Champagne baptism

Champagne and nipples, he said.
You could tell them just that.

I could.

But I feel compelled to add that he drank much of that bottle of champagne from the channel that runs down my back. He drank a good bit more from my hands and tits, my hands serving as cups for both the aforementioned tits and the champagne. He drank more from some lovely Finnish champagne glasses I brought along for the occasion, a remnant of my first marriage. As well as from the bottle. I sipped a small amount. It was good champagne. We clinked glasses and held each others' eyes as we took our first tastes.

He had been with friends before arriving at the hotel and consumed quite a bit of alcohol then as well. He doesn't drink most days, but when he does, he makes up for lost time.

We all know what too much alcohol does to male performance.

It took me hours to get him off.
The beast was very impatient.

The next morning, he texted:

"You were magnificent."

Which probably refers to the champagne trough as much as to anything else.

And later:

"You may tell your blog fans about your stick-to-it-iveness."

Ah yes.
Maybe I should have titled this post The Loneliness of the Long Distance Cocksucker.

In other news...

He called me "sweetheart".
Twice.

After the first time, he paused, looked at me quizzically, and said "Did I just call you 'sweetheart'?"

And.
He said the three magic words.
Except there were 4 words.
The three,
followed by "too."
I did hear them.
They were soft and clear.
Somewhat matter-of-fact.
I'm not surprised at what he feels.
I'm surprised that he said it.
Soft and clear.
And then went on.

I wonder why?
I wonder why he confessed?

Summary: it was a very mixed weekend.

But at least the bottle of champagne is no longer living in the back of the bottom shelf of my refrigerator, where it had been stashed for the last year. So that's something.

Ayes 33, Nays 29.

Gay marriage just passed in New York,
the state where I was born.

Sex toy photo shoot

I really thought I'd be posting a sex toy review today.
I really did.


I got the thing last month and finished my testing early this month and then there was this and that and I wasn't getting it written and circumstances weren't right for trying it out on the sadist which I really wanted to do and I finally started writing it late last night and was going to finish at least the first of the 2 posts today and then my sister called and an hour and a half later my ear is hot and sore and I've got no more written.

And Saturday I head out to the undisclosable location in which I will spend the night with my Master back in the room with white linens.

Well, maybe not the same room with white linens. but close enough.

So I still have much to do to prepare.
Laundry to do.
Though I probably don't really need to.
No underwear allowed once I check into the room.
But things to pack.
A poem to memorize.
The tank to fill with gas,
The cats to snuggle.
All that sort of thing.


Not to mention getting into and maintaining the right state of mind. That is very, very important. We even discussed the music I should listen to during the various stages of the trip.

I need to remain calm.
Quiet.
Centered.
Peaceful.
No heavy emotions.
Yeah, well, we know how that goes.
Even if there's no big thing,
we're both so intense,
our relationship is so intense,
it will all be underneath everything anyway.
But no big show of emotions.

I can do that.

I can!

Well, sometimes...


I will.
I'll show him how good I can be.
His poet.
His pet.
His courtesan.
His Geisha.
His slave.

His favorite.

And meanwhile, you get this sampling from the little photo shoot I did with my new friend. She was ever so cooperative...

What to do for your Daddy on Father's Day

How could I ignore it?
How could I ignore that it was Father's Day?

Yes, I admit, it felt a little weird.
But he's Daddy.
He's my Lord.
My Master.
My Owner.
My Life.

But also he's Daddy.
And it's such a relief to be calling him that again.
So much is contained in that word.
It's a vessel into which we can pour so much.
I admit that some of it is very transgressive.
But there is also a sweetness...
A love...
And from him -
affections it isn't safe to express in any other way,
although I still feel them.
In his touch.
They leak from his touch...

Anyway.
It was Father's Day last Sunday here in the US.
And on Saturday I spent hours compiling a playlist.
A playlist for my Daddy.
It ended with My Heart Belongs to Daddy.
So you get the idea.

And the poor man has been so busy that he hasn't even had a chance to listen. Because he won't until he can give it proper attention. And I know he has been thinking of me.

We are making plans.

Plans to return to the room with white linens.

Soon.
Very soon.

I'm a very happy pet.

Lotus-eaters

He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it. And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter within the newspaper.

A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then? What does she say?

Dear Henry,

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word. Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling. I have such a bad headache. today. and write by return to your longing

Martha.

P.S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.

x x x x

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses without thorns.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And for dessert: Feedback from James Joyce's Submission of Ulysses to his Creative Writing Workshop

Daddy's back

I was kneeling before him.
He was enthroned in his chair.
It really is his chair now.
I can't bring myself to sit in it any more.
Which is too bad, because it's frightfully comfortable.

I was kneeling before him doing to him those things I do when he's settled into his chair and I'm kneeling before him. I had come up for air, as he likes me to do, so he can see my face and enjoy my mouth and hear those words that get him ever so turned on.

He called me his little girl.

It took a few moment to sink in.
I looked up.
A questioning look.

Yes, he said.
Daddy's back.

Daddy's been away for a couple of months. Since our big conflagration back in April, when in the face of a demonstration of his affection I pulled back. Not deliberately. Something in me can't handle anyone being so taken with me. Thinking I'm so extraordinary. The look in his eyes...

I'm crying now.
Because it will be a very long time,
and maybe forever,
before he lets himself be with me in that way again.
Because it's not safe.

He says I hate weakness. I don't know if it's that. Perhaps it's that I think there must be something wrong with anyone who can feel that way about me. Because even as hard as he has worked to make me value myself, there is obviously a lot of work left for him to do. So at a few moments during that night he rented the motel room, and then a fair amount the following Tuesday when he visited, I pulled back. I slipped out and saw him... differently.

I felt power. The power that comes from knowing someone wants me that much. The power that comes from disinterest. From scorn.

He was giving me so much, and in return I did the equivalent of spitting in his face.

With his x-ray vision, he saw.
He knew.
He could tell.
And that is how I hurt him back in April.
That is is why he beat me that badly.
That is why he beat me more than he wanted to.

And that is why Daddy went away.

Well, that's basically why. I don't know exactly why he wasn't letting me be his little girl any more. I felt it as a punishment. I felt that he didn't think it was wise or safe to have that kind of very special intimacy any more.

It was awful. I found myself addressing him as Daddy in my head, calling out his name as I tested my new vibrators, having his name on the tip of my tongue when I was with him. Last week - I think it was last week - I said how much I missed him. My Daddy.

10 days ago.
I wrote:

I miss my Daddy... I so wanted to come bursting in to send you a proud message saying "Look, Daddy! I got my plants in!" But I understand, my Lord. I know you know what's best. Still, I keep having to sweep that name away from my lips...

But he said it was too early. That he had a plan for that. For now, he wanted me to think of myself only as his slave for a while.

Except I've been having trouble living in in my "slave skin", as he called it. Struggling. I was OK when we were together, and occasionally over e-mail, but there is something about the word itself that makes me uncomfortable. Add that to hormonal issues, low thyroid, unbearable heat, and things were not going well.

My Master - and he is my Master - is used to having to change his plan for me. Poor guy. So he did. He knew exactly what I needed.

First, he - well, this is hard to describe. How do I put this? He... he let me kiss him. Deeply. Needily. Desperately. Usually I present my mouth for him to enjoy. My mouth must be soft and my tongue extended just the right amount. You know how hard it is to keep your mouth soft with your tongue sticking out?

Anyway, on Tuesday he could feel how desperately I needed his warmth. His affection. His arms and his mouth as comfort and refuge because I was feeling such a failure and a bit like I was stranded on a dessert island. So he threw the doors wide open.

"Feed on me," he said.

And of course I cried.
I am such a cry baby.
I cried and he held me and he was sweet and gentle.

And later.
Later.
Daddy came back.

And he told me how much he had missed being with his little girl. How hard it had been for him. And I realized it was true, and how much he denies himself for me. For the good of the relationship. Because while he has a whole stable of other submissives, I give him things that he can't get from anybody else.

I am Daddy's little girl.

There are still sadnesses that linger. I'm still struggling with the slave thing, and I feel I've let him down. He tries to reassure me, saying that I learned plenty and did enhance my service to him. So that's something, I guess. And he was smart enough to realize that I needed a break now. And something to make me feel better.

Having Daddy back makes me feel really, really good.
And having his little girl back...
I could tell how good Daddy felt.
Oh, yes.

That still leaves one more big thing.

For the sadist to feel it's safe to be with me in that special, beautiful way as he was that night we threw common sense into the damp night air and ran off to share amazing hours in a seedy motel.

I want to hurt you, he said.

I want to hurt you, he said, without a trace of the beast in his voice.
Bring me the cane, he said.
Bring it to me here, he said, enthroned in his chair.

There was no trace at all of the beast in his voice as he asked for the cane, sitting in the chair. It was almost gentle. I belong to him. He merely wanted the sweet pleasure of hurting me.

I felt no fear.
I felt soft and sweet.
Soft and sweet and drunk on his kisses.
Soft, sweet, sensuous kisses.
Reassuring kisses.
Kisses to wash away the pain of my struggles with this slave business.
Soft sweet kisses to make me feel safe.
Safe and secure.
Safe at his feet.
Safe in his arms.
Safe with my arms wrapped around him and my head in his lap.

The only way he could really hurt me would be to send me away.

I almost floated over to the large, heavy, pale wood coffee table that held everything from a pair of water glasses and salad bowls to a flogger, a chain, and the long strip of wood that he uses as a cane. I floated back over to my Master in the Eames chair, offering him the safe, square end of the cane, leaving the jagged, pointed, dangerous end free to express itself. The end that has, at times, carved my Master's initial in the soft, pale pillow of my ass.

As my Master ordered, I lay face down on the open futon, my head on the pillow. Of my own volition, I spread my arms and legs, forming a tempting white X against the dark red of the sheet. I felt him place the strip of wood on my back... I can't remember now... was it at first perpendicular to my back? For sure, it was settled into the valley of my spine. I was aware of how soft I felt... He told me to raise my ass more. I did, sure that now the first blow would land. Instead, the jagged end of the cane wandered down between my butt cheeks.

Turn over, he said.

I turned over, returning to the X formation.
Offering my softness.
Offering my vulnerability.
Giving him whatever he wanted.

He ran the jagged point of the cane down between my breasts.
He traced his desire among the folds of my pussy.
And then he stopped.

I'm not going to hurt you, he said.

Silence.

Do you still want to? I asked.
I thought he was sparing me.
I didn't want him to spare me.
I was soft and warm and loving and yielding.
I wanted him to take whatever he wanted.
Whatever he needed.

I was never going to hurt you, he said.
I wanted to see you offering.

And then he rolled me over onto my side, lay down behind me on the dark red sheet, and gathered me in his arms.