Use and service

Written 2 days ago, right after the fact.

I'd been thinking about the Irishman for days. I was stressed out and needing human contact.

Today, he e-mailed me.
He e-mailed me and I didn't see the message.

He uses my anonymous yahoo account that I keep for craigslist ads - ads for housemates and lovers and perverts. It is NOT my oatmeal girl account, because I prefer to keep my blog secret from the men I meet. It's awfully tricky to write about them otherwise....

So Wednesday he e-mailed my yahoo account, and I didn't see the message because I mostly don't use that account. I've been keeping it open just in case he wants me. But I didn't see this.

We have an arrangement. If and when he wants me, he can have me. For use. A very functional relationship. There might not be much notice, there might not be a snuggle afterwards, no sitting around and chatting beforehand... I love it.

OK, it's not my top choice. I really like this guy. Something about him appeals to me. He's very good looking. Smart, charming (the little he's allowed me to see), Irish of course, grey hair that doesn't make him look old, an enticingly wry crooked smile... I wish I could date him. But of course he's not available. Not even an open marriage. He just has these needs, simmering underneath all the time, and then they rise to the surface and need release. And I said yes, I'd be there for him, I'd be his slut, he could use me as he needed me. Better than having to score a new girl from craigslist each time.

And the idea excites the hell out of me.

Unfortunately, there had been no opportunity for him to use me until today. He had asked once or twice - with a minimum of e-mailed words in which you could hear the politeness - but the timing was off. I was sorry. And then this week... I did so need to be with someone this week, no matter what the circumstances. As long as it was someone with whom I felt a connection.And I do feel a connection with him.

But I didn't see his e-mail.

And then he phoned. A little before 9 pm. And I said yes, of course.

He was here in half an hour.

He gestured with his head and we went straight to the bedroom. He bent me over the foot of the bed and spanked me a few times, through my jeans. He doesn't hit me that hard... I wonder
why my butt hurts now? Because it definitely does hurt. I wish he'd done more. I wished he'd had the time and the inclination to spank me for 20 minutes... to spank me until I sank into the rhythm and the pain... not that painful in each slap but pain that built, and that got worse as my ass became more and more tender... I wanted to externalize the pain from these last days, make it tangible... but this was better than nothing. And it does still hurt.

He bent me over the foot of the bed and spanked me. Then he ordered me to take off my jeans and panties. I didn't get the impression he wanted anything more to come off. He was focused and goal oriented. He had asked ahead of time whether I had condoms, so I had already arrayed them and assorted lubricants on the bedside table. He positioned me back over the foot of the bed and said he wanted my ass. He was kind, checking to be sure that was ok. He said he wanted a minimum of talking. I did tell him that this would be the first time. He said in that case it would hurt - and was I all right with that? He is a very kind dom. I said yes, I was all right with it, I wanted it.

What do you want?

Whatever you do, sir.

Do you want to be my slut?

Yes, sir, I do want to be your slut! (a slight smile slips into my voice)

Good girl.

He spanked my bare ass. I could hear condom and lube action. He had been rubbing his be-jeaned erection into the crack, rubbing, pressing, banging... I wanted him. I wanted him using me like this, reducing me to a hole or two... my sadistic demon muse has been exploring objectification with me and has plans to do more. This little adventure would have made him happy, I think.

So yes, he spanked my bare ass. Not all that hard but hard enough that it still hurts as I write this later that evening. I wonder if he saw any remnants of my birthday beating.

And I wonder if my demon muse cast a spell on my virgin anus. A spell that locked it tight. Because the Irishman couldn't make it in.

He went to Plan B.

He fucked my cunt from behind. It didn't take too long, this was a utilitarian fucking with nothing to prove. But I felt him banging at me from behind, I felt him inside me, I felt the pressure, a nice erect cock inside me. Hallelujah.

He came. He remained inside me just a very brief time. Just as long as he needed. Then he smacked my ass one more time... it was a good hard smack but I experienced it as a good-bye kiss... he smacked me that one more time then bent over my back and murmured in my ear "I'm going to go now. Stay there." I sighed contentedly and said "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

And then he was gone.

From arrival to departure it couldn't have been more than 20 minutes.

Would I have liked more? Sure. I would have liked at least a half hour of spanking and fucking and a whole lot of other things in between. I'm not greedy... because what I would really have liked was an hour... including a pair of naked bodies and his weight on me... and kisses... we did kiss the first time he came here... he kisses well... but this was fine. This was very fine... there was a body here... there was pain... there was sex... and even though he needed to reduce me to a hole, he was still someone who needed me. Who needed to be with me.

And that felt just lovely.

Thank you, sir.
I am your slut, sir, on call, and happy to serve.

Cock, Dick, or Harry?

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That which is missing

not all that often
just now and then
ghosts walk
like now
when i pushed a sock
down past my ankle
pulling it off
to throw in the wash
and my hand was surprised
at the lack of a chain
a paper clip chain
that linked me to you.
sometimes
absence
is a presence.

I've been feeling absence lately. Voids. The sadist is sick. Really sick. It's hard to imagine him being felled by bacteria, but so it is. I picture him beached on his sofa, a giant whale held in bondage by tiny creatures too small to be defeated, powerful in their unity. Poor Gulliver. There is a temptation to chuckle at the image of him weak and silent and sleeping for days, he whose hand has hit me almost as painfully as he allowed that nasty wood strip to impact my butt. But I can't laugh. I admit to a fondness for him. I miss his stern words, his imposed control, his arousing words thrown at me like Mardi Gras beads into a crowd. Except he throws them only at me, to be woven into poems and stories for his pleasure alone.

I shouldn't.
But I like him.
And I miss him.

And then there's the philosopher. He says he's having a very hard time. He says he's down, but I shouldn't worry. That he'll be ok. But I do worry. It was a very hard week for me and I needed him and he wasn't there. I had, I think, a couple of short messages from him. Maybe three? I can't remember. It was a very hard week and all I could feel was that I was scared and torn and needed to be a shoulder for my sister to cry on while there was nowhere a shoulder for me.

He must be having a very hard time. I know what it's like. I do. You're depressed, you're empty, you have nothing to give. That was one reason for breaking up with me - to relieve him of that responsibility of being there for me, of looking after me, of putting up with me, while he went through the trials of his dissertation. And when he allowed himself to admit that yes, ok, we are still more than friends to each other, I promised that there would still be nothing expected of him till he was done. Till he could handle it. He would allow me to write as much as I wanted to - needed to - and I wouldn't expect a response. I offered this, in good faith, and mostly I can stick with it. Because it's this or nothing, and I've already had nothing, and I don't know of anyone I would want instead. Before or now.

But still.
I missed him.
I needed him.

And now I'm worn out.

Things are better. My mom is better. They cemented her vertebra back together (really!), the pain is reduced, and they sprang her from the hospital to the nursing section of the place where they live. My dad doesn't have to commute to the hospital any more - good thing, because I hate to think of him driving at all.

I feel like I'm getting a cold. Probably from the stress. Not from my demon muse, as I haven't seen him since my birthday over 2 weeks ago. It's the stress. It depresses the immune system. But if it doesn't blossom I'll drive up there Friday and come back Monday and then I'll really need someone to look after me.

I wish I could take Marko with. Unfortunately, he hates to travel and would yowl the whole way. But I wish I could have him there. Staying near me, snuggling against me for warmth and love and reassurance.

I know what that feels like.

The poem that began this post... I wrote it for the philosopher. It started as an e-mail. And then I brought it here. I'm not sure why. Maybe so it wouldn't feel like a throwaway.

I'm finding myself wanting to address him as master. I haven't done that since last summer. Since he broke up with me. I don't know why it keeps coming into my mind now.

"i miss you, master..."

It feels good. And yes, I know why... because even as there was perhaps always a slight bemused detachment behind our D/s interactions, I always felt taken care of. For-real taken care of. And I need that right now.

But I'll be ok, John.
I'll come through.
Taking care of me isn't your job right now.
Now
it's my job
to take care of
you.

Cunt or Pussy?

I don't know why I started referring to it as my cunt. It's not like it's a word I was all that comfortable with. Maybe other bloggers were using it. Maybe some guy used it. Maybe I was trying to be bold and shocking. I honestly can't remember.

Some guy approached me on FetLife, where men seem to find me fascinating. He found me fascinating, but he was one of those guys who are incredibly paranoid about discovering that they've been writing to a guy pretending to be a woman. Men are so afraid of making fools of themselves... He didn't want to continue writing unless I sent him a face shot to "prove" that I was really a woman.

Now first of all, that's just plain stupid. A man could send him a face shot of a woman. Or of a cunt. And I was damned if I'd go sending an identifiable picture to some guy who had given me no reason to trust him, especially as he didn't trust me. So I sent back some snarky message to that effect, and made some reference to my cunt.

Well. That did it.

Now he was convinced I was really a man, because no woman would call it her cunt.

??!!?

As you know, my demon muse calls it my pussy.
A quite impressive pussy.
Tight.
A 60-year old tight pussy.
Me, I don't think it's all that impressive.
The damn thing is just underutilized.

As the song goes
"I've got a lot of fucking to do."
Well, that's almost how the song goes...

And of course it's not really true.
Not that I'd object to a bit of fucking.
But, of course, it's not about me.
I have two jobs.
To serve my demon muse, in whatever way he wants.
And to love the philosopher, in whatever way he will let me.

As for the original question:
cunt or pussy?
What do you call it?

Real Life intrudes

But then, she says, quibbling over words, who's to say what is my "real" life? Parental health problems that demand my attention? Or the order from my demon muse, presented as a reward, that today I may (may? I have a choice?) ruminate on the term "slave"? Something else that demands my attention.

The sadist always demands my attention. And who, then, is to say that his perpetual presence in my mind, his persistent effect on my profuse pelvic secretions, is not as much a part of real life as the fact that my aged mother is in the hospital after a bad backwards fall?

So far, so good with her it seems. She fell on her back, she hit her head, there's something with a vertebra... hell, it's the weekend, they won't really do anything till Monday. And then maybe they will send her back to the nursing section of their continuing care community, where she will probably get more attention than in the hospital and my dad can be at home and her friends will come fuss over her... and I won't have to go up to visit until next weekend.

I know I sound cold. Please don't think me cold. There's a lot of self-protection going on here. I left to go to college and have done my best to keep a healthy distance ever since. Oh, nothing like sexual or other physical abuse, no alcoholism, none of that. But... Control. Manipulation. Disapproval of what my sister and I actually were, what we ourselves wanted - clothes, careers, dance classes. Clear ideas about what was appropriate - which didn't always make sense. White gloves to ride the subway? OK, yes, it was the 50s and all. But really.

So I've got my walls. I protect myself. I try not to fight with them and I don't tell them more than I absolutely have to.

And in my continuing efforts to find myself, to protect myself, to escape from the effects of the controlling people who raised me, who never spanked me but who were masters at emotional manipulation, I seek out men who will control me, who will manipulate me with the judicious application or denial of names such as "my pet" or "kitten", and who will, indeed, spank me. Who will cane me until I cry. And who will fill my mind, will fill my life, with their words, with their silence, until everything else is dwarfed by my adoration, my obedience, my awe, my love - you are free to assign these emotions to the proper recipient as seems fit.

This is my Real Life, as much as anything else. These two men, each playing his own part, filling almost every need except the one to has someone here with me right now so I can snuggle.

But then, I do have the cats. The main way I serve the philosopher right now is to make no demands. So I have the cats.

Oh, and that word... slave... considering that by its official definition it is illegal in the US, and that there seems to be no one with authority to grant a self-appointed governing body the right to define the terms for a consensually non-consensual relationship between two people, and with an eye towards the Humpty Dumpty quote you can find on my sidebar, any two people should be able to define and use the term within their own relationship in any way that is meaningful to them.

So says I, whom the philosopher once called his slave kitten.

From the classifieds

PETS - CATS - FREE

One pussy. Good as new. Barely used. Hot and wet and tight.
Hot enough to melt a latex glove.
Wet enough to soak right through your thickest pair of jeans.
And tight. Ah tight. She'll latch on your little finger
and suck it like an infant that can't let go.
Hot and wet and tight and free to a good home.
Or a not-so-good home.
How about a downright evil home?
Or not even a home. Will consider
a cage, hidden in an undisclosed location.
Just take her off our hands.
She's languishing. Take her.
She's yours.
This pussy needs to be used.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Posted with permission, given as follows:

You may post not only this but any comment I have made regarding your pussy. You may even post them serially (is that a word?) as a running commentary, sort of a Vagina Dialogues thing, including the phrase "fist-tight cauldron of honey" if you like and even refer to the cheerleader tits just to make sure their suffering is complete.

Clearly, my demon muse was quite impressed. It's nice to be appreciated.

He beat me till I cried

Monday.
President's Day.
There were all these men swirling around me on Monday.

One had found me on FetLife, where my profile clearly says that I'm looking for nothing more than friendship.

One had responded to my craigslist ad a while back, and we had discussed talking or meeting this weekend. He and his wife collect subs and slaves, it seems, and I thought it would be interesting to talk with him.

The Irishman wrote to see if I was available.
He likes to be spontaneous.

There was silence from the philosopher.

And my demon muse took me to the dungeon for an hour,
and beat me till I cried.

President's Day is a federal holiday, so a lot of people in the DC area are off work. But a lot of people aren't. My job goes by the federal calendar. My housemate's doesn't. I had the house to myself. The family room reverted to the dungeon.

The sadist said he'd arrive at 10 am. He told me what to have ready. He told me how to prepare myself. And then at 9 o'clock he e-mailed that at 9:30 I was to shut myself in my room until getting the text message that he was 5 minutes away.

My room was to be my cage for that half hour.
The cage in which I had spent Saturday, naked and in chains.

We've been talking about cages.
Not about his getting one for me.
But about the concept.
And all it takes is a few words to turn a room into a cage.

So I awaited his arrival in my cage.
His cage.

He has a plan for me.
It's all worked out.
Very methodical.
He ordered me down to the dungeon
and got to work.

There was pain and poetry,
teaching and training,
spanking and caning with that
wretched
strip of
cherry
wood.

He beat me till I cried.

I was down on the floor on my hands and knees, head down, ass in the air, my poor vulnerable ass willingly offered to that nasty piece of wood as it came down again and again and again. Not as hard as he would beat a masochist, but hard for me. And I took it. I willingly took it. I hated it but I gave him my pain. Sometimes I squirmed away a bit but I came back and I raised my ass and he beat me and in the end I broke down and sobbed. And then he ordered me up and I don't remember what came next.

I cried one more time.
Later.
When he made me cum.
Coldly and deliberately,
with a sadistic detachment,
he made me cum.

And I cried.

I always do, don't I...

He was cold but, it seems, I was not.
I'm happy to report that at 60 years of age
my pussy is hot and wet and tight.
Maybe I should ask him for an affidavit.

The philosopher had a goal of caning me till I cried. And finally he did it. The last time he was here. I had been very bad, and he gave me a long, drawn out punishment in many stages. It was a true punishment, and I was truly penitent. And at the end, after 4 hard strokes of the cane, 4 of an intended 20 or so, he knew that was all I needed. He stopped and I cried my heart out.

I haven't seen him since that weekend.

But we're talking about now. Yesterday. When the sadist beat me till I cried, and did all these other things, did things to my head, not just to my body. He left in the usual way, and I went up to my bedroom, my cage, and immediately e-mailed him my first reactions in the usual way, and then covered each butt cheek with its own giant bag of frozen peas.

And then all I wanted to do was to stay in my cage. I put away the peas and drank some water and shook with chills and curled up in a fetal position with Marko by my side and slept for over 2 hours. And even when I left what felt like the safe confines of my cage, I still felt like I was there. And stunned.

Oh, I did some reading I needed to do for a committee I'm on, and I talked for a while with the man of many slaves, and e-mailed the man from FetLife, and regretfully told the Irishman that I really wasn't up to serving him (he was awfully nice and I was awfully sorry). And I sent the additional required reports to the sadist. And didn't get much else done.

He e-mailed back last night.

I said I wasn't sure what I could handle.
I want to serve him but am not sure what I can handle.

We talked back and forth today, e-mailed back and forth. It needn't be an all-or-nothing thing. But if I'm going to be anything more than his private Anaïs Nin, producing erotic literature for his eyes only, he'll have to work out the details.

I do hope he can. It would be a pity to let a hot, wet, tight pussy go to waste. After all these years, it's still almost like new.

Except, of course, that what I really need is something else.

I need someone I can curl up against,
the way Marko curls up against me.
I need someone to stroke my head
the way I stroke Marko's.
I need someone to stroke my head as I curl against him, while he says
there, there... don't cry, kitten.
And then holds me while he lets me cry as much as I want.

Eventually.
Hopefully.
Eventually.