Masturbation mania (5) - testing the Fun Factory Bootie

What can you say about a little curved piece of purple silicone?

I love it.
I love love love it.
I cannot imagine a better butt plug.
I cannot imagine a better butt plug than Fun Factory's Bootie.

Well yes, I know, I should modify that with my usual disclaimer that, whether holding forth on sex toys or relationships, I can only speak for myself. It may be that the shape or size of your ass hole and the canal beyond are such that the bulbous tip and curved body of the Bootie won't suit you. But for me - oh my goodness. Just what I needed.

Butt plugs get to me on a very deep level. There's something very primal about them. As soon as one goes in, it sends me to that place...

My prior experience was very limited. I have one sweet little purple butt plug that the philosopher got for me. The Tantus Little Flirt. It's actually a very nice starter plug, long and thin with a slim end for easy insertion. I had 2 main problems with it. The end was so slim that it tended to bend out of the way when I tried to force it into my tight little puckered orifice. And the bulge in the middle wasn't quite big enough to keep it from slipping out. This was a definite concern as I considered the sadist's plans for me.

From perhaps the day after he found me, my Master has spoken of a particular public outing he intends to take me on. Recently, he said he wanted me wearing a butt plug as well as my dress that buttons (or unbuttons) from top to bottom. No panties, of course. Meaning it would be wise to have a butt plug that wouldn't pop out as I walked across the stone floor.

So when my contact at EdenFantasys asked what I wanted to be sent to review this month, I was pretty strongly inclined towards a butt plug. The sadist firmly agreed. And everything I read about the Bootie made me think it could be the solution to my problem.

As usual with the items I've been receiving from EdenFantasys, my new toy attracted little interest from the cats. Not enough plastic. Ketzel did enjoy the cardboard shipping box from the US Postal Service, as well as the paper stuffing.


But I had to sweet talk Marko into posing long enough for me to take some shots of him with the Bootie in its little box, which has a form-fitting plastic container inside the cardboard display carton.


As you can see, the Bootie is both adorable and unusual, with its bulbous tip and curious curve. Not as easy to spot is the design of the base, which is both curved and tapered to fit comfortably between any set of butt cheeks, which is one of the features that makes it ideal for long wear. However, as I eyed this cutest addition to my growing toy collection, I started to be concerned about that bulbous head. Would I really be able to get it through my tiny hole? I remembered the problems the Irishman had jamming his cock up my ass, and started to get decidedly nervous.

The package arrived on Saturday, April 30. The next morning, as the sadist and I were exchanging e-mails, he suddenly asked after it.

me: I can try it today if you wish, my Lord. It's an unusual shape, and somewhat daunting, as the insertion end is rather large and rounded...

He: Yes, I would like you to try it. Send me a report, of course.

me: Of course, my Lord. [...] May I wait an hour or two, Sir? [...] Perhaps I could wear the smaller butt plug a bit before inserting the new one, my Lord? It is suddenly making me very nervous...

Of course, he denied my request. I was given an hour. I arranged for e-mail reminders.

me: The first butt plug reminder just arrived, my Lord.
I suppose I have to start preparing myself...

Picture it, my Lord.
The large, purple bulb
forcing its way into the little, brown puckered hole,
before continuing past the sphinctral guards...
The little moans of discomfort...
The pleasure at being invaded and possessed.

And all for you, my Lord.
All for you, my Owner and Master.

And then it was time.

I will share with you now my experience with the Bootie on that day, and tomorrow will tell you about how the sadist abused me with it 2 days later.

The following comes from my e-mails to the fiend, with a few comments from him:

me: First I said Ow.
Then I said Wow...

It hurt going in, my Lord.
It definitely hurt going in.
My tight little anus was very resistant.
And the end is very bulbous.
I was becoming worried it wouldn't make it
despite all the K-Y
and then suddenly -
POP.

And it was in.

At which point... it's perfect, my Lord. Just perfect. The way it curves keeps it perfectly embedded, and the base is beautifully designed to nestle between the cheeks. Definitely - and thoughtfully - designed for extended wear.

As for how it actually feels - I think it will take a while for me to find the right words for how a butt plug makes me feel, my Lord. Especially this one, which fits so perfectly. It's very intense... my ass is a highly erogenous zone, my Lord... the plug is stuffed into my little butt hole but I feel it in my womb... and... it makes me feel short of breath, my Lord.

No.
Not quite right.

It takes my breath away.
A tightness in my chest...
as if my whole body were gasping...

I feel very aroused, my Lord.
And very submissive.

[...]
I eased myself into a lying down position on the couch, my Lord. And... The effect... Suddenly very powerful...

He: Leave it in until further notice

me: Yes, my Lord.

And thank you.

I feel even closer to you, my Lord... Chained and aroused and tortured and serving... All at the same time...

He: Detail the pain of insertion, as I may be placing it in you myself on occasion.

me: It just wouldn't go in, my Lord.
My anus was closed up tight.
And I'm used to sticking things up there,
as I take migraine meds in the form of suppositories.
I rarely need them now, which is good,
but I always found the act of insertion to be very pleasurable.

I'm having trouble describing what inserting the butt plug felt like... it was irritating, in a painful way... the discomfort was right at the point of desired entry, and I really was afraid it wouldn't go in. I think, my Lord, that the little hole had to be brought to realize it had to submit. The thing wasn't going away. And then suddenly - POP. It was just like that. It went in. And then it didn't hurt at all.

Talking about it is making me very aware of its presence, my Lord - arousing me again - making me feel a certain measure of discomfort... and pressure... especially as now I am sitting up on the couch, cross-legged, with the computer on my lap, so I'm increasing the pressure.

There's also the question of angle, my Lord. You'll see... there's this curve...

You will enjoy raping me with it, won't you, my Lord...

It keeps making me think of being tortured, my Lord.
Especially of being flogged.

He: With the butt plug in place, and locked in the chain I think you need a mark to complete your serving dress.

me: What do you want to do to me, my Lord?
Right now?
If I were naked before you right now?

Invaded and chained....

He: Violate and degrade you.

Which he did.
Two days later.

That first day, my first experience with the Bootie, the plug was in for around 4 hours or so before I received permission to remove it.

me: I felt a certain sadness as I went to remove it, my Lord.
And then cried OW! as I pulled it out.

It hurt coming out, my Lord.
Though not as much as when I tried to get it in.

And now I feel weepy...

He: You will have it available for me when I visit. You may not use it unless authorized by me.

And now it is time for me to put it in again. Because we will be watching The Borgias together. Miles apart, but together. I will be, as always, naked, with the chain clipped tight around my left ankle. But since the Sunday I've just described, I must also wear the butt plug.

I watch feeling very owned, very contained, and very constrained.
And he feels me kneeling beside him:
naked, chained, and invaded.

Lovely.

Note: being silicone, the Bootie may be used with water soluble lubricants only. Clean-up is very easy, as you can wash it with soap and water, and it may also be boiled. But... well, I have a housemate, and besides... do any of you readers boil your butt plugs? And if so, do you have a dedicated pot for that function? I can't see boiling the Bootie and then using the same little pot for making a hard-boiled egg.

The rain made me do it

It rained all day today. It was dark and nasty and rainy and all I could think about was the sadist and his cock and my mouth and his hand around my throat and the flogger on my pussy and crawling and nakedness and curling up next to him, my nakedness and his nakedness and the warmth of our bodies against the cold of the day and the red of my spanked butt against the grey of the sky.

His body.

His body on mine.

His body crushing mine into the futon, pressing into mine as I struggled beneath his weight and his dominance and his desire.

His mouth.
My mouth.
His cock in my mouth.

I had an image - not just a mind image but a whole body evocation - we were lying naked on a bed, in a room warm enough for us to have pushed back the blankets, we were lying curled up and naked, curled up on our sides, and my head was down below his belly and his cock was in my mouth and I held his cock in my mouth and I fondled his cock with my tongue and I sucked his cock sweetly, pensively, as if it were a pacifier that brought me contentment and peace.

Eventually, of course, I had to perform.

I'm a damn good cocksucker.

The sadist was very busy today, he told me from the start that he would be very busy today, but still I flooded his Inbox with expressions of my desire to be near him, all the while thinking of that play by Brecht in which this solider finds himself a slave to his cock. It's the rain. Whenever it rained he'd grow hard. It ruled him. It interfered. And finally he did the only thing he could do.

He lopped it off.

Which seems rather extreme.

So instead I dealt with my distraction by bombarding my Master with distracting e-mails and resisting the urge to let the Irishman know that I was around and available. So instead the Irishman contacted me. And came over. I wasn't the only one being made crazy by the rain.

And he agrees.
I'm a damn good cocksucker.

A sudden swarm of suitors

The Irishman has been probing the possibility of spanking me again. Which usually involves the pleasure of his cock in one orifice or another. Two requests this week, after a long silence, although unfortunately both encounters failed to materialize.

Meanwhile, I've been e-mail flirting with a young redhead with some Irish in his genetic mix. Are we surprised? Five years younger than the philosopher, though at least not in academia. While out of state, he is no further than the northern part of that rival state on the other side of Washington, DC. He answered the craigslist ad I placed late in December, during that regrettable period of estrangement from my demon muse. He is into BDSM, a bit of a sadist though nowhere as extreme as my Master. Like many doms, he is mainly focused on the sexual play aspect of it rather than developing someone's submission on a deeper scale. Still, I think I would enjoy exploring his perspective.

Let's call him Ian.

I had sent him away when he first answered my ad, because I had specified over 40. But he came back recently, very insistent that I not be closed-minded about age, and I've been enjoy our very titillating correspondence. Of course, just as it turned out he is part Irish, it also turned out that he has a girlfriend, and the relationship is not an open one. Even if it's just for play, it would be lovely to give my ass to someone who doesn't have to sneak around and could even have me at his place so we could be assured of full privacy.

Which brings me to the architect. Let's call him Evan. I can't remember if I've mentioned him before. He answered the same craigslist ad that brought me and the philosopher together, and he presented me with a painfully arousing extended scenario of what he would do with me if I came to his door. It never came to pass for assorted reasons, including the little fact that I fell in love with the philosopher. We haven't been in touch for a good 2-1/2 years. And then suddenly Evan, too, reappeared in my Inbox. We started writing again and now, finally, we will be getting together.

Tomorrow.

Unfortunately, once again it will be here. But at least he doesn't have a girlfriend. (And he's over 40 as well.) However, he shares an apartment with a woman who was formerly not exactly a girlfriend but more a friend with benefits. Now they are just friends, but have agreed not to rub each other's noses in their sexual adventures. I'm impressed, actually.

He doesn't see himself as a dom, but the scenario he presents is definitely one of control and some measure of discomfort. I did tell him that I belong to a sadist, which I suspect intrigues him.

What is delicious about both Evan and Ian is that their kinks include a desire to stimulate me and bring me to orgasm. Ian writes of punishing me for my teasing e-mails by binding me down and forcing me to orgasm again and again and again, after which I will be spanked and fucked in the ass. They do all want to fuck my ass.. Since my Master is concerned with his pleasure alone, and the Irishman's modus operandi is to spank, fuck, and run, either of the other two would be a nice change.

I am allowed to do this. I am allowed to play, to fuck, to serve, even to have a more steady paramour of whatever sex. But I belong to my demon muse and my primary devotion is always to him. He used to speak of the inevitability of my leaving him for someone else, but hasn't done that much lately. Maybe he sees how my sense of being his has grown deeper and deeper. I don't know. It's silly to speculate about him.

So yes. I am allowed to play and have even on occasion been encouraged to do so. He thinks I was created to serve men's sexual pleasure and should be generous with my gifts. I do not have to ask permission, but I may if I wish. And, if I wish, or when he thinks I need him to do so, he will require my suitor to ask permission to use me.

Evan long predates my Master, and I look at our approaching meeting as unfinished business. I will tell my master about it but see no need for permission. The Irishman came into the picture during my rift with the sadist, but I did ask permission to continue once my beloved demon muse took me back.

Ian is another story, however. Ian popped up during the break, but came back and seduced me with his tantalizing e-mails now, while I am my Master's. And Ian is a dom. Maybe that's one of the big differences. He needs to show his respect for the one who owns me... for the fact that someone DOES own me. So should it ever come down to meeting, he will have to ask my Master's permission. You can't just play with someone else's toy. I am my Master's property, and another dom must ask permission before trespassing.

Especially if he plans on leaving welts on my butt.

The persistence of bruises

spank?

That was the subject line.
The message said only

Hi. :)

It came from the Irishman. This afternoon. I hadn't heard from him in months. My cunt turned a little somersault. There's a cold focus to him that I love. The way his face changes as he comes up the walk, or after he gives me a hug in greeting, or else I feel the change in mid-embrace... and sometimes he arrives as I am in bed, letting himself in through the unlocked door. He arrives at the foot of my bed, and with barely a word orders me out and into whatever position he requires to fulfill his suddenly very urgent needs.

He is hard and focused and I give him what he needs. A blow job, perhaps. Or I bend over the end of the bed and he takes me in one hole or another. It is very deliberate, and I feel rather like a whore. Yet generous.

I never realized that until the words traveled from my fingers to the keys, without, it seems, any contribution from my conscious brain. Generous. He needs something I can give him, and I am happy to do it. I know he is using me, and that very fact makes me happy. He is cold and deliberate, and yet I feel this kind, intelligent man that also dwells within him. I don't think that one or the other is the façade. They are both real, they are both who he is, and it's just unfortunate that there are very few people with whom we can be our full selves. So, for safety, he hides his other self from me, but I know it is there. He tries to hide his vulnerability, but I know it is there, I can feel it, and I embrace it, and I open my door and give myself to him and he does what he must and takes what he needs and I smile as he fucks me and then he's gone.

It's nearly 4 months now since I last saw him. The time he fucked my ass. He e-mailed me a few days later about something else, which I couldn't help him with. After that - silence. I haven't known if his own beast has been sleeping, or if he's had preferred outlets for his needs, other asses to spank or impale. I rather didn't expect to hear from him again.

So I was surprised, and happy, and loved the sparseness of his request. He's a man of words, so almost perversely grants me very few of them.

I was suprised and happy and charmed... and had to say no.

Wednesday morning I see the dermatologist for a full body exam. As a melanoma survivor, I need one every year. Just in case. It's been over 20 years now, and the doctor thinks I'm safe, but you never can tell, you should never ease your vigilance, so Wednesday morning I'll go to the doctor and he'll study my body and look at my spots and hopefully not ask about one particular black and blue and yellowing bruise which can convincingly be explained away as one of the many I get from walking into things because I don't have depth perception.

So I had to say no to the Irishman. Because I didn't want to risk having any more marks to dismiss.

And now, of course, I'm squirmy and disappointed... sorry that I won't see him, won't hear his voice, won't see the change in his face, won't have him take another stab at fucking my ass... I like having his cock up my ass, and was sorry that he came so soon. I wanted to feel him buried deep inside me, I wanted to push my butt back against him, to take him deeper inside, to help him hurt me, to make him want to spank me as he sodomized me...

I have a new friend. We haven't met yet. A young dom, younger even than the philosopher. He answered one of my ads from last January. He wrote again the other day, and I dropped one of my veils and told him about this blog. I'd rather like to meet and chat. Not sure why, but he feels as if he could be a friend within this strange, secret world of ours. Anyway, as I was writing to him, and telling him about not letting the Irishman come because of my doctor's appointment, this fantasy came to me...

Nothing all that creative, really... we all have these doctor fantasies of one sort or another... of lying on the examining table... naked on the table... without the nurse he usually has with him which male doctors often have to protect them or us... especially when we reveal our nakedness and they go poring over our bodies looking for unusual marks...

Unusual marks. There is this bruise... I won't tell you where it is or what its shape... you do know who is responsible for it. He hurt me in a way he likes to, in a place that has special meaning for him... a personal symbolism that I suspect he uses over and over, which is why I may not speak of it....

So there I am in my mental masturbatory fantasy, as I may not masturbate without permission but am cursed with a rather twitchy twat after turning down the Irishman and teasing my new friend and an IM session with my Master...

I am lying on the examining table, and the doctor notices this bruise... black and blue with a yellowing center... and I evade telling him how I got it by saying that I bruise easily... and he says "How easily? It's important to know these things."

And he orders me to turn over, pulling off the modesty sheet so I am lying completely naked. And he says "Let's see how easily you bruise." He pumps the table down so he is standing over me. I hear him unbuckle his belt, I hear the unmistakable sound of leather passing through loops of cloth, and then...

I scream as the leather strip lands on my right cheek. And gasp as he brings it down again. I feel my lips swelling, I am leaking onto the sheet below me, I'm in pain and aroused and never think of standing up or calling for help... he stops for a moment and tucks the pillow under my hips and then brings down the belt again, but this time it strikes those already sensitive lips of my cunt and now I scream loudly... the room is soundproofed. Just this room. He was planning this all along... my screams make him hard, and now he pulls me towards him so my legs are hanging over the end of the table, and he pushes himself into me and gathers up my moisture as he drives himself in again and again and I'm moaning from the pain and moaning from the pleasure, until he pulls himself out and positions himself against my tight little butt hole which resists almost all attackers and unmans those who do eventually make it in.

But he's a doctor. He's done this before. And he always gets what he wants. Steadily, he pushes. Stubbornly, he batters at the door. No preparing the way with his fingers. Not for this man. Using only my own cuntal lubricant, he eases his way up to the sphincter and then shoves as if breaking down the door of a burning house.

It must be awfully effective soundproofing to keep the people in the waiting room from being alarmed. My scream rattles the walls, but only within the room. And then he fucks me, forcefully, frightfully, in and in, again and again, until I think he will break through the back wall.

He has learned over the years to silence his cumming.

He cums, and stands there for a minute, no more, as his cock continues to pump out the last drops of specialist's sperm. He gives my butt a good, hard smack and then... I don't know what it is, or where it was in the office, but something that feels awfully like a cane lands twice, hard, once on each cheek.

"Good girl," he says. "Please take pictures of the welts every day and send them to me. The receptionist will give you my e-mail address. And make an appointment to return in a week."

With that he walks out.

And I'm back a week later. The bruises are fading. It's time to get some more.

Breakthrough

The Irishman was here last night, for the first time in a couple of months. I was glad. I needed the physical contact. He didn't stay very long, but even that little bit was welcome.

He contacted me earlier in the evening. I said I was open to a visit and would be home, but was tired. I pulled off all my clothes and went to bed very early. It felt good crawling naked into the bed, surrounded by cats. I dozed off feeling the sadist's arms gathering me to him.

At around 10:30 pm there was a noise from my cell phone. I assumed it was a text message from the Irishman. Instead it was 6 words from the sadist that made me feel warm all over. I replied, got up and e-mailed him in more detail, and saw a message from the Irishman with an ETA. Then I crawled back into bed, again feeling all warm and cuddly.

At that point, I would have been just as happy if the Irishman had not been on his way. I hugged those 6 words to myself and felt thoroughly owned. I marvel at the emotions that wash over me. It is a sense that is very distinct from feeling loved. I have no expectations of being loved by my Master, although I do think he is "fond" of me and he certainly treasures me. But I feel more secure as his pet than I have ever felt in any supposed love relationship. More safe, even, although I am quite aware that he wants some very scary things from me. It puzzles me, but I am happy, so while I strive to understand, I do not question. I just hug myself and say "Thank you, my Master" and tell him that I love him while expecting nothing of the sort in return.

Around 11, the Irishman turned up, with his crooked smile and cold, focused gaze that washes over his eyes as he is transformed before me into a dom.

He has had a goal. To get his generous-sized cock into my tight little asshole. And this time he finally made it in. There was a bit of pain at first, and then it was fine. Afterwards, though, I'm not sure what happened. Perhaps, now that he was finally in, he wilted a bit. I'm not sure. but he withdrew. I could hear him behind me, as I was bent over the bed, lubing up his cock and pulling on it, but he came on my lower back before he could make it back in.

But he did get an erection. I know he gets erections. I've sucked him off, I've brought him off in my hand. And he has fucked my cunt good and hard from behind, though not for super long before he came.

The thing is, I'm starting to get paranoid.

Is it me?

Ex-hubby #1 definitely had trouble with premature ejaculation. #2 did better, but not all that well - though with him I suspect he wasn't concerned about lasting long enough to give me pleasure. S-- used to be great, but the last time couldn't fuck me at all. That problem started a few years ago, leading to lack of contact for 2 years (long story) and improvement the next time we were together, but then it went back downhill. And the philosopher... [sigh]

Could it be my fault? My Master would probably say it's because I'm so hot and sexy. Logic would say what do I expect from older guys? but they were young when I was married, and the philosopher isn't even 40 yet.

Should I hang up a sign saying "If you can't keep it up, it's not your fault"?

In any case, the Irishman was sweet about it, and said he'll just have to practice with me more. My ass has decided it really likes being fucked, so I do hope he comes back soon and tries again.

He ordered me to stay in position bent over the bed and patted me affectionately on the butt before leaving the house. I rose feeling happy yet matter-of-fact, took a shower to wash his cum off my back, and returned to my bed, again falling asleep with memories of being scooped up in my Master's arms as I sat on his lap.

I feel oddly detached about my sessions with the Irishman. We don't exchange much in the way of e-mails, which is a pity, as he is a smart man with a good command of the language. He knows I care about words, and yesterday said perhaps he was stingy with them as one of his ways of dominating me, as he knows I like them. His miserliness also serves to keep a distance between us, because I think we would both enjoy a more extensive correspondence. And that, I think, is one of the techniques he uses to handle these extra-marital dalliances by which he satisfies his dominant and sadistic appetites.

In any case, it works. I don't feel him to be a threat to my relationship with my Master - meaning, it doesn't confuse me. I do keep wishing I could have a boyfriend, and again and again I realize I'm not ready to compromise my devotion to the sadist in order to give someone else primacy.

So my ass was fucked, if briefly, and this morning it looked as if it had been excavated a bit. There is a bruise on my left breast from where the Irishman spanked it. He's into that, it seems, but is careful to support it underneath with his other hand. It didn't hurt as much as when the sadist flogged it, but I could see clear, red marks from his fingers after he left. I don't suppose the sadist would be all that happy with the bruise, as he is quite devoted to my breasts, but it will clear.

And so, I went back to sleep, feeling fine, wishing I'd been fucked more, and feeling my Master's arms around me.

The oddest part of it all was the next morning. I awoke from a dream about the philosopher. I've been thinking about him, worrying about him, debating about contacting his brother on Facebook to say I'm concerned about him and love him and hope he's OK. And there I was this morning, after having been spanked and butt fucked by the Irishman (he has a very firm, hard spank, for which my bottom is very grateful), after having received a lovely 6-word text message from the sadist and falling asleep feeling his arms around me, I awoke from a dream about the philosopher and knew I still love him.

Sometimes my life seems very very complicated.

Sometimes you just have to ask

Today, I reached out for what I needed.
And tonight, I got it.

I hadn't seen the Irishman for a long time. He scared me a little last time. He was in a very cold place. He is a "kind dom" but last time he was in a very cold sadistic place. He isn't a thorough-going sadist like my demon muse is, but there was nothing warm about his last visit. It was the first time he didn't leave me feeling good. Plus then there was my mother's health scare, and I got very sick, and the end came with the philosopher, all of which left me very depressed while at the same time feeling more and more tied to the sadist.

Life is so complicated.

But I'm much better now, my soul doesn't hurt as much, the cold is gone, and I'm feeling very secure about the fiend. Plus I've been very very horny. Being allowed to masturbate Thursday night - and in fact receiving permission to do it again tonight - just wasn't enough.

So at 1:03 pm I e-mailed the Irishman and told him I was available again.

That's an understatement. I sent him a long, provocative piece that spoke of needing to be spanked - hard - and needing to be fucked. He was pleased. And at 6:10 he wrote asking if I were available tonight.

He was here by 8:30.

He held me, pulling me into him, twining his fingers in my hair.
He pushed me into the wall, grinding into me and smacking my bottom.

"So you have needs..."

"Yes, sir."

He waited.

"I need to be spanked. Hard.
And I need to be fucked.
And I need to serve your needs,
which is the most important thing of all."

"Exactly."

He pushed me into the bedroom.

"Get the vibrator. Now show me how much you need it."

I lay down on the bed, wriggling out of my jeans and pink panties in a series of desperate and ungraceful movements. I held the condom-encased vibrator against my clitoris, enjoying the sensation. I felt my cunt relax, and slipped the beautiful blue machine inside, fucking myself with the philosopher's gift the way he himself was never capable of doing. I fucked myself with the vibrator while the Irishman stood over me, watching, and then letting fall his own jeans and underpants.

He got up on the bed, sitting behind my head, positioning his balls and yummy fat cock over my mouth. I licked at him as I fucked myself, sometimes pulling his testicles into my mouth.

He smacked at my breasts and pulled at the nipples. It hurt. He is always very careful when he hits my breasts, making sure that they are supported. And at one point - perhaps before I lay down on the bed? - he slapped my cheek and then asked if that did anything for me. I suppose he could tell from my expression or sound that it hadn't really. I overcame my submissiveness enough to admit to that fact, and was very proud of myself. He didn't do it again.

He rolled me over and gave me a good hard spanking. Hard and firm. I needed that - I needed even more of that - but it was enough to leave me with a sore butt which I had no interest in treating with frozen peas. I want the pain to continue.

And then... aah... another step towards obliterating the virginity of my little brown asshole. (Yup, mine is brown, not pink, I wonder why?) He had tried on one of his early visits to fuck my butt, but couldn't make it in. There hasn't been much effort made to stretch it out. The purple butt plug the very cautious philosopher gave me is very small, and S- got as far as fucking me with 2 fingers. The sadist will do it eventually. But for now... the Irishman still didn't get his lovely fat cock in there, but he did go in with the vibrator. It was already covered with a condom. He gave it a good coating of K-Y jelly, which he also applied directly to my little hole. I'm not exactly sure what he did, but I think first he just held the tip of the vibrator to the hole, and turned it on. I think then he turned it off and eased it in a small way. No pain yet, and I relaxed and was happy. The pain was soon to come, though, as he pushed in further, and I was worried, but then it was gone. I'm not sure how far in he got, but whatever he was doing was very nice - as opposed to when he fisted me on that night he was in his cold place, which was uncomfortable and which I didn't like at all.

I think he did try to go in with his cock, I'm not sure, but he's fatter than the vibrator, though in a graceful sort of way, not like those fat penises that just have mass and no beauty.

But eventually he came up on the bed and, ordering me to hold the position he had placed me in with my feet on the floor, stomach on the mattress, and my bottom draped over the edge of the bed, he had me give him a leisurely blow job, which he seemed to quite enjoy. In the end, he jerked himself off and spurted up in my face. That was a first for me, and there was something exuberant about it. I was quite happy and very much at peace.

He asked for a towel in that dry, dom-sort of way that is a demand, not a request. I quickly washed off my face and he wiped himself off. Then he had me lie down with my cheek by his cock as he lay across the width of the bed. And he fell asleep. There was a small spell of snoring at one point, and a bit of fast breathing that made me think he was dreaming.

I didn't sleep. Even had he stayed the night I doubt I would have slept. I rarely do the first night. But I relaxed and enjoyed his breathing and felt at peace. I gazed at his neat, slender hands, and at his fat cock which was lovely in repose. I must have been very relaxed indeed, because when we finally got up I found that I had drooled into his public hair.

He slept. I lay there next to the warmth and peace of a sleeping man. And I realized that this was what I had needed most of all. I hadn't expected it, I could never have counted on it, he had never stayed this long before, but oh it was so very lovely.

He awoke maybe 20 minutes later. I continued to lie there, watching him pull on his jeans, looking at his lovely Irish grey hair which does not at all make him look old. He has a sweet face with a crooked smile. He patted my leg. And then he left.

I continued to rest.

I'll go to bed shortly. I'll touch myself and run through my mind some exercises for the sadist relative to serving his pleasure. When I feel I have made sufficient progress I am allowed to cum. And then with my butt sore from the Irishman and my heart unwisely warm from my sadistic owner, I will slide into sleep.

Why? - still looking for answers

Thanks again to all of you who responded either publicly or privately to my previous pondering post, Why? Those of you who don't normally read comments might want to go back and see what was contributed, as of course I'm not the only one of us dealing with these issues.

In fact, I had to go back to the original post myself, before starting to write this one, because I wasn't quite sure what the question was. Why what? I was rather surprised to realize that my question wasn't why was I doing what I was doing, but rather why did I feel anger in my behaviour - almost a sense of vengeance - and why did it make me feel like crying.

I honestly don't know how this post will end.

The advantages of my arrangements are of course quite clear. I always choose wrong. I always get hurt. I always expect more than I'm going to get, I always fantasize that there will be more, that there is more, and then accept way less than I should because I'm so desperate.

Oh, this girl is really, really desperate to be loved.

So yeah, we all know my arrangements make sense. I have built a wall around my emotions that's 2 miles high. No more messing up.

The philosopher and I thought we had protected ourselves. I declared that all I wanted was writing - though my concern was really more for physical protection. I was afraid of diseases and afraid of getting killed. The philosopher thought he was being really smart and went looking for electronic erotic amusement 250 miles away. That should keep things under control. Right?

Ha.

I fell.
Hard.
I fell in love with someone I'd never met.
I ignored all the warning signs and fell in love.
As for him . . .

OK. Here's the big admission. An admission to him, too. You know how I used to refer to him as "the man who owns and loves me"? Well . . . I may have been hallucinating. I don't know. It was in May nearly 2 years ago, after another of the times that he tried to break up with me. We were talking, late at night, working our way back, and . . . he murmured something . . . you see? I'll manufacture hope out of nothing. Out of passing breaths over an unclear phone line into tired, aging ears . . .

I thought . . .

I thought he said "I love you, kitten."

Very softly.

He may not have said it.
Hell, he probably didn't say it.
But I thought he did.
And I froze.
I stopped breathing.
I . . .

Those four words that he did or did not say hung there in the air around me and I was afraid to reach out and touch them for fear they would burst like the first tentative bubble a child blows through a wand.

So I didn't ask him to repeat it.
Even when you're sure,
you don't ask someone to repeat
those four words.

I chose to believe them.
From what had been said before,
from what seemed to exist
between me and this man
I never had met,
it didn't seem all that unlikely.
So I chose to believe.
And I whispered back
even more softly
my own four words
that he probably didn't hear.
My own four words . . .

"I love you, too."

A whisper.
A prayer.
And then gone.

Well, now I don't have to worry about any misunderstandings. I can't delude myself. These two guys, these two men with other involvements, they won't tolerate any threats to their lives, they've got their armour and they've got their rules. The rules are so clear, and the systems so clear, that even if my own emotions start pulling at the chains, my doms will smack me back into line so fast I'll never think of rebelling again. They will protect me against myself. I can't deny that there might be fantasies, but I will be very clear that they are only fantasies.

Why the anger, then?

I'm still not totally sure.
Maybe because this is what I'm reduced to.
Maybe because I'm afraid this is all I'll ever have.

Maybe because I took a big chance, and made myself very vulnerable, and had my heart broken, not by deliberate cruelty, but because I insisted on seeing possibilities that I was told again and again weren't there.

I can't be angry at the philosopher.
I can only be angry at myself.

And why the tears?

Because I fear that this is all I will ever have. Either nothing or mind games or a quick fuck and then he's gone. And then I'll be old and there will be no one. It might take another 20 years but eventually I will look 60 and who will want to exchange wild e-mails with a woman who is tired and wrinkled and grey? Who will want to run over at lunchtime to fuck a woman who is tired and wrinkled and grey? And who - really, tell me, who? - who will want to love and cherish a woman who is tired and wrinkled and grey and who has fucked up every relationship she's ever had?

I'm doing what I do with anger, anger at myself, because it's my only option, because I've settled for so little all along, settled for little crumbs all along, because I thought so little of myself all along that I feared that crumbs were all I could hope for. And it turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. It's all I got and all I will get but at least now the rules are clear.

And I cry because, whether I ever heard them before, I never again or ever will hear those four whispered words.

I love you, kitten.

If I ever heard them at all...

Why?

As I started on my way home from Shabbos services tonight, an odd impression came to me... this feeling that along with the other reasons for my current activities - pleasure, exploration, a basic need to submit, and who knows what else - there is a sense of doing it out of vengeance. But against whom? And why?

I feel as if I've passed my brief relatively promiscuous phase, born out of grief and anger at the loss of first the philosopher and then my demon muse. And certainly, promiscuous is an exaggerated term. Because really, what did it amount to? A couple of non-sexual dates, an educational 24 hours with Motorcycle Man following an enjoyable dinner a few nights previously, and a regretted few hours - the only real mistake - with the photographer.

What I have now is actually pretty stable.

Two men.

Two very different arrangements.

Two unique understandings.

But still, I detect in myself a soupçon of fierceness about it all.
As if I'm saying. There! See? Ha!

See what?
That someone wants me?
That someone desires me?
That two someones desire me?
That one of them wants my mind even more than my body?
That two intelligent, creative, good-looking and/or charismatic
and very compellingly sexy younger men
will take certain risks in order to have me?
It's not as if they can't find other women to satisfy their perversions.
OK, the Irishman is probably more easily satisfied
whereas for my sadist I am a project.
But I can at least pretend to myself
that there is something in me that they want.

As opposed to ex-hubby #2, who preferred reading bulletins from non-profits when he came to bed to even noticing that I was there and would roll over and go to sleep if we ever found ourselves in a motel and then dare to complain in the few sessions of couples therapy he thought we were worth that I never took the initiative sexually. I would cuddle up to him and he would roll over. How much rejection can one girl take?

How much rejection can one girl take?

So my sadistic demon muse develops me to serve his particular needs.
And the Irishman and I have
an arrangement
as to availability and procedure.
And I like both of them
and they each excite me
and they each make me happy.
Up to a point.
The little bits of them I have
make me happy
as far as they go.

Not perfect.
But it's something.

It's something to look forward to.
It's physical contact
limited though it may be
with someone other than Marko
who is sleeping and snoring on my left foot as I write.

The philosopher says I shouldn't cut myself off. So I'm not. OK, I'm not actually dating... but I am exploring my submission, in different ways and more physically than we were able to do together. It's probably good to take the opportunity now, after a largely sexless and loveless marriage, before I become too old and decrepit for this sort of carrying on.

"Will you still need me,
will you still beat me,
when I'm 64?"

OK, yes, I know, I'm carrying on with a couple of unavailable men. There is that. Is that a form of vengeance, too? I don't know... I used to worry about sisterhood, and just got hurt in the process. I feel a measure of anger, as if now, this era that I have set aside, this time is for me. I'm tired of rolling over and worrying about everyone else. And if I do roll over, and offer my butt for beating or my asshole for fucking, it's because I want to.

Then why do I sound as if I'm over-justifying?

And why do I feel as if this is all I'm ever going to get?

And why do I want to cry...

Time to break the fast

Enough!

I am declaring the fast over. I'm removing my chastity belt and taking the QUARANTINE sign off the door.

It's spring in Washington, DC.
The sap is running.
It is running out my cunt and down the tender insides of my thighs.
It is filling the cocks of two out of three men
and the clamor for my services is growing.
Two out of three men.
The third is silent.

I informed my sadistic demon muse first.

He owns me, and invests a lot of planning into the scheduling and lesson plans for his visits. Between one thing and another, including our successive bouts with the vicious virus, it has been over 3 weeks since he was last here. We have much to do, and have been trading inspirational e-mails.

Even the Irishman, usually so stingy with his words, has been writing, testing my metaphorical mucous to see if I'm ready to hang out the welcome sign.

As soon as the sadist has been here, I will declare myself available to all comers.

OK, not really. I'm not that much of a slut. But the Irishman may use me whenever he wishes. And he has been wishing for a while now.

Pure, unadulterated fucking.

Yeah, I know, adulterous fucking.
Sorry about that.
I'm done being responsible for other people's decisions.
Late at night, he will sneak out of his house, use me, and be back without being missed.

And there's the question. What happens to mixed marriages when there is no outlet for the one who is the dom, the sadist, for the one who is submissive, or a masochist. What happens when the urges, the needs, are bottled up, when they ferment, when the pressure builds... if there has been no regular release of the need to use, the need to hurt, the need to humiliate and debase, the need to control, is the marriage in greater danger of disintegrating?

This is a real question, about otherwise loving and treasured marriages. I don't know the answer, and I'm not pretending it's my job to save other people's relationships. I've got my own odd relationship, had my first failed, young marriage followed by a really bad marriage, and now am trying to take care of at least some of my needs. Still, I'm curious.

Anyone have a report from the field?

Surfeit

I am so tired.
I am ever so tired.

I think of the men in my life and my pussy starts pulsing and my cunt starts convulsing, and my heart softens and my panties grow soggy and the idea of summoning up the physical energy to actually be with any of them is totally impossible to entertain.

Hell, I'm flooding just from writing the last paragraph. And of course I'm not allowed to masturbate without permission as the sadist owns my orgasms...

hmmm... in addition to having permission - nay, encouragement - from the philosopher to see other people, I have permission from the sadist as well, with the footnote that he doesn't really think the permission is his to give. Still, to my mind it is, so I asked. But. If he owns my orgasms, do I have to ask to be allowed to cum when I'm with the Irishman? not that this has been an issue so far...

I do love the idea that there are these two men who've been wanting me while I've been sick and they just have to wait. Of course, I would much rather have been well and submissive than be able to enjoy this short-lived sense of power.

On top of all this... ah, fantasies... there is this woman who very occasionally turns up at my synagogue... I've had a crush on her since I first saw her... cute, smart, dynamic, artistic, feminist, progressive... she came for Purim services last night, welcomed me to sit next to her, sat close up against me with a lot of unnecessary physical contact which neither of us shied away from... it was nice to be reminded that I really am bi... although the idea of explaining my social life to her... Oy! In any case, I was very bold and added her to my Facebook friends list. For me, that's pretty brave and aggressive.

OK, now I've made myself utterly and completely horny. I sure as hell hope I'm stronger soon. My demon muse wants to pay me a lunchtime visit this week...

Depleted

I want to write for you. I want to write something titillating and salacious, about spanking and canings and being led around by a leash and cocks stuffed down my throat. And especially about anal sex. I think there are more hits on the anal sex label than on all the rest combined.

But of course I still haven't had anal sex. When I do, I promise I'll let you all know, even if I have to stand up as I type.

The thing is, I'm exhausted. Having that wretched virus was far worse than being beaten by the sadist. Oh, the pain from his pinching my nipples is much worse at the moment it is happening - it's not just pinching, it's a horrible twisting, it's awful, I can barely stand it, why is my cunt pulsing, why do I feel my panties getting wet as I talk about it, why am I regretting that I am on permanent orgasm restriction and that I have certain things to do tonight, certain exercises that will have me screaming for release which will be forbidden...

I've written about this before. I actually love orgasm restriction. In a way it is like prolonged foreplay. I love the pain of heightened, extended arousal. I love the feeling of being controlled. I love willingly giving over the control. Still...

This is the only place I can write about what I want. Well, I can elsewhere, but shouldn't really. The sadist is always reminding me that it is in no way about me and my desires. It is all and only about him and his needs and his desires and his urges... especially when the beast emerges. I will not forget that soon. The last time he was here I was seriously punished for daring to suggest otherwise.

There is always more to learn.

What I want doesn't enter into the Irishman's mind, either. But he's nicer about it. And in fact it does enter into his mind, because when he calls he doesn't order me to service him. He is asking me. Such a sweet man. It's only when he arrives that his own beast emerges. It fascinates me, the way I see it come over his face as he comes up the walk. And then it's all about him. I am but a collection of holes.

I wrote him a short poem signaling that I'm getting better.

I can't help letting the philosopher know what I want. But then he knows anyway. And we both know I may never get it. Except that in a way I am getting what I want. There is still that thin chain running up the New Jersey Turnpike, binding me to him. He is no longer pretending it is not there. How long it will survive and what it actually means is a mystery. But as long as it is there I'm ok.

For now, I need sleep. I need another day off, with no trips back and forth to town and no committee meetings.

And then?

I need to be taken by the beast and dragged off to his den.

I need to be spanked.
I need to be caned.
I need to feel a chain
pulled
tight around my neck.
I need to be dragged by my hair
and thrown onto the bed.
I need to have my nipples
twisted
and pinched
until I think it would be
less painful if he
just
sliced
them
off.
I need him to bite my neck.
I need him to bite my lip.
I need him to kiss me
deep and sensuously,
richly and softly,
fiercely and hungrily.
I need to be fucked.
Fiercely and hungrily.
I need to be fucked.
I need to be fucked.
I need to be fucked.

But oh,
most of all,
and here
my eyes fill with tears
so I know it is true,
most of all

i need to be loved.

Dommed by my virus

Being sick sucks. Especially when what you have is a highly contagious virus that could last 2-3 fucking weeks!

I mean, 2-3 non-fucking weeks.

My lovely Irishman called tonight. Obviously, I had to regretfully decline his request to avail himself of that which is rightfully his. It's bad enough giving a guy a cold, but a 3-week virus? Even he couldn't have been that horny.

As an aside... doesn't it strike you as odd that so many doms own me... have rights to me... Seems I ought to be able to design some sort of hierarchy chart. Well, of course you all know what it would be.

The Irishman can call in the middle of the night or the middle of the afternoon and if at all possible I will drop everything and happily present myself for use. I think of him sometimes, and smile at memories of him walking up to my door at a quarter of 1 in the morning. I think of how stern he becomes, how abrupt, how focused, and, underneath, how gentle and considerate. I'm curious to see, as we go on, how far he lets himself go in exploring his urges with me. And I'm happy to have him in my life, even though his appearances are brief and unanticipated.

Serving him pleases me.

My sadistic demon muse owns pretty much every minute of my waking hours and, I suspect, much of my dream world as well. He is always lingering underneath my consciousness, and usually just the act of sitting in front of my computer is enough to bring him to the fore. He values me, he lets me know that he values me, and despite the fact that I drive him crazy, he devotes much time to devising, revising, and then instituting plans that he hopes will train and mold me into what he wants me to be.

I want to be what he wants me to be.

The philosopher sits in a frame on my desk. The philosopher envelopes my butt in pink panties. The philosopher nestles above my cleavage in the guise of his gift of a handmade intarsia Obama logo pin, which I wear almost every day. The philosopher is like a soft and gentle second skin, a whisper of a hug, a tease of sun through the forest leaves... with no promise that there is any more sun to follow but welcome nevertheless.

Love trumps everything else.

Except for a very sadistic virus.
Nothing beats a virus.

Hmmm... I wonder if the sadist could beat it out of me... do you think the endorphins...?

Not really a post on objectification

I meant to write a post today.

A nice long discussion of objectification.

I've been thinking about it lately. The Irishman came back on Friday night. He phoned at 12:45 in the morning, asking if I was (available? willing?) to service him. I had been asleep. I said yes, of course, and he was there in 15 minutes.

There was something so sexy about being woken up like that.

He had that look. His crooked smile was gone, his expression now set and stern. I was wearing the slave shirt I had been sleeping in. We went to the bedroom, he turned off the light, told me to kneel, took out his cock, and fucked my mouth. His cock is fat, I didn't notice last time, I kept gagging, and in the end I was drooling saliva and cum.

He came with a roar. I wonder if my housemate heard.

He stood there for a minute or two, my head leaning against his leg. And then he left.

I was content.

I was smiling.

And I've been thinking of how this nice man needs to reduce me to a trio of orifices, and of how the sadist is training me to be dragged down into degraded depths of objectification, and of how I want it and am happy.

Very odd...

But I'm sick and I'm tired so I will write more on this within the next few days. I've been discussing it with my demon muse and with the philosopher (who to my great relief is not disgusted by my attraction to being used in this way), and welcome any comments on the matter in advance of my full-scale post.

I'm especially interested in anyone's experiences with objectification in service to compartmentalization i.e. a way for the dom(me) to reduce the submissive/slave to a thing so as not to risk an emotional connection that could threaten a primary, possibly vanilla relationship.

Thanks for any comments and now I'm taking my feeble brain to bed. My mother says that I shouldn't go to work tomorrow because my throat is sore. Maybe she can fax over a note?

Use and service

Written 2 days ago, right after the fact.

I'd been thinking about the Irishman for days. I was stressed out and needing human contact.

Today, he e-mailed me.
He e-mailed me and I didn't see the message.

He uses my anonymous yahoo account that I keep for craigslist ads - ads for housemates and lovers and perverts. It is NOT my oatmeal girl account, because I prefer to keep my blog secret from the men I meet. It's awfully tricky to write about them otherwise....

So Wednesday he e-mailed my yahoo account, and I didn't see the message because I mostly don't use that account. I've been keeping it open just in case he wants me. But I didn't see this.

We have an arrangement. If and when he wants me, he can have me. For use. A very functional relationship. There might not be much notice, there might not be a snuggle afterwards, no sitting around and chatting beforehand... I love it.

OK, it's not my top choice. I really like this guy. Something about him appeals to me. He's very good looking. Smart, charming (the little he's allowed me to see), Irish of course, grey hair that doesn't make him look old, an enticingly wry crooked smile... I wish I could date him. But of course he's not available. Not even an open marriage. He just has these needs, simmering underneath all the time, and then they rise to the surface and need release. And I said yes, I'd be there for him, I'd be his slut, he could use me as he needed me. Better than having to score a new girl from craigslist each time.

And the idea excites the hell out of me.

Unfortunately, there had been no opportunity for him to use me until today. He had asked once or twice - with a minimum of e-mailed words in which you could hear the politeness - but the timing was off. I was sorry. And then this week... I did so need to be with someone this week, no matter what the circumstances. As long as it was someone with whom I felt a connection.And I do feel a connection with him.

But I didn't see his e-mail.

And then he phoned. A little before 9 pm. And I said yes, of course.

He was here in half an hour.

He gestured with his head and we went straight to the bedroom. He bent me over the foot of the bed and spanked me a few times, through my jeans. He doesn't hit me that hard... I wonder
why my butt hurts now? Because it definitely does hurt. I wish he'd done more. I wished he'd had the time and the inclination to spank me for 20 minutes... to spank me until I sank into the rhythm and the pain... not that painful in each slap but pain that built, and that got worse as my ass became more and more tender... I wanted to externalize the pain from these last days, make it tangible... but this was better than nothing. And it does still hurt.

He bent me over the foot of the bed and spanked me. Then he ordered me to take off my jeans and panties. I didn't get the impression he wanted anything more to come off. He was focused and goal oriented. He had asked ahead of time whether I had condoms, so I had already arrayed them and assorted lubricants on the bedside table. He positioned me back over the foot of the bed and said he wanted my ass. He was kind, checking to be sure that was ok. He said he wanted a minimum of talking. I did tell him that this would be the first time. He said in that case it would hurt - and was I all right with that? He is a very kind dom. I said yes, I was all right with it, I wanted it.

What do you want?

Whatever you do, sir.

Do you want to be my slut?

Yes, sir, I do want to be your slut! (a slight smile slips into my voice)

Good girl.

He spanked my bare ass. I could hear condom and lube action. He had been rubbing his be-jeaned erection into the crack, rubbing, pressing, banging... I wanted him. I wanted him using me like this, reducing me to a hole or two... my sadistic demon muse has been exploring objectification with me and has plans to do more. This little adventure would have made him happy, I think.

So yes, he spanked my bare ass. Not all that hard but hard enough that it still hurts as I write this later that evening. I wonder if he saw any remnants of my birthday beating.

And I wonder if my demon muse cast a spell on my virgin anus. A spell that locked it tight. Because the Irishman couldn't make it in.

He went to Plan B.

He fucked my cunt from behind. It didn't take too long, this was a utilitarian fucking with nothing to prove. But I felt him banging at me from behind, I felt him inside me, I felt the pressure, a nice erect cock inside me. Hallelujah.

He came. He remained inside me just a very brief time. Just as long as he needed. Then he smacked my ass one more time... it was a good hard smack but I experienced it as a good-bye kiss... he smacked me that one more time then bent over my back and murmured in my ear "I'm going to go now. Stay there." I sighed contentedly and said "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

And then he was gone.

From arrival to departure it couldn't have been more than 20 minutes.

Would I have liked more? Sure. I would have liked at least a half hour of spanking and fucking and a whole lot of other things in between. I'm not greedy... because what I would really have liked was an hour... including a pair of naked bodies and his weight on me... and kisses... we did kiss the first time he came here... he kisses well... but this was fine. This was very fine... there was a body here... there was pain... there was sex... and even though he needed to reduce me to a hole, he was still someone who needed me. Who needed to be with me.

And that felt just lovely.

Thank you, sir.
I am your slut, sir, on call, and happy to serve.

He beat me till I cried

Monday.
President's Day.
There were all these men swirling around me on Monday.

One had found me on FetLife, where my profile clearly says that I'm looking for nothing more than friendship.

One had responded to my craigslist ad a while back, and we had discussed talking or meeting this weekend. He and his wife collect subs and slaves, it seems, and I thought it would be interesting to talk with him.

The Irishman wrote to see if I was available.
He likes to be spontaneous.

There was silence from the philosopher.

And my demon muse took me to the dungeon for an hour,
and beat me till I cried.

President's Day is a federal holiday, so a lot of people in the DC area are off work. But a lot of people aren't. My job goes by the federal calendar. My housemate's doesn't. I had the house to myself. The family room reverted to the dungeon.

The sadist said he'd arrive at 10 am. He told me what to have ready. He told me how to prepare myself. And then at 9 o'clock he e-mailed that at 9:30 I was to shut myself in my room until getting the text message that he was 5 minutes away.

My room was to be my cage for that half hour.
The cage in which I had spent Saturday, naked and in chains.

We've been talking about cages.
Not about his getting one for me.
But about the concept.
And all it takes is a few words to turn a room into a cage.

So I awaited his arrival in my cage.
His cage.

He has a plan for me.
It's all worked out.
Very methodical.
He ordered me down to the dungeon
and got to work.

There was pain and poetry,
teaching and training,
spanking and caning with that
wretched
strip of
cherry
wood.

He beat me till I cried.

I was down on the floor on my hands and knees, head down, ass in the air, my poor vulnerable ass willingly offered to that nasty piece of wood as it came down again and again and again. Not as hard as he would beat a masochist, but hard for me. And I took it. I willingly took it. I hated it but I gave him my pain. Sometimes I squirmed away a bit but I came back and I raised my ass and he beat me and in the end I broke down and sobbed. And then he ordered me up and I don't remember what came next.

I cried one more time.
Later.
When he made me cum.
Coldly and deliberately,
with a sadistic detachment,
he made me cum.

And I cried.

I always do, don't I...

He was cold but, it seems, I was not.
I'm happy to report that at 60 years of age
my pussy is hot and wet and tight.
Maybe I should ask him for an affidavit.

The philosopher had a goal of caning me till I cried. And finally he did it. The last time he was here. I had been very bad, and he gave me a long, drawn out punishment in many stages. It was a true punishment, and I was truly penitent. And at the end, after 4 hard strokes of the cane, 4 of an intended 20 or so, he knew that was all I needed. He stopped and I cried my heart out.

I haven't seen him since that weekend.

But we're talking about now. Yesterday. When the sadist beat me till I cried, and did all these other things, did things to my head, not just to my body. He left in the usual way, and I went up to my bedroom, my cage, and immediately e-mailed him my first reactions in the usual way, and then covered each butt cheek with its own giant bag of frozen peas.

And then all I wanted to do was to stay in my cage. I put away the peas and drank some water and shook with chills and curled up in a fetal position with Marko by my side and slept for over 2 hours. And even when I left what felt like the safe confines of my cage, I still felt like I was there. And stunned.

Oh, I did some reading I needed to do for a committee I'm on, and I talked for a while with the man of many slaves, and e-mailed the man from FetLife, and regretfully told the Irishman that I really wasn't up to serving him (he was awfully nice and I was awfully sorry). And I sent the additional required reports to the sadist. And didn't get much else done.

He e-mailed back last night.

I said I wasn't sure what I could handle.
I want to serve him but am not sure what I can handle.

We talked back and forth today, e-mailed back and forth. It needn't be an all-or-nothing thing. But if I'm going to be anything more than his private Anaïs Nin, producing erotic literature for his eyes only, he'll have to work out the details.

I do hope he can. It would be a pity to let a hot, wet, tight pussy go to waste. After all these years, it's still almost like new.

Except, of course, that what I really need is something else.

I need someone I can curl up against,
the way Marko curls up against me.
I need someone to stroke my head
the way I stroke Marko's.
I need someone to stroke my head as I curl against him, while he says
there, there... don't cry, kitten.
And then holds me while he lets me cry as much as I want.

Eventually.
Hopefully.
Eventually.

The final gift

The philosopher called. That was all that was needed. The last piece that was needed to make it a perfect day.

Almost a perfect day.

If he had been here, then it would have been perfect.

But this was quite perfect enough.
And I am content.
Content and very very happy.

He said he's glad I'm back with my demon muse. He thinks he's good for me. And he's right. He is good for me. He is just what I need.

I remember a year ago, when the philosopher was deconstructing from assorted stress, he suggested that maybe I needed someone down here to spank me and take care of my assorted needs. And I answered in a panic, oh NO, no way, it's too dangerous, relationships get all messed up like that.

But I don't feel like that now. Not in this case. I seem to have everything parceled out, everyone in his own box. And the feelings I have for the demon, strong as they may be, don't at all interfere with my love for the philosopher. They are different, they don't contradict, they don't dilute, I have room for gallons and gallons of strong feelings and they don't get mixed up.

I am very lucky to have both of them.

Not to mention the Irishman, whom I expect to see every so often. We have a little arrangement. I'm happy about that. We both are.

I feel complete.
I feel strong.
I feel happy.

I am happy.

Good night, John.

i love you...

Capitulation

i saw the Irishman this morning.

at the house.

i doubt any of you are surprised. it was inevitable. he had cast a spell on me. no. not even that. nothing that deliberate. it just was. it had to be.

i was thinking about it afterwards. how i have dinner with a perfectly nice guy, who could give me the companionship i'm looking for, who could have given me a very nice sex life, including spankings and nipple clamps albeit without the clear dominance i need and want, who would have come home with me that very night right after dinner and licked me to as many orgasms as i could possibly desire... i had dinner with this nice guy and said no. no sex on the first date.

and then this man, his words dripping with honey and desire, intensity and dominance sending flames shooting out of the edges of my laptop, this man e-mails me at 9 am on a Saturday morning to ask about my plans for the day and i'm up and scurrying and feeding cats and eating breakfast and washing the fleece blanket that was matted with cat hair and jumping in the shower and washing my curls and washing out the sink and cleaning out the toilet and going so far as to put the bedspread on the bed which i almost never do and he turns up right on time and spanks me and fucks my mouth and holds my head in his lap and departs after 35 minutes leaving me sighing and smiling with a slightly sore butt and totally at peace.

he is a lovely man. and if he were really available, i'll bet i'd run the other way. i can't seem to want the ones i can really have. but let them be married, let them live far away, let them be emotionally unavailable, and i'm pulled by some sadistic magnet to a state of satisfaction crossed with frustration.

i think i have a crush on him. so i suppose i'm better off than most people with crushes because i actually get to have a bit of him, even if it's just in half hour segments and mouthfuls of cum.

i do think i have a crush on him. he's charmingly good looking, in a relaxed delicious Irish sort of way. if i ever have to post another ad, i will specify Only Irish Need Apply. he's not that much taller than me, he's not a large guy, he's just the sort that i would normally want. and he has this lovely smile that lights up his face, lights up the room and the street and the entire neighborhood. it lights up his eyes, his sweet and tender eyes... eyes that in an instant can turn cold and hard or insistent and demanding... that can burn into me, that remind me that there can be no resistance.

i've missed this. oh God how i've missed this. and i love having his unhidden sweetness along with the dominance. as he got ready to go, he laughed tenderly, appreciatively, at my cute purple "sockies" with the cats on them.

his sweetness is a danger.

he arrived right on time. he brought in the paper from the walk. he held me to him, firmly and comfortably, and i melted into him. he knew i wanted him there. i sat on the couch and babbled, thinking - hoping - he would sit down and talk a bit. but this was not his intent. he looked out the dining room picture window at the backyard and commented on the invasion of bamboo from my neighbor's yard. then he pulled me to him again, and asked where i wanted to be.

my housemate was home.

i took him to the bedroom.

did he kiss me then? i can't remember. he turned me away from him so i was facing the bed. and he smacked my ass. his hand felt slightly cupped, and the impact was firm and controlled. it didn't hurt all that much as i felt it through one layer each of corduroy pants and pink panties. but it was a spanking and inside i sighed with relief.

in his messages he had characterized himself as a "kind Dom." after the first smack or two, he asked "is this ok?" i said "yes. it focuses me." he said "good. i want you to focus."

the spanking continued for a bit. i relished every firm landing of his hand. then he pulled me back against him, he pressed himself into my clothed ass as he pulled me back against him. he brought his arm around to my front and became acquainted with my nipples through the protection of bra and sweater, he brought his arm up to my neck, brought his hand to my chin, he pulled my head back and did things to my nipples... at some point i ended up face down on the bed... maybe that was right after he had me remove my pants. i was face down over the end of the bed, my ass hanging over the edge, and he spanked me through my pink panties, and then he pushed them into the crack of my ass, and he spanked me more.

and then the catechism began. he must have gone to the same school for Irish Catholic doms that the philosopher attended. he asked who owned each part of me and i promised him everything.

and we both knew he owned them only while he was there.

eventually he brought me back up.
he had me kneel before him.
he wanted me to serve him with my mouth.
and with gratitude, i did.
he has a lovely cock, and i took it lovingly.
i gave him pleasure happily.
and then he took my head
and pushed me down on his beautiful cock
and fucked himself with my head
and it didn't take too long
he was greatly in need
and he came in my mouth
and he tasted gentle.
it was gentle-tasting cum.
and i swallowed it happily.

and then...
ah then...
he sat down on the edge of the bed, and i stayed on the floor by his side, and he took my head in his lap, and put his right arm over my back and i'm not sure what he did with his left arm, but i was his baby girl and i was happy and we were peaceful together for a long time.

there were no words.
just this sweet silent communion
and breaths that flowed in and out together.

and then he had to go.

and then he had to go, and he had to tell me that this wouldn't happen all that often, and i told him i knew and i reassured him that i had no desire and no intention of threatening or disrupting the security of his life. and he said he knew that, he wasn't worried.

so.

so what have i gained?
yet one more unavailable Irish guy.
occasional short visits
occasional poetic exchanges of e-mails
a welcome supply of masturbatory fantasies
and reassurance for the philosopher that
some of my needs are being met.
sometimes.

plus there's the other one.

how many married men does it take to make up one full-time dom?

the man with the disabled wife, whom i will now call the director. because that's the way he exercises his dominance. these little directions, very small impositions of his will, so easy to follow but so satisfying for me to obey and for him to command. i think my submission to him, my training, will be a more ongoing thing than my interludes with the Irishman, limited by his various responsibilities but still a steady project. and while he would need to be subtle in scheduling his time with me, out of consideration for his family, our relationship would not be illicit.

he finally sent me a picture. he is not at all as good looking as either the Irishman or my philosopher. but the fiend wasn't good looking either - or not that i could tell what with his being so fat. it didn't matter. and it won't matter here. he is already giving me a lot of what i need.

in a way, it would be nice to have a third guy. i still haven't satisfied the need to have someone to "date." to hang out with. to go to dinner with, to the movies, to the theatre... but in another way, that's ok. i won't be placing any more ads. not for now. i was exhausted by all the dating and phone calls. i'll appreciate being able to collapse at home after work, though an occasional night out would be lovely... i wonder if that is allowed under the director's don't-ask-don't-tell agreement?

at the very least, 2 doms should keep me out of the philosopher's beautiful long red hair, while frustrating his desire to find some truly available guy to palm me off on.

They still want me

The Irishman is still interested.

He wrote this morning.
Five little lines that
said what was needed.

"please don't take periods of silence as negative"

sighs of relief and
little floods of joy.
i should turn away
and i can't.
big surprise.

And there was another returnee. Remember the guy with the disabled wife? I had a good feeling about him but hadn't heard for a couple of days. Well, he wrote again this morning, too. He's into control more than pain, and this afternoon gave me a sample. Nothing big, and no pressure, but oh my goodness it felt good!

He's Irish, too, of course. But I think I'll call him the husband. Because he is that, a husband, who is wisely doing what he needs to do to keep his marriage going under difficult circumstances. He lives a little closer to me than the Irishman, and has the advantage of not being a cheater, although he still does need to be respectfully subtle about his activities.

But maybe I should call him Control Man.

He offers delicious control. Stabilizing, twitch-inducing, and very satisfying.

The Irishman offers passion and pain and joy.

I see no need to choose.

The big reveal

One by one, they are coming out of the closet.

One by one, they are making confession.

One by one, they unbutton their shirts and reveal the big scarlet A,
rampant across their chests in a radiant rash.

One by one, they admit they are married.

Not all of them. The ones who give their full names seem to be ok. They lack the sense of danger that keeps women from responding with their own names to an ad on craigslist that could be from who knows what pervert. (Well, ok... I suppose I shouldn't be casting aspersions on perverts when I'm in love with one myself.)

The men who just give their first names... the men who uses aliases... they live on the cheating side of town.

There have been a few open marriages other than the guy I went out with on Saturday. One guy's wife is in the Middle East for the State Department, and has permission to see other people while she's gone. Another man's wife is disabled, and has given him leave to get his needs met in a don't-ask-don't-tell arrangement. A third has leave to see girls to deal with his kinky urges.

And before you sound dubious, yes - I do believe them. There's something about the way they tell their stories... yes, sure, I could be wrong. But they make sense.

And then there's the editor.
Except I should really call him something else.
The Irishman.
Not directly from Ireland.
Irish like the philosopher.
Older, though, with a beautiful head of grey hair.
Uses words like the philosopher does.
Even his voice is like the philosopher's.
So of course, he's married.
And perhaps going through a midlife crisis.

We were going to have lunch today, after flirting wildly on e-mail all yesterday. He knows what to say. He knows how to say it. He uses the little trigger words... he called me baby girl. No one has ever called me baby girl. Who knew it would make me curl up inside... I was ready to agree to anything.

Almost.

He e-mailed last night, wild with desire, begging for my address. And then he phoned. The family was asleep and he could have been here in 20 minutes. I imagined old ballads, a ladder at my window: Let me come in, the soldier cried. Cold blow and the rainy night... I was exhausted and I was tempted and I was laughing and I was tempted...

And I said no way. I learned my lesson with the photographer. No way I'm having anyone over without first having met him in a public place. And really, he was so funny, he was so desperate, he's so attractive, he's the kind of man I can't resist...

We were still supposed to meet for lunch today, although there was always the chance he wouldn't have time. And he e-mailed this morning that in fact a lot of things had come up, and he hadn't gotten a whole lot done yesterday (gee, I wonder why...) and I haven't heard anything since then. I suspect he's maybe embarrassed at losing his head last night.

And I wonder if that means I won't hear from him again.

Which I would really regret.

Because the way he made me feel
the way he wrote
it's been a long time since I've felt that way,
since I've had e-mails like that.

And when he phoned
although I knew it had to be him
- I knew it had to be him -
the voice
the timbre
the gentleness
the...
it sounded like
the only voice
I really
wanted
to hear.