Late night communion

Such a soft and sleepy pet.
He kept me up late last night.
Listening to music.

He e-mailed past midnight,
and didn't seem surprised to find me up.

I sent him a poem at around half past midnight.
He responded over an hour later.
And was not surprised to find me up.

He'd been thinking about me all evening.
I'd felt his presence all evening.
I'd felt his presence as I listened to a CD he'd given me.
Meaningful music he had given me.
Songs that made me cry for so many reasons...

I listened and cried and listened again and wrote a poem that he said (at 1:41 in the morning) was the most honest thing I'd ever written. And we e-mailed until past 2, and listened to one song almost simultaneously, and he reassured me that now everything was ok and it was a good thing I hadn't listened before, when we were having one or another of our storms...

Still, I awoke with swollen eyes.
Though probably from allergies as much as from crying.
And he said reassuring things this morning and I know we are ok.

We're ok and I'm glad I finally listened to the songs, which are meaningful to him. And I listened now because I know that we are ok.

We
are.

And there is something so strong between us...
no matter how different we are -
no matter how unsuited for any relationship other than what we have -
that the bond cannot break.

No matter what pot holes we hit on the road we are traveling, nothing can stop us. We always find a way to repair the car. We can't bear to leave it sitting there.

We never
ever
run out of gas.

If there is any danger at all,
it's that we'll overheat.

Because damn.
We sure are hot.

The making of a masochist

I hate that word.
Masochist
It sounds so
clinical.

There's a chance that, one day, someone will apply that word to me.

Me, I prefer the word sensualist.

I don't think the sadist expects to make me into what he would think of as a masochist. But he has taken me by the hand and begun to lead me down that beautiful, dangerous path to that place where pleasure and pain are intertwined.

He's not usually one to go in for warm-ups. Usually, when he wants to hurt me, it is either for punishment or for his pleasure. In either case, warming up my butt doesn't figure into his plans.

This time was different.
This time the whole point was to go gradually.
The old frog in the pot of warming water trick.

I can't remember the exact order of things.
But I know I was already somewhat in that place.

I was ordered into position down on the floor. My ass was offered. He started with the wooden spoon. He tapped it very lightly, then a little harder, slowly increasing, probably reaching something that would have had me squirming if he had started off that way. Next came the flogger. It seemed as if he was whipping me with some energy, but it didn't hurt. It was just that wonderful flogging sensation, not the pain he has previously managed to inflict with a flogger that had been specifically designed not to hurt very much.

Then the cane.
Again, lightly at first.
And never very hard.
Though who knows?
Anyway, he said he just wanted to make my butt pink.
He likes to look at my rosy bottom
as I kneel before him,
ass in the air,
sucking his cock.

It was later that the real lesson commenced.
Again, I was kneeling before him.
The chain was wrapped tight around my neck
as it had been since soon after he arrived.
My right hand jerked his cock.
My left hand caressed my pussy.
Did he only use his hand?
Or the spoon, too?
He spanked me.
Gently to start.
Then harder.
And harder.
It hurt.
But never really hurt.
Even when it should have hurt.
It never really hurt.

When the spanking stopped, my butt kept ringing.

It was wonderful.

At the end, I was begging for more...
The door was open, and beyond lay dark sunshine.

Take me there, my Lord.
Take me there with you.

Lead me to that place where I will kneel at your feet and beg you to do those awful things that you dream of doing to me. The ones that wake you in the middle of the night...

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,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:

He replied with thanks, deeming it lovely, but claiming to have trumped me with reference to a different sonnet.

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.

Masturbation mania (4) - enjoying the Fun Factory Meany

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Masturbation mania (3) - testing the Fun Factory Meany

It's small.
It's squooshy.
It's quiet.
It's lavender.

It's the Meany, my new mini-vibrator from Fun Factory, courtesy of my friends at EdenFantasys, the on-line seller of so-called Adult Toys who supply me with masturbatory goodies in exchange for uncensored reviews.

I'm quite fond of the Meany, although I'm not completely sure why.



The cats, however, had absolutely no interest in the Meany, a tribute to the minimal amount of plastic involved in the packaging. I had to work very hard to get this photo, which I pursued only out of fairness and a sense of balance. After all, the other vibrators I've reviewed had their portraits taken with the cats! I may have to give up that part of the project if I keep getting sent sex toys made by manufacturers with a concern for the environment.

As I said, the Meany is small.
Very small.
It's barely 6" from the pliable curved tip to the end of the black plastic cap.
And that includes the controls, which are on the soft silicone part.



At times, I would shove the whole thing up inside me and just leave it there on its own, rumbling away. I had to reach into my pussy if I wanted to change the setting. Happily, I never had to worry about it getting lost. While it stayed inside quite happily, I could easily eject it with a good squeeze of my muscles. It did eventually become quite warm, which I assume was from my body heat.

Like the Siena Symphony, the Meany is made of silicone, giving it a sort of velvety texture and making it very easy to clean. But a special feature of the Meany is that the tip is squooshy, reminding me of a real penis. It's sort of flexible, which seems just so cute! In fact, the Meany in general seems cute. Sweet. Yummy. A pleasure pet.

But not mean at all.

So here's the thing.
To me, it's darling.
But if you're after something
big and hard
and fierce and nasty,
the Meany is not your guy.

It is very quiet. In fact, at first hearing, it struck me as significantly quieter than the Symphony, although Eden rates them both the same at 2 bees out of 5. I was surprised, when I finally compared them buzz to buzz, to find that at the loudest settings they were, in fact, the same. Which is quiet. I turned them on and left the room and even right outside my door heard barely a thing. And inside me?

A pussy provides excellent insulation.
Something sound engineers might want to investigate further.

Like the Symphony, the Meany is billed as a G-spot vibrator, what with the curved tip and all. I experimented with angles, to see what effect it would have. At times it did unleash sensations that were... different. Deeply internal, up into my womb, and not something I can really describe. In fact, if any of you readers feel like leaving comments on your own G-spot sensations, I'd be most grateful. I have a lot to learn.

I always have a lot to learn.

Perhaps one reason I like the Meany so much is precisely because it isn't over-strong. It's not beating up on my cunt. I can let it run and run and my clitoris doesn't feel numb after. And it's comfortable. My main complaint about the Symphony is that it's rather big for me. The Meany feels lovely inside me. Despite my age, I do have a tight little pussy! If you like to feel more full, or have a more generous cave than I do, you probably want something fatter and longer.

There are 10 settings, controlled by a pair of buttons that take you up and down through the options. The buttons sometimes seemed a little fussy, and at times, especially with the device fully inserted, I accidentally changed the setting when all I meant to do was adjust the creature's position. The patterns are lovely, though, albeit not as creative as those on the Symphony. Mostly you get different intensities of straight vibrations; once you reach the maximum strength, three are 3 pulsing programs, which also build in power.

I'm having a very hard time writing this review.
I wonder if it shows?
Because here I am describing this and that feature.
The things that charm me.
The things that might leave others dissatisfied.
But really, it's all very subjective.
Just as I immediately knew I wanted mine to be lavender
and never considered the one in black.
Just as any lover,
and/or any penis,
might charm me
and might leave you cold
or angry
or frustrated.

You can't write a completely dispassionate and scientific review about either a lover or a vibrator, and for some reason I'm feeling that most of all with this one.

This vibrator, that is.

So come back tomorrow for the pulse-by-pulse comments I sent the sadist as I tested the Meany, both before and after the severe punishment beating he gave me. Because yes. A couple of days after he beat my pussy with the large wooden spoon, he ordered me to masturbate with my sweet little lavender vibrator, to make sure my poor, bruised pussy still worked.

It did.
Work.
It worked just fine.

"True bdsm"?

One reason I started this blog is that I kept leaving comments on other people's blogs that were much too long for politeness. Having this space kept me under control for a while. Well, mostly... But lately my muzzle has been slipping.

My most recent sin in that area occurred just today in response to a post on cassie's blog: ...with a sense of pride. The post, called True bdsm, refers to a discussion the Greek submissive cassie had with a Dom, also Greek but not her own.

We mostly agreed that what we do (always r/l) should first and foremost be fun. We Dominate or submit because we like to Dominate or submit. We like to give or receive pain. We like to humiliate or be humiliated. We like to explore our limits and new forms of play. We like to control or we like to serve. We are sadists or masochists and like discipline and bondage.

I do hope you will go read all of what she has to say, and any comments. It's the least I can do for disagreeing so heartily and taking so much room to do it.

And of course I disagreed. I suspect I disagree with most people about what bdsm "means", or what it "should be." You will probably recognize my oft repeated points in my comment, which I'm reprinting below.

I sometimes wonder how different my outlook would be if I lived with the sadist - although if we did spend more time together I (we both) doubt the relationship would last long. In many ways, we are very different, and in terms of regular life we just wouldn't fit. But more than that, I think I would OD on such a rich and intoxicating brew. Still, I do not stop being his when we are not physically together or in any other form of communication, and we are constantly working to find ways to increase my awareness and obedience. To that extent, I could say that I live as his 24/7, thought obviously it is very different from dealing with laundry, kids, car repairs in the context of any variation on a bdsm relationship.

All that said, here is my response. I humbly invite your own comments. Please feel free to disagree with me as much as I disagreed with cassie and her Dom friend, and to take as much space as you wish to do so. My view is my own, derived from my own limited experience as lived on my own isolated mountaintop, and I'm eager to hear your own take on the matter.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

An interesting question, cassie, although one to which I'm inclined to give what might be called a non-answer. Because I don't think one should even try to define "true" bdsm.

Even in religion, there is no one true faith. Oh, the Vatican or various denominations of the various religions (see? already there is multiplicity), may say this is what you must believe and this is how you must worship. But invariably that will change over time, in a few years or decades or centuries. Groups will splinter off as they think they have received The Word.

There is no Vatican for the Church of BDSM. No chief wonder-working rabbi.

My own view is that bdsm is first and foremost a relationship. And everything else follows from that. Even for those who "play" - which my Master and I don't - it is still a relationship. The way 2 or more people choose to interact.

Beyond that, addressing your statement that first and foremost bdsm is fun - I can speak only for myself, although I suspect it applies to my Master the sadist as well. For me, first and foremost, submission is a NEED. It is a deep and integral part of who I am. And everything else follows from there. And my Master? He is dominant. And he is a sadist. He just is. And he has a NEED, sometimes insurmountable and almost suffocating, to inflict pain. At that level, I wouldn't call it fun at all. Not for him and not for his victim.

Now, he is embarking, very cautiously, on the project of training me to connect pleasure and pain. Not simply to enable him to hurt me more than he has without destroying the relationship, but because through the sharing of his sadism and my suffering we will achieve a depth of intimacy that can be reached in no other way.

But that's us.
I wouldn't think of speaking for anyone else.

Vibrators - they're everywhere!

Just imagine.

Before long, vibrators could be on display with chewing gum and People Magazine and the other impulse purchases trying to tease the money out of your pocket as you wait in the check-out line.

Yes.
It's true.
According to this article in the New York Times, vibrators have gone mainstream.

I remember the first one I bought. It was my contribution to the orgasmatron we were building in my office. The business represented manufacturer's of electronic components, but expanded to include what was called "systems furniture." This was back in the late 70s. I wasn't quite 30, and must have looked 19 or younger. Perhaps we were all stoned - or maybe merely bored - when we decided to convert the freestanding metal closet into a pleasure pod. I'm not sure why I was assigned to buy the active ingredient; certainly I had never done such a thing before.

The whole task was intensely embarrassing. I went down to the appropriate section of Boston (a highly inappropriate section of Boston, in fact). I can't imagine actually asking for the thing. I must have just wandered around, trying to look inconspicuous, trying not to blush, until I came across the necessary object.

We put a mirror on the ceiling. We papered the walls with a patterned wrapping paper in Victorian whore-house red. We posted centerfolds from Playgirl magazine and then attached the vibrator so that it projected from the back wall at an appropriate (again, in fact highly inappropriate) angle. Oh, and we put a big red light on top of the closet.

It's a good thing no potential customers ever came to the office to see the sample closet for computer components. Then again, things were rather wild back then. Maybe it would have helped the sale.

I was the only "girl" there who never fucked any of the male sales reps.

I never do fit in where I work.

The vibrator.
It was hard and plastic and noisy.
No lavender silicone back then.
No multiplicity of speeds and patterns.

If my friends at EdenFantasys have one, I can't find it. Which is probably just as well. Unless you're really into it for nostalgia's sake, it has nothing to recommend it.

Speaking of recommendations, I expect to be posting a new vibrator review this weekend, as the aforementioned folks at EdenFantasys sent me another present. It was this device that the sadist used - on the day of the severe punishment beating (from which bruises still remain) - to start educating me in the interaction of pleasure and pain.

But.
Back to my first vibrator.

I kept it for decades, moving with it from one state to another and packing it away whenever I lived abroad. No, of course I didn't show it to ex-hubby #2 or any of my lovers! The idea of admitting to masturbating was too embarrassing to contemplate, let alone telling them that I stuck this unappealing moon rocket of plastic up my... did I even call it anything? I really don't think I said either pussy or cunt.

And in fact, I almost never used it. Because it was in fact unappealing. As I've said, I rarely come from penetration. It was more of a novelty. A guilty secret. Oh, it did stimulate me, and there were a very few times over the years that I pulled it out. But very rarely.

And now?
My goodness, I'm becoming the vibrator queen!
A new one every month!
Using it for the pleasure of my Master.

He likes to watch my face. He likes to hear my moans. He reminds me not to strain, not tor each for it, just to concentrate on my pussy and the sensations... and to remember, to always remember, that it is all in fact for his pleasure.

Damn, I'm getting turned on.
And there's no orgasm on the schedule.
Perhaps I can have one more trial this weekend.
Just to help me write the review, of course.
In the interest of science.

I think I need a cold shower.
Or a piece of vibrating silicone up my pussy.

Sigh...

Oh well.

Do go read the Times article. And until you do, here are two of my favorite paragraphs. Things are definitely a lot more open now!

Assessing the vibrator’s current ubiquity, Dr. [Laura] Berman said, “Women are getting less and less caught up on an unrealistic and puritanical vision of what a good girl is. When they can embrace their self-stimulation, they can take ownership of their sexuality.”

Men interviewed proclaimed themselves not only unthreatened by the addition of accessories to their partners’ sex lives, but downright enthusiastic. Jeremy, 31, a content strategist in the entertainment business who lives in New York and wanted his last name omitted for privacy, said, “From my perspective, a woman who has thoroughly explored her own body, both alone and with or without whichever toys she finds interesting, makes for a significantly better lover.”