Today we reunited.
In my dream, we reunited.
This morning... the details are fuzzy... we were together, in bed, talking some, I don't remember... it was such a relief, I felt so whole...
I cried in the shower.
Today, I am crying.
Where he was there is only emptiness and pain.
I'm working very hard to remember other times... to remember that this really was the right decision... to remember that he himself knew he couldn't always protect me from the beast. To remember that to say "the beast" is to dangerously separate what is a part of HIM. A part he does not want to give up even if he could. Because he thrives on the thrill.
But I loved him.
I love him still, beneath the anger and the fear and...
the disappointment.
I think back to after... when he was done... when he had cum... when he sat back against the mounded pillow but this time without me cuddled against him. Without the softness. There was a thick wall between us. I think back to how he said he wasn't going to talk about it. To how he said he wouldn't apologize.
I knew he knew he ought to apologize.
I knew he wouldn't LET himself apologize.
It's his credo.
His own wall.
His declaration of superiority.
I wonder if he apologizes to the people in his other life.
The radio.
I had to turn off the radio.
They were speaking of searching for our missing half. Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium explaining that humans were once round, two halves together, male and male, female and female, and male and female. We pissed off Zeus, trying to scale Mount Olympus, and he blasted us in half. But we feel the emptiness, we ache for our missing part, we search to be reunited so we can once again and always feel whole.
He made me feel whole.
He taught me that I'm beautiful.
He demanded my worship but treasured me in exchange.
I cried in the shower.
~ ~ ~
I remind myself to be strong.
I remind myself that he's not going to change.
Even if he could, he never will change.
He doesn't want to change.
And that's his choice.
He has mellowed, though. I've seen that over time. He has mellowed. Mellowed, softened, matured. Or perhaps ... no. I won't speculate. I won't project onto him my own interpretations.
We both lost.
I miss him dreadfully.
The bruises on my body will be gone long before the pain of the loss.
~ ~ ~
I'm on Facebook, you know.
Or maybe you don't know.
As Oatmealgirl Author.
I have "friends" there, but no one comments unless I post a comment in response to someone else's post. Those of you who feel comfortable with having such a friend among your other friends are welcome to come by. Me, I keep a separate account under my legal name.
A separate account.
A separate name.
A separate life.
I may be strong.
But I don't feel whole.
No one knew me the way he did.
No one.
Ever.
Showing posts with label beast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beast. Show all posts
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Fleeing the Shapeshifter
I always said that I'd never let go.
I know he's a sadist.
I wouldn't let go.
But he growled and he mauled me,
Sinking his jaws deep in my shoulder
And my father is dying
And I screamed and I sobbed
And I got him to cum
And when it was over
My heart turned to stone
And the beast
Did not
Change back into a loving man.
~ ~ ~ ~
Illustration for Tam Lin from the album Child Ballads by Anaïs Mitchell & Jefferson Hamer. Their version of this shapeshifter ballad has been my favorite since I first heard it.
It's over
The beast was in heat and came to sate his hunger, following a long and welcome absence. This was always a possibility. There were no assurances otherwise. In fact, there were repeated warnings that I should never assume I was safe.
The beast is not welcome here.
But meals are prix fixe.
The chef sets the menu.
There are no substitutions.
It's all or nothing.
And so
reluctantly
I'm walking away.
I feel strong.
Proud of myself.
Strong and proud and beautiful and sad.
And I know I'll never find another you.
The beast is not welcome here.
But meals are prix fixe.
The chef sets the menu.
There are no substitutions.
It's all or nothing.
And so
reluctantly
I'm walking away.
I feel strong.
Proud of myself.
Strong and proud and beautiful and sad.
And I know I'll never find another you.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
I'm going to torture you, he whispered...
... so softly that I could hardly hear him.
He whispered other things, too,
which I heard even less. Aging
is taking vengeance on my hearing.
There were words here and there,
intensity overcoming inability.
I caught words, promises, warnings,
about begging, pleading, the implication
that these would accomplish nothing.
He didn't, you know.
Though I would have yielded, you know.
But he didn't.
He doesn't.
Not like that.
Not like his dark fantasies, his
desperate desires.
I held him fast all in my arms.
I said the right words and took him inside me.
and held him fast,
my fearsome fearful shape shifter,
and as he came so passed the spell
and he lay in my arms a naked man.
He protects me.
In the epic battle between Love and the Beast,
Love always wins.
One of my favorite versions of the referenced ballad, which is one of many dealing with love conquering the evil spell. "But first I'll change all in your arms..."
He whispered other things, too,
which I heard even less. Aging
is taking vengeance on my hearing.
There were words here and there,
intensity overcoming inability.
I caught words, promises, warnings,
about begging, pleading, the implication
that these would accomplish nothing.
He didn't, you know.
Though I would have yielded, you know.
But he didn't.
He doesn't.
Not like that.
Not like his dark fantasies, his
desperate desires.
I held him fast all in my arms.
I said the right words and took him inside me.
and held him fast,
my fearsome fearful shape shifter,
and as he came so passed the spell
and he lay in my arms a naked man.
He protects me.
In the epic battle between Love and the Beast,
Love always wins.
One of my favorite versions of the referenced ballad, which is one of many dealing with love conquering the evil spell. "But first I'll change all in your arms..."
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
A pre-orgasmic lullaby of pain
Go ahead and scare me.
Make me face the ugly welcome truth that you won't stop no matter how hard I beg. There is no safe word. Why pretend? Why pretend you would obey? I'm the one who must obey.
Why pretend I want one?
Such a safe childhood I led. Such an overly safe childhood. Perhaps a handful of normal risks would have freed me from this urge to run into a burning building, ripping off my clothes as I dive into the flames. Ripping them off - into unquiltable scraps - so there is no chance of ever again covering my nakedness against singeing eyes.
So yes.
Scare me.
Go a little farther.
Show me his greedy face.
Let me see the hunger dripping from your fangs.
Give me a peek
before sleep
and the morning
send him back to his fury-fueled lair.
You know I can't help flirting with the beast.
You stayed his hand when together you whipped my butt. But later, as the night dripped on in its hours of love and desire and devotion and suffering, he pushed you away as he took the belt to my pussy. For a week the giant darkened patches of skin spoke to how hard I tried to keep my thighs apart, to accept the blows, to accept the pain, to offer pale protected skin and hidden lips and once even there on the altar my poor unprepared clit to the hard slash of the whipping belt and it was all worth it because you knew I was trying, you treasured the glorious sacrifice to your mastery and the leather and the pain whipped away the walls, the barriers, the misunderstandings, the months of private pain having nothing to do with belts across the ass and hard slaps to the face and nipple abuse that left those poor tender little red nubs of flesh chapped for days and days and how gladly I suffered for you and how valiantly you pushed me only a little past where I'd been before so that this time you just let yourself swim in the sweet soft honey soup of your pussy slave, your angel slave, all loving and gentle and more worshipful than ever as she wishes you could take your belt to her ass every evening after supper before you fucked her with love or raped her with need and now, I think, I'll take my reward and stroke my sweet pussy till I cum.
I love you, my Master.
Make me face the ugly welcome truth that you won't stop no matter how hard I beg. There is no safe word. Why pretend? Why pretend you would obey? I'm the one who must obey.
Why pretend I want one?
Such a safe childhood I led. Such an overly safe childhood. Perhaps a handful of normal risks would have freed me from this urge to run into a burning building, ripping off my clothes as I dive into the flames. Ripping them off - into unquiltable scraps - so there is no chance of ever again covering my nakedness against singeing eyes.
So yes.
Scare me.
Go a little farther.
Show me his greedy face.
Let me see the hunger dripping from your fangs.
Give me a peek
before sleep
and the morning
send him back to his fury-fueled lair.
You know I can't help flirting with the beast.
You stayed his hand when together you whipped my butt. But later, as the night dripped on in its hours of love and desire and devotion and suffering, he pushed you away as he took the belt to my pussy. For a week the giant darkened patches of skin spoke to how hard I tried to keep my thighs apart, to accept the blows, to accept the pain, to offer pale protected skin and hidden lips and once even there on the altar my poor unprepared clit to the hard slash of the whipping belt and it was all worth it because you knew I was trying, you treasured the glorious sacrifice to your mastery and the leather and the pain whipped away the walls, the barriers, the misunderstandings, the months of private pain having nothing to do with belts across the ass and hard slaps to the face and nipple abuse that left those poor tender little red nubs of flesh chapped for days and days and how gladly I suffered for you and how valiantly you pushed me only a little past where I'd been before so that this time you just let yourself swim in the sweet soft honey soup of your pussy slave, your angel slave, all loving and gentle and more worshipful than ever as she wishes you could take your belt to her ass every evening after supper before you fucked her with love or raped her with need and now, I think, I'll take my reward and stroke my sweet pussy till I cum.
I love you, my Master.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Fuck me, damn it!
We spent the day in mutual masturbation.
Not with our fingers, though,
except for the action of fingers on keyboards.
It started with a scenario that, last night, inserted itself into his brain, playing over and over as he expanded and refined. It gripped him and, as he knew it would, gripped me as hard as his hand can close around my throat till I can hardly breathe.
This was a very large seed my Master planted in my brain. It germinated, rooted fast, and threw up shoots that envenomed like poison ivy. They touched him, infected him, and he tossed his visions back to me.
I was in pain for hours.
The pain of unrelieved arousal.
It was glorious.
He quite enjoyed my agony.
As did I.
We've been elsewhere mostly, this last month. Daddy's health issues, my SAD, assorted other problems in our lives, these have made for very different sorts of interactions. We are many things to each other, with each other, and we grew closer together in those other areas. What we were dealing with was hard, but how we interacted was beautiful and intimate, if not the kind of intimacy that involves the communing of body parts.
Underneath it all,
firmly underneath it all,
lay the foundation of his ownership.
We both know that without that
there would be
no "we."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At this point, I was interrupted. There was supposed to be more to this post. About how he told me to leave a message on his voice mail while he went out to scrape the ice of his car. A message from Daddy's baby girl. A message apologizing for asking for something - because it's true, she's never supposed to just phone, and she certainly is never supposed to ask for anything for herself but this time he ordered me to phone and ask, to beg, please, please Daddy, please stick your cock in my little butt hole and fuck me! Which I do in fact badly want, he knows I want it, need it, that it has been an obsession for years, to be taken in the ass, raped in the ass, sodomized, debased, with nothing erotic about it. A butt-fucking that can only be humiliating, that accentuates the extent to which I am owned property, that sends me further down into that place, not a pretty floaty place despite the endorphins that will flow through me instead of blood. A dark, dark, perfect place - a perfect place, don't you see it's a perfect place? It's a safe place even though it's a dangerous place because of the chance the beast will break past the spell cast around him to keep me safe.
It's a safe place.
Because I don't have to pretend.
I can yield to everything.
Leave everything else behind.
Because with
every
stab
of pain
in my ass
his cock
declares
over
and over:
This
is what
you are.
And what
you are
is Mine.
So now we are talking about his taking me off to a rustic cabin in the woods. For a week of training and torture and transformation. He used to go to the perfect place as a child. I've been pulling up pictures of cabin interiors to set the scene.
A shared fantasy and nothing more?
Perhaps.
If so, the psychological effects will be real.
Then again,
with Daddy my Master,
you never do know...
[That subject line? Never in the world, never never never, would I ever say such a thing to my Master. But oh... It's been weeks since he fucked me. And I've so badly needed to cum all damn day. I wouldn't even have to cum. I could merely pass my finger tip over my very swollen clit. Though no. Do you hear my sigh? All it would take would be that one little touch and you would hear my orgasmic cries from here to London and California. So no. No touching. No cumming. Poor Baby...]
Not with our fingers, though,
except for the action of fingers on keyboards.
It started with a scenario that, last night, inserted itself into his brain, playing over and over as he expanded and refined. It gripped him and, as he knew it would, gripped me as hard as his hand can close around my throat till I can hardly breathe.
This was a very large seed my Master planted in my brain. It germinated, rooted fast, and threw up shoots that envenomed like poison ivy. They touched him, infected him, and he tossed his visions back to me.
I was in pain for hours.
The pain of unrelieved arousal.
It was glorious.
He quite enjoyed my agony.
As did I.
We've been elsewhere mostly, this last month. Daddy's health issues, my SAD, assorted other problems in our lives, these have made for very different sorts of interactions. We are many things to each other, with each other, and we grew closer together in those other areas. What we were dealing with was hard, but how we interacted was beautiful and intimate, if not the kind of intimacy that involves the communing of body parts.
Underneath it all,
firmly underneath it all,
lay the foundation of his ownership.
We both know that without that
there would be
no "we."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At this point, I was interrupted. There was supposed to be more to this post. About how he told me to leave a message on his voice mail while he went out to scrape the ice of his car. A message from Daddy's baby girl. A message apologizing for asking for something - because it's true, she's never supposed to just phone, and she certainly is never supposed to ask for anything for herself but this time he ordered me to phone and ask, to beg, please, please Daddy, please stick your cock in my little butt hole and fuck me! Which I do in fact badly want, he knows I want it, need it, that it has been an obsession for years, to be taken in the ass, raped in the ass, sodomized, debased, with nothing erotic about it. A butt-fucking that can only be humiliating, that accentuates the extent to which I am owned property, that sends me further down into that place, not a pretty floaty place despite the endorphins that will flow through me instead of blood. A dark, dark, perfect place - a perfect place, don't you see it's a perfect place? It's a safe place even though it's a dangerous place because of the chance the beast will break past the spell cast around him to keep me safe.
It's a safe place.
Because I don't have to pretend.
I can yield to everything.
Leave everything else behind.
Because with
every
stab
of pain
in my ass
his cock
declares
over
and over:
This
is what
you are.
And what
you are
is Mine.
So now we are talking about his taking me off to a rustic cabin in the woods. For a week of training and torture and transformation. He used to go to the perfect place as a child. I've been pulling up pictures of cabin interiors to set the scene.
A shared fantasy and nothing more?
Perhaps.
If so, the psychological effects will be real.
Then again,
with Daddy my Master,
you never do know...
[That subject line? Never in the world, never never never, would I ever say such a thing to my Master. But oh... It's been weeks since he fucked me. And I've so badly needed to cum all damn day. I wouldn't even have to cum. I could merely pass my finger tip over my very swollen clit. Though no. Do you hear my sigh? All it would take would be that one little touch and you would hear my orgasmic cries from here to London and California. So no. No touching. No cumming. Poor Baby...]
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Apart, yes. Lonely? No.
An Anonymous comment on yesterday's post asked:
The sadist has an assortment of relationships, which serve his various needs. In fact, I'm very grateful for them. Certainly, you can understand my appreciation for his masochist slave, whose existence you've heard about before. Whose existence in physical fact saves my ass. My Master could never protect me to the extent he does without having his slave as an outlet for his most severe sadistic urges.
Lonely?
Not me.
Occasionally wanting more?
Sure.
Marriage to my Master?
Heaven help me, no way.
We are both very intense.
Very intense.
We'd combust.
I'd suffocate.
Think of a fine chocolate truffle.
High quality chocolate.
Dark chocolate, if it's for me.
Belgian, perhaps.
When you have one, you eat it slowly.
Savoring every mouthful.
The taste, the smoothness, the richness,
they linger in your mouth long after you're done.
But one truffle after another?
Throughout the day?
Every day?
Too much.
Too rich.
Too intense.
This isn't mere rationalization.
I'm not sure I'd want a regular boyfriend of any sort.
Or girlfriend, for that matter.
As it is, I have this intense relationship with an astonishing man. The connection is... probably not wholly explicable. And incredibly strong. Sometimes I think it would be nice to see him twice a week. But I'm not so sure. This way... it's not like we're only together during those couple of hours once a week. We e-mail. We text. We feel each other. Plus it's not like I have no other life. No other interests. No friends. Certainly he has them. Not to mention the other submissives.
I've learned a lot from the sadist.
And confirmed my belief that there are many ways for people to be together. For all relationships as with those involving BDSM, it's about the people involved. What works for them. For some people this would not work. And I don't deny that there have been frustrating times. Like now. When he's been ill. But would I want to face him over the dinner table every night? Discuss utility bills? Know that he's heading out to beat the shit out of his masochist slave so he could suppress his desire to do it to me?
Then, I think, I'd be lonely.
No disrespect intended, but, are the four of you involved with married men? If you are, doesn't the loneliness outweigh any other benefit of the relationship?
The sadist has an assortment of relationships, which serve his various needs. In fact, I'm very grateful for them. Certainly, you can understand my appreciation for his masochist slave, whose existence you've heard about before. Whose existence in physical fact saves my ass. My Master could never protect me to the extent he does without having his slave as an outlet for his most severe sadistic urges.
Lonely?
Not me.
Occasionally wanting more?
Sure.
Marriage to my Master?
Heaven help me, no way.
We are both very intense.
Very intense.
We'd combust.
I'd suffocate.
Think of a fine chocolate truffle.
High quality chocolate.
Dark chocolate, if it's for me.
Belgian, perhaps.
When you have one, you eat it slowly.
Savoring every mouthful.
The taste, the smoothness, the richness,
they linger in your mouth long after you're done.
But one truffle after another?
Throughout the day?
Every day?
Too much.
Too rich.
Too intense.
This isn't mere rationalization.
I'm not sure I'd want a regular boyfriend of any sort.
Or girlfriend, for that matter.
As it is, I have this intense relationship with an astonishing man. The connection is... probably not wholly explicable. And incredibly strong. Sometimes I think it would be nice to see him twice a week. But I'm not so sure. This way... it's not like we're only together during those couple of hours once a week. We e-mail. We text. We feel each other. Plus it's not like I have no other life. No other interests. No friends. Certainly he has them. Not to mention the other submissives.
I've learned a lot from the sadist.
And confirmed my belief that there are many ways for people to be together. For all relationships as with those involving BDSM, it's about the people involved. What works for them. For some people this would not work. And I don't deny that there have been frustrating times. Like now. When he's been ill. But would I want to face him over the dinner table every night? Discuss utility bills? Know that he's heading out to beat the shit out of his masochist slave so he could suppress his desire to do it to me?
Then, I think, I'd be lonely.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
My butt hurts. My heart doesn't.
He says it.
Over and over.
Without the words, true, but as clearly as if he were shouting it from the top of the Washington Monument. Which is still closed for repairs of damage suffered in an unlikely earthquake a while back.
Like us.
That there is an us.
A very unlikely earthquake.
So many unlikely things...
Today, this man who declares he doesn't believe in aftercare, this man was lying next to me, luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm. The last few weeks have been very intense, it's been 2 weeks since we were together and he has made many wordless avowals for longer than that. So he's lying there, looking up at me, recovering, and I ask if he's OK, and he says yes - and then he asks if I'm OK. Which he never does. But it was very intense, "even for us," he says, and he has learned that he doesn't always realize if it has been too much for me, and now he has taken to worrying about that, to put it in the box of things he should be aware of as he tries to protect me from himself.
From the beast.
He said he took special steps yesterday to protect me. He wouldn't say what, but I suspect he went and unleashed some of his sadistic desire on another of the Others. To release the tension. There was still some left for me today - and why shouldn't there be? It's not just that he wants to cause pain. He wants to hurt me.
And I wanted him to hurt me.
Which he did.
He spanked me a lot.
Just with his hand.
But hard.
And often.
At various times during his 2 hours visit.
Harder and harder.
And the longer he was here
the harder he spanked me
and the less I could feel it.
Now I feel it.
I'm getting cold.
Some of the endorphins must be wearing off.
Not all of them.
I'm still very floaty.
But enough to allow my butt to hurt.
And it does really hurt.
I wonder if his hand hurts, too?
I'm happy that my butt hurts.
My pussy hurts, too.
From all the fucking.
Beautiful, beautiful fucking.
Some of it was fucking.
And some was making love.
The expression on his face.
That smile...
I'm very happy.
We were both very happy.
And very, very intimate.
He doesn't pretend any more.
That, he acknowledged.
He didn't say those other words.
But he did say he doesn't pretend any more.
And that's about as close as you can get.
And the words?
They could never say as much
as the smile
on his lips
and in his eyes.
But damn it.
My butt sure hurts!
Thank you, Daddy...
Over and over.
Without the words, true, but as clearly as if he were shouting it from the top of the Washington Monument. Which is still closed for repairs of damage suffered in an unlikely earthquake a while back.
Like us.
That there is an us.
A very unlikely earthquake.
So many unlikely things...
Today, this man who declares he doesn't believe in aftercare, this man was lying next to me, luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm. The last few weeks have been very intense, it's been 2 weeks since we were together and he has made many wordless avowals for longer than that. So he's lying there, looking up at me, recovering, and I ask if he's OK, and he says yes - and then he asks if I'm OK. Which he never does. But it was very intense, "even for us," he says, and he has learned that he doesn't always realize if it has been too much for me, and now he has taken to worrying about that, to put it in the box of things he should be aware of as he tries to protect me from himself.
From the beast.
He said he took special steps yesterday to protect me. He wouldn't say what, but I suspect he went and unleashed some of his sadistic desire on another of the Others. To release the tension. There was still some left for me today - and why shouldn't there be? It's not just that he wants to cause pain. He wants to hurt me.
And I wanted him to hurt me.
Which he did.
He spanked me a lot.
Just with his hand.
But hard.
And often.
At various times during his 2 hours visit.
Harder and harder.
And the longer he was here
the harder he spanked me
and the less I could feel it.
Now I feel it.
I'm getting cold.
Some of the endorphins must be wearing off.
Not all of them.
I'm still very floaty.
But enough to allow my butt to hurt.
And it does really hurt.
I wonder if his hand hurts, too?
I'm happy that my butt hurts.
My pussy hurts, too.
From all the fucking.
Beautiful, beautiful fucking.
Some of it was fucking.
And some was making love.
The expression on his face.
That smile...
I'm very happy.
We were both very happy.
And very, very intimate.
He doesn't pretend any more.
That, he acknowledged.
He didn't say those other words.
But he did say he doesn't pretend any more.
And that's about as close as you can get.
And the words?
They could never say as much
as the smile
on his lips
and in his eyes.
But damn it.
My butt sure hurts!
Thank you, Daddy...
Monday, November 12, 2012
Saved by the masochist slave
He gets these urges sometimes.
Seriously sadistic urges.
You know.
I've written about them before.
He wants to torture me.
Seriously torture me.
It keeps him up at night when he gets in that mood. He sees it. He tastes it. He hears my screams and sees my body writhing, my back rising and arching, hears me moaning, begging - and then screaming... His description sounds as if it could as easily refer to passion, orgasm...
Certainly his words catapult me into an agony of arousal.
But that's not the kind of pain he has in mind.
And the only guaranteed orgasm would be his.
He doesn't dare do to me what he wants to do.
He knows I couldn't handle that much pain.
He's afraid he'll go too far.
He's afraid it would destroy us.
And more than anything,
he doesn't want to lose me.
But the thought of it.
It's so seductive.
To me it's so seductive.
And he knows that, too.
He won't tell me what he wants to do to me. He won't tell me the horrible things he does do to his masochist slave. He has, in the past, mentioned some things that he knows I'll eventually accede to. As if I had a choice. Not that he would force it on me. He's more like a snake. Hypnotizing me. Knowing that I will never make him stop. The only thing I react against is when he slaps my face in a way that makes me worry about bruises. In a way that lets me know he's out of control. That scares me. And now scares him, because he doesn't realize things are going bad until the the next day. Until he reads my account of it the next day. He worries about that now. Because he... because of what he feels for me.
I wish I could give him what he needs.
I wish it were safe for him to torture me.
Whatever that means.
He has talked about electro-torture in the past.
Serious electro-torture.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
In a way, it scares him too, I think.
The thought of doing it to me.
Because, again, he's afraid of losing control.
Of going too far.
So he protects me.
He continues to protect me.
Because he has these feelings for me.
Feelings he says in every way he can
without saying those dangerous words.
He protects me.
And tortures his masochist slave instead.
He had been torturing the slave before. Before he found me. That's the point of owning a masochist, isn't it? And each of them has a need filled. Not just the giving and receiving of pain, but also being served and providing service. Relieving pain while receiving pain. For the sadist does suffer during these times. He suffers from the unbearable need to inflict pain, the overwhelming need to hear the screams, and the awful desire to have me be the one writhing and screaming and sobbing as he demonstrates his desire and feelings for me by making my suffering surpass his own.
It doesn't happen that often.
He doesn't have such attacks that often.
But he did last weekend.
And he found relief today.
He wants to figure out why the attack came on when it did. and why it was so severe. I have my own theories. One of those perfect storm things, part of which was being deprived of my body on Saturday because I was sick. Part of which was knowing that I was with S-- on Wednesday night. He's always very aroused at the thought of others enjoying his mistress. His treasure. So first there was his awareness of another man touching and kissing and fucking me, an awareness that filled him all through that night. And then he read the account of the night that I was required to send him the following day. Add to that a different sort of event on Friday - not a sexual activity but related to his activities. And here we return to his doing without me on Saturday, followed by an electronic conversation Saturday night that was frightening in its intimacy and new revelations.
He can't help himself.
Sometimes he tells me things...
So of course by Sunday the bars on the beast's cage had been bent apart and the hungry monster was prowling the halls.
Luckily, my Master had already arranged to use his slave today.
For some people, today was a holiday.
So the slave was home.
And the slave's ass saved mine.
Knowing it was for my protection.
Being told how grateful I was.
While I waited.
The fiend e-mailed me his ETA.
I was at work.
"You'll share the experience with me," he wrote.
My breath stopped.
I had been feeling tense all day.
Feeling his presence, his hands on my body,
slashes of the cane and of the single tail whip burning my butt.
Finally, lunchtime, I left the building.
A message arrived.
There was screaming.
He had almost called me.
I don't know that I could have tolerated the sounds of such pain.
I tried to walk, but instead sat outside on a low concrete ledge and waited. The screams had eased his desperation. All that was left was to cum.
Was for him to cum.
I was there with him.
Not physically.
But there with him nevertheless.
Waiting.
Not breathing.
He gave me a 4-minute warning of when he would cum.
The time passed.
My body let go.
I took a deep breath.
He was OK.
I knew he was OK now.
And I knew he had felt me there with him.
I had to be with him.
Because it all had to do with me.
He wrote me from the car.
He was feeling much better.
His slave was fine.
I was grateful for the reassurance.
I always feel guilty.
And especially now.
I think this was the first time the slave was explicitly told that it was all because of me. Another pain my Master inflicted. I felt bad. Bad and guilty and very, very grateful.
Grateful that my body was saved from horrors I can only imagine.
And grateful that this sadist I love was saved from the torments he visits on himself.
Love can hurt.
In so many ways.
Seriously sadistic urges.
You know.
I've written about them before.
He wants to torture me.
Seriously torture me.
It keeps him up at night when he gets in that mood. He sees it. He tastes it. He hears my screams and sees my body writhing, my back rising and arching, hears me moaning, begging - and then screaming... His description sounds as if it could as easily refer to passion, orgasm...
Certainly his words catapult me into an agony of arousal.
But that's not the kind of pain he has in mind.
And the only guaranteed orgasm would be his.
He doesn't dare do to me what he wants to do.
He knows I couldn't handle that much pain.
He's afraid he'll go too far.
He's afraid it would destroy us.
And more than anything,
he doesn't want to lose me.
But the thought of it.
It's so seductive.
To me it's so seductive.
And he knows that, too.
He won't tell me what he wants to do to me. He won't tell me the horrible things he does do to his masochist slave. He has, in the past, mentioned some things that he knows I'll eventually accede to. As if I had a choice. Not that he would force it on me. He's more like a snake. Hypnotizing me. Knowing that I will never make him stop. The only thing I react against is when he slaps my face in a way that makes me worry about bruises. In a way that lets me know he's out of control. That scares me. And now scares him, because he doesn't realize things are going bad until the the next day. Until he reads my account of it the next day. He worries about that now. Because he... because of what he feels for me.
I wish I could give him what he needs.
I wish it were safe for him to torture me.
Whatever that means.
He has talked about electro-torture in the past.
Serious electro-torture.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
In a way, it scares him too, I think.
The thought of doing it to me.
Because, again, he's afraid of losing control.
Of going too far.
So he protects me.
He continues to protect me.
Because he has these feelings for me.
Feelings he says in every way he can
without saying those dangerous words.
He protects me.
And tortures his masochist slave instead.
He had been torturing the slave before. Before he found me. That's the point of owning a masochist, isn't it? And each of them has a need filled. Not just the giving and receiving of pain, but also being served and providing service. Relieving pain while receiving pain. For the sadist does suffer during these times. He suffers from the unbearable need to inflict pain, the overwhelming need to hear the screams, and the awful desire to have me be the one writhing and screaming and sobbing as he demonstrates his desire and feelings for me by making my suffering surpass his own.
It doesn't happen that often.
He doesn't have such attacks that often.
But he did last weekend.
And he found relief today.
He wants to figure out why the attack came on when it did. and why it was so severe. I have my own theories. One of those perfect storm things, part of which was being deprived of my body on Saturday because I was sick. Part of which was knowing that I was with S-- on Wednesday night. He's always very aroused at the thought of others enjoying his mistress. His treasure. So first there was his awareness of another man touching and kissing and fucking me, an awareness that filled him all through that night. And then he read the account of the night that I was required to send him the following day. Add to that a different sort of event on Friday - not a sexual activity but related to his activities. And here we return to his doing without me on Saturday, followed by an electronic conversation Saturday night that was frightening in its intimacy and new revelations.
He can't help himself.
Sometimes he tells me things...
So of course by Sunday the bars on the beast's cage had been bent apart and the hungry monster was prowling the halls.
Luckily, my Master had already arranged to use his slave today.
For some people, today was a holiday.
So the slave was home.
And the slave's ass saved mine.
Knowing it was for my protection.
Being told how grateful I was.
While I waited.
The fiend e-mailed me his ETA.
I was at work.
"You'll share the experience with me," he wrote.
My breath stopped.
I had been feeling tense all day.
Feeling his presence, his hands on my body,
slashes of the cane and of the single tail whip burning my butt.
Finally, lunchtime, I left the building.
A message arrived.
There was screaming.
He had almost called me.
I don't know that I could have tolerated the sounds of such pain.
I tried to walk, but instead sat outside on a low concrete ledge and waited. The screams had eased his desperation. All that was left was to cum.
Was for him to cum.
I was there with him.
Not physically.
But there with him nevertheless.
Waiting.
Not breathing.
He gave me a 4-minute warning of when he would cum.
The time passed.
My body let go.
I took a deep breath.
He was OK.
I knew he was OK now.
And I knew he had felt me there with him.
I had to be with him.
Because it all had to do with me.
He wrote me from the car.
He was feeling much better.
His slave was fine.
I was grateful for the reassurance.
I always feel guilty.
And especially now.
I think this was the first time the slave was explicitly told that it was all because of me. Another pain my Master inflicted. I felt bad. Bad and guilty and very, very grateful.
Grateful that my body was saved from horrors I can only imagine.
And grateful that this sadist I love was saved from the torments he visits on himself.
Love can hurt.
In so many ways.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon
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Monday, June 25, 2012
Summoned
We're working our way back.
Slowly working our way back towards where we were before the weekend we went away. Before the weekend when the beast bared his fangs, dripping with saliva, devoid of conscience.
Today, for the first time since that trip, he said the magic words.
Good girl.
But let's back up.
Saturday afternoon, the truth dawned.
A very telling truth.
Because consider this.
We were in such a place that we
each
could assume the other had decided to walk away.
A very sad state of affairs.
But there we were, on Saturday, realizing that he thought I had stopped communicating while I had thought he had stopped communicating.
I screwed up.
I really did screw up.
1. his statement when we began - that if I violated a certain rule (a very understandable rule with which I have no argument whatsoever) he would end it without another word - applied to one particular issue. One particular case. One particular topic. Very clearly defined. There was no reason for me to think it applied to anything else.
2. mostly because he is so busy and has so many responsibilities, it has happened before that he has gone more than a day without writing. In which case, when it has gone on so long that I'm worried something has happened to him or Yahoo has turned on him again or I unwittingly said something really wrong, I WRITE HIM and say Daddy? Is everything OK? Which is a perfectly reasonable thing for one person to say to another when they are in an intimate relationship. Even when it's a D/s relationship, and one that's as intense as ours obviously is.
But the various responses we had to our night away set this up.
And we each were hurting.
Badly.
He...
To understand how much I hurt him... making him think I had left... realizing how much I mean to him... not only did I feel terrible at having hurt him that way, but to know I could hurt him that way... to know I met that much to him.
I'm not used to meaning that much to someone.
It's hard for me to absorb.
Back to the weekend.
Saturday afternoon, we sorted it out.
I wrote my post.
And then wrote a long apology.
Which I couldn't send till the next morning.
Because he didn't want to hear any more from me that night.
The next morning, there was a one word message from around 1:30 am, asking why he should devote any more time to me.
Damn, I thought.
I thought we were going to be OK.
But I know what happens to him in the middle of the night.
I know what can happen as he lies awake in his bed.
I sent off my apology, and then tried to formulate an answer to his question. Obviously not an easy assignment. It's hard not to sound false when you're writing. Then a message came. Saying to stop trying to answer last night's message. He'd give me a chance to apologize in person. And to get him off.
I was to meet him at 11 am in a parking lot in his town.
Shorts and t-shirt.
No bra.
Which gave me just enough time to shower, dress, feed the cats, and snarf down enough breakfast to allow me to take my usual morning handful of medications. Luckily, as I'm finally losing some of my winter weight, I was able to fit into some very short shorts and a sweet little black short-sleeved sweater with a low neck that I had bought for his pleasure because it buttons all the way down the front. No bra as ordered. Also no panties. And a cute pair of Dansko heels.
He really likes tops that can be unbuttoned all the way down.
And he really likes me in heels.
I arrived early.
I waited in the parking lot of a sort-of fast food restaurant.
The parking lot was almost deserted,
as was the lot of the entire mall.
It didn't feel it ever had a lot of cars.
At 11, he pulled up alongside me and motioned me into his car. As I approached, I slowed down to make sure he saw how little of my body was covered with cloth.
I got in.
Not a word.
He drove towards the mall stores and then back around to the garbage dumpsters.
He left the car running.
We'd need the air conditioning.
He opened his fly and pulled out his cock.
With my hand,
with my mouth,
I did what I do so well.
What he trained me to do.
How to please him
HIM.
Not just any man.
HIM.
We all have our preferences.
And I blubbered, sobbing wildly.
I don't know if I've ever cried like that before.
Because I felt
so
fucking
bad!
We'd both messed up,
we both made faulty assumptions,
we were both so damn vulnerable
because we both care too much
that we each were open to the idea that
we'd obviously
been rejected
by the other.
Make sense?
Well, yes, I guess, if you are at all vulnerable and at some level can't believe that the one who claims to care really does.
So oh my God I cried and sobbed and was at least mildly hysterical as I sucked and jerked and really, it was the best thing that could have happened because there is NO WAY that anyone could have doubted my sincerity.
No way.
And he did cum.
In a reasonable amount of time.
This wasn't like one of his visits where the idea is to extend his pleasure for as long as his cock and his schedule will allow. This was an event with a goal. And the faster we achieved it, the better.
Actually, two goals.
Get him off.
And prove my sincerity.
He still sounded angry when he drove me back around the parking lot and delivered me at my car. But the process had begun. Cautiously, we started working our way back. And unlikely as it may seem, I could sense a difference in tone from the week before in the emailed instructions he sent that night.
And today?
Ah, today.
Tonight.
A little bit of the Daddy I had said I was missing.
Something interesting from his work day.
And a request for help in finding a long-lost song
I appreciated the incident from work.
And I found the song!
Found the song
and a great music video.
He'd been looking for the song for years.
And I found it.
He was very pleased.
He said he was pleased.
And then
in a separate message
this:
I am a very happy pet.
And I think we'll be OK.
PS - To avoid any similar misunderstandings, he instructed me NEVER to stop writing. It didn't matter if he took an hour, a day, a week, or a year to reply. I was NOT to stop writing. No confusion there. And very reassuring.
Slowly working our way back towards where we were before the weekend we went away. Before the weekend when the beast bared his fangs, dripping with saliva, devoid of conscience.
Today, for the first time since that trip, he said the magic words.
Good girl.
But let's back up.
Saturday afternoon, the truth dawned.
A very telling truth.
Because consider this.
We were in such a place that we
each
could assume the other had decided to walk away.
A very sad state of affairs.
But there we were, on Saturday, realizing that he thought I had stopped communicating while I had thought he had stopped communicating.
I screwed up.
I really did screw up.
1. his statement when we began - that if I violated a certain rule (a very understandable rule with which I have no argument whatsoever) he would end it without another word - applied to one particular issue. One particular case. One particular topic. Very clearly defined. There was no reason for me to think it applied to anything else.
2. mostly because he is so busy and has so many responsibilities, it has happened before that he has gone more than a day without writing. In which case, when it has gone on so long that I'm worried something has happened to him or Yahoo has turned on him again or I unwittingly said something really wrong, I WRITE HIM and say Daddy? Is everything OK? Which is a perfectly reasonable thing for one person to say to another when they are in an intimate relationship. Even when it's a D/s relationship, and one that's as intense as ours obviously is.
But the various responses we had to our night away set this up.
And we each were hurting.
Badly.
He...
To understand how much I hurt him... making him think I had left... realizing how much I mean to him... not only did I feel terrible at having hurt him that way, but to know I could hurt him that way... to know I met that much to him.
I'm not used to meaning that much to someone.
It's hard for me to absorb.
Back to the weekend.
Saturday afternoon, we sorted it out.
I wrote my post.
And then wrote a long apology.
Which I couldn't send till the next morning.
Because he didn't want to hear any more from me that night.
The next morning, there was a one word message from around 1:30 am, asking why he should devote any more time to me.
Damn, I thought.
I thought we were going to be OK.
But I know what happens to him in the middle of the night.
I know what can happen as he lies awake in his bed.
I sent off my apology, and then tried to formulate an answer to his question. Obviously not an easy assignment. It's hard not to sound false when you're writing. Then a message came. Saying to stop trying to answer last night's message. He'd give me a chance to apologize in person. And to get him off.
I was to meet him at 11 am in a parking lot in his town.
Shorts and t-shirt.
No bra.
Which gave me just enough time to shower, dress, feed the cats, and snarf down enough breakfast to allow me to take my usual morning handful of medications. Luckily, as I'm finally losing some of my winter weight, I was able to fit into some very short shorts and a sweet little black short-sleeved sweater with a low neck that I had bought for his pleasure because it buttons all the way down the front. No bra as ordered. Also no panties. And a cute pair of Dansko heels.
He really likes tops that can be unbuttoned all the way down.
And he really likes me in heels.
I arrived early.
I waited in the parking lot of a sort-of fast food restaurant.
The parking lot was almost deserted,
as was the lot of the entire mall.
It didn't feel it ever had a lot of cars.
At 11, he pulled up alongside me and motioned me into his car. As I approached, I slowed down to make sure he saw how little of my body was covered with cloth.
I got in.
Not a word.
He drove towards the mall stores and then back around to the garbage dumpsters.
He left the car running.
We'd need the air conditioning.
He opened his fly and pulled out his cock.
With my hand,
with my mouth,
I did what I do so well.
What he trained me to do.
How to please him
HIM.
Not just any man.
HIM.
We all have our preferences.
And I blubbered, sobbing wildly.
I don't know if I've ever cried like that before.
Because I felt
so
fucking
bad!
We'd both messed up,
we both made faulty assumptions,
we were both so damn vulnerable
because we both care too much
that we each were open to the idea that
we'd obviously
been rejected
by the other.
Make sense?
Well, yes, I guess, if you are at all vulnerable and at some level can't believe that the one who claims to care really does.
So oh my God I cried and sobbed and was at least mildly hysterical as I sucked and jerked and really, it was the best thing that could have happened because there is NO WAY that anyone could have doubted my sincerity.
No way.
And he did cum.
In a reasonable amount of time.
This wasn't like one of his visits where the idea is to extend his pleasure for as long as his cock and his schedule will allow. This was an event with a goal. And the faster we achieved it, the better.
Actually, two goals.
Get him off.
And prove my sincerity.
He still sounded angry when he drove me back around the parking lot and delivered me at my car. But the process had begun. Cautiously, we started working our way back. And unlikely as it may seem, I could sense a difference in tone from the week before in the emailed instructions he sent that night.
And today?
Ah, today.
Tonight.
A little bit of the Daddy I had said I was missing.
Something interesting from his work day.
And a request for help in finding a long-lost song
I appreciated the incident from work.
And I found the song!
Found the song
and a great music video.
He'd been looking for the song for years.
And I found it.
He was very pleased.
He said he was pleased.
And then
in a separate message
this:
...... Good girl
I am a very happy pet.
And I think we'll be OK.
PS - To avoid any similar misunderstandings, he instructed me NEVER to stop writing. It didn't matter if he took an hour, a day, a week, or a year to reply. I was NOT to stop writing. No confusion there. And very reassuring.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Choosing the Beast
It didn't really end that way, of course.
That whole turn-into-a-prince thing.
And frankly, the prince seems rather insipid,
his face exaggerated in its handsomeness,
his clothes too ornate by half.
He seems too full of himself.
Lacking humility.
Lacking vulnerability.
Vulnerability can be as lethal as raking claws and tearing jaws.
And la Bête (the Beast - it's a French film, Jean Cocteau, you really should see it if you haven't) - la Bête certainly has vulnerability. You can see it in his eyes. Especially when she catches him after he's been feeding on his prey. He is mortified to be seen in all his need. And clearly now believes there's no hope she can ever love him.
Don't try to change your beloved into someone else, they always say. It won't work. It can't work. It's bound to lead to disaster.
But behaviour can change.
Attitudes can change.
Adjustments can be made.
Acceptance can be found.
What would be a truer ending, then?
No unnatural transformation.
The magic of her loving him as he is - that's magic enough.
Why water it down by giving her something else?
It's all about sex, anyway.
Learning to love his animal nature.
Don't prettify it.
Sex can be sweet and gentle.
Sex can be rough and wild.
Passion, need, they take many forms.
We need to embrace them all.
But Beauty,
la Belle,
better perhaps were she spared the sight of your teeth
shredding the corpse of your latest catch.
She'll gladly leave a portion of the forest to your hunt,
and you'll try your best not to rip out her throat.
Seems a fair exchange, don't you think?
But both parties need to sign the contract,
and nothing can happen
if la Bête persists
in saying the cause is lost.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Verboten - Sturm und Drang
Nothing heavy today.
I have a job.
To serve him.
To serve his pleasure.
To ease his stress.
So nothing heavy today.
No discussions about whether we'll survive.
Just sweet, light, softly sexy words
to remind him of the delight his treasure brings.
To remind him of his mistress
and his loving little girl.
Cautious.
We were cautious.
And he's clearly disturbed about himself.
But at least he played along.
And who can resist a fantasy about a vintage Cadillac Eldorado convertible?
I have a job.
To serve him.
To serve his pleasure.
To ease his stress.
So nothing heavy today.
No discussions about whether we'll survive.
Just sweet, light, softly sexy words
to remind him of the delight his treasure brings.
To remind him of his mistress
and his loving little girl.
Cautious.
We were cautious.
And he's clearly disturbed about himself.
But at least he played along.
And who can resist a fantasy about a vintage Cadillac Eldorado convertible?
Monday, June 11, 2012
Pathology
We've been talking.
Seriously.
About safety.
Physical safety.
Mine.
What happened this weekend wasn't all that bad.
But it scared me.
Not just what he did.
What scares me more is this.
Sometimes I don't know who he is.
It doesn't happen all the time we're together.
It doesn't happen all the time he hurts me.
And sometimes, when he hurts me,
he takes me to that place,
and then we are closer than ever.
But not when the beast shows up.
The beast knows only hunger.
The beast doesn't give a shit about intimacy.
It's an illusion, of course, to speak of the beast. It's a convention when we use that other name he has for the predator within. Even to say "within" is softening the truth. Which is the man and which is the mask? Or do both of them constantly wrestle inside him?
I've spoken of this before. Of how this isn't a game. When I say "we don't play," I'm not being snobbish about those who use that term for their S&M interactions, or those who go to clubs and do their thing in public. (Well, OK, maybe a little, which isn't worthy of me and for that I apologize.) I've tried to give you the truth of it. Of who he is and what I am risking, without another incident of people rushing in, trying to interfere, wanting to track me down, call the police. Wanting to protect me.
Don't even bother.
This is my life.
This is our relationship.
And we're trying to find away.
He is trying to protect me.
There's a sick irony to it all.
It's because he cares for me that he wants to hurt me.
Really hurt me.
But because he cares for me,
really cares for me,
he doesn't want to harm me.
The problem is, he can't always stop.
The problem is, he doesn't always know he's crossed the line.
So we talked.
Seriously.
By e-mail.
Which makes it easier for me to be honest.
Though it's so hard to be honest.
Because how do you tell someone you love,
someone who cares for you,
that sometimes you don't recognize him?
Because of course the underlying message is obvious:
when you don't recognize him,
you don't love him.
He likes to hear me say I love him.
He says: "Say it."
And I know what he means.
This time, there was something different.
"Say it," he said,
after I had.
"But this time, without the 'Daddy.'"
So I said it.
Not: I love you, Daddy.
Just: I love you.
No honorific.
No obscuring title.
Just a naked declaration
and his desire
for a naked declaration.
There was a statement in there.
But already, he was going into his dark place.
It was like a werewolf movie,
watching him change,
watching the hair sprout.
And soon it became very hard to honestly say the words.
So we're talking.
And tonight he made an offer.
Trying to find something that might help.
Something that might make problems less likely.
Of course I've read all about it.
Because this isn't just a matter of enjoying kinky sex.
And as far as I can tell,
there's no effective treatment
and there is
no
cure.
But there's a difference between this man and what you may read about in case studies. He does have a conscience. He does have regrets. Once he realizes, once the obscuring fog clears, he does have regrets.
He likes to pride himself on being a predator.
A master manipulator.
But I don't feel that's what he's up to here.
He's offering a sacrifice.
Whatever I feel is right.
And the sacrifice entails another sacrifice.
No more overnights off-site.
Does that mean he would ever spend the night here?
I doubt it.
He never has.
Can't see it happening.
And maybe it's safer that way, too.
Maybe those very long visits present more time for going off-script.
Because of course he plans his visits carefully.
Not that he can always stick to the plan.
But there's not that much room for improvisation within a couple of hours.
Not like having all night -
and then the next morning
for a quick rough fuck
with a crack-of-dawn hard-on.
But can't you see?
Can't you see how this man of the masks
is tearing at my heart?
Because he cares that much
that his dreams make him sick,
his fantasies make him worry,
and his deeds
make him curse
what he is.
And even given who he is,
what he is,
the limits of who we are together,
he has done more for me,
does more for me,
more to show me that I am cared for,
more to prove that I am treasured,
than anyone -
ANYONE -
who has ever said in so many words that he loves me.
And so we struggle on.
Because there's one pain I'm not ready to face:
the pain of walking away.
Seriously.
About safety.
Physical safety.
Mine.
What happened this weekend wasn't all that bad.
But it scared me.
Not just what he did.
What scares me more is this.
Sometimes I don't know who he is.
It doesn't happen all the time we're together.
It doesn't happen all the time he hurts me.
And sometimes, when he hurts me,
he takes me to that place,
and then we are closer than ever.
But not when the beast shows up.
The beast knows only hunger.
The beast doesn't give a shit about intimacy.
It's an illusion, of course, to speak of the beast. It's a convention when we use that other name he has for the predator within. Even to say "within" is softening the truth. Which is the man and which is the mask? Or do both of them constantly wrestle inside him?
I've spoken of this before. Of how this isn't a game. When I say "we don't play," I'm not being snobbish about those who use that term for their S&M interactions, or those who go to clubs and do their thing in public. (Well, OK, maybe a little, which isn't worthy of me and for that I apologize.) I've tried to give you the truth of it. Of who he is and what I am risking, without another incident of people rushing in, trying to interfere, wanting to track me down, call the police. Wanting to protect me.
Don't even bother.
This is my life.
This is our relationship.
And we're trying to find away.
He is trying to protect me.
There's a sick irony to it all.
It's because he cares for me that he wants to hurt me.
Really hurt me.
But because he cares for me,
really cares for me,
he doesn't want to harm me.
The problem is, he can't always stop.
The problem is, he doesn't always know he's crossed the line.
So we talked.
Seriously.
By e-mail.
Which makes it easier for me to be honest.
Though it's so hard to be honest.
Because how do you tell someone you love,
someone who cares for you,
that sometimes you don't recognize him?
Because of course the underlying message is obvious:
when you don't recognize him,
you don't love him.
He likes to hear me say I love him.
He says: "Say it."
And I know what he means.
This time, there was something different.
"Say it," he said,
after I had.
"But this time, without the 'Daddy.'"
So I said it.
Not: I love you, Daddy.
Just: I love you.
No honorific.
No obscuring title.
Just a naked declaration
and his desire
for a naked declaration.
There was a statement in there.
But already, he was going into his dark place.
It was like a werewolf movie,
watching him change,
watching the hair sprout.
And soon it became very hard to honestly say the words.
So we're talking.
And tonight he made an offer.
Trying to find something that might help.
Something that might make problems less likely.
Of course I've read all about it.
Because this isn't just a matter of enjoying kinky sex.
And as far as I can tell,
there's no effective treatment
and there is
no
cure.
But there's a difference between this man and what you may read about in case studies. He does have a conscience. He does have regrets. Once he realizes, once the obscuring fog clears, he does have regrets.
He likes to pride himself on being a predator.
A master manipulator.
But I don't feel that's what he's up to here.
He's offering a sacrifice.
Whatever I feel is right.
And the sacrifice entails another sacrifice.
No more overnights off-site.
Does that mean he would ever spend the night here?
I doubt it.
He never has.
Can't see it happening.
And maybe it's safer that way, too.
Maybe those very long visits present more time for going off-script.
Because of course he plans his visits carefully.
Not that he can always stick to the plan.
But there's not that much room for improvisation within a couple of hours.
Not like having all night -
and then the next morning
for a quick rough fuck
with a crack-of-dawn hard-on.
But can't you see?
Can't you see how this man of the masks
is tearing at my heart?
Because he cares that much
that his dreams make him sick,
his fantasies make him worry,
and his deeds
make him curse
what he is.
And even given who he is,
what he is,
the limits of who we are together,
he has done more for me,
does more for me,
more to show me that I am cared for,
more to prove that I am treasured,
than anyone -
ANYONE -
who has ever said in so many words that he loves me.
And so we struggle on.
Because there's one pain I'm not ready to face:
the pain of walking away.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Split personality
The man who touches my heart
when he says he enjoys my company.
The man who treasures me,
admires me,
and tries to protect me.
And the beast.
The beast who scares me.
The beast who breaks free of his bonds.
They confuse me, these two.
I love the one,
but not the other.
And then I'm not so sure about either.
Which is perhaps the scariest of all.
But which makes sense.
Because the man and the beast,
Daddy and Master,
these four and more
are one and the same.
And I'm kidding myself to think anything else.
Poor Daddy.
Trying to protect me from himself.
And he can't.
when he says he enjoys my company.
The man who treasures me,
admires me,
and tries to protect me.
And the beast.
The beast who scares me.
The beast who breaks free of his bonds.
They confuse me, these two.
I love the one,
but not the other.
And then I'm not so sure about either.
Which is perhaps the scariest of all.
But which makes sense.
Because the man and the beast,
Daddy and Master,
these four and more
are one and the same.
And I'm kidding myself to think anything else.
Poor Daddy.
Trying to protect me from himself.
And he can't.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
A very small vacation
I'm sitting in an armchair by the window of our room in a dumpy Holiday Inn. It's a good thing he doesn't like a lot of light, as 2 bulbs are dead. He's not here, anyway, being out with friends.
He's fretting, though.
He'd rather be with me.
He enjoys my company, he said.
I know that.
Just as I knew I was his mistress.
Being a mistress is more than being a readily available pussy.
It's more than being a sex slave.
Though I am that, too.
Being a mistress
(not to be confused with a Mistress!)
means be enjoys your company.
Means being part of his life.
In whatever limited way is possible and appropriate.
I remember the first time we were here together.
Two years ago.
I remember waiting in the room, cold and naked, huddled cold and naked on the floor between the beds, waiting, waiting wondering what was lurking at the end of the wait. And now? He snuck away between engagements and met me in the bar downstairs. In public. In the bar. Sitting and talking, recounting his day. Enjoying my company. One ill-advised kiss beside his car and then he was gone, sending texts that he wished he could escape his friends and be back with me. To hang out. Not just to have his cock sucked.
Still.
Waiting, I am content.
Calm and confident and content.
I feel safe, too.
He is taking steps.
Precautionary measures.
Measures to protect me against the beast.
Steps to bar the beast from the room.
I am pleased.
And relaxed.
Relaxing after my work week in California.
I sit in the armchair
feet propped up
reading a book he told me about.
Reading a book he bought for me.
Reading a book that is exercising my mind.
I am happy.
I am relaxed.
And he will be here soon enough.
(Had to reformat this post once I got home. Blogger didn't recognize my iPhone's line breaks.)
He's fretting, though.
He'd rather be with me.
He enjoys my company, he said.
I know that.
Just as I knew I was his mistress.
Being a mistress is more than being a readily available pussy.
It's more than being a sex slave.
Though I am that, too.
Being a mistress
(not to be confused with a Mistress!)
means be enjoys your company.
Means being part of his life.
In whatever limited way is possible and appropriate.
I remember the first time we were here together.
Two years ago.
I remember waiting in the room, cold and naked, huddled cold and naked on the floor between the beds, waiting, waiting wondering what was lurking at the end of the wait. And now? He snuck away between engagements and met me in the bar downstairs. In public. In the bar. Sitting and talking, recounting his day. Enjoying my company. One ill-advised kiss beside his car and then he was gone, sending texts that he wished he could escape his friends and be back with me. To hang out. Not just to have his cock sucked.
Still.
Waiting, I am content.
Calm and confident and content.
I feel safe, too.
He is taking steps.
Precautionary measures.
Measures to protect me against the beast.
Steps to bar the beast from the room.
I am pleased.
And relaxed.
Relaxing after my work week in California.
I sit in the armchair
feet propped up
reading a book he told me about.
Reading a book he bought for me.
Reading a book that is exercising my mind.
I am happy.
I am relaxed.
And he will be here soon enough.
(Had to reformat this post once I got home. Blogger didn't recognize my iPhone's line breaks.)
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Tended, tenderly, with caresses and pain
I am writing from somewhere very high up.
Open.
Expanded.
Floating.
I must be coming down a little, because as I sit here naked in bed, awake from a very long post-orgasmic nap, I can feel the pain building in my spanked and belt-beaten butt.
He knew what I needed.
What I needed for myself.
And what I needed for him,
to put me in that place he wanted me.
That place in which he can enjoy me.
And beyond.
He coaxed out his little girl.
Which he needed and I needed.
And then he sent me further.
Deeper and higher.
Deeper and higher into that awe-inspiring slave place.
I'm supposed to report to him after.
After he is gone.
Report to him on the experience from my perspective.
What I experienced and how I felt.
But I was horribly frustrated. I couldn't find the words. That place, the journey, what I felt, what I knew, what I touched on, the understanding that was so profound yet wouldn't solidify into description as if it were some perfect psychedelic trip while held safe in the arms of the man who was both guide and the drug itself. Except I wasn't in his arms.
Well, sometimes I was in his arms.
As he kissed me.
He has a graduate degree in kissing after years of independent study and lab experiments.
But the rest of the time I was sucking his cock.
Or sitting in his lap.
Or lying on my belly as my bottom reddened beneath his belt.
Or pinned to the futon by his body as his cock sought my tight little butt hole.
Later, he whipped me with his belt as I was sucking his cock. By then I was already pretty high. I could tell he was beating me harder than before, but as always happens when I'm that high, it didn't hurt as much. I could feel the impact, and it hurt a little, but I wasn't suffering from it.
I wished he had beaten me longer then.
But it's not for me to ask.
Everything is for him.
Even when it's what he thinks I need, it's to make me into what will please him.
Except you know what?
I'm sorry to contradict my Master, but that's not wholly true.
He cares for me.
A lot.
What was that term he allowed himself to use during our last night together?
He's "extremely fond" of me.
And from the way he said it, you could tell how much those words meant.
Plus when I was away.
He gave me a gift.
Special dispensation.
The prime directive was set aside.
The one about giving him what he wants, and not what he doesn't want.
You can write anything, he said.
Anything I wanted.
Anything I needed to say.
He took down the wall.
He was my lover.
He was my friend.
He was my strength.
Which, in fact, he always is.
But it's not safe to be that way without the structure.
The carapace.
For so many reasons.
But those parts of us are as much of what we are to and with each other as the rest of them. It's just that they need to be kept constrained. Like the beast in a way. Ironic, no? But I completely agree. For so many reasons, it would never work.
But sometimes he takes down the wall.
He takes care of me.
So he allowed me to say whatever I needed.
And granted me an unheard of 4 orgasms to be spread over the 5 days.
Because he knew what I needed.
Because he wanted to take care of me.
Because he wanted to ease my pain.
While today, he knew I needed the pain.
And then.
After he came.
After I gave him the release he needed,
as I sat on the floor before him,
my head in his lap,
he stroked my head,
he stroked my hair,
gently and tenderly
for the longest time.
And I felt very dear.
And very treasured.
And very safe.
Open.
Expanded.
Floating.
I must be coming down a little, because as I sit here naked in bed, awake from a very long post-orgasmic nap, I can feel the pain building in my spanked and belt-beaten butt.
He knew what I needed.
What I needed for myself.
And what I needed for him,
to put me in that place he wanted me.
That place in which he can enjoy me.
And beyond.
He coaxed out his little girl.
Which he needed and I needed.
And then he sent me further.
Deeper and higher.
Deeper and higher into that awe-inspiring slave place.
I'm supposed to report to him after.
After he is gone.
Report to him on the experience from my perspective.
What I experienced and how I felt.
But I was horribly frustrated. I couldn't find the words. That place, the journey, what I felt, what I knew, what I touched on, the understanding that was so profound yet wouldn't solidify into description as if it were some perfect psychedelic trip while held safe in the arms of the man who was both guide and the drug itself. Except I wasn't in his arms.
Well, sometimes I was in his arms.
As he kissed me.
He has a graduate degree in kissing after years of independent study and lab experiments.
But the rest of the time I was sucking his cock.
Or sitting in his lap.
Or lying on my belly as my bottom reddened beneath his belt.
Or pinned to the futon by his body as his cock sought my tight little butt hole.
Later, he whipped me with his belt as I was sucking his cock. By then I was already pretty high. I could tell he was beating me harder than before, but as always happens when I'm that high, it didn't hurt as much. I could feel the impact, and it hurt a little, but I wasn't suffering from it.
I wished he had beaten me longer then.
But it's not for me to ask.
Everything is for him.
Even when it's what he thinks I need, it's to make me into what will please him.
Except you know what?
I'm sorry to contradict my Master, but that's not wholly true.
He cares for me.
A lot.
What was that term he allowed himself to use during our last night together?
He's "extremely fond" of me.
And from the way he said it, you could tell how much those words meant.
Plus when I was away.
He gave me a gift.
Special dispensation.
The prime directive was set aside.
The one about giving him what he wants, and not what he doesn't want.
You can write anything, he said.
Anything I wanted.
Anything I needed to say.
He took down the wall.
He was my lover.
He was my friend.
He was my strength.
Which, in fact, he always is.
But it's not safe to be that way without the structure.
The carapace.
For so many reasons.
But those parts of us are as much of what we are to and with each other as the rest of them. It's just that they need to be kept constrained. Like the beast in a way. Ironic, no? But I completely agree. For so many reasons, it would never work.
But sometimes he takes down the wall.
He takes care of me.
So he allowed me to say whatever I needed.
And granted me an unheard of 4 orgasms to be spread over the 5 days.
Because he knew what I needed.
Because he wanted to take care of me.
Because he wanted to ease my pain.
While today, he knew I needed the pain.
And then.
After he came.
After I gave him the release he needed,
as I sat on the floor before him,
my head in his lap,
he stroked my head,
he stroked my hair,
gently and tenderly
for the longest time.
And I felt very dear.
And very treasured.
And very safe.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Girls talk - about sex! (What else?)
Lunch with the girls today.
Meaning my friends from work.
Friends!
I've almost never had friends at work.
Real friends.
Friends I can go out to lunch with.
Open up to.
Be myself with.
Well, almost myself...
I've told them in normal terms about my relationship.
But not about the BDSM part of it.
But I did mention today that I review vibrators.
(And I really do have to get back to reviewing. If for no other reason than I owe a review for the last toy I got. A toy I liked. But between work and family stuff and my writer's block... well, it just hasn't happened. Which is stupid. Because all I have to do is transcribe my comments to my Master as I tested it. Soon...)
Anyway.
I have these friends.
Young women.
One is 22, one is 30, and the third... maybe mid-twenties?
Three of us started at the same time, and then we welcomed in the fourth when she arrived a few months later. We had wondered if she'd fit in, because the three of us tended to let it hang out. Who knows why?
The newest one has a boyfriend. I've got my Master. The 30-year old is married but getting almost no sex since her pregnancy maybe 4 years ago. The 22-year old really wants to get laid. She's striking and sharp, very smart and very wry. Most people bore her, she says. A problem.
But not as bad as the married one's problem.
She's never had an orgasm.
Or doesn't think she has.
In chorus, the 22-year old and I sang out "You'd know it if you had one."
So we talked to her a little about vibrators.
I think we should have a little party and show her ours.
Tell her about the options.
Too bad there isn't a good store in the area where we could take her.
A real store, not on line.
One of those stores started by women.
Someplace like Good Vibrations or Babeland.
I did now find via Google something in DC, though I'm not sure of the atmosphere. If only we could get her to go exploring with us one day! Of course, she has a family to get home to. And I'm booked on Saturdays.
Anyway, it feels good having friends to talk with so openly. Relatively openly. At least to be open about being so sexual. It's a relief.
But tell them I'm a slave?
That my Daddy whips me with his belt?
Not a chance.
Speaking of the beast, I had to go back up north last weekend to see my mom again, who was back in the hospital with pneumonia. Which is not uncommon with a stroke. The same hospital in which Maurice Sendak died. (I was very sad about that - Maurice Sendak dying. I loved Where the Wild Things Are, which I didn't read until I was in college. To be able to be angry, to run away, to be among creatures who accept you and respect you. And then to be able to return home. To be welcomed home and loved. Not judged. It's hard, these days. With my mother so ill. Knowing that I disappointed her, and that she could not accept me for who and what I was. I struggle with a lot of feelings these days.)
Anyway, I hated being away from my Daddy, and hated not being there for him. But it meant he could visit his masochist slave, where the beast is let loose and, hopefully, some of the stress of wanting to torture me is relieved. It turns out that he took Saturday regular visits from his slave in order to give me that day, once I went back to work. I had just started wondering if that was the case when he told me. I felt bad. I knew how awful I'd feel if my visits were cut back so he could be with someone else instead. So I was glad that his slave would benefit from my absence, and hoped that my Daddy's hunger would be eased. Which it was. At least to some extent. We'll see. This Saturday we'll see.
Unless my mother dies.
I don't really think she's into going on.
I don't know.
Some of her being uncooperative is from the increasing dementia.
Dementia mainly from the stroke now.
But some... I'm not sure.
Sometimes I think she doesn't think it's worth it like this.
When your parents are in their 90s, you're always expecting The Call. But now, it's even more. Which will be hard. But a blessing, too, perhaps. Very hard on my dad, but also a relief. He's exhausted. And then... it will be a pity. Our relationship has been getting a lot better lately, from my having visits with him alone. Ah well.
I guess that, after all, there were other things to talk about.
Other than sex.
At least here.
Where I can ramble on.
Thanks for just sitting and listening.
Because that's another thing friends do.
Sit.
And listen.
Without judgment.
And now I think I'll go cuddle the cats.
Because they don't judge me either.
Meaning my friends from work.
Friends!
I've almost never had friends at work.
Real friends.
Friends I can go out to lunch with.
Open up to.
Be myself with.
Well, almost myself...
I've told them in normal terms about my relationship.
But not about the BDSM part of it.
But I did mention today that I review vibrators.
(And I really do have to get back to reviewing. If for no other reason than I owe a review for the last toy I got. A toy I liked. But between work and family stuff and my writer's block... well, it just hasn't happened. Which is stupid. Because all I have to do is transcribe my comments to my Master as I tested it. Soon...)
Anyway.
I have these friends.
Young women.
One is 22, one is 30, and the third... maybe mid-twenties?
Three of us started at the same time, and then we welcomed in the fourth when she arrived a few months later. We had wondered if she'd fit in, because the three of us tended to let it hang out. Who knows why?
The newest one has a boyfriend. I've got my Master. The 30-year old is married but getting almost no sex since her pregnancy maybe 4 years ago. The 22-year old really wants to get laid. She's striking and sharp, very smart and very wry. Most people bore her, she says. A problem.
But not as bad as the married one's problem.
She's never had an orgasm.
Or doesn't think she has.
In chorus, the 22-year old and I sang out "You'd know it if you had one."
So we talked to her a little about vibrators.
I think we should have a little party and show her ours.
Tell her about the options.
Too bad there isn't a good store in the area where we could take her.
A real store, not on line.
One of those stores started by women.
Someplace like Good Vibrations or Babeland.
I did now find via Google something in DC, though I'm not sure of the atmosphere. If only we could get her to go exploring with us one day! Of course, she has a family to get home to. And I'm booked on Saturdays.
Anyway, it feels good having friends to talk with so openly. Relatively openly. At least to be open about being so sexual. It's a relief.
But tell them I'm a slave?
That my Daddy whips me with his belt?
Not a chance.
Speaking of the beast, I had to go back up north last weekend to see my mom again, who was back in the hospital with pneumonia. Which is not uncommon with a stroke. The same hospital in which Maurice Sendak died. (I was very sad about that - Maurice Sendak dying. I loved Where the Wild Things Are, which I didn't read until I was in college. To be able to be angry, to run away, to be among creatures who accept you and respect you. And then to be able to return home. To be welcomed home and loved. Not judged. It's hard, these days. With my mother so ill. Knowing that I disappointed her, and that she could not accept me for who and what I was. I struggle with a lot of feelings these days.)
Anyway, I hated being away from my Daddy, and hated not being there for him. But it meant he could visit his masochist slave, where the beast is let loose and, hopefully, some of the stress of wanting to torture me is relieved. It turns out that he took Saturday regular visits from his slave in order to give me that day, once I went back to work. I had just started wondering if that was the case when he told me. I felt bad. I knew how awful I'd feel if my visits were cut back so he could be with someone else instead. So I was glad that his slave would benefit from my absence, and hoped that my Daddy's hunger would be eased. Which it was. At least to some extent. We'll see. This Saturday we'll see.
Unless my mother dies.
I don't really think she's into going on.
I don't know.
Some of her being uncooperative is from the increasing dementia.
Dementia mainly from the stroke now.
But some... I'm not sure.
Sometimes I think she doesn't think it's worth it like this.
When your parents are in their 90s, you're always expecting The Call. But now, it's even more. Which will be hard. But a blessing, too, perhaps. Very hard on my dad, but also a relief. He's exhausted. And then... it will be a pity. Our relationship has been getting a lot better lately, from my having visits with him alone. Ah well.
I guess that, after all, there were other things to talk about.
Other than sex.
At least here.
Where I can ramble on.
Thanks for just sitting and listening.
Because that's another thing friends do.
Sit.
And listen.
Without judgment.
And now I think I'll go cuddle the cats.
Because they don't judge me either.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Gift exchange
It was a special occasion.
I wrote him a poem.
He allowed me to take photos.
Obviously, I can't share the photos.
But you can see the following,
which pleased my Master
and kept the beast at bay.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
And what if you had not been born?
Or I had never heard your name,
or seen your face's dear terrain,
or felt your body hard and warm,
so soft and fierce and tender cruel?
No swift slots win or flash of fame
could salve the mystery and pain
of losses reeled off fortune's spool.
But luck or fate gave me a shove
To put this prey in hunter's way
And what began as sassy play
Made me a slave to you and love.
Thus here, a gift unwrapped upon your knee
I'm wholly yours, as I was born to be.
I wrote him a poem.
He allowed me to take photos.
Obviously, I can't share the photos.
But you can see the following,
which pleased my Master
and kept the beast at bay.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
And what if you had not been born?
Or I had never heard your name,
or seen your face's dear terrain,
or felt your body hard and warm,
so soft and fierce and tender cruel?
No swift slots win or flash of fame
could salve the mystery and pain
of losses reeled off fortune's spool.
But luck or fate gave me a shove
To put this prey in hunter's way
And what began as sassy play
Made me a slave to you and love.
Thus here, a gift unwrapped upon your knee
I'm wholly yours, as I was born to be.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
We were slaves...
It's here again.
Passover.
A celebration of liberation.
A holiday that tells a story.
We were slaves and now we are free.
We sit around a table with family and friends and symbolic foods, reading new versions of the traditional text, performing small rituals in ways that have become rituals of our own.
Sometimes we charge right through it.
Sometimes we stop.
And think.
And discuss.
Sometimes the words swirl around us as we search for ways to make them meaningful in our own lives.
What if being a slave is something we embrace?
What if it is something we struggle to embrace?
What if we struggle to free ourselves from the fear of freedom?
"Freedom is a chain", my high school teacher said to illustrate the concept of the oxymoron. Yes, we said, nodding sagely, understanding only some of the implications of the responsibilities that come with freedom. Because of course there is the flip side.
If
freedom = a chain
then
a chain = freedom.
At least in our world.
Our alternative, chosen world.
A world where the chain is worn willingly,
is accepted with pride,
is borne with humility
and with the understanding that it, too,
brings with it responsibility.
A world in which I feel an unexpected safety in belonging to a sadist. A world in which his torturous desire to hurt me speaks of his feelings for me, feelings that doom him to wrestling with himself to protect that which he treasures.
I was lucky enough to get to know Laura Antoniou and her wife during the short period of time they were in this area and belonged to my synagogue. A while back they wrote a haggaddah for a leather seder, which includes some commentary connecting power relationships as lived and explored in the BDSM community with the themes and stories we address at this time. You can find a pdf of the book here.
As for me, tomorrow night, as I sit at the table of dear friends who are both leather men and long time AIDS survivors, every time I read the word "slave" my mind will ricochet back and forth between the story of the Exodus from Egypt and my own story of finding freedom in submission to the will of another.
And then I'll remember this.
In the story of the Exodus,
the Jews flee their slavery in Egypt,
and then,
of their own free will,
enter in a new covenant of obedience,
accepting the Ten Commandments at the foot of Mount Sinai.
Yes, they say to God.
Yes.
We accept.
We are your people,
and we will obey.
Yes, I say to he who is the anchor of my life.
Yes.
I accept.
I belong to you.
The struggle will never end.
But I belong to you.
And I will try,
again and again,
to obey.
Passover.
A celebration of liberation.
A holiday that tells a story.
We were slaves and now we are free.
We sit around a table with family and friends and symbolic foods, reading new versions of the traditional text, performing small rituals in ways that have become rituals of our own.
Sometimes we charge right through it.
Sometimes we stop.
And think.
And discuss.
Sometimes the words swirl around us as we search for ways to make them meaningful in our own lives.
What if being a slave is something we embrace?
What if it is something we struggle to embrace?
What if we struggle to free ourselves from the fear of freedom?
"Freedom is a chain", my high school teacher said to illustrate the concept of the oxymoron. Yes, we said, nodding sagely, understanding only some of the implications of the responsibilities that come with freedom. Because of course there is the flip side.
If
freedom = a chain
then
a chain = freedom.
At least in our world.
Our alternative, chosen world.
A world where the chain is worn willingly,
is accepted with pride,
is borne with humility
and with the understanding that it, too,
brings with it responsibility.
A world in which I feel an unexpected safety in belonging to a sadist. A world in which his torturous desire to hurt me speaks of his feelings for me, feelings that doom him to wrestling with himself to protect that which he treasures.
I was lucky enough to get to know Laura Antoniou and her wife during the short period of time they were in this area and belonged to my synagogue. A while back they wrote a haggaddah for a leather seder, which includes some commentary connecting power relationships as lived and explored in the BDSM community with the themes and stories we address at this time. You can find a pdf of the book here.
As for me, tomorrow night, as I sit at the table of dear friends who are both leather men and long time AIDS survivors, every time I read the word "slave" my mind will ricochet back and forth between the story of the Exodus from Egypt and my own story of finding freedom in submission to the will of another.
And then I'll remember this.
In the story of the Exodus,
the Jews flee their slavery in Egypt,
and then,
of their own free will,
enter in a new covenant of obedience,
accepting the Ten Commandments at the foot of Mount Sinai.
Yes, they say to God.
Yes.
We accept.
We are your people,
and we will obey.
Yes, I say to he who is the anchor of my life.
Yes.
I accept.
I belong to you.
The struggle will never end.
But I belong to you.
And I will try,
again and again,
to obey.
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