?

But both parties need to sign the contract,
and nothing can happen
if la Bête persists
in saying the cause is lost.

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?

I refuse to issue a DNR

His fears are the same as mine.
I knew they would be.
The foundation is shaken.
Bricks will fall off.
One problem gives rise to another.

All day, we each lived with the dread.

Tonight, he finally wrote.
He said he'd been feeling like a doctor watching a patient to die.

I can't believe it's hopeless.
We've been through so many crises.
And each time we come out stronger.
Closer.
More intimate.
More open.

Even he,
this dom,
this sadist,
has opened more and more peepholes into his vulnerability.
Which only made me love him more.

Damn.

I can NOT believe we're doomed.

Come on, Doctor.
Don't you have a new wonder drug?

Pathology

We've been talking.
Seriously.
About safety.
Physical safety.
Mine.

What happened this weekend wasn't all that bad.
But it scared me.
Not just what he did.
What scares me more is this.
Sometimes I don't know who he is.

It doesn't happen all the time we're together.
It doesn't happen all the time he hurts me.
And sometimes, when he hurts me,
he takes me to that place,
and then we are closer than ever.

But not when the beast shows up.
The beast knows only hunger.
The beast doesn't give a shit about intimacy.

It's an illusion, of course, to speak of the beast. It's a convention when we use that other name he has for the predator within. Even to say "within" is softening the truth. Which is the man and which is the mask? Or do both of them constantly wrestle inside him?

I've spoken of this before. Of how this isn't a game. When I say "we don't play," I'm not being snobbish about those who use that term for their S&M interactions, or those who go to clubs and do their thing in public. (Well, OK, maybe a little, which isn't worthy of me and for that I apologize.) I've tried to give you the truth of it. Of who he is and what I am risking, without another incident of people rushing in, trying to interfere, wanting to track me down, call the police. Wanting to protect me.

Don't even bother.
This is my life.
This is our relationship.
And we're trying to find away.

He is trying to protect me.

There's a sick irony to it all.
It's because he cares for me that he wants to hurt me.
Really hurt me.
But because he cares for me,
really cares for me,
he doesn't want to harm me.

The problem is, he can't always stop.
The problem is, he doesn't always know he's crossed the line.

So we talked.
Seriously.
By e-mail.
Which makes it easier for me to be honest.
Though it's so hard to be honest.
Because how do you tell someone you love,
someone who cares for you,
that sometimes you don't recognize him?

Because of course the underlying message is obvious:
when you don't recognize him,
you don't love him.

He likes to hear me say I love him.
He says: "Say it."
And I know what he means.
This time, there was something different.
"Say it," he said,
after I had.
"But this time, without the 'Daddy.'"

So I said it.
Not: I love you, Daddy.
Just: I love you.
No honorific.
No obscuring title.
Just a naked declaration
and his desire
for a naked declaration.
There was a statement in there.
But already, he was going into his dark place.
It was like a werewolf movie,
watching him change,
watching the hair sprout.
And soon it became very hard to honestly say the words.

So we're talking.
And tonight he made an offer.
Trying to find something that might help.
Something that might make problems less likely.

Of course I've read all about it.
Because this isn't just a matter of enjoying kinky sex.
And as far as I can tell,
there's no effective treatment
and there is
no
cure.

But there's a difference between this man and what you may read about in case studies. He does have a conscience. He does have regrets. Once he realizes, once the obscuring fog clears, he does have regrets.

He likes to pride himself on being a predator.
A master manipulator.
But I don't feel that's what he's up to here.
He's offering a sacrifice.
Whatever I feel is right.
And the sacrifice entails another sacrifice.

No more overnights off-site.

Does that mean he would ever spend the night here?
I doubt it.
He never has.
Can't see it happening.
And maybe it's safer that way, too.
Maybe those very long visits present more time for going off-script.
Because of course he plans his visits carefully.
Not that he can always stick to the plan.
But there's not that much room for improvisation within a couple of hours.
Not like having all night -
and then the next morning
for a quick rough fuck
with a crack-of-dawn hard-on.

But can't you see?
Can't you see how this man of the masks
is tearing at my heart?
Because he cares that much
that his dreams make him sick,
his fantasies make him worry,
and his deeds
make him curse
what he is.

And even given who he is,
what he is,
the limits of who we are together,
he has done more for me,
does more for me,
more to show me that I am cared for,
more to prove that I am treasured,
than anyone -
ANYONE -
who has ever said in so many words that he loves me.

And so we struggle on.

Because there's one pain I'm not ready to face:

the pain of walking away.