We met in a bar

[my response to dominick's story. i appended the note at the end when i sent it to him. read his first.]

11 March 2007

We met in a bar.

A bad way to begin. I don't go to bars. And yet. We
met in a bar.

We met in a hotel bar. I was at loose ends, waiting
for things to fall into place. It was Spring. I was
restless. And I don't think straight in the Spring.

I sat at the bar. Even if I did go to bars I wouldn't
sit AT the bar. But it was Spring. I was restless. Not
thinking straight. Pretending I was in a movie.

It was like in a movie. A man sat down next to me. He
offered to buy me a drink. He didn't flinch when I
requested a Coke. Not diet. When it came, he led me to
a table. With a strong hand and an outstretched arm.
Well, a strong hand anyway, in the small of my back.
He wasn't leading me out of Egypt. But he definitely
had a goal in mind. I thought I knew what it was. When
all the time the audience was yelling No! Don't do it!

It was like in a movie. We sat at a table. We talked.
He listened well, and revealed enough to make me feel
comfortable. I did feel comfortable. And something
else. He was clearly in charge, a trait that only
recently I'd begun to find appealing. He sat
kitty-corner to me, not across the table. Our knees
kept bumping. He put his hand over mine, out of
understanding, it seemed. With affection, it seemed.
With confidence, most surely.

It was like in a movie. It was Spring. I coudn't think
straight. He was in charge. Whatever he asked for, I
would agree to.

I excused myself to go to the ladies' room. I felt his
eyes on me as I went. I found that my panties were
wet. I was not surprised. He knew my panties were wet.
I was sure of it. If he didn't know it before, he read
it in my eyes when I came back to the table.

It was like in a movie. He paid the check, helped me
out of my chair, took my arm, and led me to the
elevator. There was no need to discuss it. It was
Spring. I needed to get laid. I trusted him. Must have
been the accent.

He asked me if I trusted him. I told the truth, though
suddenly I wasn't so sure. But I ignored my doubts.
Something was making me ignore my doubts. I no longer
felt quite in control.

It was like in a movie. But I was no longer sure what
kind of movie. He took me in his arms. His kiss was
perfect - soft enough, firm enough, commanding enough.
He knew what he was doing. And it worked. I was ready
for anything.

He undressed me slowly and deliberately, running his
hands meditatively over each part of my body as he
revealed it. He kept his clothes on. He led me to the
bed, reaching for a bag on the way there.

It was like in a movie. I was watching it and I was in
it. Everything seemed to be happening very fast, but
in fact proceeded with steady focused care. He pulled
me down on the bed, onto my stomach, and straddled me.
I observed from a distance as he bound my hands above
my head. I felt ropes go around my ankles, and my legs
were stretched further apart than I'd ever managed on
the machines at the health club. There was strain,
but nothing I would actually classify as pain. Not
yet. That would come later.

Part of me was becoming alarmed, the part that was
still in my body. The observer wanted to see how the
movie ended. So I did not protest. He stroked my hair
and I looked up questioningly, but did not protest.
And then I couldn't protest, because now there was a
gag in my mouth. And then I wasn't looking at
anything, because he had blindfolded me. And now i was
truly frightened. And also frightfully aroused.

I stopped thinking. Now that I couldn't see, I focused
on feeling. I felt my helplessness, I felt the
bondage, I felt my vulnerability, and I gave myself up
to whatever was about to happen. I knew this was
something I wanted. I might regret it afterwards, but
for now this was something i wanted.

I gave myself up to it. Whatever he had in store for
me, I would submit.

His hands started to explore me. This didn't seem so
dangerous. It was exciting. I gave myself up to his
hands, and looked forward to more.

When he moved away from the bed, I thought he was
going for condoms.

I heard the first blow before I felt it, although I
didn't recognize it for what it was. The pain across
my buttocks was sudden, sharp. I would have gasped if
I hadn't been gagged. The inability to make any
comment drove me deeper into myself, but didn't lessen
the pain any. If anything, it increased my focus on
it. I braced myself for the invariable next one. Which
came, quite dependably.

There was something particularly appalling about the
deliberate, cold nature of the assault. He didn't say
a word. He landed one stroke after another on my
thighs, buttocks, and lower back. Even as the pain
melded into one huge mass, I could tell with the now
very small observer part of my brain that he was
carefully planting the stripes in a predetermined
pattern. Finally, he started whipping the same spot
again and again, and the observer disappeared. There
was nothing left but the pain. The helplessness and
the pain.

Finally, it was over. Still silent, he removed the
restraints in the reverse order they had been applied.
He moved away from the bed. I heard him settle into
the chair. It felt as if he were watching me. I heard
a match strike, and then smelt a cigar. A small part
of my old self flared up inside me. I hate cigars. But
it wasn't enough to wake me from the trance he had
whipped me into. I curled up in a fetal position, the
only position that didn't add to the pain. I curled up
and wept.

We met in a bar. It felt like a movie. An indie movie
showing at Sundance. A movie the audience might not
understand. The audience would see me weeping. The
End. But there was one more challenge left for the
filmmaker. How to make the audience know that the
whipping had driven out everything that was inside me.
And that, as the tears subsided, all that was left was
a deep peace.

NOTE: The interpretation of the woman's response was
pure speculation. I would be interested in hearing
your observations from experience.

Spreading around my sexual favors

So many ups and downs... so many twists and turns... and more to come.

I started writing one post along the way.
And then stopped as things started changing and evolving.
So maybe a summary will have to do.

Daddy sees me as a sort of "sexual Florence-Nightingale-to-the-world" (his term). I was created to give sexual pleasure. Generously. He really believes this. He thinks it's a crime and a waste for me not to use my talents broadly.

Which is all well and good. And sometimes I almost believe him. Almost. He knows I don't though. not really. And while I do go through these horribly horny spells, when it comes down to it I hold back. Even with these two old friends/lovers who have wanted to have sex again. I turned them down. Partly because I don't want to mess up what we've managed to achieve with our friendships, after some rough spots connected with our former sexual relationships. But partly because I felt so filled with the sadist that I felt I would be only half there with either of the other guys.

Meanwhile, the fiend keeps trying to connect me up with people, without fully registering the possible complications if I end up dating any of them. One of the guys he has in mind he met through business, and has a house that's visible from mine. Which would mean the guy would see Daddy's car in front of my house from time to time. Not cool if he and I were dating.

It's odd, you know. I feel fine with him bringing over who knows what sex fiends to do who knows what awful things to me while he watches and enjoys. But I'm really struggling with the idea of meeting some guys with whom I'll probably enjoy spending time, and with whom I'll probably enjoy having sex - precisely because Daddy does really want me to have sex with them. Because he feels this is what I was meant to do.

It does sound weird, doesn't it?

It's weird.
It's hard.
It's a challenge.

Which so far I have been failing.

Saturday evening, the sadist surprised me by inviting me up to hang out at a bar in his town. [Here were a lot of details that I've chosen to edit out.] Eventually I relaxed and stopped feeling so out of place. And eventually we - well, Daddy first - made the acquaintance of a good looking , lonely young soldier a few stools down the bar from us.

Young like the philosopher.
39.

It was inevitable that Daddy should decide that it was my destiny to relieve the young man of his loneliness and horniness.

Certainly, the soldier was interested in me. Aside from anything else, I was dressed per instructions in a sexy, clingy, very low-cut black sweater. Without a bra. And I'm sweet and sometimes I even agree that I'm beautiful and I was definitely both flirty and kind. And he was lonely. New to town, working at a nearby base, and not wanting to hang out with other military people. A sweet guy.

One of the things that I admire so much about Daddy and that give him so much power over me is that he sees into my head and heart as if I were made of clear glass and running non-stop electronic signs spelling out my every thought and feeling. But this time his vision was clouded. he was drinking. A lot. And while he certainly knew what the soldier wanted, despite the guy's being confused - or maybe not - about my relationship with the fiend - he misread me. Or maybe was just indulging in wishful thinking. he thought we both wanted to go off together. So he kept leaving us alone and then left the bar early (well, not that early, maybe 5-10 minutes before he needed to), intending for me to go home with the guy.

I refused.

The guy was actually very sweet - is actually very sweet - but I just didn't want to. Cautious, I suppose. Which wasn't a stupid thing to be. And just having trouble with it. So I said no, but gave him my number and e-mail address and offered to get together this week. The guy was disappointed, but happy, I think, at the thought of having made contact with someone.

Daddy was angry.
I let him down.
I was not taking seriously his intentions for me.

And rightly enough, he reminded me that we both say that we are not playing. This is for real. Which means sometimes I will be doing things I don't want to do.

As the sadist likes to say, you prove nothing when you order an ice-cream loving submissive to eat ice cream.

There was more about Saturday night.
Daddy was drinking.
A lot.
We were in an environment in which we are usually not together.
He often seemed different from the man I know.
Certainly, we were mostly behaving together in a different way.

It was so odd. Especially in the presence of the soldier, I was teasing in the way I never could be if we were alone. But we were trying not to broadcast our relationship. Fat chance. A few times the soldier asked point blank what our relationship was. He said he saw how I looked at the sadist. How my eyes were on his face all the time. It's hard to hide something like that. It's hard to change something like that. I told him we were just old friends, but I'm not sure he swallowed it.

So.
We each went home to our own homes.

And the next day, and even Monday, I was feeling different. Uncomfortable. A bit estranged. Disconcerted by how Daddy had seemed. There was a vulnerability about him... he seemed to grow shorter... We had two conversations that were rather revealing on his part, which I treasured for their openness, but which also revealed his vulnerability, although that kind I can deal with and love him for.

And he was quite annoyed with me for not going home with the solider.

Still.
Things are moving along with that.
So maybe I'll get to redeem myself.
Or not.

He's a nice guy, the soldier.
hes a sweet guy, and polite and considerate and with more depth than I first thought.

He called me late Sunday afternoon, having waited all day, trying to figure out the right time to call. We talked for 40 minutes. He's coming over on Wednesday (tomorrow as I'm writing). He'll bring a DVD. I'll make dinner. Daddy is assuming we'll end up in bed, that the guy will be all over me after 10 minutes of the movie. But really, the solider is so phenomenally polite and thoughtful that I'll be surprised. But if I wants to fuck me, I'll let him. (And yes, of course, safe sex!!) It could be very sweet.

A few more things.

Yes, he knows that I'm 23 years older than he is. (I wonder how old his mom is...) He asked straight out. Politely, of course. He took me for early 40s. I wonder what he'll think when he sees me in full light?

Daddy was here this morning. After I made him feel ever so good, we talked about the soldier's upcoming visit. Which Daddy fully respects will be a cumming visit. We talked about what to say about our relationship, expanding on an early e-mail discussion. And Daddy gave me a gift. He said that I could say that we were friends with benefits. Or tell even more of the truth if I wished. I doubt I would do that. But I'm so glad that I can say - or at least imply, depending on the situation - that we're involved. That I have an involvement. That he - or anyone - shouldn't assume that I am available to be his girlfriend.

That was such a relief.
Part of me is so afraid of being swallowed up.
I'm already swallowed up.
Swallowed and burnt by digestive juices.

I do think Daddy knew that I needed to be able to say that. And then he went further. He said that if I wanted I could tell the soldier exactly what our relationship was. Now that I don't think I'll do. I think it would shock him. make him uneasy. But if I did, Daddy said, I could tell him that the sadist was here today - and deliberately didn't mark me because he knew I would be seeing the soldier tomorrow.

Now that could be interesting...

I'm afraid to re-read this for editing. I suspect it's much too rambling. So I'll just check for mis-spellings and hit PUBLISH POST. What the hell. I'm living dangerously already.

(Actually, not as dangerously as it might seem. Daddy grilled me on making sure someone knew the soldier was coming over. And of course he knows. And the solider knows he knows, and will see me text Daddy on his arrival. Daddy does take care of me. My only concern is that the guy is so polite that he may not actually try to fuck me. I sure hope he at least tries to kiss me or I'll really be in trouble!)

Kitten has fans

I feel good about my writing. I'm proud of it and don't really need other people to tell me that it's good.

Except I LIKE being told by other people that it's good. Especially by other writers.

Now that feels a little scary, to speak of "other writers." But I'm getting used to it. And certainly my sadistic Svengali is helping with that. And what also helps is when someone writes me out of the blue and asks if he can include one or more of my pieces on his site.

This happened just the other day, when I received this message from A PUBLISHED WRITER. (You know, as in published on paper, as in I actually have a volume of erotica with one of his stories in it and I recognized his name!)

- - - - - - - -
Howdy! I really like your site and would like to exchange links with you.

My own blog, Frequently Felt, is "A lobcock of erotic trivialities, oddities, and miscellanea transcribed with jaundiced talent for naught but a boxing Jesuit indulgence by a disreputable posse mobilitatis" which is silly-speak for a blog featuring fun and weird sex stuff.

I often feature articles on sex and sexuality like reviews, interviews, erotic artists, podcasts and videoclips. Please feel free to use any of this content as long as you reference it came from me. I, of course, will do the same.

As M.Christian I am also an extensively published celebrity author of erotica ... "with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, and Filthy; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll."

Please feel free to check out my home site at www.mchristian.com for information on my works and other fun erotic stuff.
- - - - - - - -

So I checked out the sites, and they seemed safe enough (meaning I didn't think he was trying to steal the products of my occasional bursts of perverted inspiration), and decided ok, I'll let him have The Performance. And not only did he forward me a lovely little comment proving that the story had achieved at least part of what it was designed to do ("Yes, that was a good one, felt myself growing stiff...."), and flatter me by calling it "a great story", but he ended up sending a horde of horny readers to me.

I'd like to say two things at this point. The first is that, except for We Met in a Bar, none of these stories would exist without the philosopher. Even the ones I wrote by myself. They reflect our relationship, they drew on our shared fantasies, and eventually they drew on our living explorations of what had previously been no more than fantasies. My name is on them, but he is a co-author.

Maybe that's why I'm not writing any more stories. At least not at the moment. It's true that I'm spending a lot of time working on poems. Part of that is to please my demon muse, my demanding tutor who guides me with both praise and punishment. (Kitten wriggles in search of a more comfortable sitting position...) But it's not that stories are forbidden. It's only that my inspiration hasn't run that way. Even the darkest of the old stories are filled with a love and playfulness that I'm not quite ready to get back in touch with. And I do miss that. I miss writing the stories. I miss the old joint stories. And I miss the love and the playfulness.

The love is still there. It will always be there, Although I am at peace now with the break-up, and with the philosopher's reasons. And I accept his reasons, and I accept, finally, with all my heart, I do believe that it did mean something to him, and I think in fact that this was what I needed to be able to let go of the hope that things could go back to the way they were. This was what I needed to be able to move on, while still saying that he and our friendship are the most important things, and that my fiendish writing instructor is not a replacement.

All this is by way of an apology to new readers who stop this way after reading The Performance and any future stories on M. Christian's site. There are more stories listed under the label "stories", and I also encourage you to read the philosophers words under the label "philosopher." (Oh, I do stun myself with my creativity sometimes...) But for now, the new creative stuff will be by way of poetry.

There have been other fans, including a writer I met on FetLife who asked me to contribute something to a site of his (which I suppose I should be thinking about), and I have posted some of my stories on FetLife as well. I am also to be found on Love Boudoir as a "center-stage featured blog." And now I am getting really embarrassed about all this boasting, but mainly it's to call people's attention to these other sites who are being so nice to me - and to tell you other writers to check out M. Christian's blog and if you think you have anything appropriate, to send it his way. He is definitely looking for new talent.

Three more things - and please forgive me if my mind seems to be wandering tonight...

1. I get more referrals from persephone's obedience (my friend meg's blog) than from anywhere else. That's a good excuse for me to mention her in the context of this post, but really I don't need an excuse at all. She is involved in a relationship with 2 amazing people, and not only are her adventures fascinating, but her analysis of it all is thought-provoking and instructive. Do please check her out if you haven't already.

2. I forgot. Oh no, wait, I remember... more embarrassment... um... it has to do with... no. Well... it's that I really appreciate that these people want to put my stuff out there, but that the praise I get from just 2 people means more than all the rest combined... whether as those 2 precious words held dear by any submissive, or a beloved friend's "I really liked that one"... these mean more than anything. So there.

3. To my reader in A2 - I would love it if you'd e-mail me and say "Hi." GO BLUE!

And now that I've babbled on meaninglessly, I think I'll stop writing so I can go lie down on my stomach...

A very small vacation

I'm sitting in an armchair by the window of our room in a dumpy Holiday Inn. It's a good thing he doesn't like a lot of light, as 2 bulbs are dead. He's not here, anyway, being out with friends.

He's fretting, though.
He'd rather be with me.
He enjoys my company, he said.
 I know that.
Just as I knew I was his mistress.
Being a mistress is more than being a readily available pussy.
It's more than being a sex slave.
Though I am that, too.
Being a mistress
(not to be confused with a Mistress!)
means be enjoys your company.
Means being part of his life.
In whatever limited way is possible and appropriate.

I remember the first time we were here together.
Two years ago.

I remember waiting in the room, cold and naked, huddled cold and naked on the floor between the beds, waiting, waiting wondering what was lurking at the end of the wait. And now? He snuck away between engagements and met me in the bar downstairs. In public. In the bar. Sitting and talking, recounting his day. Enjoying my company. One ill-advised kiss beside his car and then he was gone, sending texts that he wished he could escape his friends and be back with me. To hang out. Not just to have his cock sucked.

Still.
Waiting, I am content.
Calm and confident and content.
I feel safe, too.
He is taking steps.
Precautionary measures.
Measures to protect me against the beast.
Steps to bar the beast from the room.


I am pleased.
And relaxed.
Relaxing after my work week in California.
I sit in the armchair
feet propped up
reading a book he told me about.
Reading a book he bought for me.
Reading a book that is exercising my mind.

I am happy.
I am relaxed.
And he will be here soon enough.

(Had to reformat this post once I got home. Blogger didn't recognize my iPhone's line breaks.)

If you beckon, I will come.

You can blog about this, he said.
I don't want to blog about this, I think.

What would it mean to list what we did?
Where we met.
What I ate.
What he drank.
What we watched.
How many times we each went to pee.

The hours we spent
talking and laughing
challenging Google
on Iris DeMent.

What would it mean
if you weren't there?

What would it mean
to describe his delight
as we sat there for hours
in a neighborhood bar,
feasting on chicken wings,
chatting with bar maids,
my bright blue eyes sparkling
from won games of chance?

What would it mean
if you heard what his eyes said,
or smelled the desire,
or touched the shared music,
as we made out like teenagers
wrestling the front seat,
parked by the dumpsters
yielding to need?

You can blog about this, he said.
But you must tell me every word.

So I'll show him every word.

But not every word was written.
Not everything gets spoken
when mere presence says it all.

We sang with eyes and kisses
which don't lie the way that words can.
We spoke with smiles and kisses
and then parted in the dusk.