this blogging sure is tricky with my hands tied...
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Reunion
Tomorrow.
He’s coming home tomorrow.
OK, I use that term loosely. Home. I have no right to use that term. Still. When we are together, home is here. Or perhaps more accurately, when we have been together, it has been here. Mostly. Anyway, he hasn’t protested to my using the term. So far.
Right.
I’m nervous.
I didn’t even really have to say that, right?
I’m stammering and babbling and nervous.
It’s been 4-1/2 months. And except for when he was having that hard time in February, we’ve been talking to each other twice a day on weekdays. Usually. Mostly. So far.
We haven’t seen each other for almost 4-1/2 months. And then we were at a friend’s house, with only a late afternoon and evening alone. And he was already slipping into winter mode. Although we do have a nice picture or two of me giving head to a cucumber…
I’m feeling nervous.
And shy.
We are so close.
So comfortable.
And yet…
When he came down here for the first time, when we met face to face for the first time, I was feeling shy, even though I had been baring my perverted soul to him for months. And yet, within fifteen minutes or so everything was fine. So this time everything will be fine. Really. O f course it will.I’ll pick him up at the bus station, in my man’s white dress shirt. My slave shirt. I’ll be wearing my slave shirt and nothing else.
Well… not quite. He doesn’t want me getting arrested. So we’re compromising on the shirt and very short shorts. No underwear. Although who knows, he could change the order at the last minute. He likes to keep me off kilter.
There’s a box coming in the mail. It probably won’t arrive until after he does, but if it were to beat him here, I am not to open it. He’s done that before. The first box had the cane. The second box had my beautiful Go Blue vibrator. And this time? I can guess. But you never know…
He has brought me presents, too. The best of presents. The slave shirt, that first visit. Brand new and beautiful, glowing white, still in its package with the cardboard and the pins. He brought beautiful hemp ropes. And a tea set, he bought me the most perfect little tea set, and an assortment of teas, and lectured me on the proper way to brew them. And I bought a pretty little white half-apron, and nipple bells with a chain running between them. We amuse each other.
And in some ways the best gift of all? On that very first trip, two little sachets of catnip. One for each beast, so they wouldn’t be jealous. You see why he is more than just a perverted playmate?
I know it will be fine. I’ll bury my shy face in his chest, he’ll twine his fingers in my growing unruly hair, he’ll take me over his knee and spank me for how messy the house is, we’ll snuggle on the couch, we’ll snuggle in the bed…
I’ll draw the curtain on the rest. Even in BDSM, even for a sex blogger, there must occasionally be some privacy.
We’ll be fine.
But still.
I’m feeling very shy…
He’s coming home tomorrow.
OK, I use that term loosely. Home. I have no right to use that term. Still. When we are together, home is here. Or perhaps more accurately, when we have been together, it has been here. Mostly. Anyway, he hasn’t protested to my using the term. So far.
Right.
I’m nervous.
I didn’t even really have to say that, right?
I’m stammering and babbling and nervous.
It’s been 4-1/2 months. And except for when he was having that hard time in February, we’ve been talking to each other twice a day on weekdays. Usually. Mostly. So far.
We haven’t seen each other for almost 4-1/2 months. And then we were at a friend’s house, with only a late afternoon and evening alone. And he was already slipping into winter mode. Although we do have a nice picture or two of me giving head to a cucumber…
I’m feeling nervous.
And shy.
We are so close.
So comfortable.
And yet…
When he came down here for the first time, when we met face to face for the first time, I was feeling shy, even though I had been baring my perverted soul to him for months. And yet, within fifteen minutes or so everything was fine. So this time everything will be fine. Really. O f course it will.I’ll pick him up at the bus station, in my man’s white dress shirt. My slave shirt. I’ll be wearing my slave shirt and nothing else.
Well… not quite. He doesn’t want me getting arrested. So we’re compromising on the shirt and very short shorts. No underwear. Although who knows, he could change the order at the last minute. He likes to keep me off kilter.
There’s a box coming in the mail. It probably won’t arrive until after he does, but if it were to beat him here, I am not to open it. He’s done that before. The first box had the cane. The second box had my beautiful Go Blue vibrator. And this time? I can guess. But you never know…
He has brought me presents, too. The best of presents. The slave shirt, that first visit. Brand new and beautiful, glowing white, still in its package with the cardboard and the pins. He brought beautiful hemp ropes. And a tea set, he bought me the most perfect little tea set, and an assortment of teas, and lectured me on the proper way to brew them. And I bought a pretty little white half-apron, and nipple bells with a chain running between them. We amuse each other.
And in some ways the best gift of all? On that very first trip, two little sachets of catnip. One for each beast, so they wouldn’t be jealous. You see why he is more than just a perverted playmate?
I know it will be fine. I’ll bury my shy face in his chest, he’ll twine his fingers in my growing unruly hair, he’ll take me over his knee and spank me for how messy the house is, we’ll snuggle on the couch, we’ll snuggle in the bed…
I’ll draw the curtain on the rest. Even in BDSM, even for a sex blogger, there must occasionally be some privacy.
We’ll be fine.
But still.
I’m feeling very shy…
Monday, May 26, 2008
The Selkie Dances in the Sun
I have Seasonal Affective Disorder. A bipolarity that waxes and wanes with the length of days and the glow of the sun.
Right now, I am high.
The sun is brilliant, it resists bedtime, it shivers with consciousness of its beauty and power. We are telepathic, the sun and I, we are sisters, wrenched from each other at birth. I sense her nearness, I know her joy, I drink her power, and make it my own.
The sun feeds the selkie in me. I’ve left behind the dark depths of the sea. I exhibit myself on a large flat rock, drinking in my sister’s kisses, feeding on her unlimited strength. My body smiles and warms, shedding the seal and returning to happy human form. I leave my seal cocoon behind, step out onto the shore, and dance naked before the world.
The sun feeds the selkie in me. The selkie who cleans and gardens and loves. The selkie who craves the sweet servitude of domesticity. The selkie who cooks and vacuums and loves.
Week by week I whittle away at the embarrassing doses of chemicals that keep me awake and thinking during the edited days of winter. The fever is upon me. I embark on projects of which I can only dream the rest of the year, praying to the sun goddess that this year, for once, I will get them all done before the dark enchantment returns.
It is spring.
I am high.
I am in love.
The seasons will change, their path is set. My mood will settle, will slide, will struggle, with only a dam of drugs to keep it from falling off the cliff into destruction below.
And the love? That word still makes me self-conscious and nervous, as if I’m not really allowed to say it. It is an unlikely tree to be growing by the shore of the sea. Its seasons are its own. Bursts of young green shoots and flowers of unworldly hue do-si-do with the triumphant shouts of leaves of crimson and gold that never fall, but merely morph back into green at some signal unheard by the rest of the world. Arising from a seed accidentally dropped, its growth rapid and stubborn, its color may change but its roots are firm. There is no storm that can blow it down, and it stands as a beacon shining out to sea.
I am your selkie.
I am the sun.
I shine with delight.
It’s time you came home.
Right now, I am high.
The sun is brilliant, it resists bedtime, it shivers with consciousness of its beauty and power. We are telepathic, the sun and I, we are sisters, wrenched from each other at birth. I sense her nearness, I know her joy, I drink her power, and make it my own.
The sun feeds the selkie in me. I’ve left behind the dark depths of the sea. I exhibit myself on a large flat rock, drinking in my sister’s kisses, feeding on her unlimited strength. My body smiles and warms, shedding the seal and returning to happy human form. I leave my seal cocoon behind, step out onto the shore, and dance naked before the world.
The sun feeds the selkie in me. The selkie who cleans and gardens and loves. The selkie who craves the sweet servitude of domesticity. The selkie who cooks and vacuums and loves.
Week by week I whittle away at the embarrassing doses of chemicals that keep me awake and thinking during the edited days of winter. The fever is upon me. I embark on projects of which I can only dream the rest of the year, praying to the sun goddess that this year, for once, I will get them all done before the dark enchantment returns.
It is spring.
I am high.
I am in love.
The seasons will change, their path is set. My mood will settle, will slide, will struggle, with only a dam of drugs to keep it from falling off the cliff into destruction below.
And the love? That word still makes me self-conscious and nervous, as if I’m not really allowed to say it. It is an unlikely tree to be growing by the shore of the sea. Its seasons are its own. Bursts of young green shoots and flowers of unworldly hue do-si-do with the triumphant shouts of leaves of crimson and gold that never fall, but merely morph back into green at some signal unheard by the rest of the world. Arising from a seed accidentally dropped, its growth rapid and stubborn, its color may change but its roots are firm. There is no storm that can blow it down, and it stands as a beacon shining out to sea.
I am your selkie.
I am the sun.
I shine with delight.
It’s time you came home.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Luscious
Another from the archives of our epistolary courtship. This one I started. And this time I'm leaving in the little side comments that slipped into the story-telling at the end.
There is actually a photo that goes with, but I'm not assuming that the philosopher is willing to share it. He really is very possessive...
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Another tiring day, another tiring commute. Wearily he unlocked the door, grateful to be home, looking forward to the sight of a naked and submissive kitten kneeling by the door in her slave chain and leather collar.
No kitten.
His irritation flared up. Where was that pet of his? He thought he'd been making progress in her training, overcoming her fits of cursing, her independent impulses, her resistance to obedience. He hoped he wouldn't have to punish her again, although the twitch his cock gave at the thought reminded him that it could be enjoyable sometimes. At least for him.
He called out for her, in a not totally friendly manner. "Kitten?!"
No answer.
Then he noticed a little parade of tea candles leading though the living room. Intrigued, he put down his things, took off his coat, and followed the trail, which was certainly more effective than breadcrumbs. When they brought him into the dining room, he stopped in his tracks.
The dining room table was opened to its full length, which seated eight. It was covered with a rich blue table cloth. And on it lay his missing slave. He noted that the blue was a good color for her.
He also noted that she was naked, so at least she was doing something right.
But what he noticed most of all were the fresh strawberries. They started between her breasts, and continued down her belly to her cunt. Her hands were clasped behind her head, and there was a mound of berries on the table at each armpit. Her legs were spread wide; she had managed on her own to tie them to the table legs. Between her thighs was a bowl of whipped cream. Flowers were tucked into the links of her chain.
She was naughty, but she was creative, and certainly irrepressible. As his cock hardened, he sighed and said softly:
"What in the world am I going to do with you?"
= = = = = = = = = = =
He was struck by the odd combination of independence and slavery. . . she had broken orders, to find a bold new way to submit to him.
Such a puzzle, his little kitten. . .like a knot that can't be untied no matter how hard you tug at it. . .or a labyrinth, that will swallow all attempts to navigate it.
His kitten was a mystery. . . and at the same time. . .
She was completely open. . . literally. . . her body exposed and available to his every whim. . .
His philosophical mind pondered the logical problem before him. . . but only for a moment before the wolf's hunger deep within distracted him. . .
Called him to feast. . .
He approached his slave. . . and wondered aloud:
"Where shall I start?"
= = = = = = = = = = = =
She had been looking up into his face the whole time he stood over her. She knew him so well, it was as if she could see his thoughts displayed like opera supertitles across his forehead. And she knew. She knew that when it came down to it, the hungry wolf always won over the strict disciplinarian slave Master. At least she thought she knew. She was counting on it...
He was standing right over her now, his eyes passing up and down her body. He plucked a particularly large strawberry from under her right armpit, dipped the tip in the whipped cream, and held it in front of her face.
"Open your mouth," he said sternly.
Surprised, she obeyed. He inserted the large red berry halfway through her lips and stopped.
"Close your lips. Bite down just enough to hold it in place. Don't suck on the cream. Hold the berry there and don't make a sound."
Now she looked alarmed. She also looked ridiculous with the makeshift gag. He knew that soon saliva and cream would start dripping out the sides of her mouth. He wouldn't leave her that way long. After all, she had meant well. But he did need to remind her who was in charge.
He scooped up a healthy glob of whipped cream with his finger and spread it on her right breast. Then he started to suck . . .
= = = = = = = = =
She wanted to cry out. . .to beg for more. . .but with the strawberry delicately perched between her lips all she could manage was a strangled moan.
Like an animal.
He concentrated on his task. . .licking and sucking her breasts. . .the breasts he loved so much, with their sensitive, expressive nipples.
After licking every last drop of cream from the right breast, he repeated the procedure on the left. By the time he was done, his little kitten had drooled much of the cream away; her face was a mess of saliva cream, and the tears that streaked her cheeks.
"Don't bite, kitten. . .I'm not done." He said scooping up more cream, and scribbling a path with the tip of his finger across her belly and down towards her cunt.
"WHIPPED cream, kitten. . .just the thing for a Dom! How clever you are. . . too clever perhaps. . ."
And then his tongue was busy lapping up the trail of cream. . .
He was patient, taking his time, not rushing to reach the end of his journey down her body. . .
From the moans that escaped past the strawberry. . .he could tell that his kitten was not quite so patient.
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
Her mouth was so full of saliva and cream, she was afraid she would choke. She should have thought of a pillow when she had her clever idea. Damn. Somehow he always managed to get the best of her.
His tongue was doing what it always did. Making her crazy. She couldn't help herself. She started to writhe, even tho it dislodged the display of strawberries she had worked so hard to create. And while she had started out with her hands clasped submissively behind her neck, now they too joined in her body's attempts to express what her mouth could not.
He was getting closer and closer to what was now becoming an effluence of honey. She almost held her breath.
Then he stopped licking. He selected another strawberry, from just above her bush of red curls so like his own. He dipped it in the cream. And then he brought it to her strawberry colored clit. And stroked it.
She let out a loud cry, jerked her head back, and bit through the strawberry gag. A small piece remained in her mouth while the larger part fell onto her chest.
(I do have some very large strawberries here, and tested out the biggest one to see how it would be positioned in my mouth. Quite an effective gag, but definitely an ungraceful sight.)
= = = = = = = = = = =
"Naughty kitten! I said don't bite!" He could not conceal his amusement at her writhing and moaning. He continued stroking her clit with the strawberry. . .until it was as red and swollen and juicy as the fruit itself. . .and covered in her own honey.
He grabbed her flailing hands, the hands that were trying to grab his head and direct his tongue to her sweet center. . .but she would not set the pace here. He tied them together, and then stretching them over her head, bound them to the table.
He then went back to her cunt. . .teasing her with the strawberry, and flicking it with his tongue.
"So ripe. . .so juicy, kitten. . .such a sweet dessert you are."
Her squirming had caused her to crush many of the berries that she had so carefully arranged, and her legs and sides, and her ass, had become covered in a mixture of whipped cream and pulped strawberry. This he smeared over her front as well: her breast, her legs, her belly. . . her face. . . all smeared with the sweet paste.
"You look delicious, minette. . .absolutely scrumptious. . ."
And then he kissed her. . .hard. . .right on her throbbing pussy. . .
= = = = = = = = = = = =
(Oh god, it IS throbbing, too... i'm not sure if i can think straight much longer... )
ohhh. she moaned from so deep within her that her toes vibrated. And she kept on moaning. she strained against the ropes and she moaned. She tossed her head from sighed to side and she moaned. her pelvis jerked back and forth and she moaned, until finally he had to hold her down at her hips to keep her from hurting him.
"Hold still, kitten, or I'll have to get another rope."
but he knew she'd never hold still, so he fetched another rope and passed it a few times around her and under the table, so that it held her just above her nest of red curls.
"That's better," he said, satisfied. Then he selected a small berry, loaded it up with cream, reached under her, and eased it into her ass before returning his attention to her pussy.
While kitten kept on moaning.
= = = = = = = = = = = =
(What are you wearing? Take it off.)
Her mouth and ass now full. . .he turned to her final crevice.
As she whimpered and moaned, and squirmed and writhed, he thrust his tongue. . .slowly, deliberately. . .as deep as he could. . .flicking the tip of it all the while.
He fucked her this way for the better part of an hour. . .pulling out for a moment, only to push in even deeper. . .and the taste of the strawberry and the cream, mixed with her own natural sweetness only served to inflame his hunger. . .
He feasted like a starving animal.
= = = = = = = = = =
(My my, do i detect a trace of huskiness in your voice? is my Master getting turned on just a little? What happened to all that Domly self-control? :-)
(As to what I WAS wearing... the same loose-fitting jeans as yesterday, tho a little looser after another day's wear, and a little wetter in the crotch... ok a lot wetter... light-weight black cotton turtle neck t-shirt, etc etc, of which now only the slave bracelet is left. I do love wearing my slave bracelet, Master.)
She had no idea how long he had been fucking her with his tongue. She had no idea of anything any more. She was a moaning, crying, writhing creature, nothing but animal passions, nothing but body, his slave not because he commanded her, not because he bound her, not because he spanked her, not even because she wanted to be. She was beyond wanting, beyond knowing, she was a slave to his tongue and would do anything he wanted if he promised never to stop.
Except that she didn't know how much more she could stand.
And finally, he didn't know how much he could stand, either.
Quickly, he untied her from the table, tho keeping her hands bound. He loved seeing her hands bound. He wrapped the strawberry-cream coated table cloth around her shaking body, gathered her up in his arms, and lowered the whole writing bundle to the ground. Quickly, he spread out the table cloth. Quickly, he pushed her legs apart. Quickly, standing over her, he unbuckled his belt.
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
( A bit of huskiness, perhaps. . . but I assure I am still in complete control, my saucy little kitten. . .)
He stood over his slave, and the sight of her naked body, smeared and sticky, drove him wild. He unbuttoned his pants, freeing his erection.
He hesitated a moment, mulling his options. Then a wicked grin crossed his face.
"You've swallowed the strawberry. . .AGAINST MY ORDERS. . .kitten. Perhaps there is something else you would prefer to have in your mouth.
She understands, and moving awkwardly, her hands being tied, and her body slick with strawberry jam, she struggles to her knees. . .parts her lips. . .and takes his cock into her hungry mouth. . .
= = = = = = = = = = =
Now her moans changed to whimpers. She loved having him in her mouth. She SO loved having him in her mouth. When they were apart she'd wake up in the middle of the night and feel the ghost of his cock in her mouth. her lips remembered just how wide it was, her tongue could never forget its sweet taste. And oh, how lovely it was, the feel of his soft skin moving over his hard shaft. God, she adored his cock.
She loved to make him moan. She loved feeling him grow in her mouth. She loved the first drop of precum, the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted. But it was always hard doing the job right when her hands were tied behind her back. She moved her mouth back and forth over his glorious erection, she licked, she nibbled, but it still wasn't her best performance. Usually she cupped his balls in her hand, or sucked them into her mouth while caressing his cock with her fingers. Or ran a circle of fingers up and down the base while concentrating her lips and tongue on the top. So much she loved to do for him. But without her hands . . .
Finally he took pity on her frustration. Or, more likely, came to the aid of his own. Taking her head in his hands, he steadied it and started fucking her mouth. Not too violently - he knew she had a terrible fear of choking and an active gag reflex - but enough to make it clear that he was in charge and her mouth was his to use. She surrendered willingly, happily, going into the trance that always overcame her when she gave him head. She was nothing. She was nothing but a source of pleasure for him. She was a mouth and tongue and teeth, she was his sex slave, his kitten, she was anything he wanted her to be.
And that's all she needed.
= = = = = = = = = = =
He gently controlled her head . . . rocking it back and forth . . . enjoying the sensation of her lips and tongue sliding back and forth over the shaft. . .
Soon he was ready to cum. . .his hips were bucking wildly, and his breath was coming heavy and ragged. . .
Just before he exploded, he roared with pleasure and pulled out of her mouth, sending a river of cum roaring down her chin, to mix with the the sweet sticky coating that was already there. he leaned against her shoulders to steady himself. . .his legs suddenly feeling weak. . .
When his sanity had returned. he knelt down before her, cradled her head in his hands, and looked her deep in the eyes. . .whispering. . .
"Would you like to cum now, kitten?"
(Would you?)
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
Feeling him cum like that, hearing him cum like that, it was almost as if she were cumming herself. She felt such joy at the pleasure she'd brought him that tears burst forth. She wished her hands were free to rub into her body the cum cream with which he'd anointed her. Rub it in with the strawberry puree, with the whipped cream, with her sweat, with her tears, with honey scooped from her cunt, to create the most magical of desserts out of their passion for each other.
Oh right, her cunt. There had been a question in there, right?
"Yes, Master, i would very much like to cum if there is nothing else you'd like me to do for you..."
= = = = = = = = = = =
Then cum for me kitten.
= = = = = = = = = = = =
And she did.
(You do know that I'm always very obedient and don't touch myself during the story until you say i can or tell me to cum. you do know that, right? i really am obedient.)
She collapsed down onto the smeared table cloth. He knelt down beside her, gathered her into his arms, and held her and rocked her. And she was content.
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
(Your obedience is unquestioned, my naked, submissive little kitten.)
The shrieks and gasps as she came were like music. . .and he smiled as her muscles tensed and her limbs contorted when the orgasm crashed over her like a wave.
And her face. . .at the very peak of ecstasy, it was like a mask slid off her face to reveal the wild animal beneath.
This was his kitten, his slave, his pagan goddess. . .and when it was over, he gathered her limp body in his arms and rocked her.
Soon he would lead her to a warm bath and scrub her clean. . .but for now, she was his kitten and there was only this moment to be lost in. . .
= = = = = = = = = = =
mmm...
you're so far away
and you make me feel so good
(a totally inadequate description. . .)
i do feel as if you are holding me
you ARE holding me . . .
= = = = = = = = =
And now, my naked sex slave, I am lifting you up and carrying you off to bed. . .but alas, only to sleep.
It's late, kitten. . .I have to get up early tomorrow. . .
So to bed, and dream of strawberries. . .and cream. . .
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
oh, Master, i'm so sorry. i kept you up past your bedtime!
thank you for a lovely evening - i'm always so polite …
and yes, dear Master, i'll dream of strawberries …
and of cream…
and of you.
good night, Master, from your devoted slave-kitten.
= = = = = = = = = = =
Sweet dreams, sexy.
= = = = = = = = = = =
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
There is actually a photo that goes with, but I'm not assuming that the philosopher is willing to share it. He really is very possessive...
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Another tiring day, another tiring commute. Wearily he unlocked the door, grateful to be home, looking forward to the sight of a naked and submissive kitten kneeling by the door in her slave chain and leather collar.
No kitten.
His irritation flared up. Where was that pet of his? He thought he'd been making progress in her training, overcoming her fits of cursing, her independent impulses, her resistance to obedience. He hoped he wouldn't have to punish her again, although the twitch his cock gave at the thought reminded him that it could be enjoyable sometimes. At least for him.
He called out for her, in a not totally friendly manner. "Kitten?!"
No answer.
Then he noticed a little parade of tea candles leading though the living room. Intrigued, he put down his things, took off his coat, and followed the trail, which was certainly more effective than breadcrumbs. When they brought him into the dining room, he stopped in his tracks.
The dining room table was opened to its full length, which seated eight. It was covered with a rich blue table cloth. And on it lay his missing slave. He noted that the blue was a good color for her.
He also noted that she was naked, so at least she was doing something right.
But what he noticed most of all were the fresh strawberries. They started between her breasts, and continued down her belly to her cunt. Her hands were clasped behind her head, and there was a mound of berries on the table at each armpit. Her legs were spread wide; she had managed on her own to tie them to the table legs. Between her thighs was a bowl of whipped cream. Flowers were tucked into the links of her chain.
She was naughty, but she was creative, and certainly irrepressible. As his cock hardened, he sighed and said softly:
"What in the world am I going to do with you?"
= = = = = = = = = = =
He was struck by the odd combination of independence and slavery. . . she had broken orders, to find a bold new way to submit to him.
Such a puzzle, his little kitten. . .like a knot that can't be untied no matter how hard you tug at it. . .or a labyrinth, that will swallow all attempts to navigate it.
His kitten was a mystery. . . and at the same time. . .
She was completely open. . . literally. . . her body exposed and available to his every whim. . .
His philosophical mind pondered the logical problem before him. . . but only for a moment before the wolf's hunger deep within distracted him. . .
Called him to feast. . .
He approached his slave. . . and wondered aloud:
"Where shall I start?"
= = = = = = = = = = = =
She had been looking up into his face the whole time he stood over her. She knew him so well, it was as if she could see his thoughts displayed like opera supertitles across his forehead. And she knew. She knew that when it came down to it, the hungry wolf always won over the strict disciplinarian slave Master. At least she thought she knew. She was counting on it...
He was standing right over her now, his eyes passing up and down her body. He plucked a particularly large strawberry from under her right armpit, dipped the tip in the whipped cream, and held it in front of her face.
"Open your mouth," he said sternly.
Surprised, she obeyed. He inserted the large red berry halfway through her lips and stopped.
"Close your lips. Bite down just enough to hold it in place. Don't suck on the cream. Hold the berry there and don't make a sound."
Now she looked alarmed. She also looked ridiculous with the makeshift gag. He knew that soon saliva and cream would start dripping out the sides of her mouth. He wouldn't leave her that way long. After all, she had meant well. But he did need to remind her who was in charge.
He scooped up a healthy glob of whipped cream with his finger and spread it on her right breast. Then he started to suck . . .
= = = = = = = = =
She wanted to cry out. . .to beg for more. . .but with the strawberry delicately perched between her lips all she could manage was a strangled moan.
Like an animal.
He concentrated on his task. . .licking and sucking her breasts. . .the breasts he loved so much, with their sensitive, expressive nipples.
After licking every last drop of cream from the right breast, he repeated the procedure on the left. By the time he was done, his little kitten had drooled much of the cream away; her face was a mess of saliva cream, and the tears that streaked her cheeks.
"Don't bite, kitten. . .I'm not done." He said scooping up more cream, and scribbling a path with the tip of his finger across her belly and down towards her cunt.
"WHIPPED cream, kitten. . .just the thing for a Dom! How clever you are. . . too clever perhaps. . ."
And then his tongue was busy lapping up the trail of cream. . .
He was patient, taking his time, not rushing to reach the end of his journey down her body. . .
From the moans that escaped past the strawberry. . .he could tell that his kitten was not quite so patient.
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
Her mouth was so full of saliva and cream, she was afraid she would choke. She should have thought of a pillow when she had her clever idea. Damn. Somehow he always managed to get the best of her.
His tongue was doing what it always did. Making her crazy. She couldn't help herself. She started to writhe, even tho it dislodged the display of strawberries she had worked so hard to create. And while she had started out with her hands clasped submissively behind her neck, now they too joined in her body's attempts to express what her mouth could not.
He was getting closer and closer to what was now becoming an effluence of honey. She almost held her breath.
Then he stopped licking. He selected another strawberry, from just above her bush of red curls so like his own. He dipped it in the cream. And then he brought it to her strawberry colored clit. And stroked it.
She let out a loud cry, jerked her head back, and bit through the strawberry gag. A small piece remained in her mouth while the larger part fell onto her chest.
(I do have some very large strawberries here, and tested out the biggest one to see how it would be positioned in my mouth. Quite an effective gag, but definitely an ungraceful sight.)
= = = = = = = = = = =
"Naughty kitten! I said don't bite!" He could not conceal his amusement at her writhing and moaning. He continued stroking her clit with the strawberry. . .until it was as red and swollen and juicy as the fruit itself. . .and covered in her own honey.
He grabbed her flailing hands, the hands that were trying to grab his head and direct his tongue to her sweet center. . .but she would not set the pace here. He tied them together, and then stretching them over her head, bound them to the table.
He then went back to her cunt. . .teasing her with the strawberry, and flicking it with his tongue.
"So ripe. . .so juicy, kitten. . .such a sweet dessert you are."
Her squirming had caused her to crush many of the berries that she had so carefully arranged, and her legs and sides, and her ass, had become covered in a mixture of whipped cream and pulped strawberry. This he smeared over her front as well: her breast, her legs, her belly. . . her face. . . all smeared with the sweet paste.
"You look delicious, minette. . .absolutely scrumptious. . ."
And then he kissed her. . .hard. . .right on her throbbing pussy. . .
= = = = = = = = = = = =
(Oh god, it IS throbbing, too... i'm not sure if i can think straight much longer... )
ohhh. she moaned from so deep within her that her toes vibrated. And she kept on moaning. she strained against the ropes and she moaned. She tossed her head from sighed to side and she moaned. her pelvis jerked back and forth and she moaned, until finally he had to hold her down at her hips to keep her from hurting him.
"Hold still, kitten, or I'll have to get another rope."
but he knew she'd never hold still, so he fetched another rope and passed it a few times around her and under the table, so that it held her just above her nest of red curls.
"That's better," he said, satisfied. Then he selected a small berry, loaded it up with cream, reached under her, and eased it into her ass before returning his attention to her pussy.
While kitten kept on moaning.
= = = = = = = = = = = =
(What are you wearing? Take it off.)
Her mouth and ass now full. . .he turned to her final crevice.
As she whimpered and moaned, and squirmed and writhed, he thrust his tongue. . .slowly, deliberately. . .as deep as he could. . .flicking the tip of it all the while.
He fucked her this way for the better part of an hour. . .pulling out for a moment, only to push in even deeper. . .and the taste of the strawberry and the cream, mixed with her own natural sweetness only served to inflame his hunger. . .
He feasted like a starving animal.
= = = = = = = = = =
(My my, do i detect a trace of huskiness in your voice? is my Master getting turned on just a little? What happened to all that Domly self-control? :-)
(As to what I WAS wearing... the same loose-fitting jeans as yesterday, tho a little looser after another day's wear, and a little wetter in the crotch... ok a lot wetter... light-weight black cotton turtle neck t-shirt, etc etc, of which now only the slave bracelet is left. I do love wearing my slave bracelet, Master.)
She had no idea how long he had been fucking her with his tongue. She had no idea of anything any more. She was a moaning, crying, writhing creature, nothing but animal passions, nothing but body, his slave not because he commanded her, not because he bound her, not because he spanked her, not even because she wanted to be. She was beyond wanting, beyond knowing, she was a slave to his tongue and would do anything he wanted if he promised never to stop.
Except that she didn't know how much more she could stand.
And finally, he didn't know how much he could stand, either.
Quickly, he untied her from the table, tho keeping her hands bound. He loved seeing her hands bound. He wrapped the strawberry-cream coated table cloth around her shaking body, gathered her up in his arms, and lowered the whole writing bundle to the ground. Quickly, he spread out the table cloth. Quickly, he pushed her legs apart. Quickly, standing over her, he unbuckled his belt.
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
( A bit of huskiness, perhaps. . . but I assure I am still in complete control, my saucy little kitten. . .)
He stood over his slave, and the sight of her naked body, smeared and sticky, drove him wild. He unbuttoned his pants, freeing his erection.
He hesitated a moment, mulling his options. Then a wicked grin crossed his face.
"You've swallowed the strawberry. . .AGAINST MY ORDERS. . .kitten. Perhaps there is something else you would prefer to have in your mouth.
She understands, and moving awkwardly, her hands being tied, and her body slick with strawberry jam, she struggles to her knees. . .parts her lips. . .and takes his cock into her hungry mouth. . .
= = = = = = = = = = =
Now her moans changed to whimpers. She loved having him in her mouth. She SO loved having him in her mouth. When they were apart she'd wake up in the middle of the night and feel the ghost of his cock in her mouth. her lips remembered just how wide it was, her tongue could never forget its sweet taste. And oh, how lovely it was, the feel of his soft skin moving over his hard shaft. God, she adored his cock.
She loved to make him moan. She loved feeling him grow in her mouth. She loved the first drop of precum, the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted. But it was always hard doing the job right when her hands were tied behind her back. She moved her mouth back and forth over his glorious erection, she licked, she nibbled, but it still wasn't her best performance. Usually she cupped his balls in her hand, or sucked them into her mouth while caressing his cock with her fingers. Or ran a circle of fingers up and down the base while concentrating her lips and tongue on the top. So much she loved to do for him. But without her hands . . .
Finally he took pity on her frustration. Or, more likely, came to the aid of his own. Taking her head in his hands, he steadied it and started fucking her mouth. Not too violently - he knew she had a terrible fear of choking and an active gag reflex - but enough to make it clear that he was in charge and her mouth was his to use. She surrendered willingly, happily, going into the trance that always overcame her when she gave him head. She was nothing. She was nothing but a source of pleasure for him. She was a mouth and tongue and teeth, she was his sex slave, his kitten, she was anything he wanted her to be.
And that's all she needed.
= = = = = = = = = = =
He gently controlled her head . . . rocking it back and forth . . . enjoying the sensation of her lips and tongue sliding back and forth over the shaft. . .
Soon he was ready to cum. . .his hips were bucking wildly, and his breath was coming heavy and ragged. . .
Just before he exploded, he roared with pleasure and pulled out of her mouth, sending a river of cum roaring down her chin, to mix with the the sweet sticky coating that was already there. he leaned against her shoulders to steady himself. . .his legs suddenly feeling weak. . .
When his sanity had returned. he knelt down before her, cradled her head in his hands, and looked her deep in the eyes. . .whispering. . .
"Would you like to cum now, kitten?"
(Would you?)
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
Feeling him cum like that, hearing him cum like that, it was almost as if she were cumming herself. She felt such joy at the pleasure she'd brought him that tears burst forth. She wished her hands were free to rub into her body the cum cream with which he'd anointed her. Rub it in with the strawberry puree, with the whipped cream, with her sweat, with her tears, with honey scooped from her cunt, to create the most magical of desserts out of their passion for each other.
Oh right, her cunt. There had been a question in there, right?
"Yes, Master, i would very much like to cum if there is nothing else you'd like me to do for you..."
= = = = = = = = = = =
Then cum for me kitten.
= = = = = = = = = = = =
And she did.
(You do know that I'm always very obedient and don't touch myself during the story until you say i can or tell me to cum. you do know that, right? i really am obedient.)
She collapsed down onto the smeared table cloth. He knelt down beside her, gathered her into his arms, and held her and rocked her. And she was content.
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
(Your obedience is unquestioned, my naked, submissive little kitten.)
The shrieks and gasps as she came were like music. . .and he smiled as her muscles tensed and her limbs contorted when the orgasm crashed over her like a wave.
And her face. . .at the very peak of ecstasy, it was like a mask slid off her face to reveal the wild animal beneath.
This was his kitten, his slave, his pagan goddess. . .and when it was over, he gathered her limp body in his arms and rocked her.
Soon he would lead her to a warm bath and scrub her clean. . .but for now, she was his kitten and there was only this moment to be lost in. . .
= = = = = = = = = = =
mmm...
you're so far away
and you make me feel so good
(a totally inadequate description. . .)
i do feel as if you are holding me
you ARE holding me . . .
= = = = = = = = =
And now, my naked sex slave, I am lifting you up and carrying you off to bed. . .but alas, only to sleep.
It's late, kitten. . .I have to get up early tomorrow. . .
So to bed, and dream of strawberries. . .and cream. . .
= = = = = = = = = = = = =
oh, Master, i'm so sorry. i kept you up past your bedtime!
thank you for a lovely evening - i'm always so polite …
and yes, dear Master, i'll dream of strawberries …
and of cream…
and of you.
good night, Master, from your devoted slave-kitten.
= = = = = = = = = = =
Sweet dreams, sexy.
= = = = = = = = = = =
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
Friday, May 23, 2008
The selkie watches for sails
i'm feeling sentimental tonight.
warm and cuddly even though alone.
the philosopher might have travelled down for the long weekend, but end of term for professors comes later than for students. i'm tempted to drive up, cane in hand, and wallop those tardy scholars who had the nerve to hand in their papers late.
BAD STUDENTS!
THWACK!!
THWACK!!!
but that's ok.
i'm not really angry.
i feel warm and cuddly and
flooded with sweetness
cradled in safety
secure in my bed with
Marko on my feet.
i'm feeling a little sad tonight.
we broke up last year
for the second time,
we almost lost it all at
the end of the term.
it was stupid, really,
sabotage by hormones and stress
and for some dumb reason
i got the urge to read it over tonight.
we rode it out.
we held on and made it through.
and in the end
everything changed.
we passed through the fire,
the fire and the ice
and on the other side
it was no longer a game.
i feel sentimental tonight
and warm and secure.
nothing scares me tonight.
i'm your selkie tonight.
i sweep the floor in our
cottage by the sea. i tend
the peat fire. the scent of
baking bread lures your
ship to shore as does the
memory of joy and
passion in my arms.
i am your selkie tonight.
and our cottage awaits your return.
warm and cuddly even though alone.
the philosopher might have travelled down for the long weekend, but end of term for professors comes later than for students. i'm tempted to drive up, cane in hand, and wallop those tardy scholars who had the nerve to hand in their papers late.
BAD STUDENTS!
THWACK!!
THWACK!!!
but that's ok.
i'm not really angry.
i feel warm and cuddly and
flooded with sweetness
cradled in safety
secure in my bed with
Marko on my feet.
i'm feeling a little sad tonight.
we broke up last year
for the second time,
we almost lost it all at
the end of the term.
it was stupid, really,
sabotage by hormones and stress
and for some dumb reason
i got the urge to read it over tonight.
we rode it out.
we held on and made it through.
and in the end
everything changed.
we passed through the fire,
the fire and the ice
and on the other side
it was no longer a game.
i feel sentimental tonight
and warm and secure.
nothing scares me tonight.
i'm your selkie tonight.
i sweep the floor in our
cottage by the sea. i tend
the peat fire. the scent of
baking bread lures your
ship to shore as does the
memory of joy and
passion in my arms.
i am your selkie tonight.
and our cottage awaits your return.
The Legend of the Selkie
a joint, epistolary effort,
on the eve of St. Patrick's Day, 2007.
and afterwards, there came this litany:
"i am your kitten.
i am your slave.
i am your selkie."
and who are they, these parts of me?
kitten is for spanking.
the slave is for caning.
and the selkie?
dare we say it?
the selkie needs no chains.
this selkie isn't going anywhere.
the selkie is for taking in your arms.
the selkie is for loving.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Irish tell stories of the selkie. . .feral spirits in the form of seals, who frolic and play in the coldest ocean.
And occasionally, they shed their fur, and appear as preternaturally beautiful women, wild and foam-flecked, dangerous like a storm in the open sea, but lovely beyond the words of a million poets. . .
And they say, although no one has ever seen it happen. . .
that if you are bold and cunning. . .
and can contrive to steal their coat of fur,
when they take it off to swim. . .
That the beautiful woman will be yours to possess. . .
At the bottom of every legend, is a gleaming grain of golden truth. . .
- - - - -
I am a selkie who wants to be caught.
I've seen the handsome Irish sea captain standing at the prow of his ship. His dark red hair is wild from the wind, and the look in his eye is wild as well. He pretends to be cruel, but all I see is frustration, a desire for a passion that will consume him. His eyes burn, his skin burns, his soul is on fire seeking the love of his dreams. They say he loved and lost, they say he seeks a love beyond the human, which never will be found.
I am not human. And I burn as well.
I watch. I swim near his ship for days, until they anchor near a protected cove. I watch till I spy him standing on deck, looking towards the shore but seeing nothing...
... except now there is a sleek fur coat on a rock. And a woman's body slipping into the water. A body that dives and surfaces. She floats on her back, nipples saluting the sun. His eye is caught by red hair that matches his own. And something starts to stir...
I feel his rising interest. I am supernatural - as he grows I sense vibrations of disturbed air. I climb up onto the rock and display myself, seemingly oblivious to the threat which I have invited.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move towards a life boat. And then suddenly his desire overtakes him, his renewed hope overwhelms him. He rips off his clothes and jumps into the sea.
He will take my coat, he thinks he will steal my coat, and then will possess me. But it is I who have set the trap. He is already mine.
- - - - - - -
My shameless selkie swims and shimmers, her naked body the plaything of the wild sea, her lust as deep and wide as the ocean
A bolt of lightning is more easily captured, an ocean wave more easily embraced.
But a madness is upon me, and the ocean is not as wild as my passion.
The arctic cold, I do not feel, and a lungful of brine I do not taste. My mind has contracted to a single thought. . .my aspirations narrowed to a single goal.
I will capture. . .
I will possess. . .
and I will ravish this sprite whose beauty has ravished me.
- - - - - - -
They like to think they are our captors, these wild
Irish men of the sea. They like to think they have
caught us, have bound us, have tamed us.
Their fantasies feed the fire in their loins.
We selkies have learned to leave them their legends.
My red-haired captain dives into the sea.
And I slither off my stone.
He will steal my coat and hide it in a cave, and when
I emerge from the water, naked as the lust in his
eyes, he will take me as his own.
He will lay me down upon the cold ground,
and the heat of our coupling will melt
the frost and cause wild roses to
spring up all around us.
I will never leave him.
They say we selkies in human form
yearn to return to
the sea.
But its call cannot drown the beating of my heart
when he takes me in his arms,
nor my wild cries
when he lies between my legs.
I do not wait for him to learn that he must destroy my seal coat to keep me his forever.
I burn it myself.
- - - - - -
She was easy to catch, this savage child of the sea. . .much easier
than the legends would have you believe. . .and when we grapple, it is
she who wraps her legs around me, as if to prevent my escape. . .
But in the flurry of limbs I can't be sure. . .I press my newfound
treasure to my chest. . .and penetrate her wailing mouth with my
tongue. . .
And the ocean I drown in is warm, and soft and gentle. . .and I sink
to its very bottom. . .
- - - - - - - -
The selkie in the morning
It is the first morning of her new life.
Seal no more, she has sacrificed slithering
through silvery waves for nights of
wild abandon and days of tender
joy. The naked man beside her stirs,
his red hair a match for her own.
She burrows up against his warmth
and sighs. He is her Captain. She has
no regrets.
Saturday, 16 March 2007
on the eve of St. Patrick's Day, 2007.
and afterwards, there came this litany:
"i am your kitten.
i am your slave.
i am your selkie."
and who are they, these parts of me?
kitten is for spanking.
the slave is for caning.
and the selkie?
dare we say it?
the selkie needs no chains.
this selkie isn't going anywhere.
the selkie is for taking in your arms.
the selkie is for loving.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Irish tell stories of the selkie. . .feral spirits in the form of seals, who frolic and play in the coldest ocean.
And occasionally, they shed their fur, and appear as preternaturally beautiful women, wild and foam-flecked, dangerous like a storm in the open sea, but lovely beyond the words of a million poets. . .
And they say, although no one has ever seen it happen. . .
that if you are bold and cunning. . .
and can contrive to steal their coat of fur,
when they take it off to swim. . .
That the beautiful woman will be yours to possess. . .
At the bottom of every legend, is a gleaming grain of golden truth. . .
- - - - -
I am a selkie who wants to be caught.
I've seen the handsome Irish sea captain standing at the prow of his ship. His dark red hair is wild from the wind, and the look in his eye is wild as well. He pretends to be cruel, but all I see is frustration, a desire for a passion that will consume him. His eyes burn, his skin burns, his soul is on fire seeking the love of his dreams. They say he loved and lost, they say he seeks a love beyond the human, which never will be found.
I am not human. And I burn as well.
I watch. I swim near his ship for days, until they anchor near a protected cove. I watch till I spy him standing on deck, looking towards the shore but seeing nothing...
... except now there is a sleek fur coat on a rock. And a woman's body slipping into the water. A body that dives and surfaces. She floats on her back, nipples saluting the sun. His eye is caught by red hair that matches his own. And something starts to stir...
I feel his rising interest. I am supernatural - as he grows I sense vibrations of disturbed air. I climb up onto the rock and display myself, seemingly oblivious to the threat which I have invited.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move towards a life boat. And then suddenly his desire overtakes him, his renewed hope overwhelms him. He rips off his clothes and jumps into the sea.
He will take my coat, he thinks he will steal my coat, and then will possess me. But it is I who have set the trap. He is already mine.
- - - - - - -
My shameless selkie swims and shimmers, her naked body the plaything of the wild sea, her lust as deep and wide as the ocean
A bolt of lightning is more easily captured, an ocean wave more easily embraced.
But a madness is upon me, and the ocean is not as wild as my passion.
The arctic cold, I do not feel, and a lungful of brine I do not taste. My mind has contracted to a single thought. . .my aspirations narrowed to a single goal.
I will capture. . .
I will possess. . .
and I will ravish this sprite whose beauty has ravished me.
- - - - - - -
They like to think they are our captors, these wild
Irish men of the sea. They like to think they have
caught us, have bound us, have tamed us.
Their fantasies feed the fire in their loins.
We selkies have learned to leave them their legends.
My red-haired captain dives into the sea.
And I slither off my stone.
He will steal my coat and hide it in a cave, and when
I emerge from the water, naked as the lust in his
eyes, he will take me as his own.
He will lay me down upon the cold ground,
and the heat of our coupling will melt
the frost and cause wild roses to
spring up all around us.
I will never leave him.
They say we selkies in human form
yearn to return to
the sea.
But its call cannot drown the beating of my heart
when he takes me in his arms,
nor my wild cries
when he lies between my legs.
I do not wait for him to learn that he must destroy my seal coat to keep me his forever.
I burn it myself.
- - - - - -
She was easy to catch, this savage child of the sea. . .much easier
than the legends would have you believe. . .and when we grapple, it is
she who wraps her legs around me, as if to prevent my escape. . .
But in the flurry of limbs I can't be sure. . .I press my newfound
treasure to my chest. . .and penetrate her wailing mouth with my
tongue. . .
And the ocean I drown in is warm, and soft and gentle. . .and I sink
to its very bottom. . .
- - - - - - - -
The selkie in the morning
It is the first morning of her new life.
Seal no more, she has sacrificed slithering
through silvery waves for nights of
wild abandon and days of tender
joy. The naked man beside her stirs,
his red hair a match for her own.
She burrows up against his warmth
and sighs. He is her Captain. She has
no regrets.
Saturday, 16 March 2007
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Domesticity
when is a sex slave not a sex slave?
the kitchen floor is dirty.
bad kitten.
strip kitten.
down on hands and knees, kitten.
ass in air
nipples pert
fear-sparked eyes
dripping cunt
happy kitten.
scrub, kitten!
watch out for the cane, kitten...
dare to miss a spot, my slave
and you will know my wrath.
it's never really wrath, my pet
you always make me smile, my pet
you scream and cry and cum and purr
i take you in my arms and smile
but still you'd better scrub that floor.
and then i'll fuck you on it.
when is a sex slave not a sex slave?
never.
the kitchen floor is dirty.
bad kitten.
strip kitten.
down on hands and knees, kitten.
ass in air
nipples pert
fear-sparked eyes
dripping cunt
happy kitten.
scrub, kitten!
watch out for the cane, kitten...
dare to miss a spot, my slave
and you will know my wrath.
it's never really wrath, my pet
you always make me smile, my pet
you scream and cry and cum and purr
i take you in my arms and smile
but still you'd better scrub that floor.
and then i'll fuck you on it.
when is a sex slave not a sex slave?
never.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Is it genetic?
My mother is submissive.
I doubt she's "a" submissive, mind you. Which is too bad, because it's much more fun than just being pushed around because you need so badly to be liked that you can't stand up for yourself.
My parents have moved into an amazingly lovely independent living community, and I'm just back from unpacking some of the 40 boxes that they insisted on packing themselves. They're 87 and 90 years old. Anyway, this place is filled with smart, educated people, many of whom still have their wits about them even as their bodies slowly let them down. They need a dance card to keep track of all their dinner appointments.
From all reports, one particular woman is rather on the pushy side. She keeps badgering my atheist Jewish parents to join her synagogue. And my mom can't bring herself to say thanks, but we really are not interested. So instead they keep getting subjected to the hard sell. (My dad's hearing is worse than my mom's, which might be one reason why it keeps falling on her.)
I need a new housemate. I've advertised. I've been pretty clear about what I want, but you know, people never read the directions. (Except for sex slaves, of course... we know we'll be caned if we don't follow instructions.) So I hear from this guy who just graduated from college and says he's "not entirely dissimilar from [his] peer group." Which is the last thing I want. And I find myself composing this long long e-mail back, with the obvious purpose of persuading him that he really doesn't want to move in here after all.
Because I just can't bring myself to say: you're not what I'm looking for.
I did finally say: you're not what I'm looking for.
Well, more or less anyway.
My mother has amazing nipples. They protrude. I looked at my 87-year old mother, who is always so worried about being appropriate, and there were her nipples, showing through her bra and shirt.
I inherited those nipples.
Do you think they are genetically linked to submissiveness?
I doubt she's "a" submissive, mind you. Which is too bad, because it's much more fun than just being pushed around because you need so badly to be liked that you can't stand up for yourself.
My parents have moved into an amazingly lovely independent living community, and I'm just back from unpacking some of the 40 boxes that they insisted on packing themselves. They're 87 and 90 years old. Anyway, this place is filled with smart, educated people, many of whom still have their wits about them even as their bodies slowly let them down. They need a dance card to keep track of all their dinner appointments.
From all reports, one particular woman is rather on the pushy side. She keeps badgering my atheist Jewish parents to join her synagogue. And my mom can't bring herself to say thanks, but we really are not interested. So instead they keep getting subjected to the hard sell. (My dad's hearing is worse than my mom's, which might be one reason why it keeps falling on her.)
I need a new housemate. I've advertised. I've been pretty clear about what I want, but you know, people never read the directions. (Except for sex slaves, of course... we know we'll be caned if we don't follow instructions.) So I hear from this guy who just graduated from college and says he's "not entirely dissimilar from [his] peer group." Which is the last thing I want. And I find myself composing this long long e-mail back, with the obvious purpose of persuading him that he really doesn't want to move in here after all.
Because I just can't bring myself to say: you're not what I'm looking for.
I did finally say: you're not what I'm looking for.
Well, more or less anyway.
My mother has amazing nipples. They protrude. I looked at my 87-year old mother, who is always so worried about being appropriate, and there were her nipples, showing through her bra and shirt.
I inherited those nipples.
Do you think they are genetically linked to submissiveness?
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Kitten has one of her artsy moments
Detail of a bench near Dupont Circle.
From the philosopher's second visit last October.
From the philosopher's second visit last October.
Friday, May 16, 2008
the hole left behind
an anonymous reader left a very perceptive comment on the story Holes for Rent:
“the story telling was very good indeed...but for some reason it had me in tears…”
ever since i posted that story, i’ve been mulling over a follow-up post. at the same time, i’ve been filled with some odd and sad feelings that i haven’t quite been able to pin down.
at first i thought it was the let-down after the intensity of the writing and of the fantasy itself. i am subject to mood swings, and am quite familiar with the lows that can hit after periods of very strong feelings or accelerated activity. so initially, this essay was going to be about my gratitude to this community for giving me a place where my darkest fantasies will be accepted, even admired. certainly, they are not the darkest that can be found in the BDSM universe.
i was also going to express my love for and gratitude to the philosopher. he not only accepts my dark side; he finds there inspiration and acceptance for his sadistic fantasies. it is, as he says, the way we play, and the unflinching erotic revelations we make to each other are both part and cause of a level of intimacy which i, for one, have never experienced before.
but my mood has grown sadder since i hit PUBLISH POST on the story, and i’ve been disturbed at the image that has been growing in my mind. i’ve seen the exhaustion as being akin to what follows an extreme bout of constipation. the story itself appears to me as a preternaturally gigantic turd which i had been carrying around for days. after a long bout on the toilet, and much sitting and pushing (just think how much reading i would have gotten done!), i was finally able to expel it. slowly. painfully. all in one piece. and then i emerged, grateful at being emptied, but drained of energy and a little shaken.
obviously, there is some ambivalence there about the true acceptability of my fantasy.
this morning i suddenly remembered a similar reaction a few weeks ago, after giving birth to a very dark story about being branded, which the philosopher commanded me to write for him. (he has not permitted me to publish it, wanting to keep it for himself. probably just as well…) the mood hung on for days, and i eventually put it down to hormones, which is always a possibility. but there does seem to be something else at work.
part of it, i think, is a need for aftercare. hands-on aftercare. cuddling care. it’s been about 4 months since the philosopher and i have seen each other and it’s becoming very hard. and while with a word, or the most subtle inflection, he can still instantly start me twitching and sliding down into subspace, i find myself yearning to curl up on the couch, to be held, to walk in the park hand-in-hand.
as inadequate as the word sounds, i want to be his girlfriend.
and given how my eyes and throat got all teary when i wrote that first sentence about aftercare, i do think that is part of it. not all, certainly, but a part. maybe it’s that i need that sweet reminder that i haven’t been banished for the darkness inside me. and that what we have between us is not, after all, but another fantasy.
i miss you.
“the story telling was very good indeed...but for some reason it had me in tears…”
ever since i posted that story, i’ve been mulling over a follow-up post. at the same time, i’ve been filled with some odd and sad feelings that i haven’t quite been able to pin down.
at first i thought it was the let-down after the intensity of the writing and of the fantasy itself. i am subject to mood swings, and am quite familiar with the lows that can hit after periods of very strong feelings or accelerated activity. so initially, this essay was going to be about my gratitude to this community for giving me a place where my darkest fantasies will be accepted, even admired. certainly, they are not the darkest that can be found in the BDSM universe.
i was also going to express my love for and gratitude to the philosopher. he not only accepts my dark side; he finds there inspiration and acceptance for his sadistic fantasies. it is, as he says, the way we play, and the unflinching erotic revelations we make to each other are both part and cause of a level of intimacy which i, for one, have never experienced before.
but my mood has grown sadder since i hit PUBLISH POST on the story, and i’ve been disturbed at the image that has been growing in my mind. i’ve seen the exhaustion as being akin to what follows an extreme bout of constipation. the story itself appears to me as a preternaturally gigantic turd which i had been carrying around for days. after a long bout on the toilet, and much sitting and pushing (just think how much reading i would have gotten done!), i was finally able to expel it. slowly. painfully. all in one piece. and then i emerged, grateful at being emptied, but drained of energy and a little shaken.
obviously, there is some ambivalence there about the true acceptability of my fantasy.
this morning i suddenly remembered a similar reaction a few weeks ago, after giving birth to a very dark story about being branded, which the philosopher commanded me to write for him. (he has not permitted me to publish it, wanting to keep it for himself. probably just as well…) the mood hung on for days, and i eventually put it down to hormones, which is always a possibility. but there does seem to be something else at work.
part of it, i think, is a need for aftercare. hands-on aftercare. cuddling care. it’s been about 4 months since the philosopher and i have seen each other and it’s becoming very hard. and while with a word, or the most subtle inflection, he can still instantly start me twitching and sliding down into subspace, i find myself yearning to curl up on the couch, to be held, to walk in the park hand-in-hand.
as inadequate as the word sounds, i want to be his girlfriend.
and given how my eyes and throat got all teary when i wrote that first sentence about aftercare, i do think that is part of it. not all, certainly, but a part. maybe it’s that i need that sweet reminder that i haven’t been banished for the darkness inside me. and that what we have between us is not, after all, but another fantasy.
i miss you.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Holes for Rent
This story was triggered by this post (and very explicit video) on Zille Defeu's fetish fantasies and this from David's A View from the Top. The images, both seen and imagined, stewed and burbled in my brain for days, until they emerged transformed into the following.
I meant to give you this story on Monday, but it needed a little more work. So I posted a little apology, with a promise to deliver on Tuesday. Of course, I had no right to do that. The philosopher has given me the schedule of Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, and I have no authority to change that. So this will count as Wednesday's post. Please forgive me for leading you to expect otherwise. The fault is mine alone.
* * * * * * * * * *
They needed the money.
They needed the money and he needed proof. Proof that he really did own her. Proof that she would submit to whatever humiliating task he forced on her. Proof that she wouldn’t love him the less for it.
They were down in the dungeon. He had tied her to the futon, had spanked her, had beaten her, had adorned her with hot wax. He put his hands around her neck, just tight enough to remind her that he controlled the very breath she took. She was so deep in subspace that she could barely speak, but he knew she could get out the answers to the catechism.
“These breasts,” he twisted her nipples until she screamed. “These breasts, kitten, which I can pinch and twist and cover with clothespins. Who owns these breasts?”
“You own them, master. You own them.” She had to struggle to get the words out, drawing them up from some deep well, miles away, in another universe.
“This mouth,” he forced it open, running his fingers over her teeth, and then briefly fucking her mouth with his tongue. “This mouth,” he continued, “that I will fuck until you choke and gasp for air, this mouth that I will fill with my cum. Who owns it, slave?”
The edges of her consciousness caught the switch from “kitten” to “slave” and she slipped even further into subspace. Each word that followed took a huge effort. She reeled them in one by one.
“Y-You… own it…., master. Y-Y-You o-own…. m-m-my……m-m-m-mouth.”
“This cunt,” his fingers sloshed down the slide of her submission, grabbing onto her clit to save himself from drowining in her womb. “Who owns it, slave? Who owns this cunt?”
He rushed ahead, without waiting for an answer.
“And this ass, slave. This tight little asshole,” which his finger easily breached with the aid of the cunt juices that coated his hand. “Whose little anus is this?”
She tried to answer, she really did. But the bridge to her words had dissolved in the mist.
“I own them.This cunt, this clit, this ass, they’re all mine, slave. YOU’RE all mine, SLAVE. And do you know what that means? Do you know what that means? You’re my property. You know that. And what can I do with my property?”
She tried again. And again, she couldn’t do it.
He slapped her face. Not very hard. Just enough to restore her power of speech and some basic vocabulary.
“I’m your property. You… you can sell me. You can… can… give me away.”
Tears wandered down her cheeks.
“Ah no, kitten, don’t cry. I would never give you away. I would never sell you. But your holes, my little slave… I’m going to rent out your holes.”
She gasped. And disappeared back down into subspace.
The idea was not new to him. The fantasy had lived and congealed in his brain for weeks. All the details had been worked out. But only now was he sure enough of them both to go ahead with it. Her response to objectification and humiliation had been growing, as had his security in the bonds between them. He needed to do this. Just this once. Just to see how far her obedience would take her.
The set-up was simple. He would reduce her to two holes. She’d be nothing but a cunt and an anus. Her mouth was his alone.
He bought a saw-horse, and trimmed the legs until when she was bent over it her hands and feet touched the ground. He wrapped the top in foam rubber, but that was his only concession to comfort.
He advertised to the audience that had witnessed her masturbation performance. The participants were limited to twenty, of which three would be women with strap-ons. He rented two rooms in an office building that would be empty on a weekend night. One would be the waiting room.
She floated through the preparations as if permanently hung over, never quite out of subspace. She tried not to think about what was coming, and could think of nothing else. She was terrified. She was excited. She was leery. And she wanted to prove that she would accede to any demand he made.
The night arrived. The customers arrived. The fee had been paid ahead of time. A healthy fee. He hadn’t told her what they needed the money for, but some of it would be a gift for her – the trip to Paris and Ireland she had long dreamed of taking with him.
What the customers would experience would barely deserve the name of having sex with her. They would be fucking her holes. It would be one step above masturbating. Cold, clinical, and effective. There was one fee for either cunt or anus, and ten per cent off the combined fee for both.
Her ass had rarely been used, and she found herself dwelling on the ass fucking more than anything else. He didn’t want her hurt, so gradually prepared her for the invasion ahead. Every night for two weeks, he kept her filled with a butt plug, increasing the size every few days until she could easily tolerate the middle size and take the largest one without too much pain. He didn’t want to risk bleeding. Her cunt, he knew, could open to most anything with enough lube.
The first customer was a man. He entered the room and saw nothing ahead of him but a pair of buttocks, an anus, and a cunt. Stanchions and ropes, a waiting line at the bank, directed him straight towards the target. He was there to make a deposit.
There was to be no undressing. The customer merely extracted his penis through his fly. At the doorway he was handed a condom. He unrolled it onto his already hard cock, and then anointed it with a handful of Astroglide. Customer #1 was a cunt man only.
The customers were not to touch her with their hands. They could brace themselves on the saw horse as it extended on either side of her ass. She was bound so tightly to the frame, wrists and ankles each chained to the base of one leg, that an erect cock could enter either orifice with a single thrust.
She sensed #1 walking up behind her. Sensed him from the bottom of her subspace pit. Her owner had whispered dire threats in her ear before they started, he had spanked her, he had beaten her, he did everything he could to send her far away. This was a joint experiment – to see how thoroughly she could disappear.
She was nothing. She was her holes. Whatever was left of her brain dwelt in those holes. She felt the first thrust. She felt nothing. She was a cunt. This is what she was born to be. She was a hole, she was nothing, she felt nothing.
#1 fucked. #1 came. #1 left.
#2 and #3 repeated the pattern.
#4 was a women with a very large strap-on. Very hard and very large, but not more than she could take. She swam up a little ways and held on to the sensation. She was being fucked by a stone phallus, by a statue, Venus with a penis. And then she slipped away again.
#5 wanted her ass. Her master basted her with K-Y before allowing the customer to enter. It took a little pushing before he made it through, and she needed to be conscious for it, pushing out to help him enter. It hurt. She tried not to but she cried out. He pounded her ass and she screamed, and that only made him harder and more brutal. She tried to keep silent, but the pain flowed out her eyes instead. She thought his final thrust would split her in two, but at least he finally came and withdrew. She promised herself she wouldn’t scream again, no matter what. The screaming brought her back to consciousness, and she wanted nothing more than to float away.
After that, it was mostly routine. A couple of the guys wanted both holes. The rule was clear: cunt first, then ass. She returned to feeling nothing. She could have been one of those toys men can buy in a sex shop, a pseudo-cunt with which to masturbate. Plastic has no feelings. Plastic doesn’t bleed. Plastic doesn’t cry.
She did bleed, just a little. But she was too far gone into subspace to cry.
He wanted to go to her. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to tell her what a good job she was doing, how proud he was of her, what a good kitten she was. But he knew better. He knew that his words would shatter the armor she had built around herself, and make it harder to play it through until the end. He knew so well how his slave kitten’s mind worked. He would wait.
Finally, it was time for #20. Just another cock. It was all the same to her by now. Wherever she was. A tiny part of her brain, a microchip calculator, knew this was the last one. This one wanted it all. A fitting way to end. He fucked her cunt, he fucked her ass, he grunted, he groaned, and he came. It was over.
He left her bound while he ushered out this last of their customers. He locked the door and stood for a moment, gathering himself together, wrestling with the feelings that surged within him. Had it been a mistake? Perhaps. He wasn’t sure. But it was done. And they’d never do it again.
The 2 room suite came with a small washroom. He filled a bowl with warm water, and picking up a bar of her favorite soap and a washcloth, he came up behind her. Gently, he cleansed her abused orifices. He knelt at her feet and unchained her ankles, then moved around to the front and unchained her wrists.
He felt a tear drop onto his neck. Standing up, he gathered her into his arms and eased her to the ground. He kissed her tears, stroked her hair, rubbed her limbs to get the blood flowing again, but it wasn’t yet time for the ritual reassurances.
“You’re not quite done yet, kitten. Not quite done.”
He pulled of his jeans, lay down on the industrial carpet, and pulled her on top of him.
“Now, my slave, my pet, my cock whore, my fuck toy. Now. Whose mouth is this, kitten? Whose mouth is this, slave?”
She was wrung out, her head was swimming, but the words rang out in love and triumph.
“It’s YOURS, master. Yours and no one else’s. You own me, master. You own me. They fucked me, but they never had me. Only you.”
Or that’s what she WOULD have said. The last words were lost as he pushed her mouth down over his screaming cock. Clutching her hair in his grasp, the hair she’d grown at his command just for this purpose, he pushed her down over his erection, pushed her throat down over his urgency, he fucked her with all the anger that had built up against the other cocks that had used her, and he exploded his joy at her obedience.
And then he took her home.
I meant to give you this story on Monday, but it needed a little more work. So I posted a little apology, with a promise to deliver on Tuesday. Of course, I had no right to do that. The philosopher has given me the schedule of Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, and I have no authority to change that. So this will count as Wednesday's post. Please forgive me for leading you to expect otherwise. The fault is mine alone.
* * * * * * * * * *
They needed the money.
They needed the money and he needed proof. Proof that he really did own her. Proof that she would submit to whatever humiliating task he forced on her. Proof that she wouldn’t love him the less for it.
They were down in the dungeon. He had tied her to the futon, had spanked her, had beaten her, had adorned her with hot wax. He put his hands around her neck, just tight enough to remind her that he controlled the very breath she took. She was so deep in subspace that she could barely speak, but he knew she could get out the answers to the catechism.
“These breasts,” he twisted her nipples until she screamed. “These breasts, kitten, which I can pinch and twist and cover with clothespins. Who owns these breasts?”
“You own them, master. You own them.” She had to struggle to get the words out, drawing them up from some deep well, miles away, in another universe.
“This mouth,” he forced it open, running his fingers over her teeth, and then briefly fucking her mouth with his tongue. “This mouth,” he continued, “that I will fuck until you choke and gasp for air, this mouth that I will fill with my cum. Who owns it, slave?”
The edges of her consciousness caught the switch from “kitten” to “slave” and she slipped even further into subspace. Each word that followed took a huge effort. She reeled them in one by one.
“Y-You… own it…., master. Y-Y-You o-own…. m-m-my……m-m-m-mouth.”
“This cunt,” his fingers sloshed down the slide of her submission, grabbing onto her clit to save himself from drowining in her womb. “Who owns it, slave? Who owns this cunt?”
He rushed ahead, without waiting for an answer.
“And this ass, slave. This tight little asshole,” which his finger easily breached with the aid of the cunt juices that coated his hand. “Whose little anus is this?”
She tried to answer, she really did. But the bridge to her words had dissolved in the mist.
“I own them.This cunt, this clit, this ass, they’re all mine, slave. YOU’RE all mine, SLAVE. And do you know what that means? Do you know what that means? You’re my property. You know that. And what can I do with my property?”
She tried again. And again, she couldn’t do it.
He slapped her face. Not very hard. Just enough to restore her power of speech and some basic vocabulary.
“I’m your property. You… you can sell me. You can… can… give me away.”
Tears wandered down her cheeks.
“Ah no, kitten, don’t cry. I would never give you away. I would never sell you. But your holes, my little slave… I’m going to rent out your holes.”
She gasped. And disappeared back down into subspace.
The idea was not new to him. The fantasy had lived and congealed in his brain for weeks. All the details had been worked out. But only now was he sure enough of them both to go ahead with it. Her response to objectification and humiliation had been growing, as had his security in the bonds between them. He needed to do this. Just this once. Just to see how far her obedience would take her.
The set-up was simple. He would reduce her to two holes. She’d be nothing but a cunt and an anus. Her mouth was his alone.
He bought a saw-horse, and trimmed the legs until when she was bent over it her hands and feet touched the ground. He wrapped the top in foam rubber, but that was his only concession to comfort.
He advertised to the audience that had witnessed her masturbation performance. The participants were limited to twenty, of which three would be women with strap-ons. He rented two rooms in an office building that would be empty on a weekend night. One would be the waiting room.
She floated through the preparations as if permanently hung over, never quite out of subspace. She tried not to think about what was coming, and could think of nothing else. She was terrified. She was excited. She was leery. And she wanted to prove that she would accede to any demand he made.
The night arrived. The customers arrived. The fee had been paid ahead of time. A healthy fee. He hadn’t told her what they needed the money for, but some of it would be a gift for her – the trip to Paris and Ireland she had long dreamed of taking with him.
What the customers would experience would barely deserve the name of having sex with her. They would be fucking her holes. It would be one step above masturbating. Cold, clinical, and effective. There was one fee for either cunt or anus, and ten per cent off the combined fee for both.
Her ass had rarely been used, and she found herself dwelling on the ass fucking more than anything else. He didn’t want her hurt, so gradually prepared her for the invasion ahead. Every night for two weeks, he kept her filled with a butt plug, increasing the size every few days until she could easily tolerate the middle size and take the largest one without too much pain. He didn’t want to risk bleeding. Her cunt, he knew, could open to most anything with enough lube.
The first customer was a man. He entered the room and saw nothing ahead of him but a pair of buttocks, an anus, and a cunt. Stanchions and ropes, a waiting line at the bank, directed him straight towards the target. He was there to make a deposit.
There was to be no undressing. The customer merely extracted his penis through his fly. At the doorway he was handed a condom. He unrolled it onto his already hard cock, and then anointed it with a handful of Astroglide. Customer #1 was a cunt man only.
The customers were not to touch her with their hands. They could brace themselves on the saw horse as it extended on either side of her ass. She was bound so tightly to the frame, wrists and ankles each chained to the base of one leg, that an erect cock could enter either orifice with a single thrust.
She sensed #1 walking up behind her. Sensed him from the bottom of her subspace pit. Her owner had whispered dire threats in her ear before they started, he had spanked her, he had beaten her, he did everything he could to send her far away. This was a joint experiment – to see how thoroughly she could disappear.
She was nothing. She was her holes. Whatever was left of her brain dwelt in those holes. She felt the first thrust. She felt nothing. She was a cunt. This is what she was born to be. She was a hole, she was nothing, she felt nothing.
#1 fucked. #1 came. #1 left.
#2 and #3 repeated the pattern.
#4 was a women with a very large strap-on. Very hard and very large, but not more than she could take. She swam up a little ways and held on to the sensation. She was being fucked by a stone phallus, by a statue, Venus with a penis. And then she slipped away again.
#5 wanted her ass. Her master basted her with K-Y before allowing the customer to enter. It took a little pushing before he made it through, and she needed to be conscious for it, pushing out to help him enter. It hurt. She tried not to but she cried out. He pounded her ass and she screamed, and that only made him harder and more brutal. She tried to keep silent, but the pain flowed out her eyes instead. She thought his final thrust would split her in two, but at least he finally came and withdrew. She promised herself she wouldn’t scream again, no matter what. The screaming brought her back to consciousness, and she wanted nothing more than to float away.
After that, it was mostly routine. A couple of the guys wanted both holes. The rule was clear: cunt first, then ass. She returned to feeling nothing. She could have been one of those toys men can buy in a sex shop, a pseudo-cunt with which to masturbate. Plastic has no feelings. Plastic doesn’t bleed. Plastic doesn’t cry.
She did bleed, just a little. But she was too far gone into subspace to cry.
He wanted to go to her. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to tell her what a good job she was doing, how proud he was of her, what a good kitten she was. But he knew better. He knew that his words would shatter the armor she had built around herself, and make it harder to play it through until the end. He knew so well how his slave kitten’s mind worked. He would wait.
Finally, it was time for #20. Just another cock. It was all the same to her by now. Wherever she was. A tiny part of her brain, a microchip calculator, knew this was the last one. This one wanted it all. A fitting way to end. He fucked her cunt, he fucked her ass, he grunted, he groaned, and he came. It was over.
He left her bound while he ushered out this last of their customers. He locked the door and stood for a moment, gathering himself together, wrestling with the feelings that surged within him. Had it been a mistake? Perhaps. He wasn’t sure. But it was done. And they’d never do it again.
The 2 room suite came with a small washroom. He filled a bowl with warm water, and picking up a bar of her favorite soap and a washcloth, he came up behind her. Gently, he cleansed her abused orifices. He knelt at her feet and unchained her ankles, then moved around to the front and unchained her wrists.
He felt a tear drop onto his neck. Standing up, he gathered her into his arms and eased her to the ground. He kissed her tears, stroked her hair, rubbed her limbs to get the blood flowing again, but it wasn’t yet time for the ritual reassurances.
“You’re not quite done yet, kitten. Not quite done.”
He pulled of his jeans, lay down on the industrial carpet, and pulled her on top of him.
“Now, my slave, my pet, my cock whore, my fuck toy. Now. Whose mouth is this, kitten? Whose mouth is this, slave?”
She was wrung out, her head was swimming, but the words rang out in love and triumph.
“It’s YOURS, master. Yours and no one else’s. You own me, master. You own me. They fucked me, but they never had me. Only you.”
Or that’s what she WOULD have said. The last words were lost as he pushed her mouth down over his screaming cock. Clutching her hair in his grasp, the hair she’d grown at his command just for this purpose, he pushed her down over his erection, pushed her throat down over his urgency, he fucked her with all the anger that had built up against the other cocks that had used her, and he exploded his joy at her obedience.
And then he took her home.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Watch this Space
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
I'll post it tomorrow!
It's only an edit away!
No, really. Come back tomorrow for a hot little number about objectification and ass fucking and usage by other men (plus 3 women with strap-ons). Your basic black story. The philosopher sometimes seems rather taken aback by the darkness of my imagination. He tries to blame all the BDSM in our life on me, implies that I lured him into it. But HE's the one with the e-mail address that conjures up the Story of O. Not to mention the implications of his screen name (CC is only a tease of an abbreviation). I just dropped the hints here and there that showed him the door was open to his most evil fantasies. And that made me feel safe enough to let go of the railing, take off the training wheels, and wallow in visions that used to horrify me.
So I do have a story for you. It's been in the works for days. All that's lacking is the final few paragraphs, a touch of editing, a final proofread, and a click on Publish Post.
Tuesday.
I promise.
Tomorrow!
I'll post it tomorrow!
It's only an edit away!
No, really. Come back tomorrow for a hot little number about objectification and ass fucking and usage by other men (plus 3 women with strap-ons). Your basic black story. The philosopher sometimes seems rather taken aback by the darkness of my imagination. He tries to blame all the BDSM in our life on me, implies that I lured him into it. But HE's the one with the e-mail address that conjures up the Story of O. Not to mention the implications of his screen name (CC is only a tease of an abbreviation). I just dropped the hints here and there that showed him the door was open to his most evil fantasies. And that made me feel safe enough to let go of the railing, take off the training wheels, and wallow in visions that used to horrify me.
So I do have a story for you. It's been in the works for days. All that's lacking is the final few paragraphs, a touch of editing, a final proofread, and a click on Publish Post.
Tuesday.
I promise.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Happy Mother's Day
I'm going to be a grandmother! The little ones are due any day. I don't know how many eggs there are, but Mama Robin lets me all the way the stairs, and doesn't fly off and scream until i actually open the door. Like BDSM, it's all a question of trust...
Unfortunately, the mailman is afraid to put anything in the mailbox, which i just below the light. The robins not only scream at him, but the daddy follows that poor public servant at least 2 houses down. He's rather afraid of having his eyes pecked out. Me, i sometimes go out the back door so as not to disturb mama bird. There are priorities, after all.
Meanwhile, what with all you doms out there who are so good at training, does anyone know how I can train the cats to send me a Mother's Day card? very eyar I feel so horribly neglected.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Marko Needs to Cuddle
I wasn't planning on giving you a cat picture every Friday. Honest! And I had a great idea for a post for tonight. Freed from the bonds of having to write every day (thank you, master), I've been experiencing a flood of creativity. I have notes for a few new posts and hopes of finishing some others that have been languishing in various stages of undress.
But just as I was settling down to a nice peaceful evening at home with one dinner and two cats and my laptop, my sister called. She is, as my mother puts it, going through a very hard time, so I played therapist for a hundred and forty-three minutes! The silent type of therapist, mostly. I listened through eating dinner, sitting on the couch, locking away a huge bag of cat food before Ketzel tore it open, e-mailing the philosopher with progress reports on the conversation, even peeing - which I think is an extremely rude thing to do while on the phone. But I did apologize first, and we do have a history of conversations where one of us sat on the edge of the tub while the other one sat on the toilet. (I sure hope that image is titillating to at least one of you out there, because that may be the only kinky thing about this post.)
Anyway, I did my big sister thing, and then the philosopher wrote to say he wouldn't phone tonight, and I admitted that it was really ok because I was exhausted from the call and my ear hurt. For real. That was not a metaphor.
Hence this cop-out of a Friday cat-blogging post.
The picture is nearly 3 years old, when Marko was about 2-1/2. And I must admit that the blue dog was put in position after my boy fell asleep. However, the inspiration for the photo was a real incident. I have a stuffed animal in the form of a black cat in red velvet overalls that used to sit perched on my desk. It is rather long and lanky and sits like a person, not like a cat. Well, one day, Marko stole it. I came across him lying in the living room, stretched out against the purloined toy, clearly in need of some sort of security blanket substitute. Selfish, mean mommy that I am, I reclaimed the thing, but ever after was on the lookout for a stuffed animal of his own that he could snuggle and love. I believe I adopted the blue dog from IKEA. Marko never did seem to bond with it the way he did with that black cat, but I tried my best to let him know that it was there for him when he needed it.
They do look really cute together. And all kittens need to cuddle. . .
PS - i'd like to offer an apology for haranguing my devoted readers about not commenting. the philosopher called me to task on it, and he is right, of course. he is always right. my behaviour was most unseemly and i will end my kvetching. you are all most welcome here, and need not feel guilty about peeking in and then going away with no word of farewell. i am just grateful that you stopped by. my master is trying very hard to train me to be a well-behaved kitten, and my bad manners should not be taken as any sort of reflection on either his efforts or his standards.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Masturbation Melody
In celebration of Masturbation Month
on the seventh of May -
it's Masturbation Day!
with what toy, oh evil master
with what lube in the palm of your hand
could you think, oh best beloved,
to create a simulacrum
of the feel of your cock in my mouth.
it’s not just my skill
and the wet and the warmth.
it’s not just the thrill
of the rape of my throat
you’ve pushed past my tonsils
you’ve ravished my heart
and it’s love, not saliva,
that covers your skin.
but try, my professor
it’s better than nothing
we’ll honor this day
together, apart.
and i’ll moan to the phone
and you’ll spurt to the sky
and we’ll do what we can
and we will muddle through.
for more on this glorious occasion,
see (among other sites)
this and this.
on the seventh of May -
it's Masturbation Day!
with what toy, oh evil master
with what lube in the palm of your hand
could you think, oh best beloved,
to create a simulacrum
of the feel of your cock in my mouth.
it’s not just my skill
and the wet and the warmth.
it’s not just the thrill
of the rape of my throat
you’ve pushed past my tonsils
you’ve ravished my heart
and it’s love, not saliva,
that covers your skin.
but try, my professor
it’s better than nothing
we’ll honor this day
together, apart.
and i’ll moan to the phone
and you’ll spurt to the sky
and we’ll do what we can
and we will muddle through.
for more on this glorious occasion,
see (among other sites)
this and this.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Update and New Publication Schedule
I don’t get it. I pour my heart out here. I reveal what an insubordinate submissive I’ve been, I describe the horrific punishment I think I deserve, and what’s the only comment I get? One of you recognizes my BRAS!!
Not that I mind hearing that. It led to one of my favorite discussions about the general inadequacy of men with regard to getting a girl out of a front-hooking bra. In fact, I’m convinced that the reason so few bras are made to clasp in the front is to spare men from betraying their feeble de-bra-ification skills.
A good dom, however, never needs to worry about such things The philosopher merely has to say “Strip!” and the problem is solved.
But that’s neither here nor there. There’s still the issue of one submissive kitten thinking she should be beaten to a pulp because she high-handedly tossed her master’s direct order aside. An order that was for her own good.
I can be snarky about it now, but I was pretty much a huge mess over the entire weekend. Plus I still haven’t figured out why I was laughing after confessing my sin. And I don’t use the word “sin” lightly. It felt like I had done something hugely unforgivable, and without having been punished I had no way to get rid of the guilt and the pain.
That’s one of the wonderful things about being a submissive. I do wrong, I’m punished, and then I’m his good kitten again. It doesn’t hang over me, eating at my guts and my soul.
But the phone connection went whacko Friday night, and it was late, and we kept losing the signal. So my master just put me to bed, not realizing that I was in crisis. And he’s essentially off Dom-duty over the weekend. That’s the agreement, for the sake of the dissertation.
But when he read that over-the-top punishment post, he did the long distance equivalent of rushing to my side. He phoned. And I sobbed. And he apologized for not having at least e-mailed on Saturday. And I said he shouldn’t be apologizing when I’d been so bad. And so on…
He was lovely. He really is so lovely. And I cried about how much I miss him and how hard it is going months and months without seeing him and more of the same and then… and then he said "It will be ok, kitten. We’ll muddle through.”
And that “we” jumped out at me, and felt like a real “we” and I choked up and he asked if I was crying and I admitted well yeah, sort of, but it was good crying this time, and…
Do you really want to hear all this mushy soap opera stuff? Fade out on this morning’s wake-up call, where he sounds all snuggly and the sound of his voice makes me feel all snuggly, and he asks me what I’m wearing… and we know that everything will be all right.
It will, right?
He does still owe me a punishment.
PS – my master accepted my proposal for a reduced publication schedule. Watch for new posts on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. And any pictures of the cats will appear on Fridays only. Marko fans – you will have to be patient.
Not that I mind hearing that. It led to one of my favorite discussions about the general inadequacy of men with regard to getting a girl out of a front-hooking bra. In fact, I’m convinced that the reason so few bras are made to clasp in the front is to spare men from betraying their feeble de-bra-ification skills.
A good dom, however, never needs to worry about such things The philosopher merely has to say “Strip!” and the problem is solved.
But that’s neither here nor there. There’s still the issue of one submissive kitten thinking she should be beaten to a pulp because she high-handedly tossed her master’s direct order aside. An order that was for her own good.
I can be snarky about it now, but I was pretty much a huge mess over the entire weekend. Plus I still haven’t figured out why I was laughing after confessing my sin. And I don’t use the word “sin” lightly. It felt like I had done something hugely unforgivable, and without having been punished I had no way to get rid of the guilt and the pain.
That’s one of the wonderful things about being a submissive. I do wrong, I’m punished, and then I’m his good kitten again. It doesn’t hang over me, eating at my guts and my soul.
But the phone connection went whacko Friday night, and it was late, and we kept losing the signal. So my master just put me to bed, not realizing that I was in crisis. And he’s essentially off Dom-duty over the weekend. That’s the agreement, for the sake of the dissertation.
But when he read that over-the-top punishment post, he did the long distance equivalent of rushing to my side. He phoned. And I sobbed. And he apologized for not having at least e-mailed on Saturday. And I said he shouldn’t be apologizing when I’d been so bad. And so on…
He was lovely. He really is so lovely. And I cried about how much I miss him and how hard it is going months and months without seeing him and more of the same and then… and then he said "It will be ok, kitten. We’ll muddle through.”
And that “we” jumped out at me, and felt like a real “we” and I choked up and he asked if I was crying and I admitted well yeah, sort of, but it was good crying this time, and…
Do you really want to hear all this mushy soap opera stuff? Fade out on this morning’s wake-up call, where he sounds all snuggly and the sound of his voice makes me feel all snuggly, and he asks me what I’m wearing… and we know that everything will be all right.
It will, right?
He does still owe me a punishment.
PS – my master accepted my proposal for a reduced publication schedule. Watch for new posts on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. And any pictures of the cats will appear on Fridays only. Marko fans – you will have to be patient.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Punishment Fit for a Slave
this is fiction.
i was driven to write it
in lieu of the real thing.
please forgive me, master.
please forgive me, J---.
- - - - - - -
When she picked him up at the bus station, he didn’t say a word.
She had been forewarned. Everything had been explained ahead of time. He hadn’t let her hear his voice for the past three days, but he had laid it all out in a clear, cold e-mail.
“You disobeyed my order. You deliberately disobeyed me. This was more than a fit of naughtiness. Your transgression was severe, and you will be punished accordingly. Not as a pet. Not as a submissive. But as a slave. You must be reminded that in the end you are nothing but a slave. “
She cried as she read his words, but couldn’t argue. In her own eyes, her behaviour was unforgivable.. She would welcome whatever punishment he chose to mete out in hopes of being washed clean of her sin.
She stayed in the car, saving them both from a public display of the silent greeting, the sad space between their bodies. Besides, she was dressed per his precise specification. The slave shirt, a man’s white dress shirt, held closed by nothing but the three bottom buttons. No underwear. He would have kept her barefoot, but for safety’s sake while driving had allowed sandals. But no socks.
Around her neck was the cold metal choke chain.
The day was chilly for spring. Despite her low spirits, her nipples had hardened from the cold. He loved those nipples He had to work hard to control the smile that threatened to break the mood. She did need to be punished severely. It would be cathartic for both of them. And then they could move on.
She drove him silently home, her eyes as downcast as they could be considering her need to look at the road. She still couldn’t bear to look at him when she got out of the car. She waited as he took his bag out of the back, and then walked silently by his side up the steps. At the top, she reached forward to insert the key in the lock, but he put his hand over hers and unlocked the door himself. A small gesture, but clear. He was home and in charge. He was indeed the master of the house.
It was the first time he had touched her since he arrived, and the only gentle touch she would feel for hours to come.
He nodded sternly toward his bag, and she took it into the bedroom. Then she went to relieve herself. While she could.
She returned to the living room and stood, her eyes focused on the space between her now bare feet.
“Take off your shirt, slave. Now.”
Her eyes betrayed a hint of protest. The blinds were open. But she obeyed without argument. She opened the three buttons, shrugged her shoulders, and let the shirt slide down her arms to the floor.
Inwardly, he nodded. She had passed the first test.
“Now, slave. Go down to the dungeon, Kneel before my chair. And wait.”
She did as she was told.
The so-called dungeon, aka the family room, was carpeted, but the position was stll hard on her knees. She wasn’t at all flexible as a slave should be. But she posed as he had commanded, with hands behind her, shoulders back, breasts proffered, legs spread as wide as she could manage. Mortified, she realized that her cunt was swelling and seeping. She knew there would be nothing intentionally erotic about what was going to happen to her, she knew he would hurt her in ways he never had before, but still… she allowed herself a small rueful smile. Perhaps after the beating she was in for, she would be cured of being a pain slut. But she doubted it.
He made her hold the position for a long time. He put some water up to boil, stretched his legs from the four-hour trip, petted the cats, made himself some tea and a sandwich, ate while looking at the newspaper, and used the bathroom. He knew she hated being banished to the basement. It was all part of the punishment.
Finally, with a mixture of relief and fear bordering on terror, she heard him coming down the steps. Now it would truly begin. They had the house to themselves for the long weekend. She had no idea how much time he had allotted to her punishment.
It began with the castigation. Cold and factual. There was no need to remind her of what she had done – she would never forget how she had betrayed his trust with her disobedience. It wasn’t the action itself that was so serious. She hadn’t betrayed him with another man. Or woman, for that matter. But she had betrayed the spirit of their relationship. He gave the orders. He knew what was best for her. She was to obey. Period. But he wanted her to hear it again, from his own lips. She needed to suffer in order to be cleansed, and he had to flog her soul as well as her body.
She wept at his words. She wept at her foolishness. She wept at the hard note in his voice. And most of all, she wept at knowing that she had disappointed him. The tears flowed from her eyes, as did the snot from her nose. He wanted to go to her, to wipe her eyes as well as her nose. But he knew he had to play the whole thing out, so instead tossed her the box of tissues.
“Clean yourself up, slave.”
She blotted her eyes and blew her nose, knowing there would be a lot more tears and snot to come. She made a little pile of the wet tissues, and again brought her hands behind her, each clutching the opposite arm just below the elbow.
Along with instructions for picking him up at the bus station, he had sent a list of items she was to gather and array. She was to prepare the implements of her own torture. He surveyed the items arranged neatly on the large, sturdy coffee table. It was time for the next act.
Even a grad student needs study breaks. He had rested his mind from working on his dissertation by practicing his knots, viewing instructional videos, and studying drawings of Japanese bondage. The latter gave him fierce erections and violent dreams, but also (and this was the point) gave him ideas for how he would torture her. For he wanted to do more than just beat her. He wanted to make her feel threatened and helpless and manipulated. He wanted to remind her that he did indeed own her, that she was his to command AND to abuse, and that she should keep this in mind the next time he issued an order.
He knew there was no chance she would ever again forget.
Gathering up the collection of hemp ropes, he strode over to where she knelt. It had been a while since their last bondage scene, but the practice paid off. He pulled everything a little tighter this time, the ropes around her breasts, around her arms, around her wrists as he bound them behind her. The knots he created for her clit and cunt and anus were large, intrusive, and painful. Again, he found himself smiling inwardly as he positioned the knots, for despite the fear and despair in her eyes she was open and slippery. He longed to plunge his fingers into her and his cock jerked upwards, but he steeled himself against his own lust and concentrated on his task. He was trying a new position, aiming to increase her feeling of vulnerability. He proceded to bind her right ankle to her thigh and torso. Then, taking up another piece of hemp, he wound it around her left ankle and, reaching up, attached it to the hook he had instructed her to screw into the upright wooden beam behind them.
He surveyed his creation. She was not only immobilized. She was open to attack on her most delicate parts.
Normally, the next step would have been a spanking. But nothing was normal about what was to come. This was no pretend punishment for manufactured offenses. Her transgression was real and severe, and the punishment would be the same. The intimacy of the touch of his hand would mitigate the mental effect. So for now it was to be implements only.
Still, he wasn’t that cruel as to beat her without some sort of warm up. He stood up, removed his belt, folded it in half, and raised his hand.
“Now, slave. For you are but a slave. And you must learn what happens to slaves who disobey.”
She flinched inside even before feeling the first blow from his belt. She flinched, and then cried out, but in truth she welcomed the pain. She needed this. She needed this to cleanse her of the guilt and the regret. She needed this to reassure her that he wouldn’t send her away. However cruelly he treated her, this ritual was his statement that she was worth taking the time to scold and to punish and to reduce to a screaming, sobbing, submissive mess. Because after all that came forgiveness.
He held back as he beat her. He held back because this was but a warm up, and because he was starting with the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. He held back because he was aiming carefully. He would eventually beat her cunt, but he wanted it to be intentional. Once, in play, he had accidentally brought the belt down hard on her cunt and her scream still rang in his soul. He hadn’t meant to hurt her that badly. This time, he did. When he was ready.
The belt came down on her flesh 50 times. Her usually pale skin was flushed and glowing. She had tried not to wriggle, had tried not to scream, had tried to show that she knew she deserved this. But she was never all that good at controlling herself.
He walked back over to the table. The way she was positioned, she could see him put down the folded strip of leather and take up the next item on the program. Something new.
She waged a constant battle in the back yard, defending it from invasion and ultimate surrender to a neighbor’s army of bamboo. The day before his arrival, she had cut an armload of three-foot lengths from the tops of the younger plants and stripped them of their leaves, creating a thick handful of flexible switches. She had tied the base together with string, and today it lay on the table with the more familiar toys. Or what used to be thought of as toys.
He tried it out, swishing it through the air, getting a feel for the weight and resistance. He brought it down a couple of times on his denim-shielded leg and estimated the effect it would have on her bare parts. Then he returned to standing over her.
She expected him to continue the assault on her cunt. But he wanted to keep her off balance. He brought the bundle down on her breasts.
He didn’t hurt her all that hard. He did own her after all, not to mention the feelings he had for her, and didn’t want to do any permanent damage. But he had never beat her tits before, and he achieved the desired effect even without great force.
“When a slave is being punished, nothing is safe. Do you understand that? Slave?!”
He had such power over her when he addressed her that way. “Slave!”
“Yes, master. I understand, sir.” Her words were soft and tearful but definite and submissive.
He flogged each tit 10 times.
“Whose breasts are these, slave?”
“They are your breasts, master.”
“Yes. They are my breasts. And whose nipples are these? Slave.”
It always felt worse when he set that word apart. Slave. Worse. But better. It sent her down into subspace. He knew what he was doing. The soft part of him wanted to spare her from the worst of the pain. She would get the message clearly enough. This was psychological torture as much as physical affliction. Just knowing what he was doing to her would upset her well enough.
“They are YOUR nipples, master.”
“That’s right, slave. You are my slave and these are my nipples. You are never to forget that. Your body and your will, they all belong to me. And you will never again forget it. Will you? Slave.”
“No, master. I promise. I will never forget that ever again.”
He could hear the change in her voice. She was going down.
Acting quickly, he threw down the bundle of switches and took up the new item he had brought with him. Japanese clover clamps. He had never even subjected her nipples to clothespins, although he loved to twist them, to pinch them, to sink his nail into them. She gasped as he brutally seized each red nub and fastened a clamp on each one. Finally, he yanked on the chain. Hard.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but he didn’t wait for any further reaction. Taking up the bamboo bundle again, he slid one switch out from the rest. Again, he gave a few practice swishes through the air, before proceeding to whip her thighs.
The pain was cutting. It reminded her of the rubber band punishments he made her inflict on herself. In many ways it was worse than the cane, even though the switch wasn’t coming down as hard. He whipped her steadily, mercilessly, leaving clear red welts on the flesh already reddened by the belt.
And now he started to speak as he whipped her. Steadily and firmly, following the rhythm of the bamboo on her thighs.
“THIS is HOW a SLAVE is PUNISHED. THIS is what HAPPENS when a SLAVE disoBEYS. NEver forGET who OWNS you, SLAVE. I am the MASTER and YOU are the SLAVE.”
He tried to stay dispassionate, but anger was seeping in. Anger. And lust. He was getting hard. Very very hard. He tried to stuff it all back down, but it was a struggle.
He finally stopped whipping her and looked down at the welts he had left. At first he had aimed for clear parallel lines, though that was hard with such thin, fresh bamboo. Some of the blows had accidentally crossed each other, and then in the end he deliberately brought the switch down in the other direction, finishing up with five strokes in the same spot on each inner thigh. Where the welts crossed, and where he had concentrated the stripes, spots of blood rose to the surface. Once more, he had to control his tender feelings. He would leave the blood there to dry. He wanted her to see it. She knew he wasn’t into blood. The spots would be another reminder of how serious this was.
The whipping had brought cries of pain at each stroke, but not as loud as if he hadn’t brought her down somewhat into subspace. He had never taken her all the way down with physical pain. Fantasies of branding nearly deprived her of the ability to speak, but that was the furthest she had ever gone. He suspected she would be at least partially conscious for the rest of the punishment. Good. He wanted her to know what was happening to her.
He exchanged the switch for the belt.
“Slave. Do you remember when I accidentally hit your cunt? This time, slave, it won’t be an accident. This time I mean it. I am going to bring the belt down on your cunt. Five times, slave. Five times. It will drive the knots deeper into your cunt and harder onto your clit. This will hurt, slave. A lot. But not nearly as much as you hurt me with your disobedience. Remember that, slave. When you disobey, you betray my trust in you. It is for that more than anything else that you are being punished. Do you understand me? Slave?”
“Yes, master.” Her voice was clouded and tremulous. She was there enough to know this would hurt like hell. And again, she didn’t doubt that she deserved it.
He picked up the black and white checkerboard bandanna from the table.
“I don’t want to frighten the neighbors with your screams.”
He gagged her. He had never gagged her before. Her eyes flashed panic. He ignored it.
Once more, he stood up. He raised the belt. He aimed carefully, and brought it down hard on the knots that adorned her crotch.
He heard her scream from behind the gag.
Four more times he beat her cunt. Four more times her choked screams met his ears, When he was done, he stood there, breathing heavily. He was startled by how powerful he felt. His sadism had overcome his scruples, had pushed past the litany he had been repeating to himself that this was all a necessary punishment and nothing more. He had hurt her badly, and he reveled in her pain. He felt strong and powerful and he wanted to keep hurting her, his sadism was unleashed and he wanted to keep finding more and crueler ways to use her body. And then he wanted to force his cock down her throat and rape her. Truly rape her.
He shook his head to clear it. The fun would come later. He had a job to finish.
She was whimpering at his feet. He bent down and removed the gag. She was surprised by the gentleness in his touch. She had sensed the sadism pushing past the dispassionate desire for correction. It had simultaneously frightened and pleased her. She always felt it was good for him to let it out. And this had been an appropriate time for her to pay the price. Still, shaken and in anguish as she was, she smiled fondly at the tenderness that was creeping through.
He stroked her hair, and used a tissue to wipe her eyes and blot the drool from around her mouth.
“It’s almost over, kitten. It’s almost over. This will be the last part.”
He knew he had let it slip. He had called her “kitten.” He hadn’t meant to until it was all over. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted it to be over, perhaps more than she did. He wanted to welcome her back. This punishment in truth was more for her than for him.
He released her ankles, and she rolled around a bit to get the blood flowing again. Which hurt. He removed the clover clamps, which let the blood back into her nipples. Which hurt. He sat her up and untied the rest of the ropes.
“Crawl for me, kitten. I want to see you crawl.”
He couldn’t go back to calling her “slave.” She started to cry. This was more painful than all the blows combined. It just reminded her how she had disappointed him.
He steeled himself. He stopped himself from saying his usual, beautiful “Don’t cry, kitten,” in that special, loving inflection.
“Crawl. NOW.”
She crawled. They both knew it was to get the blood flowing again. She crawled around the room while he removed every item from the coffee table and placed them on the futon. He let her crawl back and forth for a couple of minutes, then walked over to her and seized the end of the choke collar, forcing the metal noose tight against her throat. He pulled her back towards the coffee table. She had to scramble to keep up with him.
“Up. On the table. On your knees.”
He took a small box from the futon, another item he had brought with him. He held it in front of her while he removed a butt plug. It was her first.
“I am going to cane you now. Fifty strokes, for no reason other than that is how many I am choosing to give you. But first, two more reminders that you belong to me. Every part of you belongs to me. You belong to me and that is why you are always to obey me. ALWAYS. Do you understand?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He slipped a condom onto the butt plug and shoved it into her cunt. He knew she was wet – the rope knots had been slippery when he removed them from her various orifices. He moved the butt plug in and out, gathering the natural lubricant.
He was gentle as he eased it into her tight little ass hole. She had never been fucked there, but had read enough to know to push out. Between them, they got the job done. A learning experience for them both.
Next came another condom and the monstrous purple dildo. She hated it. It was too big. Which was why he inserted it now in her cunt. She was stretched and stuffed and possessed.
“I am going to cane you. You deserve this. I am not going to bind you. You are going to count off the strokes and hold the position and accept this as punishment. And then that will be the end of it. Now lie down on the table.”
The wooden top was hard. It was not at all comfortable. She stretched her arms down the table legs and grasped them at their base. He tucked a pillow under her hips to raise them into position. Her legs hung down behind. She was fully alert now. No more subspace in which to take refuge.
Again, practice swishes through the air.
“Now. Loud and clear. If you lose count I’ll have to start over. But you won’t lose count, will you? You won’t lose count.”
“No, master. I won’t lose count.”
She was exhausted. She was in pain. But she could see the end. And he was giving her what she needed. Because after punishment came forgiveness. It cleansed her of her sins.
She counted. He struck. Sometimes she gasped. Sometimes she screamed. Some of the strokes were swats. Some of them arrived with all the weight of his body behind them. She never knew what was coming. But she gave herself up to all of them. She gave herself up to the pain. She tried to relax under the blows and concentrate on counting and hold on as the end grew nearer and nearer.
“48.”
A solid stroke.
“49.”
A slightly lighter one.
“50!”
He hit her so hard he thought the cane would break.
She screamed one last time. And then started to cry. He threw down the cane and gathered her in his arms.
“Shh… shh… it’s ok, kitten… It’s ok now… It’s all over… You’re forgiven… You’re my good kitten now… shh… shh…”
He stroked her hair, he kissed the tears, he reached into the cooler he had told her to prepare and brought out a bottle of water. He poured the welcome liquid carefully between her lips and she swallowed gratefully. Then he eased her down onto the carpet, on her belly. The cooler’s contents included a large bag of frozen peas. He covered her buttocks with a dish towel and applied the bag of peas as a cold compress. Then he returned to stroking her hair while the air filled with mingled murmurs of apology and forgiveness.
i was driven to write it
in lieu of the real thing.
please forgive me, master.
please forgive me, J---.
- - - - - - -
When she picked him up at the bus station, he didn’t say a word.
She had been forewarned. Everything had been explained ahead of time. He hadn’t let her hear his voice for the past three days, but he had laid it all out in a clear, cold e-mail.
“You disobeyed my order. You deliberately disobeyed me. This was more than a fit of naughtiness. Your transgression was severe, and you will be punished accordingly. Not as a pet. Not as a submissive. But as a slave. You must be reminded that in the end you are nothing but a slave. “
She cried as she read his words, but couldn’t argue. In her own eyes, her behaviour was unforgivable.. She would welcome whatever punishment he chose to mete out in hopes of being washed clean of her sin.
She stayed in the car, saving them both from a public display of the silent greeting, the sad space between their bodies. Besides, she was dressed per his precise specification. The slave shirt, a man’s white dress shirt, held closed by nothing but the three bottom buttons. No underwear. He would have kept her barefoot, but for safety’s sake while driving had allowed sandals. But no socks.
Around her neck was the cold metal choke chain.
The day was chilly for spring. Despite her low spirits, her nipples had hardened from the cold. He loved those nipples He had to work hard to control the smile that threatened to break the mood. She did need to be punished severely. It would be cathartic for both of them. And then they could move on.
She drove him silently home, her eyes as downcast as they could be considering her need to look at the road. She still couldn’t bear to look at him when she got out of the car. She waited as he took his bag out of the back, and then walked silently by his side up the steps. At the top, she reached forward to insert the key in the lock, but he put his hand over hers and unlocked the door himself. A small gesture, but clear. He was home and in charge. He was indeed the master of the house.
It was the first time he had touched her since he arrived, and the only gentle touch she would feel for hours to come.
He nodded sternly toward his bag, and she took it into the bedroom. Then she went to relieve herself. While she could.
She returned to the living room and stood, her eyes focused on the space between her now bare feet.
“Take off your shirt, slave. Now.”
Her eyes betrayed a hint of protest. The blinds were open. But she obeyed without argument. She opened the three buttons, shrugged her shoulders, and let the shirt slide down her arms to the floor.
Inwardly, he nodded. She had passed the first test.
“Now, slave. Go down to the dungeon, Kneel before my chair. And wait.”
She did as she was told.
The so-called dungeon, aka the family room, was carpeted, but the position was stll hard on her knees. She wasn’t at all flexible as a slave should be. But she posed as he had commanded, with hands behind her, shoulders back, breasts proffered, legs spread as wide as she could manage. Mortified, she realized that her cunt was swelling and seeping. She knew there would be nothing intentionally erotic about what was going to happen to her, she knew he would hurt her in ways he never had before, but still… she allowed herself a small rueful smile. Perhaps after the beating she was in for, she would be cured of being a pain slut. But she doubted it.
He made her hold the position for a long time. He put some water up to boil, stretched his legs from the four-hour trip, petted the cats, made himself some tea and a sandwich, ate while looking at the newspaper, and used the bathroom. He knew she hated being banished to the basement. It was all part of the punishment.
Finally, with a mixture of relief and fear bordering on terror, she heard him coming down the steps. Now it would truly begin. They had the house to themselves for the long weekend. She had no idea how much time he had allotted to her punishment.
It began with the castigation. Cold and factual. There was no need to remind her of what she had done – she would never forget how she had betrayed his trust with her disobedience. It wasn’t the action itself that was so serious. She hadn’t betrayed him with another man. Or woman, for that matter. But she had betrayed the spirit of their relationship. He gave the orders. He knew what was best for her. She was to obey. Period. But he wanted her to hear it again, from his own lips. She needed to suffer in order to be cleansed, and he had to flog her soul as well as her body.
She wept at his words. She wept at her foolishness. She wept at the hard note in his voice. And most of all, she wept at knowing that she had disappointed him. The tears flowed from her eyes, as did the snot from her nose. He wanted to go to her, to wipe her eyes as well as her nose. But he knew he had to play the whole thing out, so instead tossed her the box of tissues.
“Clean yourself up, slave.”
She blotted her eyes and blew her nose, knowing there would be a lot more tears and snot to come. She made a little pile of the wet tissues, and again brought her hands behind her, each clutching the opposite arm just below the elbow.
Along with instructions for picking him up at the bus station, he had sent a list of items she was to gather and array. She was to prepare the implements of her own torture. He surveyed the items arranged neatly on the large, sturdy coffee table. It was time for the next act.
Even a grad student needs study breaks. He had rested his mind from working on his dissertation by practicing his knots, viewing instructional videos, and studying drawings of Japanese bondage. The latter gave him fierce erections and violent dreams, but also (and this was the point) gave him ideas for how he would torture her. For he wanted to do more than just beat her. He wanted to make her feel threatened and helpless and manipulated. He wanted to remind her that he did indeed own her, that she was his to command AND to abuse, and that she should keep this in mind the next time he issued an order.
He knew there was no chance she would ever again forget.
Gathering up the collection of hemp ropes, he strode over to where she knelt. It had been a while since their last bondage scene, but the practice paid off. He pulled everything a little tighter this time, the ropes around her breasts, around her arms, around her wrists as he bound them behind her. The knots he created for her clit and cunt and anus were large, intrusive, and painful. Again, he found himself smiling inwardly as he positioned the knots, for despite the fear and despair in her eyes she was open and slippery. He longed to plunge his fingers into her and his cock jerked upwards, but he steeled himself against his own lust and concentrated on his task. He was trying a new position, aiming to increase her feeling of vulnerability. He proceded to bind her right ankle to her thigh and torso. Then, taking up another piece of hemp, he wound it around her left ankle and, reaching up, attached it to the hook he had instructed her to screw into the upright wooden beam behind them.
He surveyed his creation. She was not only immobilized. She was open to attack on her most delicate parts.
Normally, the next step would have been a spanking. But nothing was normal about what was to come. This was no pretend punishment for manufactured offenses. Her transgression was real and severe, and the punishment would be the same. The intimacy of the touch of his hand would mitigate the mental effect. So for now it was to be implements only.
Still, he wasn’t that cruel as to beat her without some sort of warm up. He stood up, removed his belt, folded it in half, and raised his hand.
“Now, slave. For you are but a slave. And you must learn what happens to slaves who disobey.”
She flinched inside even before feeling the first blow from his belt. She flinched, and then cried out, but in truth she welcomed the pain. She needed this. She needed this to cleanse her of the guilt and the regret. She needed this to reassure her that he wouldn’t send her away. However cruelly he treated her, this ritual was his statement that she was worth taking the time to scold and to punish and to reduce to a screaming, sobbing, submissive mess. Because after all that came forgiveness.
He held back as he beat her. He held back because this was but a warm up, and because he was starting with the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. He held back because he was aiming carefully. He would eventually beat her cunt, but he wanted it to be intentional. Once, in play, he had accidentally brought the belt down hard on her cunt and her scream still rang in his soul. He hadn’t meant to hurt her that badly. This time, he did. When he was ready.
The belt came down on her flesh 50 times. Her usually pale skin was flushed and glowing. She had tried not to wriggle, had tried not to scream, had tried to show that she knew she deserved this. But she was never all that good at controlling herself.
He walked back over to the table. The way she was positioned, she could see him put down the folded strip of leather and take up the next item on the program. Something new.
She waged a constant battle in the back yard, defending it from invasion and ultimate surrender to a neighbor’s army of bamboo. The day before his arrival, she had cut an armload of three-foot lengths from the tops of the younger plants and stripped them of their leaves, creating a thick handful of flexible switches. She had tied the base together with string, and today it lay on the table with the more familiar toys. Or what used to be thought of as toys.
He tried it out, swishing it through the air, getting a feel for the weight and resistance. He brought it down a couple of times on his denim-shielded leg and estimated the effect it would have on her bare parts. Then he returned to standing over her.
She expected him to continue the assault on her cunt. But he wanted to keep her off balance. He brought the bundle down on her breasts.
He didn’t hurt her all that hard. He did own her after all, not to mention the feelings he had for her, and didn’t want to do any permanent damage. But he had never beat her tits before, and he achieved the desired effect even without great force.
“When a slave is being punished, nothing is safe. Do you understand that? Slave?!”
He had such power over her when he addressed her that way. “Slave!”
“Yes, master. I understand, sir.” Her words were soft and tearful but definite and submissive.
He flogged each tit 10 times.
“Whose breasts are these, slave?”
“They are your breasts, master.”
“Yes. They are my breasts. And whose nipples are these? Slave.”
It always felt worse when he set that word apart. Slave. Worse. But better. It sent her down into subspace. He knew what he was doing. The soft part of him wanted to spare her from the worst of the pain. She would get the message clearly enough. This was psychological torture as much as physical affliction. Just knowing what he was doing to her would upset her well enough.
“They are YOUR nipples, master.”
“That’s right, slave. You are my slave and these are my nipples. You are never to forget that. Your body and your will, they all belong to me. And you will never again forget it. Will you? Slave.”
“No, master. I promise. I will never forget that ever again.”
He could hear the change in her voice. She was going down.
Acting quickly, he threw down the bundle of switches and took up the new item he had brought with him. Japanese clover clamps. He had never even subjected her nipples to clothespins, although he loved to twist them, to pinch them, to sink his nail into them. She gasped as he brutally seized each red nub and fastened a clamp on each one. Finally, he yanked on the chain. Hard.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but he didn’t wait for any further reaction. Taking up the bamboo bundle again, he slid one switch out from the rest. Again, he gave a few practice swishes through the air, before proceeding to whip her thighs.
The pain was cutting. It reminded her of the rubber band punishments he made her inflict on herself. In many ways it was worse than the cane, even though the switch wasn’t coming down as hard. He whipped her steadily, mercilessly, leaving clear red welts on the flesh already reddened by the belt.
And now he started to speak as he whipped her. Steadily and firmly, following the rhythm of the bamboo on her thighs.
“THIS is HOW a SLAVE is PUNISHED. THIS is what HAPPENS when a SLAVE disoBEYS. NEver forGET who OWNS you, SLAVE. I am the MASTER and YOU are the SLAVE.”
He tried to stay dispassionate, but anger was seeping in. Anger. And lust. He was getting hard. Very very hard. He tried to stuff it all back down, but it was a struggle.
He finally stopped whipping her and looked down at the welts he had left. At first he had aimed for clear parallel lines, though that was hard with such thin, fresh bamboo. Some of the blows had accidentally crossed each other, and then in the end he deliberately brought the switch down in the other direction, finishing up with five strokes in the same spot on each inner thigh. Where the welts crossed, and where he had concentrated the stripes, spots of blood rose to the surface. Once more, he had to control his tender feelings. He would leave the blood there to dry. He wanted her to see it. She knew he wasn’t into blood. The spots would be another reminder of how serious this was.
The whipping had brought cries of pain at each stroke, but not as loud as if he hadn’t brought her down somewhat into subspace. He had never taken her all the way down with physical pain. Fantasies of branding nearly deprived her of the ability to speak, but that was the furthest she had ever gone. He suspected she would be at least partially conscious for the rest of the punishment. Good. He wanted her to know what was happening to her.
He exchanged the switch for the belt.
“Slave. Do you remember when I accidentally hit your cunt? This time, slave, it won’t be an accident. This time I mean it. I am going to bring the belt down on your cunt. Five times, slave. Five times. It will drive the knots deeper into your cunt and harder onto your clit. This will hurt, slave. A lot. But not nearly as much as you hurt me with your disobedience. Remember that, slave. When you disobey, you betray my trust in you. It is for that more than anything else that you are being punished. Do you understand me? Slave?”
“Yes, master.” Her voice was clouded and tremulous. She was there enough to know this would hurt like hell. And again, she didn’t doubt that she deserved it.
He picked up the black and white checkerboard bandanna from the table.
“I don’t want to frighten the neighbors with your screams.”
He gagged her. He had never gagged her before. Her eyes flashed panic. He ignored it.
Once more, he stood up. He raised the belt. He aimed carefully, and brought it down hard on the knots that adorned her crotch.
He heard her scream from behind the gag.
Four more times he beat her cunt. Four more times her choked screams met his ears, When he was done, he stood there, breathing heavily. He was startled by how powerful he felt. His sadism had overcome his scruples, had pushed past the litany he had been repeating to himself that this was all a necessary punishment and nothing more. He had hurt her badly, and he reveled in her pain. He felt strong and powerful and he wanted to keep hurting her, his sadism was unleashed and he wanted to keep finding more and crueler ways to use her body. And then he wanted to force his cock down her throat and rape her. Truly rape her.
He shook his head to clear it. The fun would come later. He had a job to finish.
She was whimpering at his feet. He bent down and removed the gag. She was surprised by the gentleness in his touch. She had sensed the sadism pushing past the dispassionate desire for correction. It had simultaneously frightened and pleased her. She always felt it was good for him to let it out. And this had been an appropriate time for her to pay the price. Still, shaken and in anguish as she was, she smiled fondly at the tenderness that was creeping through.
He stroked her hair, and used a tissue to wipe her eyes and blot the drool from around her mouth.
“It’s almost over, kitten. It’s almost over. This will be the last part.”
He knew he had let it slip. He had called her “kitten.” He hadn’t meant to until it was all over. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted it to be over, perhaps more than she did. He wanted to welcome her back. This punishment in truth was more for her than for him.
He released her ankles, and she rolled around a bit to get the blood flowing again. Which hurt. He removed the clover clamps, which let the blood back into her nipples. Which hurt. He sat her up and untied the rest of the ropes.
“Crawl for me, kitten. I want to see you crawl.”
He couldn’t go back to calling her “slave.” She started to cry. This was more painful than all the blows combined. It just reminded her how she had disappointed him.
He steeled himself. He stopped himself from saying his usual, beautiful “Don’t cry, kitten,” in that special, loving inflection.
“Crawl. NOW.”
She crawled. They both knew it was to get the blood flowing again. She crawled around the room while he removed every item from the coffee table and placed them on the futon. He let her crawl back and forth for a couple of minutes, then walked over to her and seized the end of the choke collar, forcing the metal noose tight against her throat. He pulled her back towards the coffee table. She had to scramble to keep up with him.
“Up. On the table. On your knees.”
He took a small box from the futon, another item he had brought with him. He held it in front of her while he removed a butt plug. It was her first.
“I am going to cane you now. Fifty strokes, for no reason other than that is how many I am choosing to give you. But first, two more reminders that you belong to me. Every part of you belongs to me. You belong to me and that is why you are always to obey me. ALWAYS. Do you understand?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He slipped a condom onto the butt plug and shoved it into her cunt. He knew she was wet – the rope knots had been slippery when he removed them from her various orifices. He moved the butt plug in and out, gathering the natural lubricant.
He was gentle as he eased it into her tight little ass hole. She had never been fucked there, but had read enough to know to push out. Between them, they got the job done. A learning experience for them both.
Next came another condom and the monstrous purple dildo. She hated it. It was too big. Which was why he inserted it now in her cunt. She was stretched and stuffed and possessed.
“I am going to cane you. You deserve this. I am not going to bind you. You are going to count off the strokes and hold the position and accept this as punishment. And then that will be the end of it. Now lie down on the table.”
The wooden top was hard. It was not at all comfortable. She stretched her arms down the table legs and grasped them at their base. He tucked a pillow under her hips to raise them into position. Her legs hung down behind. She was fully alert now. No more subspace in which to take refuge.
Again, practice swishes through the air.
“Now. Loud and clear. If you lose count I’ll have to start over. But you won’t lose count, will you? You won’t lose count.”
“No, master. I won’t lose count.”
She was exhausted. She was in pain. But she could see the end. And he was giving her what she needed. Because after punishment came forgiveness. It cleansed her of her sins.
She counted. He struck. Sometimes she gasped. Sometimes she screamed. Some of the strokes were swats. Some of them arrived with all the weight of his body behind them. She never knew what was coming. But she gave herself up to all of them. She gave herself up to the pain. She tried to relax under the blows and concentrate on counting and hold on as the end grew nearer and nearer.
“48.”
A solid stroke.
“49.”
A slightly lighter one.
“50!”
He hit her so hard he thought the cane would break.
She screamed one last time. And then started to cry. He threw down the cane and gathered her in his arms.
“Shh… shh… it’s ok, kitten… It’s ok now… It’s all over… You’re forgiven… You’re my good kitten now… shh… shh…”
He stroked her hair, he kissed the tears, he reached into the cooler he had told her to prepare and brought out a bottle of water. He poured the welcome liquid carefully between her lips and she swallowed gratefully. Then he eased her down onto the carpet, on her belly. The cooler’s contents included a large bag of frozen peas. He covered her buttocks with a dish towel and applied the bag of peas as a cold compress. Then he returned to stroking her hair while the air filled with mingled murmurs of apology and forgiveness.
rationing
i think i need to cut back on blogging.
persephone was right from the beginning.
every day is too much.
it eats up too much time.
it feeds my tendency towards obsession.
it keeps me inside my head.
if one of the points of this blog is to nurture my writing, than posting less often will allow me to spend more time on each piece, to ponder and edit and re-write. i can wait till real inspiration comes along, rather than feeling i have to come up with something every day. if i were in training for a daily newspaper column, then of course this would be great practice. but i’m not, and i’ve proven that i CAN get something out every day. to that end, daily posting has been very beneficial in forcing me to meet short deadlines – meeting deadlines has always been a problem. i am a champion procrastinator!
it IS nice to feel proud about something at least especially when i’m so down on myself for being disobedient…
my job, which i still love, is very stressful. there is much too much work for the time allotted and the staff available, and i get sucked into staying too late to avoid falling too far behind. i’m trying very hard to draw the line, but some days are better than others. and then i get home and feed the cats and feed myself and (sometimes) i clean up the dishes, and maybe pay a bill or clean the cats’ litter box or assemble the garbage to go out. i write for the blog and get ready for bed and then the philosopher calls and that is the very best part of the day.
i read other people’s blogs too much. i think the habit developed as a way to perpetuate the constant intense contact that the philosopher and i had during the first few months of our relationship. there’s no need for that now, much as i enjoy the simulation of spending time with my new blogger friends. and it’s not as if i don’t have “real world” friends to see and correspond with. and the newspaper to read. and movies to watch. oh, and novels… remember novels?
and walks after dinner.
and the health club.
and gardening.
oh, and practicing.
i’m supposed to be playing at least 15 minutes every day.
one can become so immersed in examining one’s life that there is no time to live it.
i’m living too much inside my head.
if i cut back on the blogging i think it will get me out in the sun more.
blogger now has this lovely feature where you can schedule the post’s appearance. i don’t even have to be at the computer right at the moment i want my latest masterpiece to go up. very convenient. i can write when there is world enough and time.
so what do you think, master?
maybe Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday?
persephone was right from the beginning.
every day is too much.
it eats up too much time.
it feeds my tendency towards obsession.
it keeps me inside my head.
if one of the points of this blog is to nurture my writing, than posting less often will allow me to spend more time on each piece, to ponder and edit and re-write. i can wait till real inspiration comes along, rather than feeling i have to come up with something every day. if i were in training for a daily newspaper column, then of course this would be great practice. but i’m not, and i’ve proven that i CAN get something out every day. to that end, daily posting has been very beneficial in forcing me to meet short deadlines – meeting deadlines has always been a problem. i am a champion procrastinator!
it IS nice to feel proud about something at least especially when i’m so down on myself for being disobedient…
my job, which i still love, is very stressful. there is much too much work for the time allotted and the staff available, and i get sucked into staying too late to avoid falling too far behind. i’m trying very hard to draw the line, but some days are better than others. and then i get home and feed the cats and feed myself and (sometimes) i clean up the dishes, and maybe pay a bill or clean the cats’ litter box or assemble the garbage to go out. i write for the blog and get ready for bed and then the philosopher calls and that is the very best part of the day.
i read other people’s blogs too much. i think the habit developed as a way to perpetuate the constant intense contact that the philosopher and i had during the first few months of our relationship. there’s no need for that now, much as i enjoy the simulation of spending time with my new blogger friends. and it’s not as if i don’t have “real world” friends to see and correspond with. and the newspaper to read. and movies to watch. oh, and novels… remember novels?
and walks after dinner.
and the health club.
and gardening.
oh, and practicing.
i’m supposed to be playing at least 15 minutes every day.
one can become so immersed in examining one’s life that there is no time to live it.
i’m living too much inside my head.
if i cut back on the blogging i think it will get me out in the sun more.
blogger now has this lovely feature where you can schedule the post’s appearance. i don’t even have to be at the computer right at the moment i want my latest masterpiece to go up. very convenient. i can write when there is world enough and time.
so what do you think, master?
maybe Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday?
Saturday, May 3, 2008
penitence
i’ve been bad.
very very bad.
and it feels like more than disobeying the rules in a game we’ve been playing.
i’ve been checking my stats.
steadily.
even though i’ve been forbidden to check them.
i hadn’t forgotten.
i knew i was disobeying.
i didn’t care.
i was like a young child.
i NEEDED to see my stats.
regularly
and often.
i hadn’t told the philosopher that i was checking them. he hadn’t asked, so i didn’t say anything. until last night. he asked last night. and while i had been deliberately and with full intent disobeying, i wasn’t going to lie. so when he asked, i told him.
he was not pleased.
and then i made it worse.
at least in my mind
i made it a lot worse.
i laughed.
and i couldn’t keep from laughing.
embarrassment?
willfulness?
honestly, i’m not quite sure.
i was laughing and it horrified me.
i think underneath there was a childish pleasure in having gotten away with it for so long. of having indulged this addict’s need for incontrovertible proof that she was being read.
i admit it.
i’m an attention whore.
i am remarkably insecure.
i need constant reassurance.
i write these pieces for my master.
i write them for myself.
but i need to know that other people are out there.
and that they are coming back.
are you listening?
do you love me?
do i please you?
do i impress you with my brilliance?
do i make you hard?
do i make you wet?
do i make you cum?
i worry that there’s not enough smut. i worry that we are are too snuggly lovey-dovey. i worry that there’s not enough drama. i’d worry that we’re not enough of a soap opera to draw hordes of voyeurs to our misery – except that i’d hate to be living through it just to be able to write about it.
oh, i was very scientific about my “need” to keep checking my stats. in my defense, i related how i’ve learned that readership falls off on the weekend, so i don’t post big erotic stories on a Friday or Saturday. however, it picks up on Sunday nights and Mondays, so if i have something juicy i’ll trot it out then. i can see when traffic really lags, and will seed other people’s blogs with comments to lure the curious.
it’s embarrassing but true.
i fish for readers.
but i do have my standards.
i don’t beg strangers for a spot on their blog rolls.
i have some pride left.
not much, but some.
i’m an attention whore but i draw the line somewhere.
of course, he saw right through it all. because in fact it was all irrelevant. i could have all the reasons in the world and it wouldn’t matter a bit. all that matters is that he gave a direct order and i disobeyed it. over and over and over again.
i behaved like a teenager
and justified it like a child.
i violated both the letter and the spirit of the law.
back when the philosopher had his meltdown and thought we should break up, he said that calling me every night felt like just another chore. so i said look, we made the rules. we can change the rules. and we did. we pulled back and gave him room to breathe and the winter passed and he re-emerged and now we talk most week-nights and sometimes on Sunday nights and things are good.
but we never changed the basic rule.
which is that he gives the orders
and i obey.
and i don’t want to change the basic rule.
we used to call it the game. and maybe on some level it is a game. but in another way it isn’t and never will be. it’s an organizing principle. we both wanted it and we both accepted it. and it’s not for me to abrogate it here and there just because any one command doesn’t suit me.
it’s a sign of disrespect.
disrespect towards the philosopher
and towards the relationship
and maybe
even
towards myself.
we used to call it the game. but in fact this D/s business is very good for us. the philosopher says it makes him feel strong. he revels in the sense of power. and it gives me structure.
it gives me structure and i need it because i’m piss poor at self-discipline. and he imposes discipline. and when i remember that i shine inside and am ever so grateful that he takes the time and creativity to try to keep me focused and productive.
and here he was. trying to impose the discipline that i couldn’t impose on myself. i swam in my stats. i wasted time on them. he tried to get me to cut back and it didn’t work. he tried to get me to cut back and instead i read things into the stats that weren’t there and whipped myself into ridiculous states of anxiety. so to protect me and to protect the relationship as much as to indulge his lust for controlling me, he pulled the plug and instituted a total ban. and when i still couldn’t control my urges, i ignored his proscription and indulged.
i rejoice in this relationship. i treasure it. and i think the D/s is good for the relationship and for us. because on top of everything else, with D/s you can’t just take each other for granted. D/s takes work. and a relationship needs nurturing. D/s brings a measure of thoughtfulness to everything i do. for the philosopher it may be just fun – i’m not really sure – but for me it’s definitely more than a game.
so i’m being punished. though actually what he has done seems not so much like punishment but rather an exasperated final effort to enforce his dictum – which is really for my own good.
he has taken away my keys. or rather, less metaphorically, he has changed the password. now i CAN’T look at my stats.
it remains to be seen whether he will trust me with the end-of-the-month stat report.
but somehow that doesn’t seem that important any more.
because in fact i did something worse than just disobey a direct order and then laugh when i was caught.
at some point in the conversation i referred to this as MY blog. and didn’t even realize i had done it.
now it’s true that i am the only one to directly write here. and the philosopher himself has always referred to it as my blog. but i would always correct him, and insist that it is OUR blog. i frequently ask him to post, or even just comment, and am disappointed when he demurs. he insists that he means the blog to be an outlet for me, especially when we are apart so much. i am to post every day as an exercise in discipline (there’s that word again) as well as to develop my writing skills.
but to me, it was always OUR project.
until i got lost in ego land.
changing the password was a control mechanism.
not a punishment.
but a punishment was proposed.
a very apt punishment, in fact.
he threatened to take away my blogging privileges
for a whole week.
my response was in line with my behaviour throughout this sorry incident. i protested like a blogger when i should have accepted like a slave. “oh, no! i’ll lose my audience! and all these other bloggers have stopped writing over the last few weeks! i can’t just disappear!! YOU’LL have to post all week. people expect a post every day.”
and so on.
completely missing the point.
and then there were problems with the cell phone signal and we kept losing each other and the discussion was thrown off course and nothing was resolved – except while we were waiting for the signal to come back he changed the site meter password.
he had to look up the e-mail in which he sent me the password in the first place, as i refused to give it to him.
finally i was ordered to sleep.
obviously, by this morning i’d returned to my senses.
and was flooded with remorse.
hence this rambling mea culpa.
this isn’t a game.
i’m horribly sorry.
i knew i’d eventually be caught
but i let my addiction take over.
i was blinded to what was truly important.
YOU are important.
WE are important.
honesty and respect and self control are important.
i miss you.
i miss the corporeal reality of you.
not just spankings and canings
and bondage and blow jobs.
i miss waking next to you.
i miss the cryptic crosswords
pinned to the mantle.
i miss cooking together
and seeing you in your chair
as fully in possession
as if you’d been there all our lives.
i miss showering with you and
going to Target and
entertaining my friends who
are now your friends, too.
i miss taking walks
hand in hand
whether or not you’ve
bound me in a rope harness
and draped the cold choke collar
around my submissive neck.
i just miss having you here.
i accept why you’re staying away and i know that it’s working. all the little parts put together are working. the solid deadline and the better teaching schedule and the lack of visitation privileges and who knows what else. they are working and you’re writing and you sound good and yes, the dissertation will be completed.
but it’s hard.
i lose touch with reality.
and every so often i need to be reminded.
so no more stats.
and maybe no more blogging for a while.
if i disappear for a week, you’ll all know why.
but honestly right now i don’t care.
there’s only one person i care about.
only one connection i care about.
and he may not even be
as annoyed with me
as i am disgusted with myself.
and while i may address these thoughts to my mythical readers, and recite the whole story, these words are really for one person only.
you are my master.
you are my owner.
you are my lover
and my very best friend.
and everything is for you.
all of this is for you.
and i am calling you by your real name.
very very bad.
and it feels like more than disobeying the rules in a game we’ve been playing.
i’ve been checking my stats.
steadily.
even though i’ve been forbidden to check them.
i hadn’t forgotten.
i knew i was disobeying.
i didn’t care.
i was like a young child.
i NEEDED to see my stats.
regularly
and often.
i hadn’t told the philosopher that i was checking them. he hadn’t asked, so i didn’t say anything. until last night. he asked last night. and while i had been deliberately and with full intent disobeying, i wasn’t going to lie. so when he asked, i told him.
he was not pleased.
and then i made it worse.
at least in my mind
i made it a lot worse.
i laughed.
and i couldn’t keep from laughing.
embarrassment?
willfulness?
honestly, i’m not quite sure.
i was laughing and it horrified me.
i think underneath there was a childish pleasure in having gotten away with it for so long. of having indulged this addict’s need for incontrovertible proof that she was being read.
i admit it.
i’m an attention whore.
i am remarkably insecure.
i need constant reassurance.
i write these pieces for my master.
i write them for myself.
but i need to know that other people are out there.
and that they are coming back.
are you listening?
do you love me?
do i please you?
do i impress you with my brilliance?
do i make you hard?
do i make you wet?
do i make you cum?
i worry that there’s not enough smut. i worry that we are are too snuggly lovey-dovey. i worry that there’s not enough drama. i’d worry that we’re not enough of a soap opera to draw hordes of voyeurs to our misery – except that i’d hate to be living through it just to be able to write about it.
oh, i was very scientific about my “need” to keep checking my stats. in my defense, i related how i’ve learned that readership falls off on the weekend, so i don’t post big erotic stories on a Friday or Saturday. however, it picks up on Sunday nights and Mondays, so if i have something juicy i’ll trot it out then. i can see when traffic really lags, and will seed other people’s blogs with comments to lure the curious.
it’s embarrassing but true.
i fish for readers.
but i do have my standards.
i don’t beg strangers for a spot on their blog rolls.
i have some pride left.
not much, but some.
i’m an attention whore but i draw the line somewhere.
of course, he saw right through it all. because in fact it was all irrelevant. i could have all the reasons in the world and it wouldn’t matter a bit. all that matters is that he gave a direct order and i disobeyed it. over and over and over again.
i behaved like a teenager
and justified it like a child.
i violated both the letter and the spirit of the law.
back when the philosopher had his meltdown and thought we should break up, he said that calling me every night felt like just another chore. so i said look, we made the rules. we can change the rules. and we did. we pulled back and gave him room to breathe and the winter passed and he re-emerged and now we talk most week-nights and sometimes on Sunday nights and things are good.
but we never changed the basic rule.
which is that he gives the orders
and i obey.
and i don’t want to change the basic rule.
we used to call it the game. and maybe on some level it is a game. but in another way it isn’t and never will be. it’s an organizing principle. we both wanted it and we both accepted it. and it’s not for me to abrogate it here and there just because any one command doesn’t suit me.
it’s a sign of disrespect.
disrespect towards the philosopher
and towards the relationship
and maybe
even
towards myself.
we used to call it the game. but in fact this D/s business is very good for us. the philosopher says it makes him feel strong. he revels in the sense of power. and it gives me structure.
it gives me structure and i need it because i’m piss poor at self-discipline. and he imposes discipline. and when i remember that i shine inside and am ever so grateful that he takes the time and creativity to try to keep me focused and productive.
and here he was. trying to impose the discipline that i couldn’t impose on myself. i swam in my stats. i wasted time on them. he tried to get me to cut back and it didn’t work. he tried to get me to cut back and instead i read things into the stats that weren’t there and whipped myself into ridiculous states of anxiety. so to protect me and to protect the relationship as much as to indulge his lust for controlling me, he pulled the plug and instituted a total ban. and when i still couldn’t control my urges, i ignored his proscription and indulged.
i rejoice in this relationship. i treasure it. and i think the D/s is good for the relationship and for us. because on top of everything else, with D/s you can’t just take each other for granted. D/s takes work. and a relationship needs nurturing. D/s brings a measure of thoughtfulness to everything i do. for the philosopher it may be just fun – i’m not really sure – but for me it’s definitely more than a game.
so i’m being punished. though actually what he has done seems not so much like punishment but rather an exasperated final effort to enforce his dictum – which is really for my own good.
he has taken away my keys. or rather, less metaphorically, he has changed the password. now i CAN’T look at my stats.
it remains to be seen whether he will trust me with the end-of-the-month stat report.
but somehow that doesn’t seem that important any more.
because in fact i did something worse than just disobey a direct order and then laugh when i was caught.
at some point in the conversation i referred to this as MY blog. and didn’t even realize i had done it.
now it’s true that i am the only one to directly write here. and the philosopher himself has always referred to it as my blog. but i would always correct him, and insist that it is OUR blog. i frequently ask him to post, or even just comment, and am disappointed when he demurs. he insists that he means the blog to be an outlet for me, especially when we are apart so much. i am to post every day as an exercise in discipline (there’s that word again) as well as to develop my writing skills.
but to me, it was always OUR project.
until i got lost in ego land.
changing the password was a control mechanism.
not a punishment.
but a punishment was proposed.
a very apt punishment, in fact.
he threatened to take away my blogging privileges
for a whole week.
my response was in line with my behaviour throughout this sorry incident. i protested like a blogger when i should have accepted like a slave. “oh, no! i’ll lose my audience! and all these other bloggers have stopped writing over the last few weeks! i can’t just disappear!! YOU’LL have to post all week. people expect a post every day.”
and so on.
completely missing the point.
and then there were problems with the cell phone signal and we kept losing each other and the discussion was thrown off course and nothing was resolved – except while we were waiting for the signal to come back he changed the site meter password.
he had to look up the e-mail in which he sent me the password in the first place, as i refused to give it to him.
finally i was ordered to sleep.
obviously, by this morning i’d returned to my senses.
and was flooded with remorse.
hence this rambling mea culpa.
this isn’t a game.
i’m horribly sorry.
i knew i’d eventually be caught
but i let my addiction take over.
i was blinded to what was truly important.
YOU are important.
WE are important.
honesty and respect and self control are important.
i miss you.
i miss the corporeal reality of you.
not just spankings and canings
and bondage and blow jobs.
i miss waking next to you.
i miss the cryptic crosswords
pinned to the mantle.
i miss cooking together
and seeing you in your chair
as fully in possession
as if you’d been there all our lives.
i miss showering with you and
going to Target and
entertaining my friends who
are now your friends, too.
i miss taking walks
hand in hand
whether or not you’ve
bound me in a rope harness
and draped the cold choke collar
around my submissive neck.
i just miss having you here.
i accept why you’re staying away and i know that it’s working. all the little parts put together are working. the solid deadline and the better teaching schedule and the lack of visitation privileges and who knows what else. they are working and you’re writing and you sound good and yes, the dissertation will be completed.
but it’s hard.
i lose touch with reality.
and every so often i need to be reminded.
so no more stats.
and maybe no more blogging for a while.
if i disappear for a week, you’ll all know why.
but honestly right now i don’t care.
there’s only one person i care about.
only one connection i care about.
and he may not even be
as annoyed with me
as i am disgusted with myself.
and while i may address these thoughts to my mythical readers, and recite the whole story, these words are really for one person only.
you are my master.
you are my owner.
you are my lover
and my very best friend.
and everything is for you.
all of this is for you.
and i am calling you by your real name.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
