I'm writing for my Master tonight.
He knows that I've been writing again.
Writing here.
Writing at all.
And given that he owns me
he thinks - rightfully so -
that he has a right to some of my produce.
The fruits of his fields.
It's a collaborative effort. He is presenting me with little scenarios, each involving one of his friends, and I am to finish the scenes. He plants the seeds, partially sprouted, and I shine my light on them until they blossom into a small pornographic gem.
There is a bondage component to the exercise.
I am allowed only 3-4 sentences.
He is a cruel man, my Master.
It's not for nothing that I call him the sadist.
He is one.
In many different ways.
How lucky I am!
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Monday, November 4, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
No new tales of torture today
Just stopping by to say hello.
Keeping up the rhythm.
Posting every day.
Well...
Almost every day.
Still, that's pretty good.
Though I could use some encouragement.
Any of my old readers out there?
Please wave your hands and say "Present."
At the very least.
We thank you for your participation.
And so,
good night.
o.g.
Keeping up the rhythm.
Posting every day.
Well...
Almost every day.
Still, that's pretty good.
Though I could use some encouragement.
Any of my old readers out there?
Please wave your hands and say "Present."
At the very least.
We thank you for your participation.
And so,
good night.
o.g.
Monday, May 27, 2013
A lesson for myself
So here I am. Trying to get back to blogging regularly, to get back to writing, with more concern about regularity than about the quality of what I produce. (Note, please, how I hold back the urge towards scatological word play as I see the previous sentence take shape - and how I cheat by pointing out the lurking pun. Another sign of how I was designed to have a master.)
Where was I?
I'm so easily distracted.
I want to blog daily.
I failed on the third day.
Here comes the challenge.
Another temptation to fight.
Just because on the third day I couldn't manage to create even a small gathering of words, let alone earth and plants and all that grand stuff, doesn't mean I should walk away from my ever so meager project. So today I'm back.
And again
I hope
tomorrow.
And Wednesday?
I'm off to Nashville!
Where was I?
I'm so easily distracted.
I want to blog daily.
I failed on the third day.
Here comes the challenge.
Another temptation to fight.
Just because on the third day I couldn't manage to create even a small gathering of words, let alone earth and plants and all that grand stuff, doesn't mean I should walk away from my ever so meager project. So today I'm back.
And again
I hope
tomorrow.
And Wednesday?
I'm off to Nashville!
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Making an effort
Can I do it?
Can I return here each day?
Can I leave a little note
just to say I was here,
like the memories of kisses
and the blush of spanked buttocks
that remain behind when the man
departs
and scents and love linger?
At least
I can try.
Discipline is good for me.
That we know.
Can I return here each day?
Can I leave a little note
just to say I was here,
like the memories of kisses
and the blush of spanked buttocks
that remain behind when the man
departs
and scents and love linger?
At least
I can try.
Discipline is good for me.
That we know.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Beaten butt update. PLUS Honored Again!
Yes, it still hurts.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Sex and poetry and prose
Sometimes,
not often enough,
I post things here.
Sometimes it's poetry.
Sometimes it's prose.
And sometimes
it's poetry
that looks
like prose.
When I write that way, it's not that I want you to think it's a poem. I'm pretty clear - in my own mind anyway - about when what I'm writing is a poem. I don't always know where it's going, what it will end up saying, but I do know when I mean it to be a poem.
Other pieces, though, are - and were always meant to be - prose. But they're more than just the words. The words have different weight, different meaning, depending on how they're said. The line breaks, the alliteration I can't resist, they make you stop. Listen. Turn back and think again.
A recent article in the New York Times on-line discusses the power of poetry to make us stop and listen and think. To consider the words and images in a different way.
As an example, the authors cite a project which took posts from the Craigslist "Missed Connections" category and transformed them into poetry by inserting line and stanza breaks. The words weren't changed, but the line splits triggered phrasing changes, which accented different words and - yes - altered our understanding of what was said in the first place.
The article is called Philosophy and the Poetic Imagination. Do go for the general discussion as well as for the authors' analysis of the following, which, yes, began life on Craigslist. The title of the poem was the subject line of the post.
And the sex I mentioned in my own subject line?
False representation.
A loss leader.
There hasn't been any sex.
Not for a while.
Not for me.
Not for the drunk Irish guy.
Or for my Irish guy.
Poor Daddy.
Poor me.
We just have to wait
and write about poetry
and talk about music
and think about sex.
And each other.
not often enough,
I post things here.
Sometimes it's poetry.
Sometimes it's prose.
And sometimes
it's poetry
that looks
like prose.
When I write that way, it's not that I want you to think it's a poem. I'm pretty clear - in my own mind anyway - about when what I'm writing is a poem. I don't always know where it's going, what it will end up saying, but I do know when I mean it to be a poem.
Other pieces, though, are - and were always meant to be - prose. But they're more than just the words. The words have different weight, different meaning, depending on how they're said. The line breaks, the alliteration I can't resist, they make you stop. Listen. Turn back and think again.
A recent article in the New York Times on-line discusses the power of poetry to make us stop and listen and think. To consider the words and images in a different way.
In our view, part of what makes language artistic is that we have to explore it actively in order to appreciate it. We may have to look beneath the surface, and think harder about what images the author has used, who the author purports to be, and even how the language is organized. These efforts can lead to new insights, new perspectives and new experiences.
As an example, the authors cite a project which took posts from the Craigslist "Missed Connections" category and transformed them into poetry by inserting line and stanza breaks. The words weren't changed, but the line splits triggered phrasing changes, which accented different words and - yes - altered our understanding of what was said in the first place.
The article is called Philosophy and the Poetic Imagination. Do go for the general discussion as well as for the authors' analysis of the following, which, yes, began life on Craigslist. The title of the poem was the subject line of the post.
Drunk Irish Guy to the Girl in the Red Tights on the Subway to Queens
drunk irish guy
to the girl in the red tights
on the subway to queens
i really hope
I did not creep you out…
I was so drunk
and you were so hot…
I wish I could have met you
at a different moment
and a different place.
And the sex I mentioned in my own subject line?
False representation.
A loss leader.
There hasn't been any sex.
Not for a while.
Not for me.
Not for the drunk Irish guy.
Or for my Irish guy.
Poor Daddy.
Poor me.
We just have to wait
and write about poetry
and talk about music
and think about sex.
And each other.
Friday, July 13, 2012
He says it with songs
I won't see him this weekend.
He's going out of town.
And then tomorrow I'm going out of town.
And then we're both in town
but the weekend after he's away
and the next two weekends I'm away...
It sucks sometimes.
Not a very poetic statement but why be poetic?
There was one real advantage to being unemployed.
It was easier to be together.
We had a lot more options.
Which reminds me.
Since I've been so stingy with my posts, head on over to the home of the Erotiterrorist and take a look at this suggestion for a story. Or a novel. Or a series. Trailer Park of Bondage. It reminds me of what Remittance Girl said in a review of a book that was billed as a well-written version of Fifty Shades of Grey: "Had this been a novel about two realistic, imperfect, damaged souls who struggled to negotiate a sexual and emotional relationship in the wake of those experiences, it would have been a very good, and very hot, novel." A statement that inspired me to start a piece that I think has potential but I was at work so couldn't keep at it for 3-4 hours and get the first draft churned out. So it is languishing.
I refuse to talk here about Fifty Shades of Grey.
Except to say that it, too, sucks.
Big time.
I'm avoiding what I actually came here to write about.
He's going out of town.
If I weren't going to be away next weekend it wouldn't be so bad. I get an extra day to try and get things done. Like clean the house. Pay my bills. Refinance my mortgage to include the massive debt I amassed during 17 months of unemployment and 8 months without a rent-paying housemate.
Happily, I have a new housemate arriving late August.
A woman.
Someone I know from a long time ago.
Someone I like.
Someone the cats like.
Why am I avoiding the reason for the post?
Because it's so personal.
Because he laid himself bare.
Without using his own words.
I asked him to give me some songs for the weekend. He likes to do that, compile songs for me to listen to. I always read too much into the lyrics. Or maybe I don't.
This time
with some of the songs,
I don't think I did.
And no.
I won't name the songs he gave me.
He gave me the list and then said: I spoil you.
And when I was done listening, I had to agree.
It was an amazing gift.
I won't list the songs.
We deserve some privacy.
But the last one was by Johnny Mathis.
And I'll listen again
in my bed
in the dark
and it will play all night in my dreams.
He's going out of town.
And then tomorrow I'm going out of town.
And then we're both in town
but the weekend after he's away
and the next two weekends I'm away...
It sucks sometimes.
Not a very poetic statement but why be poetic?
There was one real advantage to being unemployed.
It was easier to be together.
We had a lot more options.
Which reminds me.
Since I've been so stingy with my posts, head on over to the home of the Erotiterrorist and take a look at this suggestion for a story. Or a novel. Or a series. Trailer Park of Bondage. It reminds me of what Remittance Girl said in a review of a book that was billed as a well-written version of Fifty Shades of Grey: "Had this been a novel about two realistic, imperfect, damaged souls who struggled to negotiate a sexual and emotional relationship in the wake of those experiences, it would have been a very good, and very hot, novel." A statement that inspired me to start a piece that I think has potential but I was at work so couldn't keep at it for 3-4 hours and get the first draft churned out. So it is languishing.
I refuse to talk here about Fifty Shades of Grey.
Except to say that it, too, sucks.
Big time.
I'm avoiding what I actually came here to write about.
He's going out of town.
If I weren't going to be away next weekend it wouldn't be so bad. I get an extra day to try and get things done. Like clean the house. Pay my bills. Refinance my mortgage to include the massive debt I amassed during 17 months of unemployment and 8 months without a rent-paying housemate.
Happily, I have a new housemate arriving late August.
A woman.
Someone I know from a long time ago.
Someone I like.
Someone the cats like.
Why am I avoiding the reason for the post?
Because it's so personal.
Because he laid himself bare.
Without using his own words.
I asked him to give me some songs for the weekend. He likes to do that, compile songs for me to listen to. I always read too much into the lyrics. Or maybe I don't.
This time
with some of the songs,
I don't think I did.
And no.
I won't name the songs he gave me.
He gave me the list and then said: I spoil you.
And when I was done listening, I had to agree.
It was an amazing gift.
I won't list the songs.
We deserve some privacy.
But the last one was by Johnny Mathis.
And I'll listen again
in my bed
in the dark
and it will play all night in my dreams.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Please say you like me!
Those submissives, you are thinking.
Always so needy.
Always needing approval.
Down on their knees, begging for those magic words.
"Good girl."
Well...
yes.
But not only.
There's this top sex bloggers thing.
Last year, completely to my surprise, I ended up on the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2010. I didn't even know I'd been nominated, and only found out I'd been included (at #34) when my stats shot up like a runaway helium balloon. I felt honored. And moved. Especially because what I do is rather different from what you'll find on most sex-related blogs. BDSM or otherwise.
It wasn't just the honor.
It wasn't just the new readers.
There were the unexpected extras.
The invitations to test drive sex toys.
And my favorite:
a request to submit comments for a journalism textbook
on writing about sex.
Very thought-provoking.
So who can be surprised?
I'm a greedy little thing.
I want more.
And as some of you may have noticed elsewhere, the call for nominations is out. So if you happen to particularly like what I do here - and/or particularly like what some other bloggers are doing - go here to get all the rules and details and then make your nominations for the Top Sex Bloggers of 2011. As rule #6 says: "You can nominate as many bloggers as you like, but please try to limit to your very favorites."
Just please don't dawdle.
Nominations close August 31.
And if I'm one of your very favorites - let them know!
[shameless... I know... ]
Always so needy.
Always needing approval.
Down on their knees, begging for those magic words.
"Good girl."
Well...
yes.
But not only.
There's this top sex bloggers thing.
Last year, completely to my surprise, I ended up on the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2010. I didn't even know I'd been nominated, and only found out I'd been included (at #34) when my stats shot up like a runaway helium balloon. I felt honored. And moved. Especially because what I do is rather different from what you'll find on most sex-related blogs. BDSM or otherwise.
It wasn't just the honor.
It wasn't just the new readers.
There were the unexpected extras.
The invitations to test drive sex toys.
And my favorite:
a request to submit comments for a journalism textbook
on writing about sex.
Very thought-provoking.
So who can be surprised?
I'm a greedy little thing.
I want more.
And as some of you may have noticed elsewhere, the call for nominations is out. So if you happen to particularly like what I do here - and/or particularly like what some other bloggers are doing - go here to get all the rules and details and then make your nominations for the Top Sex Bloggers of 2011. As rule #6 says: "You can nominate as many bloggers as you like, but please try to limit to your very favorites."
Just please don't dawdle.
Nominations close August 31.
And if I'm one of your very favorites - let them know!
[shameless... I know... ]
Monday, June 27, 2011
The blog as poetry, not documentary
He doesn't remember saying them.
Those three magic words plus one.
Which doesn't surprise me at all.
He certainly didn't say them as if it were some big admission. He didn't say them as if he expected a huge emotional reaction from me. And he didn't get one. Even after, I haven't been obsessing over it, although I was curious what his response would be when I told him that I'd heard it.
And he didn't remember.
Which is no surprise.
Given the amount he drank that night.
So don't make too big a deal of it.
Cause I'm not.
He's fond of me.
That's enough.
I'm amused more than anything, with no expectations of flowers and chocolates. Definitely not chocolates, given the diet and diabetes issues. Though eventually I might be allowed an occasional small square of of super dark chocolate. Yum...
Something you all should keep in mind.
Mainly, I write this blog for myself.
It's good for me to write regularly.
And talking and writing is how I process things.
Sometimes I figure things out as I say them.
But sometimes I write mainly for you.
To amuse you.
To entertain you.
At times deliberately to arouse you.
And at times to feed your romantic streak.
So I might present things through trick glasses that fill the scene with hearts and flowers and moony eyes. The view you then get is to some extent mine, and very little his. I've given the warning before, that you need to remember that I'm a writer. I select, I edit, I embellish, I leave things out.
And I'm a poet.
I do things with words.
My life is my raw material.
My blog is not a photograph.
It's an impressionist painting.
Even so-called reality shows have writers.
Those three magic words plus one.
Which doesn't surprise me at all.
He certainly didn't say them as if it were some big admission. He didn't say them as if he expected a huge emotional reaction from me. And he didn't get one. Even after, I haven't been obsessing over it, although I was curious what his response would be when I told him that I'd heard it.
And he didn't remember.
Which is no surprise.
Given the amount he drank that night.
So don't make too big a deal of it.
Cause I'm not.
He's fond of me.
That's enough.
I'm amused more than anything, with no expectations of flowers and chocolates. Definitely not chocolates, given the diet and diabetes issues. Though eventually I might be allowed an occasional small square of of super dark chocolate. Yum...
Something you all should keep in mind.
Mainly, I write this blog for myself.
It's good for me to write regularly.
And talking and writing is how I process things.
Sometimes I figure things out as I say them.
But sometimes I write mainly for you.
To amuse you.
To entertain you.
At times deliberately to arouse you.
And at times to feed your romantic streak.
So I might present things through trick glasses that fill the scene with hearts and flowers and moony eyes. The view you then get is to some extent mine, and very little his. I've given the warning before, that you need to remember that I'm a writer. I select, I edit, I embellish, I leave things out.
And I'm a poet.
I do things with words.
My life is my raw material.
My blog is not a photograph.
It's an impressionist painting.
Even so-called reality shows have writers.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
My Master. His slave.
Wisely, my Master has pulled back from showering me with expressions of his affection. We had both seen how it triggered a neurotic distancing reaction on my part which nearly destroyed the relationship. (We come up with so many ways to threaten our relationship. Probably because everything we do, as the sadist noted yesterday, is so intense. We don't seem to be capable of anything else.)
So no more playlists of romantic songs.
No more...
I can't reduce the way he was into a simple list. And it's too sad to think about their having been locked up. Although not completely. There was, for example, that Goethe quote he sent me. And there is the way he can be with me, a way that is not new but which now I can see for what it is. My confusion is gone, the back and forth between thinking he had feelings for me and thinking I must be believing my own fantasies. It's not a fantasy. He does have those feelings. But, as he put it, that's just not a way it is safe for him to be with me.
But for all he says that our physical relationship is based solely on his deriving pleasure from me, there are times...
On Tuesday, there were times that he felt like a lover. When he lay beside me on the futon, when our bodies spoke to each other in comfort and desire and delight. When I was on my knees beside him after he came, me on my knees with my arms around him and my head in his lap as he sat in his chair and he stroked my head... gently... at length... with such tenderness...
I felt that.
I felt a closeness.
And it didn't make my head do anything weird.
I felt we were lovers.
I felt we were friends.
And I felt - I knew - I know that he truly is my Master in a way that neither of us can define nor do we need to.
It is true.
It is real.
He is my Master.
I am [and I shiver here at the beauty of it] his slave.
These are not words that have been stuck on us.
These are states of being that we have come to.
Don't try to slot them into Master/slave discussions.
It won't work.
We feel that this is what we are.
We know that this is who we are.
It is not a game.
There is not suddenly a new list of duties and rules.
It just
is.
We are.
This post started out with a different title and a different aim. I had called it "My Master, my lover." But you know, I start writing and I never quite know where I'll end up.
Recipe swap, anyone?
So no more playlists of romantic songs.
No more...
I can't reduce the way he was into a simple list. And it's too sad to think about their having been locked up. Although not completely. There was, for example, that Goethe quote he sent me. And there is the way he can be with me, a way that is not new but which now I can see for what it is. My confusion is gone, the back and forth between thinking he had feelings for me and thinking I must be believing my own fantasies. It's not a fantasy. He does have those feelings. But, as he put it, that's just not a way it is safe for him to be with me.
But for all he says that our physical relationship is based solely on his deriving pleasure from me, there are times...
On Tuesday, there were times that he felt like a lover. When he lay beside me on the futon, when our bodies spoke to each other in comfort and desire and delight. When I was on my knees beside him after he came, me on my knees with my arms around him and my head in his lap as he sat in his chair and he stroked my head... gently... at length... with such tenderness...
I felt that.
I felt a closeness.
And it didn't make my head do anything weird.
I felt we were lovers.
I felt we were friends.
And I felt - I knew - I know that he truly is my Master in a way that neither of us can define nor do we need to.
It is true.
It is real.
He is my Master.
I am [and I shiver here at the beauty of it] his slave.
These are not words that have been stuck on us.
These are states of being that we have come to.
Don't try to slot them into Master/slave discussions.
It won't work.
We feel that this is what we are.
We know that this is who we are.
It is not a game.
There is not suddenly a new list of duties and rules.
It just
is.
We are.
This post started out with a different title and a different aim. I had called it "My Master, my lover." But you know, I start writing and I never quite know where I'll end up.
Recipe swap, anyone?
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Poetic pervert at work
I'm supposed to remember that everything I do is in service of my Lord, and that I need to keep doing things to please him. Like writing. I'm supposed to have something to recite for him every time he visits, but I'd been letting that slide lately. I was just lucky that he hadn't been asking for anything. However, my recent recitation of the Shakespeare sonnet reminded him. Plus my writing was what drew him to me in the first place. My being a champion cocksucker was an unexpected feature that was not in the original specs.
So.
Poems.
I have a hard time writing poems purely because the schedule says "In this time slot you must write a poem." Yeah, right. Write. Not likely. I need to be inspired. An image needs to invade my brain. The March of the Metaphors, armed and dangerous. Marauding soldiers, raping my brain, until 9 hours later I give birth to a poem.
Otherwise, it's a case of artificial insemination.
Not anywhere near as much pleasure in that.
Except so many times there is the initial inspiration, followed by a few lines, and then it goes dormant. More like a plant in winter than a baby. Every so often I have to go back out to the greenhouse and sweet talk those little poetic seedlings, hoping I can lure them into sprouting a few new leaves.
I started something today.
Four lines of iambic pentameter.
Subject: bruises.
It needs encouragement.
My bruises, on the other hand, are doing just fine. They don't even look that bad, although they do still hurt. Which has its pluses and minuses. Given that I wasn't beaten in punishment, only for his pleasure and to teach me about pleasure and pain, it hurts physically but not emotionally. In fact, the sadist is sorry that there is persistent pain, which I find rather sweet. Me, I think back on Tuesday with nothing but happiness.
It's never just sex, you know.
Even when it would seem to be just sex.
It's explorations of intimacy,
making our way down the path
defined by his ownership
and paved by my submission.
And it's always poetry.
Especially when I go down on the floor on my hands and knees and he eats a line of pitted Kalamata olives and halved grape tomatoes from the trough running down my back over the length of my spine. His lips are soft and sweet and sensuous as he presses them against my skin and nibbles the morsels of food off my body. It's hard not to swoon, like some romantic heroine.
Tables don't swoon.
And they rarely moan with pleasure.
I'll bet his lips could make a table moan...
So.
Poems.
I have a hard time writing poems purely because the schedule says "In this time slot you must write a poem." Yeah, right. Write. Not likely. I need to be inspired. An image needs to invade my brain. The March of the Metaphors, armed and dangerous. Marauding soldiers, raping my brain, until 9 hours later I give birth to a poem.
Otherwise, it's a case of artificial insemination.
Not anywhere near as much pleasure in that.
Except so many times there is the initial inspiration, followed by a few lines, and then it goes dormant. More like a plant in winter than a baby. Every so often I have to go back out to the greenhouse and sweet talk those little poetic seedlings, hoping I can lure them into sprouting a few new leaves.
I started something today.
Four lines of iambic pentameter.
Subject: bruises.
It needs encouragement.
My bruises, on the other hand, are doing just fine. They don't even look that bad, although they do still hurt. Which has its pluses and minuses. Given that I wasn't beaten in punishment, only for his pleasure and to teach me about pleasure and pain, it hurts physically but not emotionally. In fact, the sadist is sorry that there is persistent pain, which I find rather sweet. Me, I think back on Tuesday with nothing but happiness.
It's never just sex, you know.
Even when it would seem to be just sex.
It's explorations of intimacy,
making our way down the path
defined by his ownership
and paved by my submission.
And it's always poetry.
Especially when I go down on the floor on my hands and knees and he eats a line of pitted Kalamata olives and halved grape tomatoes from the trough running down my back over the length of my spine. His lips are soft and sweet and sensuous as he presses them against my skin and nibbles the morsels of food off my body. It's hard not to swoon, like some romantic heroine.
Tables don't swoon.
And they rarely moan with pleasure.
I'll bet his lips could make a table moan...
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Of love and poetry and chains
I gave him a gift.
A very special gift.
In a way, it was no more than was expected of me. Expect that what is normally expected of me is not that expected any more. Although when it suddenly is, I had better be prepared.
Longtime readers - there may be a few of you left - may remember that what first drew the sadist to me was "my mind", as glimpsed in my FetLife profile. Relative newcomers, or those in need of a refresher course, can read my first mention of the sadist in this post from late August of 2008 for a little introduction, and then go on from there a bit to get a taste for our early days.
Briefly, he thought I'd be his own little Anaïs Nin, his personal porn producer. He did come see me not longer after accepting me into his service. "You're beautiful!" he said, as if surprised - when it was I who was truly was surprised since no one had ever said that to me before.
He took to calling me his complication.
One day he kissed me.
Because he thought it would be pleasurable.
He decided he was correct in his judgment.
Anyway.
Back to My Mind.
He expects me to write for him.
Poems.
Stories.
Bits to make him hot.
And bits to stimulate his mind.
This is a man who reads Shakespeare and James Joyce's Ulysses during free minutes in his work day. And no, he is not by any means an academician. Just a smart man with a love of beauty.
Not only does he expect me to write for him, and suck his cock and make him lunch while trying not to be too crazy-making. I'm also supposed to be prepared to recite for him.
You know.
By heart?
At every visit.
A poem.
One of mine.
I've learned something very interesting along the way. Just because you've written something yourself doesn't mean it will be easy to memorize. Damn, I worked hard trying to brand some of those poems into my brain! Of course, at my advancing age, such projects are supposed to be beneficial, so I shouldn't complain. And as I practiced the poems aloud, I found words and lines that didn't flow as well when spoken as they did in my head. A great editing technique!
Though I've been lazy lately.
Not writing much poetry lately.
Nor stories.
Blame sturm und drang and winter.
Yeah.
Right.
Excuses.
April 23rd is Shakespeare's birthday. I was a theatre major centuries ago, with a passion for Shakespeare. That's what I really wanted to do. Shakespeare.
I got married instead.
Before finishing college.
But I've always remembered that April 23rd was William Shakespeare's birthday.
Except this year I forgot.
Hooray for Prairie Home Companion!
They featured various people
reading various Shakespeare sonnets
with varying degrees of artistry
but always with sincerity.
I e-mailed the sadist, admitting my embarrassment at having forgotten the Bard's birthday, and (after much research) including a carefully chosen sonnet. Beginning:
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,He replied with thanks, deeming it lovely, but claiming to have trumped me with reference to a different sonnet.
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
I had him beat, of course - which is not a comfortable situation to admit to when dealing with one's Master, and a sadistic one at that. But given his respect for My Mind, he took it well. Because of course I knew of the sonnet he cited. And in case I hadn't, PHC had kindly included it in their little sonnet salute. But it seemed rather obvious, so I chose to show off my (newly acquired) in-depth knowledge of the collection.
Still, it's a beautiful and meaningful piece, and more so as I spent considerable time with it. Which I did. I memorized the damn thing, dear readers. In less than 3 days I committed it to memory and practiced different line readings until it was smooth and beautiful and artistic and moving and heartfelt and - he did love it so!
And the chains?
I was wrapped around in his heavy steel chain when I offered him my gift. It was drawn tightly round and round my neck, then up under my beautiful bare tits. And I knelt before him as he sat forward in his chair and he recognized the sonnet right away and his face was a garden of smiles growing more beautiful and happy with each word.
And later
after lunch
he began
our journey
into the pleasure
of pain.
Oh.
You wanted the sonnet?
I suppose there are some of you who haven't already guessed.
It's #57.
Worth knowing.
Worth sharing.
Worth learning.
And all about love.
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Working for the Beast
I'm writing sadistic porn for the Beast. He likes me, it seems, or perhaps merely enjoys my suffering. So I have been assigned to serve his literary appetites, with the chance that he will put in a good word for me with the sadist.
The story I just sent him was so dark that I almost vomited as I proofread.
Which is no surprise, really.
I've been nauseous most of the day.
We've talked a lot today, the sadist and I
"Talked."
The modern way.
E-mails, texts, long conversations via IM.
He went to see his slave this morning.
It could have been me.
He had the time and it could have been me.
He even thought of that, of visiting me.
He pictured me.
The way I greet him,
standing naked behind the open door
so as not to embarrass the neighbors.
The way I stand against the dungeon wall,
the way I kneel before his chair.
And then...
I can't even describe the horrible, horror movie fantasy that came unbidden into his mind and left him afraid to look at my face. Afraid to look into my eyes. Because last Tuesday, when he looked into my eyes, the way he always looks into my eyes, he didn't find what was usually there. And in some ways I think that hurt him more than anything.
So he didn't come to see me.
He went to see his masochistic slave.
The slave survived - I'm assured he's all right -
and the sadist was somewhat cleansed.
He did a lot of thinking on the drive home.
We took a break, then he e-mailed me that he was sending me 4 more e-mails, which I should read without responding. He would then sign on to IM in 5 minutes. Except it must have been about 10 minutes, because I had time to read the e-mails and then listen to an assigned gut-wrenching song by his favorite singer-songwriter.
One of the e-mails told about the hour he had accidentally spent with the solider Friday night. Back at the bar. They didn't spend the whole time speaking of me. But obviously they did. Speak about me. What a concept.
Two of the e-mails referred to the possibility of never seeing me again.
I felt as if I'd been punched in my pale white belly. Something the sadist in fact likes to do. But he holds himself back with me.
Excuse me.
He has held himself back with me.
No assumptions can be made about the future.
And then we talked.
Instant messaging.
Must have gone on for hours.
So many ups and downs.
So many tears.
But in the end...
He is working on a new plan.
Very cautiously,
very vaguely,
he is working on a new plan.
There are no guarantees.
And so far there are only 2 points.
1. It will take time.
2. Since the stories I write specifically for the beast seem to win myself some support from him, the sadist thinks it would be a good idea to continue that activity. Except for scaring myself with how extreme and dark my imagination can be, I'm glad to be doing it. I hadn't written much in the way of fiction for a long time. And at least this way I feel that I'm doing something when really there is nothing I can do.
The sadist must heal.
He must recover.
The question that came up is whether he will recover from me, or merely from the wound that was inflicted by an arrow coming from my direction. At least, today, he mentioned the possibility that he might be able to consider (even if not believe) the idea that I didn't fire it deliberately. A small step, for sure, not to be given more weight than it deserves, but a generous step nevertheless.
So I wrote him (or, rather, the Beast) a story that makes me want to vomit.
I wrote a poem, too, though it's not quite finished.
And I'm not sure I should send it.
Perhaps I'll post it here instead.
Before I go off to watch one of his all-time favorite movies and then report my reaction, I want to add one caution about what I have been and will be writing about all this and everything else.
Especially about all this.
Be careful about what you assume about him and his reactions and feelings and psychology. What you read is my interpretation. It is not objective. It is filtered through my own weaknesses and emotions and neuroses and faulty memory. In some ways, for him, for any of us, objective truth is irrelevant. All that matters is how we experience the world. That is our reality. His experience of what I did and what I said and what was not in my eyes is his reality. What happens hereafter must proceed from there.
And my eyes?
I do not dispute that something he usually finds was absent from my eyes.
This I cannot dispute.
And therein lies my grief.
The story I just sent him was so dark that I almost vomited as I proofread.
Which is no surprise, really.
I've been nauseous most of the day.
We've talked a lot today, the sadist and I
"Talked."
The modern way.
E-mails, texts, long conversations via IM.
He went to see his slave this morning.
It could have been me.
He had the time and it could have been me.
He even thought of that, of visiting me.
He pictured me.
The way I greet him,
standing naked behind the open door
so as not to embarrass the neighbors.
The way I stand against the dungeon wall,
the way I kneel before his chair.
And then...
I can't even describe the horrible, horror movie fantasy that came unbidden into his mind and left him afraid to look at my face. Afraid to look into my eyes. Because last Tuesday, when he looked into my eyes, the way he always looks into my eyes, he didn't find what was usually there. And in some ways I think that hurt him more than anything.
So he didn't come to see me.
He went to see his masochistic slave.
The slave survived - I'm assured he's all right -
and the sadist was somewhat cleansed.
He did a lot of thinking on the drive home.
We took a break, then he e-mailed me that he was sending me 4 more e-mails, which I should read without responding. He would then sign on to IM in 5 minutes. Except it must have been about 10 minutes, because I had time to read the e-mails and then listen to an assigned gut-wrenching song by his favorite singer-songwriter.
One of the e-mails told about the hour he had accidentally spent with the solider Friday night. Back at the bar. They didn't spend the whole time speaking of me. But obviously they did. Speak about me. What a concept.
Two of the e-mails referred to the possibility of never seeing me again.
I felt as if I'd been punched in my pale white belly. Something the sadist in fact likes to do. But he holds himself back with me.
Excuse me.
He has held himself back with me.
No assumptions can be made about the future.
And then we talked.
Instant messaging.
Must have gone on for hours.
So many ups and downs.
So many tears.
But in the end...
He is working on a new plan.
Very cautiously,
very vaguely,
he is working on a new plan.
There are no guarantees.
And so far there are only 2 points.
1. It will take time.
2. Since the stories I write specifically for the beast seem to win myself some support from him, the sadist thinks it would be a good idea to continue that activity. Except for scaring myself with how extreme and dark my imagination can be, I'm glad to be doing it. I hadn't written much in the way of fiction for a long time. And at least this way I feel that I'm doing something when really there is nothing I can do.
The sadist must heal.
He must recover.
The question that came up is whether he will recover from me, or merely from the wound that was inflicted by an arrow coming from my direction. At least, today, he mentioned the possibility that he might be able to consider (even if not believe) the idea that I didn't fire it deliberately. A small step, for sure, not to be given more weight than it deserves, but a generous step nevertheless.
So I wrote him (or, rather, the Beast) a story that makes me want to vomit.
I wrote a poem, too, though it's not quite finished.
And I'm not sure I should send it.
Perhaps I'll post it here instead.
Before I go off to watch one of his all-time favorite movies and then report my reaction, I want to add one caution about what I have been and will be writing about all this and everything else.
Especially about all this.
Be careful about what you assume about him and his reactions and feelings and psychology. What you read is my interpretation. It is not objective. It is filtered through my own weaknesses and emotions and neuroses and faulty memory. In some ways, for him, for any of us, objective truth is irrelevant. All that matters is how we experience the world. That is our reality. His experience of what I did and what I said and what was not in my eyes is his reality. What happens hereafter must proceed from there.
And my eyes?
I do not dispute that something he usually finds was absent from my eyes.
This I cannot dispute.
And therein lies my grief.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
They're writing songs of smut, but not for you
Actually, it wasn't a song but a story. A bit of smut for a Saturday night. I was horny as hell - a hormone storm that struck as my strength was returning.
I was drunk on arousal.
I had an image.
I had a fantasy.
I had a longing.
I wished like hell that the sadist had sent over a gang of men to use his little whore. He always talks about how I was made to give men sexual pleasure. That this was my destiny. I wanted - I needed - a little bit of that destiny right then. I wanted to be fucked, to be flogged, to be sodomized, to be brutalized... not really rape because I'd know he had sent them and that it was my job to please them. Whatever that involved.
Maybe they represented my libido, this trio I envisioned coming to my door. They were my libido and all I wanted - all I needed - was to yield.
Nobody came to the door.
So I wrote instead.
I wrote and wrote - pure impure smut, with all the details.
No shying away from descriptions of what they did to me.
Just the way the sadist likes it.
I wrote for hours, I think. I'm a slow typist, and I do proofread. I wrote and wrote and then I sent it off to him, only regretting that he probably wouldn't read it until this morning.
I was a little worried as to what he'd think. This wasn't one of my artistic pieces. No clever plot line. Just raw sex and perfect submission.
Which seems to be just what he wanted.
Just what he needed.
Because I wasn't the only one with a rising desperate hunger.
The beast has awakened. And while there are others on whom he can feed, there is only one meal he truly wants.
Me.
Dinner will be served tomorrow.
Late Monday morning, to be more precise.
Oh, and the story?
I did ask. Really. I haven't given you a nice long, juicy, sexy, and very raw story in quite a long time. I haven't written anything like that in a long time. So I did ask if I could post it here.
The sadist is a greedy man.
Not to mention possessive.
The beast even more so.
The answer was NO.
Sorry...
I was drunk on arousal.
I had an image.
I had a fantasy.
I had a longing.
I wished like hell that the sadist had sent over a gang of men to use his little whore. He always talks about how I was made to give men sexual pleasure. That this was my destiny. I wanted - I needed - a little bit of that destiny right then. I wanted to be fucked, to be flogged, to be sodomized, to be brutalized... not really rape because I'd know he had sent them and that it was my job to please them. Whatever that involved.
Maybe they represented my libido, this trio I envisioned coming to my door. They were my libido and all I wanted - all I needed - was to yield.
Nobody came to the door.
So I wrote instead.
I wrote and wrote - pure impure smut, with all the details.
No shying away from descriptions of what they did to me.
Just the way the sadist likes it.
I wrote for hours, I think. I'm a slow typist, and I do proofread. I wrote and wrote and then I sent it off to him, only regretting that he probably wouldn't read it until this morning.
I was a little worried as to what he'd think. This wasn't one of my artistic pieces. No clever plot line. Just raw sex and perfect submission.
Which seems to be just what he wanted.
Just what he needed.
Because I wasn't the only one with a rising desperate hunger.
The beast has awakened. And while there are others on whom he can feed, there is only one meal he truly wants.
Me.
Dinner will be served tomorrow.
Late Monday morning, to be more precise.
Oh, and the story?
I did ask. Really. I haven't given you a nice long, juicy, sexy, and very raw story in quite a long time. I haven't written anything like that in a long time. So I did ask if I could post it here.
The sadist is a greedy man.
Not to mention possessive.
The beast even more so.
The answer was NO.
Sorry...
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Taking naked dictation
I sat there like a character in some sort of perverted version of Mad Men. Or maybe not so perverted. There was certainly plenty of what we now would call sexual harassment back then. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that this happened plenty of times. And only sometimes with the thoroughly willing participation of both parties.
Bring that chair over here.
Facing me.
Take the pad and pen.
Sit down.
Cross your legs.
Sit up straight.
"Like a secretary!" I said.
Yes, baby.
Like a secretary.
And so I took dictation.
There were three points.
Actual physical exercise.
Daddy has never put any pressure on me as far as my body goes. No requirements that I lose weight. Oh, he did eventually order me to shave my pussy hair, having worked up to it slowly so I would be ready to embrace it by the time the day came. And back when I was going to the health club regularly, he did forbid me to harden my stomach muscles. He has this thing about a vulnerable soft belly...
But lately he has been talking about how taken he is with the channel that runs down my back. The one from which he ate his black and white cookie and drank his coffee. He says it is exquisite. But there are certain parts he wants to define a little more clearly. Hence, the required exercises.
The second item was a bit of research, which he requests every so often. In this case it was for a classical composer he heard while driving in that morning. It was an easy project, and even in my post-visit, post-orgasmic floaty state, I found the answer shortly after he left.
And the third item?
That mysterious third request?
No, the sadist does not wear a hearing aid.
He has commissioned a creative piece.
Creative and sensual and submissive and sexual.
A ritual recitation.
Words to slide off my talented tongue
directly into his waiting, trembling ear,
while I fondle my Daddy's throbbing cock.
Our interactions are often quite different from that of most couples, no matter how you define your relationships.
For once he has delineated fairly specifically how he wants the piece constructed. A rare thing for him to do, as he made sure to point out, because he fears he will contaminate the creation. But in this case, he knows what he wants. And he knows his little poet whore can deliver.
And I will.
I always do.
Bring that chair over here.
Facing me.
Take the pad and pen.
Sit down.
Cross your legs.
Sit up straight.
"Like a secretary!" I said.
Yes, baby.
Like a secretary.
And so I took dictation.
There were three points.
- Exercise
- Composer
- Daddy's ear piece
Actual physical exercise.
Daddy has never put any pressure on me as far as my body goes. No requirements that I lose weight. Oh, he did eventually order me to shave my pussy hair, having worked up to it slowly so I would be ready to embrace it by the time the day came. And back when I was going to the health club regularly, he did forbid me to harden my stomach muscles. He has this thing about a vulnerable soft belly...
But lately he has been talking about how taken he is with the channel that runs down my back. The one from which he ate his black and white cookie and drank his coffee. He says it is exquisite. But there are certain parts he wants to define a little more clearly. Hence, the required exercises.
The second item was a bit of research, which he requests every so often. In this case it was for a classical composer he heard while driving in that morning. It was an easy project, and even in my post-visit, post-orgasmic floaty state, I found the answer shortly after he left.
And the third item?
That mysterious third request?
No, the sadist does not wear a hearing aid.
He has commissioned a creative piece.
Creative and sensual and submissive and sexual.
A ritual recitation.
Words to slide off my talented tongue
directly into his waiting, trembling ear,
while I fondle my Daddy's throbbing cock.
Our interactions are often quite different from that of most couples, no matter how you define your relationships.
For once he has delineated fairly specifically how he wants the piece constructed. A rare thing for him to do, as he made sure to point out, because he fears he will contaminate the creation. But in this case, he knows what he wants. And he knows his little poet whore can deliver.
And I will.
I always do.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Ice Hot
craving missing winter snow, i
crawl, burning palms and
naked legs on frozen backyard ground.
pressing breasts against the earth, i
lick, seeking vagrant fallen flakes,
teasing them from sleeping mounds
the way i tease arousal from your cock.
you melt, you burn, as
laughing off mere logic's chains i
water you from passion's well
until you blaze with flames.
Written for the sadist, and published with his permission as follows: "You may post it. If you mention that I suggested a change, make sure you add that I rarely make such suggestions, out of concern for polluting the purity of your work." He did suggest a one-word change, which I immediately saw was perfect. It is true that he rarely proposes such edits. I wish he felt freer to do so more often. His mind is sharp, his ear sensitive, and his command of words as strong as is his command of me.
I won't tell you which word he suggested, for it fits the rest of the poem as well as if I had come up with it myself. A good editor knows how to speak in the writer's own voice. Daddy has done more than that. He has helped me find my voice and, indeed, myself.
crawl, burning palms and
naked legs on frozen backyard ground.
pressing breasts against the earth, i
lick, seeking vagrant fallen flakes,
teasing them from sleeping mounds
the way i tease arousal from your cock.
you melt, you burn, as
laughing off mere logic's chains i
water you from passion's well
until you blaze with flames.
Written for the sadist, and published with his permission as follows: "You may post it. If you mention that I suggested a change, make sure you add that I rarely make such suggestions, out of concern for polluting the purity of your work." He did suggest a one-word change, which I immediately saw was perfect. It is true that he rarely proposes such edits. I wish he felt freer to do so more often. His mind is sharp, his ear sensitive, and his command of words as strong as is his command of me.
I won't tell you which word he suggested, for it fits the rest of the poem as well as if I had come up with it myself. A good editor knows how to speak in the writer's own voice. Daddy has done more than that. He has helped me find my voice and, indeed, myself.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
In 4 sentences
I went to my writers group today.
The assignment was:
Write a complete story
in 4 sentences.
Including dialogue.
This is what I wrote.
The assignment was:
Write a complete story
in 4 sentences.
Including dialogue.
This is what I wrote.
She looked up, burnt by eyes cutting through her chain mail suit of defenses and bullshit.They didn't get it.
"Why me?" she pleaded.
"Because I can," he said.
"Call me Ellie," she said, as she scrambled to follow him out of the café, leaving behind her life and her laptop.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Oatmeal Girl gets a glowing review, OR Structural Analysis of Literary Technique in Smut
There are three main stages to being an author:
In the case of my story that was published in the anthology Best S&M Erotica Volume 3: Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex, the writing was the easy part. It burst out of me in response to an assignment from the sadist, which in turn was a response to a poem which you can read here. Even being published was relatively easy, as Chris had invited me to submit something for the collection, and when my initial attempts at writing failed I asked if he would take this piece instead. I was too naive to be as worried as I should have been about whether it would be accepted or not.
Which brings us to the review.
For yes, there is now a review.
A quite glorious review
by Sharazade
which praises the book as a whole
and has some extra nice things to say about me.
It feels funny writing that here. It makes me feel shy... even though I know that I need to publicize the book and I do know that my story is good, and I quite agree with Shar's observations.
Anyway.
Please do go over to her blog and read the review. She is remarkably intelligent and perceptive and on its own the article makes great reading.
(Of course, I left out the fourth stage. Being read. Shar's review is her testimony to my having been read. It is her own way of saying "Good girl." And we all know how I like being called a good girl...)
- writing
- being published
- being reviewed
In the case of my story that was published in the anthology Best S&M Erotica Volume 3: Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex, the writing was the easy part. It burst out of me in response to an assignment from the sadist, which in turn was a response to a poem which you can read here. Even being published was relatively easy, as Chris had invited me to submit something for the collection, and when my initial attempts at writing failed I asked if he would take this piece instead. I was too naive to be as worried as I should have been about whether it would be accepted or not.
Which brings us to the review.
For yes, there is now a review.
A quite glorious review
by Sharazade
which praises the book as a whole
and has some extra nice things to say about me.
It feels funny writing that here. It makes me feel shy... even though I know that I need to publicize the book and I do know that my story is good, and I quite agree with Shar's observations.
Anyway.
Please do go over to her blog and read the review. She is remarkably intelligent and perceptive and on its own the article makes great reading.
(Of course, I left out the fourth stage. Being read. Shar's review is her testimony to my having been read. It is her own way of saying "Good girl." And we all know how I like being called a good girl...)
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