My submission is not a spectator sport

Oh my. Just see how
you're all drooling,
wanting to watch me
get fucked.

Devoted readers.
Jealous submissives.
Fantasizing voyeurs.
Note-taking doms.

And then there are the sadists, desperately hoping I will scream from welts left on my bottom as well as from the cock driving into my tight little pussy and my even tighter little butt hole.

All of you, ready to call up Ticketmaster to grab those front row seats.

Not a chance.

Time out. Because really, I'm cracking up. I loved all your comments about wanting to be in the front row. You guys are hysterical, and you've been phenomenally supportive and encouraging. And as so many of you can understand, it is such a relief to have an outlet for our experiences when we have to hide our inner selves from even our closest friends, not to mention our family.

But the sadist knows when it's time to rein me in. And in this case, he feels the need to remind me that this new experience, like everything, is designed for his enjoyment. Not for mine. Not even for that of the man who will have the use of me. And especially not - he was most clear about this - for yours. Sorry, guys.

He hasn't forbidden me to write about it. But he is requiring me to submit for approval any blog post with reference to it, prior to publication.

My Master doesn't read here anymore. Aside from certain standing rules, he does not limit what I write. He does own my mind and its products, and I have always been grateful for the freedom he allows me here.

I am also grateful for all his efforts to control me.
They center me.
They nourish my submission.
They remind me of who I am.
They remind me that I am owned.

I don't know how much he will allow me to post about what is to come, either before or after. But if I have to leave you panting for details... well, he is a sadist after all.


Posted, unedited, with permission.