Sometimes I don't feel like writing.
So I don't.
And then I do.
Ayez patience.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Steamed, boiled, or fried
101 degrees Fahrenheit at Washington's National Airport.
I'd trade it for a caning any day.
A caning's over faster.
Even if the pain lingers.
And the sadist at least gets some pleasure from it.
I doubt he got much pleasure from today.
I'd trade it for a caning any day.
A caning's over faster.
Even if the pain lingers.
And the sadist at least gets some pleasure from it.
I doubt he got much pleasure from today.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
More about this slave stuff
He walks me from room to room, pointing out notable features: the old stained wood trim, the choice of paint, the style of furniture, the varying music to set the mood.
Stay here for a while, he says.
Settle in for a while.
See how it feels.
They're not fun house rooms.
They're not sample rooms in a furniture store.
We don't encounter them on one of those fancy house tours.
The rooms are inside me.
They are different parts of me.
One is marked poet.
One is marked whore.
There's a big one called submissive.
And then there's Daddy's little girl.
That one is locked for now.
Today we're in the room behind the door marked slave.
He tells me to explore.
See how it feels.
Get used to being here.
Don't worry about the word.
Don't worry about how the word makes you feel.
Don't get locked into the box a word can create.
It could make you other than what you are.
Together we will explore what you are.
We will polish what you are.
We will free what you are.
Because you are all these things and more.
“Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.”
~ Michelangelo
Stay here for a while, he says.
Settle in for a while.
See how it feels.
They're not fun house rooms.
They're not sample rooms in a furniture store.
We don't encounter them on one of those fancy house tours.
The rooms are inside me.
They are different parts of me.
One is marked poet.
One is marked whore.
There's a big one called submissive.
And then there's Daddy's little girl.
That one is locked for now.
Today we're in the room behind the door marked slave.
He tells me to explore.
See how it feels.
Get used to being here.
Don't worry about the word.
Don't worry about how the word makes you feel.
Don't get locked into the box a word can create.
It could make you other than what you are.
Together we will explore what you are.
We will polish what you are.
We will free what you are.
Because you are all these things and more.
“Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.”
~ Michelangelo
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Being a slave: the Gospel according to my Master
Ignore whatever you may read on line, he said.
Forget all that bullshit you may hear in chat rooms.
I did not, of course, interrupt to say I don't hang out in chat rooms.
You are my slave.
You serve.
That is all.
You serve my pleasure.
Please me.
Do not displease me.
Do not not please me.
You understand the difference?
Yes, my Master.
I do understand.
When you displease me, you will be punished.
And indeed, he did punish me, when he ordered me to bring the straight-backed chair he calls the secretary's chair and I did bring it and sat down in it. Except he hadn't yet told me to sit down. So he spanked me, hard, as I stood before him, and it hurt because I wasn't yet aroused. When I'm aroused I don't even realize how hard he is hitting me, because while I'm aware of the impact I feel no pain. He is training me. I know. He is training me to connect pleasure and pain so that I will beg him to torture me. To really torture me.
When you please me, you will be rewarded.
And indeed, he did reward me, early on in the visit, when I remembered to do those special things that he expects and which give him pleasure. He kissed me in the most tender, sensuous, affectionate way. so that our mouths melted together and his mouth told my mouth how very special I am to him.
Concentrate on being my slave.
I want you to become comfortable with it.
Actually, don't become comfortable.
And then I served him his lunch, and we talked like two people who are accustomed to spending time together. Two people who are comfortable with each other, who share thoughts about everything from gender issues to how you know that an avocado is ripe.
And then I served his pleasure, kneeling at his feet as he sat enthroned in the Eames chair which I almost never sit in any more because it feels like sacrilege. I knelt at his feet and sucked his cock, sometimes changing position, raising my butt so he could see it all round and white except pink now from having been spanked - for punishment but also, shortly after he arrived, purely to redden it and later, after I was aroused, for his pleasure and as part of my training to connect pleasure and pain. And, of course, to make it pink. He loves to look on the blush of my butt after he has hurt me.
I sucked his cock in all those ways that I know to make him groan with pleasure and at one point, when I gave him a little break so he wouldn't cum before extracting as much pleasure from his slave as his schedule allowed, he said that as I was serving his cock he looked down on me, at my soft, beautiful hair flowing down my channeled back, and down to my delicious pink butt, and he thought - it's as if I'm being served by a work of art. And then he corrected himself and said - I am being served by a work of art. And you can tell them that, he added. Meaning you all.
When it was over, he called me his angel, and also called me angel towards the end of my service to his cock. Which is a very special name. It carries warmth, and tenderness, and shows how pleased he is with me. He said - I am very proud of you today, my angel.
And then we discussed a couple of small tasks, and he said I could masturbate if I wished. (I did wish, and I did masturbate, and it was quite lovely, so between that and serving him I am fairly floaty as I'm writing this.) He also told me to take the chain to my bed tonight - which is a great gift on the rare occasions he grants it.
As he left, I reminded him that it's only two and a half weeks until we return to the hotel we stayed in last year. Until we again spend the night - together - in a room with white linens. But even if everything is the same, it won't be the same at all.
In so many ways, it won't be the same.
It will be...
a gift.
For us both.
And it will be beautiful.
Forget all that bullshit you may hear in chat rooms.
I did not, of course, interrupt to say I don't hang out in chat rooms.
You are my slave.
You serve.
That is all.
You serve my pleasure.
Please me.
Do not displease me.
Do not not please me.
You understand the difference?
Yes, my Master.
I do understand.
When you displease me, you will be punished.
And indeed, he did punish me, when he ordered me to bring the straight-backed chair he calls the secretary's chair and I did bring it and sat down in it. Except he hadn't yet told me to sit down. So he spanked me, hard, as I stood before him, and it hurt because I wasn't yet aroused. When I'm aroused I don't even realize how hard he is hitting me, because while I'm aware of the impact I feel no pain. He is training me. I know. He is training me to connect pleasure and pain so that I will beg him to torture me. To really torture me.
When you please me, you will be rewarded.
And indeed, he did reward me, early on in the visit, when I remembered to do those special things that he expects and which give him pleasure. He kissed me in the most tender, sensuous, affectionate way. so that our mouths melted together and his mouth told my mouth how very special I am to him.
Concentrate on being my slave.
I want you to become comfortable with it.
Actually, don't become comfortable.
And then I served him his lunch, and we talked like two people who are accustomed to spending time together. Two people who are comfortable with each other, who share thoughts about everything from gender issues to how you know that an avocado is ripe.
And then I served his pleasure, kneeling at his feet as he sat enthroned in the Eames chair which I almost never sit in any more because it feels like sacrilege. I knelt at his feet and sucked his cock, sometimes changing position, raising my butt so he could see it all round and white except pink now from having been spanked - for punishment but also, shortly after he arrived, purely to redden it and later, after I was aroused, for his pleasure and as part of my training to connect pleasure and pain. And, of course, to make it pink. He loves to look on the blush of my butt after he has hurt me.
I sucked his cock in all those ways that I know to make him groan with pleasure and at one point, when I gave him a little break so he wouldn't cum before extracting as much pleasure from his slave as his schedule allowed, he said that as I was serving his cock he looked down on me, at my soft, beautiful hair flowing down my channeled back, and down to my delicious pink butt, and he thought - it's as if I'm being served by a work of art. And then he corrected himself and said - I am being served by a work of art. And you can tell them that, he added. Meaning you all.
When it was over, he called me his angel, and also called me angel towards the end of my service to his cock. Which is a very special name. It carries warmth, and tenderness, and shows how pleased he is with me. He said - I am very proud of you today, my angel.
And then we discussed a couple of small tasks, and he said I could masturbate if I wished. (I did wish, and I did masturbate, and it was quite lovely, so between that and serving him I am fairly floaty as I'm writing this.) He also told me to take the chain to my bed tonight - which is a great gift on the rare occasions he grants it.
As he left, I reminded him that it's only two and a half weeks until we return to the hotel we stayed in last year. Until we again spend the night - together - in a room with white linens. But even if everything is the same, it won't be the same at all.
In so many ways, it won't be the same.
It will be...
a gift.
For us both.
And it will be beautiful.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
No modifications necessary
I have a really great hairdresser. He does phenomenal things with my long, still naturally red mane. What I really admire is how he listens to my hair. He reads it. He doesn't impose a style on my locks and then cut them into submission. He frees them, encouraging them to be what they really are and bringing out their true, natural beauty.
When I was in second grade, my mom took me to her hairdresser. He cut my hair short, and suddenly - no more curls. They never really came back. I never forgave him, and hairdressers have made me nervous ever since. Now, though, I suddenly have curls again! Even with my hair so long, which should drag out the bounce, I have curls. I watch in fascination as my hair slowly dries after I've washed it. The ends awake into curls that hold their shape throughout the day, and which return after brushing if I wet them down again. No product, no curling iron, nothing. My very own little girl curls.
I have a really great Master. He does phenomenal things with me. One of the many things I admire is that he pursued me for what he saw I truly was. He saw inside me. He saw me as something of value, and he wanted me as his own treasure.
He did not say - oh, here is a marble statue which I will treat as a piece of rough stone to be hacked and chiseled until it becomes the piece of art I have in mind.
He said - ah... here is a beautiful work of art who needs some polishing and minor bits of carving here and there to refine the shape and bring out the beauty inherent in the stone.
And he also said - ah... here is an artist who doesn't know her talent. Here is a girl who doesn't know her beauty. This is a crime. I will take her for my own, and use her for my own pleasure. But in order to get the most out of her, she must come to accept and appreciate her own value.
As I mentioned recently, I'm on a diet. It's a serious health thing. I need to lose weight, limit carbs and especially sugar, exercise more... all the things my doctors have been saying for years. But now I'm getting serious about it. I really do need to be serious about it.
And my Master is helping me.
I ran off to the bookstore today to pick up a particular diet book. I e-mailed the sadist from the car as I prepared to leave the parking structure, saying I was on my way home and would then address a particular assignment he had given me. He replied:
Oops. I'd forgotten again. He had brought it up that morning, how he wanted me to do my exercises to accentuate the ravine down my back, aka the champagne channel, which must be made deeper by the time we have our night together. Which gives me 3 weeks. Plus he wanted me to add some exercises to develop the shape of my delicious butt. I had really forgotten about that part! I wrote back:
Which is true. I feel a bit petulant, and have the urge to be defensive and make excuses. But I know there are no excuses. I have lost focus, yet again. I've been distracted, been involved with other things, and must - must - do what is required of me.
Which I did do.
And reported back.
And he was pleased.
Yea, verily.
Later, I wrote:
He replied:
But quickly followed that with a new message:
Which is the truth. He makes me feel good about myself. He makes me feel wanted. He did not take charge of my eating and such merely to demonstrate his control, but did get involved when there was reason to be concerned and, before that, on a very small scale for the well-defined goal of increasing his pleasure from the use of my body in a very particular way. (He already eats pitted Kalamata olives and tiny grape tomatoes from the trough running down my back, but a deeper channel would certainly be preferable as a vessel for champagne.)
This is but a very concrete and current example of a larger point which I have referred to before. I get very nervous when I hear about a Dom/Master who seems to be pushing submissive/slave into some external mold which just doesn't fit. We all struggle in our relationships - in any relationship, all the way from vanilla ice cream to jalapeño sorbet. We all struggle, some more, some less, whichever side of the power exchange we occupy. No one is perfect. No one. Get that? Even my Master has occasionally apologized, or at least admitted to faulty judgment and taken steps to prevent a recurrence.
We may worship our Masters/Mistresses, but they really are not gods. And it pisses me off when they can't manage enough humility to appreciate the treasure they do have in their submissives or slaves. It pisses me off when I hear of a Dom who is so caught up in his own fantasies of what he wants and is so drunk on his own inflated ego that he pushes his possessions to do things before they are ready while making them feel inadequate for not being able to handle what maybe they just aren't cut out to handle.
I worry.
I really do.
Because we get drunk on our submission.
We lose perspective.
And some of us end up hypnotized into wanting something we really don't want.
Submission can be glorious.
And being a little intoxicated can be a lovely thing.
Just don't get so drunk that you drive off a cliff.
And never forget that you are beautiful.
End of lecture.
Time to put my sexy body to bed.
When I was in second grade, my mom took me to her hairdresser. He cut my hair short, and suddenly - no more curls. They never really came back. I never forgave him, and hairdressers have made me nervous ever since. Now, though, I suddenly have curls again! Even with my hair so long, which should drag out the bounce, I have curls. I watch in fascination as my hair slowly dries after I've washed it. The ends awake into curls that hold their shape throughout the day, and which return after brushing if I wet them down again. No product, no curling iron, nothing. My very own little girl curls.
I have a really great Master. He does phenomenal things with me. One of the many things I admire is that he pursued me for what he saw I truly was. He saw inside me. He saw me as something of value, and he wanted me as his own treasure.
He did not say - oh, here is a marble statue which I will treat as a piece of rough stone to be hacked and chiseled until it becomes the piece of art I have in mind.
He said - ah... here is a beautiful work of art who needs some polishing and minor bits of carving here and there to refine the shape and bring out the beauty inherent in the stone.
And he also said - ah... here is an artist who doesn't know her talent. Here is a girl who doesn't know her beauty. This is a crime. I will take her for my own, and use her for my own pleasure. But in order to get the most out of her, she must come to accept and appreciate her own value.
As I mentioned recently, I'm on a diet. It's a serious health thing. I need to lose weight, limit carbs and especially sugar, exercise more... all the things my doctors have been saying for years. But now I'm getting serious about it. I really do need to be serious about it.
And my Master is helping me.
I ran off to the bookstore today to pick up a particular diet book. I e-mailed the sadist from the car as I prepared to leave the parking structure, saying I was on my way home and would then address a particular assignment he had given me. He replied:
I heard no mention today of exercise. When you get home send me your plan.
Oops. I'd forgotten again. He had brought it up that morning, how he wanted me to do my exercises to accentuate the ravine down my back, aka the champagne channel, which must be made deeper by the time we have our night together. Which gives me 3 weeks. Plus he wanted me to add some exercises to develop the shape of my delicious butt. I had really forgotten about that part! I wrote back:
[she sighs and wrinkles her nose]
I both love and it and hate it when you remind me of things I have forgotten, my Lord. Things that I'm obviously not running to do.
Which is true. I feel a bit petulant, and have the urge to be defensive and make excuses. But I know there are no excuses. I have lost focus, yet again. I've been distracted, been involved with other things, and must - must - do what is required of me.
Which I did do.
And reported back.
And he was pleased.
Yea, verily.
Later, I wrote:
You know what's so great, my Lord, about what you're doing with me and the diet and exercise thing?
You're not making me feel bad about how I look. Of course, all along you've been pushing me to accept that I'm beautiful. But this, specifically, you're not saying I'm fat. You're not saying I'm a lazy slug. You're saying I need to be healthy, to serve you better and because you own me and want - need - your slave to be healthy. Plus there's these little preferences of body form to increase your enjoyment. It's not, my Master, as if you're saying I'm worthless if I don't weigh 110 pounds. And you're not sending me off to get my tits augmented, or any such thing. It all not only makes me feel better, because I'll be healthier, but will also make me feel better about myself in a healthy way.
It's all very positive, my Master.
I am so lucky to belong to you!
He replied:
I never said you weren't a lazy slug.
But quickly followed that with a new message:
Seriously, my goal for you is to maintain both your sexy body and your general health, so there will be fewer occasions when your service is unavailable to me for health reasons. No modifications necessary, except maybe a deeper champagne canal.
Which is the truth. He makes me feel good about myself. He makes me feel wanted. He did not take charge of my eating and such merely to demonstrate his control, but did get involved when there was reason to be concerned and, before that, on a very small scale for the well-defined goal of increasing his pleasure from the use of my body in a very particular way. (He already eats pitted Kalamata olives and tiny grape tomatoes from the trough running down my back, but a deeper channel would certainly be preferable as a vessel for champagne.)
This is but a very concrete and current example of a larger point which I have referred to before. I get very nervous when I hear about a Dom/Master who seems to be pushing submissive/slave into some external mold which just doesn't fit. We all struggle in our relationships - in any relationship, all the way from vanilla ice cream to jalapeño sorbet. We all struggle, some more, some less, whichever side of the power exchange we occupy. No one is perfect. No one. Get that? Even my Master has occasionally apologized, or at least admitted to faulty judgment and taken steps to prevent a recurrence.
We may worship our Masters/Mistresses, but they really are not gods. And it pisses me off when they can't manage enough humility to appreciate the treasure they do have in their submissives or slaves. It pisses me off when I hear of a Dom who is so caught up in his own fantasies of what he wants and is so drunk on his own inflated ego that he pushes his possessions to do things before they are ready while making them feel inadequate for not being able to handle what maybe they just aren't cut out to handle.
I worry.
I really do.
Because we get drunk on our submission.
We lose perspective.
And some of us end up hypnotized into wanting something we really don't want.
Submission can be glorious.
And being a little intoxicated can be a lovely thing.
Just don't get so drunk that you drive off a cliff.
And never forget that you are beautiful.
End of lecture.
Time to put my sexy body to bed.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Taking care of my Master's property. Meaning me.
We're on a diet.
We're all on a diet.
Including the cats.
If only I could find a kitty health club for them!
I get blood tests twice a year. I'm on all sorts of medication, so need blood tests twice a year to be sure my kidney isn't crapping out. Turns out I have the kidneys of a horse, or so one doctor said, but you still have to check. And then there's all that other stuff. Like my thyroid level due to the little bit of lithium I take, and the high cholesterol I inherited from my mom, and the tendency to diabetes I got from my dad.
I got the worst they each had to offer.
Though I did get my mom's red hair.
And her amazing nipples.
She still has amazing nipples at age 90.
She would thoroughly plotz if she knew what my Master likes to do with that hair and those nipples I inherited from her. Hell, can you imagine her reaction if she knew I had a Master? A dangerously sadistic Master who is my only protection against his own urges?
Yum.
I admit that I'm enjoying the idea...
Blood tests.
Back to the blood tests.
I had the full report sent directly to me as well as to my stable of doctors. There were some things that concerned me and then my master, so I trotted off to my family doctor who happens to be, conveniently, a geriatrician as well, having already discussed the report by e-mail with my brilliant psychopharmacologist.
(FYI - geriatricians are trained have a particularly holistic approach to medicine, and make less money because they spend more time with their patients.)
The things that seemed like new problems aren't really and, while the numbers were high, they're better than last year. As I suspected, my thyroid numbers were high which means my thyroid is underperforming which, to my relief, explains why I've been feeling so sluggish and is easily corrected.
My cholesterol levels are surprisingly good.
Hooray!
Happy pet.
But.
The diabetes thing...
Having looked a little better last fall,
it looks a little worse now,
and if I don't get it under control
it's medication for me.
Not to mention that diabetes is a BAD thing to have.
So it's serious diet time.
BUT!!
Happy day!
My Master is taking a interest.
I am his property
and he expects his property to be kept in good working order.
I've really been wishing he would take control of my diet.
Because clearly I can't do it for myself.
It's not like he's going to monitor what I do every day. But he expects me to make a plan, and to keep to it. I am to have a healthy diet plan, and I'm to exercise, and I'm to lose weight, and I'm to get my blood sugar levels down.
I'm to exercise.
Including some very specific exercises.
Exercises meant to accentuate the ravine running down my back.
The trough from which he can drink champagne
in a little over 3 weeks
when we once again
spend the night
in a room with white linens.
As for my tubby tabby cats,
I'm stuck dealing with them myself.
We're all on a diet.
Including the cats.
If only I could find a kitty health club for them!
I get blood tests twice a year. I'm on all sorts of medication, so need blood tests twice a year to be sure my kidney isn't crapping out. Turns out I have the kidneys of a horse, or so one doctor said, but you still have to check. And then there's all that other stuff. Like my thyroid level due to the little bit of lithium I take, and the high cholesterol I inherited from my mom, and the tendency to diabetes I got from my dad.
I got the worst they each had to offer.
Though I did get my mom's red hair.
And her amazing nipples.
She still has amazing nipples at age 90.
She would thoroughly plotz if she knew what my Master likes to do with that hair and those nipples I inherited from her. Hell, can you imagine her reaction if she knew I had a Master? A dangerously sadistic Master who is my only protection against his own urges?
Yum.
I admit that I'm enjoying the idea...
Blood tests.
Back to the blood tests.
I had the full report sent directly to me as well as to my stable of doctors. There were some things that concerned me and then my master, so I trotted off to my family doctor who happens to be, conveniently, a geriatrician as well, having already discussed the report by e-mail with my brilliant psychopharmacologist.
(FYI - geriatricians are trained have a particularly holistic approach to medicine, and make less money because they spend more time with their patients.)
The things that seemed like new problems aren't really and, while the numbers were high, they're better than last year. As I suspected, my thyroid numbers were high which means my thyroid is underperforming which, to my relief, explains why I've been feeling so sluggish and is easily corrected.
My cholesterol levels are surprisingly good.
Hooray!
Happy pet.
But.
The diabetes thing...
Having looked a little better last fall,
it looks a little worse now,
and if I don't get it under control
it's medication for me.
Not to mention that diabetes is a BAD thing to have.
So it's serious diet time.
BUT!!
Happy day!
My Master is taking a interest.
I am his property
and he expects his property to be kept in good working order.
I've really been wishing he would take control of my diet.
Because clearly I can't do it for myself.
It's not like he's going to monitor what I do every day. But he expects me to make a plan, and to keep to it. I am to have a healthy diet plan, and I'm to exercise, and I'm to lose weight, and I'm to get my blood sugar levels down.
I'm to exercise.
Including some very specific exercises.
Exercises meant to accentuate the ravine running down my back.
The trough from which he can drink champagne
in a little over 3 weeks
when we once again
spend the night
in a room with white linens.
As for my tubby tabby cats,
I'm stuck dealing with them myself.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
My Master flogs it and makes it all better
Tuesday is the day my Master comes for lunch.
And other things.
Tuesday was the morning I woke up feeling...
detached.
Uh-oh.
Actually, I woke up feeling fine. Or so I thought. And then I knelt at the foot of the bed to do my morning ritual and... something felt off. I wasn't really there. I wasn't feeling it. And I was terrified that he would come and look in my eyes and not see what he expected to see and think I had been faking it and oh no, there we'd be again!!!
So I e-mailed him.
I emailed him
and told him
and said it just felt temporary
and at the same time he was emailing me
discussing some cocksucking pointers
that he'd wanted me to review
and which I had.
I had studied very hard.
And he said,
without having seen my message,
that maybe we'd do a little training
and then I started to cry,
because I realized that's just what I needed.
And then he read my own message,
and he knew what was needed,
including the training,
and flogging my tits
and flogging my pussy
while I held on tight to the edges of the futon
and did NOT protect myself.
And then he turned me over
and flogged my buttocks
and spanked me with the spoon
and beat me with the strip of wood he uses as a cane
and it hurt
and it hurt
but not more than I could take
because he knew what I needed
and knew how much pain was the right amount of pain
and I held tight to the edges of the futon
and yielded
and cried out
and later
as I knelt before him
I sobbed and sobbed
and he held me to him
and told me to let it out
and everything was ok
and everything will be ok
and he knew
he knows
he always knows
and then he does
exactly what was needed.
He says he knows this slavery thing will be hard for me. That there are things I'll struggle with. Things that will be hard for me. Which I know is true because while on the one hand we both know inside us what it means to us for me to be his slave, on the other hand I don't really know what that will mean for me as we continue from here. And while I know internally that yes, of course that is what I am because haven't I truly ceded my life to him - increasingly made everything else secondary to him because nothing means more and no one understands me better and makes me feel so safe even though I know he is dangerous and damn. I really do fall into these run-on sentences when I get really intense, don't I...
So here's the thing.
That word.
Slave.
It makes me uncomfortable.
Just the word.
It just...
And I'm not sure why. Because it's not the concept that I belong to him that's the problem. I just do. I do. I do belong to him. Not because of any formality but because I do. Because of what's between us. Because of who we each are and what we each are to each other and give each other and do for each other and mean to each other, and this connection...
Anyway.
I'm no longer worried.
I know we are what and who we are.
I know he will lead me to see and to understand
and that my life will continue to be richer
because I have given it to him.
And other things.
Tuesday was the morning I woke up feeling...
detached.
Uh-oh.
Actually, I woke up feeling fine. Or so I thought. And then I knelt at the foot of the bed to do my morning ritual and... something felt off. I wasn't really there. I wasn't feeling it. And I was terrified that he would come and look in my eyes and not see what he expected to see and think I had been faking it and oh no, there we'd be again!!!
So I e-mailed him.
I emailed him
and told him
and said it just felt temporary
and at the same time he was emailing me
discussing some cocksucking pointers
that he'd wanted me to review
and which I had.
I had studied very hard.
And he said,
without having seen my message,
that maybe we'd do a little training
and then I started to cry,
because I realized that's just what I needed.
And then he read my own message,
and he knew what was needed,
including the training,
and flogging my tits
and flogging my pussy
while I held on tight to the edges of the futon
and did NOT protect myself.
And then he turned me over
and flogged my buttocks
and spanked me with the spoon
and beat me with the strip of wood he uses as a cane
and it hurt
and it hurt
but not more than I could take
because he knew what I needed
and knew how much pain was the right amount of pain
and I held tight to the edges of the futon
and yielded
and cried out
and later
as I knelt before him
I sobbed and sobbed
and he held me to him
and told me to let it out
and everything was ok
and everything will be ok
and he knew
he knows
he always knows
and then he does
exactly what was needed.
He says he knows this slavery thing will be hard for me. That there are things I'll struggle with. Things that will be hard for me. Which I know is true because while on the one hand we both know inside us what it means to us for me to be his slave, on the other hand I don't really know what that will mean for me as we continue from here. And while I know internally that yes, of course that is what I am because haven't I truly ceded my life to him - increasingly made everything else secondary to him because nothing means more and no one understands me better and makes me feel so safe even though I know he is dangerous and damn. I really do fall into these run-on sentences when I get really intense, don't I...
So here's the thing.
That word.
Slave.
It makes me uncomfortable.
Just the word.
It just...
And I'm not sure why. Because it's not the concept that I belong to him that's the problem. I just do. I do. I do belong to him. Not because of any formality but because I do. Because of what's between us. Because of who we each are and what we each are to each other and give each other and do for each other and mean to each other, and this connection...
Anyway.
I'm no longer worried.
I know we are what and who we are.
I know he will lead me to see and to understand
and that my life will continue to be richer
because I have given it to him.
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