Disappointment

Sigh.

I won't be going away with my Master at the end of the month. The details, the practicalities, just didn't work out. And he's right that the schedule, as determined by the primary reason for his trip, wouldn't have been very satisfying for our purposes.

However, he did say there are other possibilities in the future.

Real possibilities.

So I will pout a little over my current disappointment, and then move on to imagining some new, lovely, evil, challenging, scary, glorious scenarios until he chooses to reveal his plans for me.

I am actually quite happy.

And I will do all I can to make him wish I were with him on that weekend he goes off without me.

He was there for me

I was upset.
The shooting.
It hit me hard.

I'm not sure why this one so much.
Anti-Semitism is nothing new.
Hatred is nothing new.
Guns, violence, crazies...
Maybe because it was 12 miles from home.
Maybe because I've been there.
Maybe because with Obama
this was supposed to be a new world.
And there are those out there
doing their best
doing their worst
to cover us with evil
and drown us in darkness.

When he accepted me into his service, he was very clear as to what he would not be for me. It was all very strict and specific, and there were many good reasons for that. "I am not your boyfriend, I am not your tennis partner..." etc. etc. Those are the ones I remember off-hand.

Still, as I became more and more distressed, I felt this irresistible urge to curl up next to him, curl up into him, feel his arms around me making me feel safe. Not possible. And not to be expected. Or anything like it.

But I wrote him an emotional e-mail.
And signed on to yahoo chat.
And waited.

He came.
He was there for me.
He came as a man.
No more and no less.
No dominance.
No posturing.
Whatever he may claim,
he was there as a friend.
And as a man.
He was what I needed.
And I would do anything for him.

True ownership isn't taken.
True ownership is earned.

And tonight, he owns me more than ever.

Serving and smiling

I've been quiet lately.
I wonder why I've been so quiet lately?

I've been busy, I suppose, out in the evening, writing things in bursts for the sadist, though now I'm having trouble remembering what it was that I wrote. We had a small taste of sun and he detected a burst of creativity on my part, so ordered me to write 2 pieces for him every day last week. Finally I gave him so many good pieces that he gave me the weekend off.

He visited me twice last week. The first time was on Monday, and was a lesson combined with serving his pleasure. And then his schedule was such that he had a free slot on Thursday and at the last minute I turned out to be available, too.

It was a beautiful visit.
Purely for his pleasure.
Which was my pleasure.
Serving him,
pleasing him,
that is my pleasure.

It was strikingly sensuous... I think of it now and feel my naked body pressing against his... I feel his mouth... I feel his touch... the way he availed himself of the thickness of my lengthening hair to pull my head around, baring my neck to the clamping of his jaws... he sank his teeth into me. Not breaking the skin, but making me feel his prey, the helpless prey of a predator who could rip out my throat if he wished to.

He pressed his fingers against my wind pipe and stopped the air. I didn't fight it. I know he treasures me. I do know that. I feel safe with him.

He came in my hand.
He had no complaints.

And me?

I just paused in my writing. How to capture what I felt... how to even fully recall what I felt? I was so focused on him, so focused on his pleasure, so focused on watching him, gauging his response, letting him see my devotion as it shone in my eyes, that afterwards, I felt as if I had cum myself.

Not that I did have an orgasm. Oh no, this wasn't about me at all. In the early days, he would order me to touch myself for him, he would watch me fondle myself, he would watch me writhe, he would watch the contortions of my face, and then watch me as I stiffened and came and then sobbed. Oh, he did love to watch me cum. Sometimes he would grant me an orgasm at night - but it was his orgasm. I would call his cell phone after bringing myself nearly there - it was such a masterpiece of masturbatory timing. I would be almost there and then call and wait through the outgoing message and then oh so quickly bring myself up and over while talking to him, leaving my words, my breathy voice... I'm trying to remember what I used to say.... and then I would cum and sob and sob... leaving my cries and tears in his voice mail.

He hasn't made me cum for him in a long time. Not in person. Sometimes he grants my request for an orgasm, and I am required to write a report afterwards.

It is inaccurate to speak of "my" orgasms. He does allow me to masturbate, when I beg, he does allow me to experience release. But the orgasms? They all belong to him.

I am happy with that.
They are richer that way.

But that isn't what we were discussing. We were discussing the orgasm he experienced from the ministrations of my hand and my encouraging words, and then how I felt in the hours that followed.

I felt cleansed,
I felt purified.
I felt open,
I felt relaxed,
I felt refreshed.

I was in a state of floating calm as if I had just spent hours in bed with a man I loved, rather than...

Than what? How can I describe, how can I explain, how can I classify what I do for him and what he is to me?

So I won't.

I'll just sigh happily and smile to myself and look at the time and think about bed and wonder when next he will call on me to prove my devotion in whatever way he requires.

And I will know fulfillment.

Housecleaning

And did anyone noticed that I finally revised my profile?

Now if I can just bring myself to take to change the picture on my desktop... I'm so used to seeing the philosopher there. I'm accustomed to him. It doesn't hurt me any more. Well, most of the time...

I think what's holding me up most of all is deciding what to put there instead.

And no, mamacrow. A picture of my Master is not an option.

Auto da fé

You build a bonfire in the back yard,
feeding it on illusions I've kept
stashed beneath the sink with
dried-out cans of silver polish.
Nothing will restore the shine
to old dreams and shattered love.
Now, pet. Go. Into the flames with you.
Yes, my Lord, I say,
and forming verses in my head
I walk
straight
into the heat and the light.
When I reach the fire I turn
and look you in the eyes
and start to rise,
leaping backwards,
dancing with the sparks,
embracing my destruction,
singing the consumption
of my tits and cunt and hair.
The fat in my tits crackles
and brings water to your mouth
and blood to your testicles.
You catch my voice in every spark
that floats among the fireflies
that soars into the trees.

And when, like a witch,
I'm safely burned away,
you poke at the ashes and
traces of my whispered breath
surround you
in the wind.
I am yours, my Lord,
you hear me sigh.
Even now,
I am yours.

[Originally written for my Master and published with his permission by Zander Vyne where it looks much prettier than it does here.]

Dominick comes out of the shadows

I've been keeping a secret.
I had promised I'd keep it a secret.
Dominick has a blog.

He revealed it to me a while ago, but virtually no one else knew about it unless they stumbled across it by accident. I felt honored. But then it was right he should have told me about it. Many of the pieces had been written for me.

I could tell, reading through, I could tell which ones I had inspired. The embarrassing part was that some of those he had written a while back and sent to me, in one of those rare, occasional messages he would send me as a surprise gift. I had forgotten he had sent them, but I could tell they had been written for me.

Today, he reminded me of another of his verbal explorations of what has simmered between us since he came across my craigslist ad. He sent me to a page on the website Filthy Gorgeous Things. Again, I recognized the style, rich but deliberate, almost surgical in its descriptions. He is, of course, a sadist. The editors had discovered his blog and asked if they could post some bits from it. He only just found out his piece had gone up.

Do go read it and explore his blog as well. Most of his pieces are short, brief vignettes, erotic observations. They still cause my insides to curdle. They still make me yearn to meet him. I want to see his face as he surveys the canvas that is my body. I want to strain against my bonds. I want to feel the impact of his hand on my reddening ass. He has sent me a picture of his spear-like cock and his well-worn belt. I hunger to submit to the assault of each one.

I want him to hurt me.
I want him to fuck me.
I want him to taste my submission and my pain.

We have never met. He doesn't live in my city and he doesn't want to risk losing what we have become for each other.

But still.
There is this hunger.

Go read him.
There are no provisions for comments that I can see.
Come back and leave them here.
I'll pass them on.
Meanwhile, I'll nurse my fantasies.

Today's lesson

Today
he caressed me
he told me I'm sexy
he caressed my tits
he spanked me for his pleasure
he kissed me long and sweetly
he deprived me of air
he bit my neck
he pressed himself against me
he bit my lip
he had me touch him
just the way he likes it
he slapped my face
twice
for omitting something vital
he let me touch him
there
yes there
with the tip of my tongue
he said I didn't do well
that new task
I didn't do well
I cried
and tonight
he let me cum.

He said I had earned it.