Certified COVID-Safe for Fucking

 Tomorrow.

I’m scheduled to be vaccinated tomorrow.

Something could always go wrong.

But if not tomorrow then maybe next week?

One way or another, an early birthday present.

 

I’ve started thinking about compiling a list. A list of friends and acquaintances and one time, sometime, some time lovers as they get vaccinated once, twice, and then live through the weeks that follow until the vaccine has done as much as it ever will. And then…

I want an orgy.

Well, maybe not an orgy.

I’d rather spread it out.

Savour it.

I’ll go through the list, one person at a time.

For touch.

For hugs.

And, 

where appropriate,

and maybe where not quite appropriate,

sex.

 

I need to get laid.

 

I need to be spanked.

And then I need to be thoroughly, deeply fucked.

 

[pause for fantasies and memories]

Ah… if only some of the men I’d wish to have inside me weren’t too young to be vaccinated any time soon. The problem with having a thing for younger men. Not to mention unavailable men. And yes, I’m talking men. I really need cocks right now. Beautiful, beautiful cocks, deep inside me. I’m not really one for dick pics, I want the real thing, and then I’d like to admire them for a while, marvel at them, stroke them as I wonder that such lovely things can exist, attached to this panoply of potential lovers whose appendages I’ve never seen and mostly probably never will, but oh… [she smiles to herself] I think after this particularly miserable last year I’ve earned the right to my inappropriate lust, no?

Something to think about as the needle enters my arm.

One slave, returned. Did not meet product specifications.

Warning: Read product description thoroughly before making your purchase. Never make assumptions that go beyond the specs.

 

He told me that.

Over and over.

Never make assumptions.
And yet, he did.

Over and over.

 

He had this idea of who I was, of what I was, of what I could be, of what I should be, and then would get angry when I didn’t live up to expectations. He had a plan, a training strategy, which more often than not didn’t work as much due to his distraction as it was to my disobedience or inadequate performance.

 

Again and again, I was a disappointment. 

 

And after numerous ruptures, numerous resets, numerous attempts on my part to get away, he finally said enough. He was ridding his life of things that didn’t give him pleasure, and I was now one of those things.

 

I did not protest.

I was frankly relieved.

He would never let me go if it wasn’t by HIS choice.

I was never quite sure what he thought I was.

What he was convinced I was.

 

There was something he saw in my old profile on Fetlife that made him pursue me for a week, announcing to his masochist slave that he would have me in a week. And that he did. But I think he thought I could be trained into perfect obedience. And it both angered and, I think, wounded him when I resisted. He thought he’d found some treasure, but he hadn’t read the fine print.

 

And yet he couldn’t stay away.

Then again, neither could I.

On and off for 12 years.

So here I am.

But where, exactly?

 

He wasn’t all wrong.

Nor was I wrong about my desires.

And those haven’t gone away.

The question is what to do about them.
The question is what path to follow.

The question is how to be true to myself.

And who is that, anyway?

Given my age, I’d better get down to finding out.

Wild Fire

 Maybe it’s a hormone storm. 

How can I be having a hormone storm?

 

Or maybe it’s begun. Four years of fear folding up their tents and slipping away, leaving behind piles of brush and dead branches to be consumed by flames. 

 

I’m burning. 

 

Conflagration, sweeping up and down from my brain into my cunt and then up into the phantom womb. Desire so strong I want to scream and moan - not with pleasure but in desperation. Images that grow wilder, harder, starker, darker than I should want, darker than I could bear, but everything is burning, burning, and the only escape is obliteration. 

The Tale of the Fly Swatter

I erased all the correspondence.

Every word of it.

 

I wish now I hadn’t. With what I know now, with what I’ve lived now, I’d like to read it. But it’s all gone. Deleted in a panic, as if wiping out the words could wipe out the memory of an experience of being someplace I didn’t know existed, in a state I wasn’t prepared to handle, sent there by a man who didn’t understand what he’d done, didn’t know how to bring me back, and cared too little to try.

 

I came across his ad on Craigslist, where I wandered in those days looking for… for what? I think – I choose to think – that my goal was mainly for erotic stimulation of the linguistic variety. I like to think I was as reckless as sometimes I was.

 

How did it come to me, the awareness that sometimes people indulged in the things I fantasized about? Erotica, maybe? My library was growing, I must have known something. And the ads…

 

And then there it was. A man – see, there it is, I wish I hadn’t deleted the correspondence. But as I said… anyway, he declared his interest in spanking those women who needed… well, they always come up with some way to phrase it. Women who needed what happened when they were taken over a man’s lap and his palm came down on their bare butt.

 

When they needed the pain.

 

Or something like that.

I must have read the ad a dozen times. Read it and read it and felt the hunger and the arousal and – because it’s never just my cunt, it’s always also my brain – felt the curiosity.

 

So I wrote him, from the anonymous yahoo account that served all sorts of functions.

 

I wrote him, curious, wanting to know… more.

What was he thinking.

What would he do.

What did he want.

 

What would it be like.

It was all about the spanking, he said. For him. Giving me what I needed. As for him, maybe at the end there would be a blow job. But that wasn’t the main thing for him.

 

But for me?
What would it be like?

 

So he made a suggestion.

A bit of self-flagellation.

Did I have anything I could use?

A fly swatter.

I had a fly swatter.

I still have it, hanging from a hook in the kitchen.

That would be long enough.

Long enough to reach behind.

OK, fine, an experiment, I can do that.

And I did.

 

I went into the bedroom, fly swatter in hand. 

Took off all my clothes.

Went from there into the bathroom.

 

Why? Why did I go into the bathroom? It’s a small room, not much space to swing anything. But with the door open, I’d be looking straight at the large mirrored closet in the hallway. Maybe that was it. So many details aren’t clear.

I went into the bathroom.

I put the mat down on the floor.

I got down on my hands and knees.

Naked, I got down on my hands and knees, facing the expanse of mirror in the hallway.

I must have looked up at myself, facing the mirror.

Did I see the change in my eyes?

Did I already see a change in my eyes?

I picked up the fly swatter in my right hand and reached behind…

 

Now. I feel myself going there as I write, as I describe, as I remember. I’m so damn suggestible, even to myself, that as I describe the scene I’m back in the scene, there on the bathroom floor, in the moment before that small square of mesh landed on my naked butt. I feel myself going to that place. That place I didn’t even know existed.

With one swat, I took myself to subspace. 

 

I can’t remember if I accompanied the action with a fantasy. I have a feeling I didn’t. I think that the position itself was enough, without words, without a script, without an image. I was down on my hands and knees. Submissive. Exposed. Vulnerable. I must have been aroused by the impact such as it was but it was the mental response… the emotional response…

 

I scared myself. 

I was deep in subspace.

Lost in subspace and didn’t know where I was or how to find my way out.

 

I was probably crying.

I wrote him back.

I told him what I had done and how I had responded.
And he gave me nothing.

 

It’s a good thing I never saw him in person, because he had no idea what to do. No idea where I was, what to say, how to help me. 

 

A common acting technique is emotional recall. You learn it in acting class, you do it there as an exercise, remembering an intense experience so you can bring back the emotions, the reactions, when your character is going through something similar. A common technique – but potentially a dangerous one, if the remembered trauma is too triggering and the teacher too inexperienced to deal with the effect of the memory.

I was in a place I didn’t know existed, alone and lost, with no one to pull me back and no one to offer aftercare.

 

I deleted the correspondence, as if that would erase the memory.

As if that would make me safe.

 

But I wasn’t safe.

Not one bit.

 

I was Odysseus tied to the mast, hearing the siren’s song, struggling against the ropes, cunt swelling, struggling and cursing and begging to be released, until my desire melted my bonds and I threw myself into the ocean, swimming towards my doom and my salvation. 

 

 

Unleashed. Unlashed

I'm on my own now.

Pondering possibilities.

Contemplating, calibrating,

Lusts and wants and needs.

Brain and cunt and bank account

Begging to be filled.

I’m too old and too poor to be left on my own.

Still wet and horny, though.

 

(Alas, not old enough to have been vaccinated yet, which does limit one’s options if survival is a goal. Which it is, as Ketzel is still alive at nearly 18. We keep each other warm and groomed and kissed. In that, I’m luckier than some.)

Tongue, Tit, Flesh

Commissioned by my Demon Muse:

Send me a little sex something before 9 tonight.

He's having a hard time staying away from me.
Interpret that in every and any way you can.
~ ~ ~ ~

Tongue, Tit, Flesh

tongue

tongue tip

tongue tip lick

just a touch

of the licking tongue tip

tit

tit tip

tit tip twist

just a pinch

a tightening pinch

until she screams

flesh

flesh flogged

flesh flogged flushed 

flesh flogged till

pussy floods 

and cock thrusts

and you use her as you must

and you fuck her till she’s sore

and you fuck her 

and you rape her

and you fuck her

and you fuck her

and you rise

and you roar

and you cum

 ~ ~ ~

the 29^th day of March

in the year of our quarantine 

2020

Included here by permission.

~ ~ ~

PS - Anyone out there?

Could you say hello?

Unbeaten

He didn't beat me today.
He didn't spank me.
He didn't whip me with his belt.

He didn't use on my pale skin the beautiful brown and turquoise leather flogger that many years ago he had his masochist slave make for me. The slave knew whom it was for; the sadist we share has many ways to inflict pain. This flogger is the second model. The first one came apart in use, and the Sadist judged its knotted ends too harsh for me. It's not that he spares me, although I know he protects me. It's more that he can achieve the same effects with less extreme methods, and he doesn't want to risk losing me by going too far. I'm grateful to his masochist slave for giving him the extreme suffering that I cannot.

But not today.
The previous two weeks were hard.
Hard on my flesh and hard on my emotions.
Butt, tits, belly, pussy, all suffered horribly beneath his belt and hands.
I'm still puzzled that my bruises weren't worse.

But today?
Today's training session was different.
Training.
Retraining.
Retraining in some of the
techniques that he
desires
requires
demands
when I serve his pleasure.

So no belt.
No flogger.
Only the lightest of nipple torture,
Which always takes me to
That Place
where I disappear
and all that remains is His.

And then, because I knew, because I saw the signs, the invisible signal, I spread my thighs apart. I spread my thighs and offered those most tender, sensitive tissues to what turned out to be a very gentle spanking. It did fell gentle, yet when he pushed his way into me, when he thrust again and again, it hurt - and I was grateful for the pain because it made me cry out each time he pushed into me and I know that my pain and my cries please him and excite him and it reminded me how my body is his and it's all about his pleasure and what the hell kind of feminist thinks things like this?

But that's who we are.
That's who he is.
That's who I am
and he makes me feel so
strong
and so
safe
and who are any of you to dare question?

I have never been so happy

What, no bruises?

I feel cheated.
Deprived.
After all those blows
and all that pain
why is the canvas of my
ass but spattered with spots
of pink? Where are my
black and blue badges of courage?

My heart is scarred by your
anger. Your words left
dark red cane stripes on my soul.

I peer over my shoulder,
straining to see my ass in the mirror.
Ah! There's one! Two days gone
and the red belt mark has morphed
to blue. I breathe a prayer of thanks.

I hate it. I want it. I need it. Please, Sir, whip away my sins!

My bruises disappoint me.
The brevity of my punishment disappoints me.
I expected more.
I expected worse.
I was relieved when it ended.
Scared and grateful when he beat me again.
It wasn't enough.
As a punishment it wasn't enough.
Cleanse me, Sir.
Whip my guilt away.
Tie down my arms so I can't
protect
my tits from your belt.
Make me suffer enough to atone.

I can never suffer enough to atone.

And it did do the job.
Even though you didn't choke me.
Even though the chain stayed out of your hands,
away from that most vulnerable
hole
between my legs.
You didn't bring a new
strip
of wood
to use as a
cane
in place of the one I angrily discarded
when I left you.

You were my Tam Lin
but I didn't hold on
as
enchanted
you changed from one
fearsome beast
to another.
I was scared.
I was angry.
So I ran.
And then looked for you in
every
other
man
I met.

Can your belt beat out of me that guilt?

Not really.
Not ever.

But spanking my pussy as you held my legs apart
Whipping with anger, with love and with lust
You slashed to shreds my stubborn will
As if with the knife you're
forbidden
to bring in the house
closing your ears and sadistic soul to the
siren song of
my belly.

I sobbed.
I suffered.
I surrendered my soul.
And offered myself to
everything

everything

I ran from before.

Oh Matron Saint of Foolish Vows,
please help me keep my word!

How do you use me? Let me count the ways.

A pair of poems, written in response to yesterday's encounter and recommitment.

The literary inspiration should be obvious.
The first poem was the direct response.
The next was an attempt to wrestle it into proper sonnet form.
Wrestling indeed.
A struggle for sure.
But then, he loves seeing me struggle.

He's not into bondage, by the way.
He expects self-restraint.
Force of will.
And of not that, restraint by his hands.

Anyway, here is the pair of efforts, posted with his permission. I'm nearly trembling with delight at how returning to his control has inspired me. (He does inspire trembling. Especially with orgasm denied.)

Note: I'd be most grateful for any comments, if only to let me know that you are here and noticed that I am.

~ ~ ~ ~

How Do You Use Me?How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.

You beat me to the heat and depth and pain

My ass can bear when offered to your belt

And then beyond to what you know I need.

You torture me with twists and bites and slaps

On tender tits and taunting nipple ends

While feeding on my frightened helpless screams

And holding fast my wrists with brutal grip.

You show no mercy towards those tender parts

That cower there between my beaten thighs

And blush and swell with want and pain and shame.
You fuck me sore with angry hungry lust

And drink capitulation from my eyes

And know that I will love you all the same.

~ ~ ~

How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.

You beat me to the heat and depth and pain

Your belt upon my ass can fast attain

And then beyond until my wild eyes glaze.

You torture me with slaps and bites and twists

On tender tits and taunting nipples red

While feeding on my frightened cries of dread

And making clear the purpose of our trysts.

You show no mercy to poor Pussy’s cave 

That cowers wet between my beaten thighs

And blushing, swells with want and pain and shame.

With hungry thrusts you fuck your someday slave

And drink capitulation from my eyes -

And know that I will love you all the same.

The juicy stuff. You know you want it.

One of the Prime Directives which, I confess, I'm not always so good at observing:

     Give him what he wants.

     Not what he doesn't want.

I haven't been very good about that here, either.
First I give you nothing at all.
Then I blather about some married man nearly getting in trouble
because his wonderful wife is not where he is
and he's lonely for companionship.
How boring.

So I'll give you what you do want.
Just a small slice.

How we resumed our previous category of relationship after having been apart for over a year, followed by around 15 months as lovers.

Not sure what name to give the character of our relationship, as BDSM seems...
Inadequate.

And submission?
Something's missing from that term, too, although I can't nail down what.

In any case, a chance to return to that other way of being together was offered and gratefully, if nervously, accepted. Because, as he has always said and I agreed, this is not a game. Not for us. We're embarking back on it very seriously.

And there is real danger.

The Beast lurks, always lurks, though I've been warned not to refer to him by name and not to call to him. For various reasons, there are times when he can't be guaranteed to maintain control of his sadistic nature which is beyond someone who just enjoys inflicting pain as part of their sexual interactions. He loves me - he truly does love me and sometimes even manages to say the words. He doesn't want to risk injuring me, or doing something that would cause an irreparable destruction of the relationship.

"He."
I keep referring to him as "he."
I don't know what else to say.
I don't think of him as the Fiend anymore.
I don't really think of him as the Beast either - even if that name were not taboo.

We're going way, way back with my training, so I am not allowed to call him "my Master" anymore. Not there yet. And after years of calling him "Daddy" - which made us both feel ever so good - that's packed away for now. I may address him only as "Sir" but it seems weird to refer to him that way. So for now, it's just "he." "Him." No capital letter unless at the beginning of a sentence.

And today?
Today.

A ritual.
They always work so well.
Confession.
Punishment.
Forgiveness.

The confession pleased him.
I included the major sin which he was almost convinced I would omit.
And thus, my punishment was much lighter than he had planned.
Certainly lighter than I expected.
Which doesn't mean it was light.

He whipped my ass with his belt.
Hard.
Very hard, he says.
I was draped over a leather footstool and he beat me with great intent.
But he didn't lose control.

We continued in the bedroom.
Again, the belt.
On my ass, as I was bent over the foot of the bed, leaning on my forearms.

The belt.
One blow to each tit.

The belt.
Hard, between my spread legs on tissues that are much too tender to be treated that way.

And then?
The punishment was over.
He got in the bed, and had me get in, and held me to him while I sobbed, and he comforted me, and talked more about what had been said and what had been done.

And about love, too.

But the pain hadn't ended.
Hurting me for his pleasure.
As opposed to hurting me because It Needed To Be Done.

Whipping poor Pussy to make her swollen and sore, so she'd be extra tight around his cock and so it would hurt when he fucked me. Often he will spank her with his hand, hard, but this time he went back to whipping her with his belt. Hard. And then with the curled palm of his hand. Very hard. And I struggled so, because I'd made up my mind that I would not protect myself, that I would offer him whatever he felt I deserved and whatever would give him pleasure. But it hurt so much, God it hurt, the belt on top of the previous whipping, and then his hand on top of all that, and I couldn't bear it... I tried so hard to hold my legs open but our bodies must protect themselves and he was up on his knees looking down at me with a most fierce and determined expression and would have what he wanted and he pulled my legs apart, forced my legs apart, held my legs apart and I struggled but there was nothing I could do and he spanked me there over and over until I was almost beyond feeling it... everything was falling away and there was nothing but the pain and the helplessness... and I see him now. That image living in my brain.

And it's so vibrant.
So intense.
And I'm so grateful that he forced that pain on me.
So grateful that despite my struggles I offered it to him.
Willingly gave him my physical vulnerability along with the emotional.

And yes.
When he fucked me it hurt.
And yes.
I was red and tight and swollen inside.
And yes.
I whimpered and moaned and cried out that it hurt.
And he came with a roar.

And he loves me.

And no.
Of course I'm not allowed to cum.

Do you come here often?

So I have a question.
For my new Admirer.
Do you make a habit of this?
Making moves on other women?
Has your long marriage been sprinkled by affairs?

This didn't seem to be new to him. In some ways he felt like a 17-year old boy, but in some ways it seemed very natural to him. Putting his hand on me. Spreading his legs more so he could press his thigh against mine. He seemed very relaxed about it all, no underlying guilt of "Oh my God what am I doing I've never felt like this before how can I betray my wife like this but the feeling is too strong I can't resist..." and so forth.

Which disappoints me. I admire his family. I admire any family which seems close, the various generations sharing interests, embracing differences, all smiles and love and rejoicing.

Not that I have any right to be superior. Given my own history of infidelity in both marriages, and my current illicit relationship that's been going on for over 11 years now (wow, really?), who am I to judge?   Still... maybe it's because it feels as if it came out of nowhere. And because it's within this small town community. A betrayal of the community as much as anything else.

And because, yes, it does feel good to be paid that kind of attention.

Which doesn't change how I feel about the man I deeply love, and who occasionally takes the brave step of saying in so many words that he loves me.

Comments, anyone?
If anyone is out there?

Why me?

He's nice.
We share interests.

He's married.

He pressed his leg against mine and held my hand.
Bob, I said.
You can't flirt with me in front of your sons.

Point taken, he said.

Peeking out of the mist...

Just wondering,
Is anyone still out there?

Translation

I love you, I say.
I know, he replies.

Translation: I love you, too.

I miss you, I say.
I understand, he replies.

Translation: I know.
Translation: So do I.
Translation: I miss you, too.
Translation: I love you.

Beneath the carapace

He thinks a lot of himself.
Or so he says.
He wants me to know that he thinks a lot of himself.

Such a mammoth ego.
A mammoth ego needing so much support.
Wanting constant massaging,
like his lovely cock,
hungry for attention
from hand and mouth and more
to keep it smartly hard.

Such vulnerability.
Such beautiful vulnerability.
Does he know that's something I love about him?

He tries to hide it.

And now.
As we sort things out.
It took me ever so long to see.
He had to say it nearly straight out.

He needs to save face.

He does know he triggered it.
He knows the beast escaped.
He knows he didn't protect me.

But what he focuses on is what I did to him, how I left without a word, how I tossed away 7 years (actually 6 and a half) because of half an hour (seemed more like an hour), how I waffled about whether it was over or not...

Because.
Because he knows what he did.
He knows the effect it had on me.

But he needs to feel - to pretend - that he was the one who was wronged. Like when he has trouble cumming because of too much to drink, and he says it will be all my fault if he can't cum even though he knows - and I know - that it's not my fault at all. Sometimes, after, he has even said that, reassured me, that he knows it wasn't my fault but he needs to act like it was.

So I'm being good and doing as he says and accepting that he has doubts. And he has always had doubts, it has always been hard to fully believe that I do love him, do want to fully give myself over to him, even though I do sometimes fight it and run scared because really, given issues I've always had with authority even as I've so badly needed someone to take control, is it any surprise that some sense of rebellion remains?

In fact, he's got a plan that seems to be working. He's wise for us to ease back in. And what he so badly needs is to feel that he's back in control.

Which is also why he won't let me masturbate.

I love it that he won't let me masturbate.
Just as I love how sweetly he stroked me
as I even more sweetly sucked on his cock.

Sexual healing

There were tears in his eyes.
No other words were needed.
And were probably best left unsaid.

Seeking solutions

Tantrums, tears, negotiations.
The tantrums weren't mine.
You can guess about the tears.
Negotiations? Or something like.
He always said he doesn't negotiate.
Meanwhile, as offerings, two poems.
Blue snow beneath a bright full moon.
Beyond that -
who the hell knows.
I need some sleep.

Outcome uncertain

The writing team is hanging out in the break room, awaiting instructions from the show runner, who is contemplating alternate directions for the series

Tune in tomorrow.
Meanwhile, you might enjoy some reruns.

The soap opera continues

Oy.
Stay tuned.