My bruises disappoint me.
The brevity of my punishment disappoints me.
I expected more.
I expected worse.
I was relieved when it ended.
Scared and grateful when he beat me again.
It wasn't enough.
As a punishment it wasn't enough.
Cleanse me, Sir.
Whip my guilt away.
Tie down my arms so I can't
protect
my tits from your belt.
Make me suffer enough to atone.
I can never suffer enough to atone.
And it did do the job.
Even though you didn't choke me.
Even though the chain stayed out of your hands,
away from that most vulnerable
hole
between my legs.
You didn't bring a new
strip
of wood
to use as a
cane
in place of the one I angrily discarded
when I left you.
You were my Tam Lin
but I didn't hold on
as
enchanted
you changed from one
fearsome beast
to another.
I was scared.
I was angry.
So I ran.
And then looked for you in
every
other
man
I met.
Can your belt beat out of me that guilt?
Not really.
Not ever.
But spanking my pussy as you held my legs apart
Whipping with anger, with love and with lust
You slashed to shreds my stubborn will
As if with the knife you're
forbidden
to bring in the house
closing your ears and sadistic soul to the
siren song of
my belly.
I sobbed.
I suffered.
I surrendered my soul.
And offered myself to
everything
everything
I ran from before.
Oh Matron Saint of Foolish Vows,
please help me keep my word!
Showing posts with label belly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label belly. Show all posts
Friday, February 7, 2020
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Body modification
That's his word for it.
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
I suck the sadist's mental cock as motorcade delays blowjob
He was stuck in front of the White House.
He was on his way to get his cock sucked
and he was stuck in front of the White House.
We get that here in DC.
Motorcades and helicopters,
police escorts and unexpected traffic.
I hear about a speech in the Rose Garden and I can feel it happening, 9 miles down the road. The reporter comments on the weather but I already know what it is, I only have to look out the window and I know we're under the same sun, the same clouds, the same threat of economic disaster.
He had projected an arrival between noon and 1 pm. Last week he was held up by rain-delayed traffic. Today was clear and cold, bright sun smiling down on a city preparing for Christmas as the unemployed try for a second year to sneak a couple of gifts into their struggling budgets. The sun was shining. Anything seemed possible.
Surely, today, he'll have plenty of time to enjoy the services of his devoted pet?
Not so fast.
In fact, not fast at all.
At 12:55, he projects a 1:20 arrival.
Ha.
Five minutes later, everything stops.
1:15.
He's been stuck at the same light near the White House for 15 minutes.
People start getting out of their cars.
At least we can text.
Illegal for him but what the hell.
He certainly isn't going anywhere.
Poor Daddy. Too bad your pet isn't with you. Though maybe not a good place to have your cock sucked in the car.
I check out the Washington Post on line. The sadist reports a motorcade. I eventually figure out that Obama must be coming back from a speech to campaign workers at a nearby hotel. At 1:25, cars start moving again.
Poor Daddy indeed. If he wasn't stressed out before, he surely must be now. The visit will have to be cut short. Again. Sometimes it seems as if we are being punished for the luxury of that perfect hotel night. We're being charged for it, forced to pay it back, minute for minute.
Still, there are ways I can serve him in absentia.
Not with my hand.
Not with my mouth.
But with my mind.
My pussy mind.
I'll lick and suck him with my mind.
Feel my tits pressing into your belly. Feel my belly pressing against your cock. I am with you, Sir. Breathe deeply and you will smell me.
My tongue whispers in your ear. I am waiting. I am always waiting. I live in standby mode, a little red light on the tip of my clit signalling readiness.
My pale butt cheeks rise before your eyes, blocking the view of cars and politicians. You feel yourself being sucked into my tight moaning butt hole.
You feel me on the seat beside you. Touch yourself, you say. Reach under your dress to your soft bare pussy and touch yourself for me.
Taste yourself, you say. Taste how you melt from knowing you are mine.
Touch me, you say. Run your fingers over my cock as it groans within my jeans.
Suck me, you say. Imagine away these bucket seats. Spread your obedient body across the bench seat and fasten your sweet soft mouth on my demanding dick.
Show your bare ass to the waiting cars and the now distracted Secret Service. Brighten their day. Give them food for torrid dreams. Let them dream. You are mine.
Are you moving yet, Daddy?
Thank you, Sir. I await. Twitching.
If you must be stuck in traffic, it's good to have a reliable stress reliever waiting at the end of the trip.
I am very reliable.
And when he left me, he felt very good indeed.
It was the least I could do.
As for me -
I get to masturbate tonight.
Daddy had the pleasure of giving me the spanking I needed.
And he gnawed into my neck a beautiful mark.
Good thing it's cold enough for turtleneck sweaters!
He was on his way to get his cock sucked
and he was stuck in front of the White House.
We get that here in DC.
Motorcades and helicopters,
police escorts and unexpected traffic.
I hear about a speech in the Rose Garden and I can feel it happening, 9 miles down the road. The reporter comments on the weather but I already know what it is, I only have to look out the window and I know we're under the same sun, the same clouds, the same threat of economic disaster.
He had projected an arrival between noon and 1 pm. Last week he was held up by rain-delayed traffic. Today was clear and cold, bright sun smiling down on a city preparing for Christmas as the unemployed try for a second year to sneak a couple of gifts into their struggling budgets. The sun was shining. Anything seemed possible.
Surely, today, he'll have plenty of time to enjoy the services of his devoted pet?
Not so fast.
In fact, not fast at all.
At 12:55, he projects a 1:20 arrival.
Ha.
Five minutes later, everything stops.
1:15.
He's been stuck at the same light near the White House for 15 minutes.
People start getting out of their cars.
At least we can text.
Illegal for him but what the hell.
He certainly isn't going anywhere.
Poor Daddy. Too bad your pet isn't with you. Though maybe not a good place to have your cock sucked in the car.
I check out the Washington Post on line. The sadist reports a motorcade. I eventually figure out that Obama must be coming back from a speech to campaign workers at a nearby hotel. At 1:25, cars start moving again.
Poor Daddy indeed. If he wasn't stressed out before, he surely must be now. The visit will have to be cut short. Again. Sometimes it seems as if we are being punished for the luxury of that perfect hotel night. We're being charged for it, forced to pay it back, minute for minute.
Still, there are ways I can serve him in absentia.
Not with my hand.
Not with my mouth.
But with my mind.
My pussy mind.
I'll lick and suck him with my mind.
Feel my tits pressing into your belly. Feel my belly pressing against your cock. I am with you, Sir. Breathe deeply and you will smell me.
My tongue whispers in your ear. I am waiting. I am always waiting. I live in standby mode, a little red light on the tip of my clit signalling readiness.
My pale butt cheeks rise before your eyes, blocking the view of cars and politicians. You feel yourself being sucked into my tight moaning butt hole.
You feel me on the seat beside you. Touch yourself, you say. Reach under your dress to your soft bare pussy and touch yourself for me.
Taste yourself, you say. Taste how you melt from knowing you are mine.
Touch me, you say. Run your fingers over my cock as it groans within my jeans.
Suck me, you say. Imagine away these bucket seats. Spread your obedient body across the bench seat and fasten your sweet soft mouth on my demanding dick.
Show your bare ass to the waiting cars and the now distracted Secret Service. Brighten their day. Give them food for torrid dreams. Let them dream. You are mine.
Are you moving yet, Daddy?
Eta 2:00.
Thank you, Sir. I await. Twitching.
If you must be stuck in traffic, it's good to have a reliable stress reliever waiting at the end of the trip.
I am very reliable.
And when he left me, he felt very good indeed.
It was the least I could do.
As for me -
I get to masturbate tonight.
Daddy had the pleasure of giving me the spanking I needed.
And he gnawed into my neck a beautiful mark.
Good thing it's cold enough for turtleneck sweaters!
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
A few hours later...
He got what he needed from me.
Though not in the way he had led me to believe.
The rest
is for him and me alone.
Though not in the way he had led me to believe.
The rest
is for him and me alone.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Written while sitting on my sore, hot butt
He needed to spank me today.
My Daddy has been dealing with a lot of aggravation lately, and he needed to spank his little girl. So he did. A lot. And hard. Though not as hard as I'm sure he wanted to.
He wanted to see his little girl's butt turn pink and then red. He wanted to feel it hot beneath him as he lay on top of her and pushed his Daddy cock against her tight little puckered butt hole until it hurt and she cried out "Ow! Daddy! It hurts!"
He loves when she tells him that he's hurting her.
So he spanked her as she was lying flat on the futon, with her panties pulled down below her knees and her Daddy straddling her legs so both those things made her feel restrained. And then he spanked her as she knelt before him sucking his cock, and as she rose up on her knees and he pulled her close to him while he sat on the chair that is his throne, and then as she lay on the futon facing in the other direction. He spanked her extra hard then, facing in the other direction, so her butt went from pink to red and grew very hot and was especially red on her right side because that's the side that shines in the light from the window when she kneels before him and sucks his cock.
He spanked me a lot.
He spanked me hard.
And I kept crying out that he was hurting me.
And later he spoke of how he had beaten me. which seemed rather a strong word to use for a hand spanking, except that the phrase arouses me, and it arouses him, and it makes me want him to beat me even though I probably - I know - I know I couldn't handle what he really wants to do.
When he hurts me, it makes me softer.
My mouth.
My tits.
My belly.
Everything softer.
Every time.
He spoke of how he wants to torture me.
Not of exactly what he wants to do.
He never tells me that.
But of part of why he wants to torture me.
Not for my screams.
But for my breath.
For the sharp intake of breath that would precede a scream.
He protects me.
He prevents himself from torturing me.
He denies himself.
He suffers to protect me.
Because to give in to the beast would be to destroy us.
And what we have, what we are, is too precious.
He wouldn't risk that.
But he does let himself spank me.
And now my bottom is still pink.
My bottom is still warm.
My bottom still hurts.
My Daddy spanked me.
And I'm so glad he did.
My Daddy has been dealing with a lot of aggravation lately, and he needed to spank his little girl. So he did. A lot. And hard. Though not as hard as I'm sure he wanted to.
He wanted to see his little girl's butt turn pink and then red. He wanted to feel it hot beneath him as he lay on top of her and pushed his Daddy cock against her tight little puckered butt hole until it hurt and she cried out "Ow! Daddy! It hurts!"
He loves when she tells him that he's hurting her.
So he spanked her as she was lying flat on the futon, with her panties pulled down below her knees and her Daddy straddling her legs so both those things made her feel restrained. And then he spanked her as she knelt before him sucking his cock, and as she rose up on her knees and he pulled her close to him while he sat on the chair that is his throne, and then as she lay on the futon facing in the other direction. He spanked her extra hard then, facing in the other direction, so her butt went from pink to red and grew very hot and was especially red on her right side because that's the side that shines in the light from the window when she kneels before him and sucks his cock.
He spanked me a lot.
He spanked me hard.
And I kept crying out that he was hurting me.
And later he spoke of how he had beaten me. which seemed rather a strong word to use for a hand spanking, except that the phrase arouses me, and it arouses him, and it makes me want him to beat me even though I probably - I know - I know I couldn't handle what he really wants to do.
When he hurts me, it makes me softer.
My mouth.
My tits.
My belly.
Everything softer.
Every time.
He spoke of how he wants to torture me.
Not of exactly what he wants to do.
He never tells me that.
But of part of why he wants to torture me.
Not for my screams.
But for my breath.
For the sharp intake of breath that would precede a scream.
He protects me.
He prevents himself from torturing me.
He denies himself.
He suffers to protect me.
Because to give in to the beast would be to destroy us.
And what we have, what we are, is too precious.
He wouldn't risk that.
But he does let himself spank me.
And now my bottom is still pink.
My bottom is still warm.
My bottom still hurts.
My Daddy spanked me.
And I'm so glad he did.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Thought control
You run your mind gently across my lips and let it slip down the soft slide of my left breast. Your thoughts nibble at my provoking nipples, one tiny red pillow adorned with the barest remnant of a scab. Memories poke up their tousled heads. You chase them away, and force your errant brain deep into the yeast dough mound of my pale belly. Your ruminations tickle my clit before slipping into my pussy.
Miles away, I groan, and wish I had permission to touch.
Miles away, I groan, and wish I had permission to touch.
Monday, July 4, 2011
The dance of pain
Holiday weekends confuse me. Even though I'm not working, I have an inner sense of the pattern of the week that's almost physical. It's certainly visual. A holiday throws things off. I'm not sure where I'm standing.
What I do know is that tomorrow is Tuesday. And despite an impending change in my Master's schedule, Tuesday for now is still the day I serve him lunch and my mouth and my nipples - and my pale, round belly like a somewhat-smaller-than-before mound of rising yeast dough. And all the other parts of me he owns and enjoys and uses and fucks and hurts.
Tomorrow, Tuesday, he will be hurting me.
Or so it appears.
I have my instructions.
Special preparations.
Being currently minus a renter as well as minus a job, I have reclaimed the dungeon bedroom.
The flogger is so beautiful.
I love my flogger.
Even more than the first one, which broke apart while he whipped me. But he'd decided that one was too hard for me to take, anyway. The ends of the cords were knotted. This one is gentler, plus 2 shades of blue and a sweet, soft brown. He can enjoy whipping me very hard and it doesn't hurt too much.
The cane, as I've said before, is not a standard cane.
It's a long strip of wood, ragged on one end.
A nasty thing.
He has to tap it against my butt very light to keep it from hurting like hell.
It usually hurts like hell.
He was thinking about hurting me this weekend.
He was obsessing about hurting me.
But you know? I'm not worried. Because I know he wants to hurt me. Needs to hurt me. I think one reason why our night in the hotel was such a shock was because that wasn't what either of us expected it to be. I was to be calm, peaceful, focused on pleasing him, focused on serving him. Our times together always end up intense because that's the way we are - although he does like to blame it all on me. But the night had been defined as calm.
Last year he beat my butt with the back of my hairbrush, but that didn't cause an upheaval because I knew I had screwed up a small but crucial task and expected to be punished. So he beat me and it hurt a lot but then it was over and I was cleansed of my guilt and then we went on and it was a beautiful night.
Tomorrow he needs to hurt me.
Because.
Because he needs to.
Maybe that's one of the differences between a sadist and someone who is merely sadistic. At times, my Master needs to hurt me. And then he will, while restraining himself as much as possible from hurting me more than I can bear.
He takes care of me.
He protects me.
Even as he is teaching me to embrace the pain.
To connect it with pleasure.
To want it.
To beg for it.
What I really want is to please him.
To serve him and to please him.
[dead air]
I just had to shake my head. I wrote those two preceding sentences and fell into an undefined reverie that was all feeling... all intimacy... that magical borderless union between the sadist and his prey...
He likes to use that word.
Prey.
And to some extent it is quite accurate.
But there is something else.
Something more.
When the victim is willing and loving and giving.
It's a dance.
A dark dance.
A sensuous dance.
A dangerous dance,
but sweet and intoxicating.
The sadist leads.
And when I'm in his arms
and he bends me back almost to the ground,
my nipples sparkling towards the sky,
he presses his mouth to my naked throat
and sinks his teeth into my neck.
What I do know is that tomorrow is Tuesday. And despite an impending change in my Master's schedule, Tuesday for now is still the day I serve him lunch and my mouth and my nipples - and my pale, round belly like a somewhat-smaller-than-before mound of rising yeast dough. And all the other parts of me he owns and enjoys and uses and fucks and hurts.
Tomorrow, Tuesday, he will be hurting me.
Or so it appears.
I have my instructions.
Special preparations.
Being currently minus a renter as well as minus a job, I have reclaimed the dungeon bedroom.
Place the flogger and the cane in the basement bedroom.
The flogger on the bed.
The cane in the closet.
The flogger is so beautiful.
I love my flogger.
Even more than the first one, which broke apart while he whipped me. But he'd decided that one was too hard for me to take, anyway. The ends of the cords were knotted. This one is gentler, plus 2 shades of blue and a sweet, soft brown. He can enjoy whipping me very hard and it doesn't hurt too much.
The cane, as I've said before, is not a standard cane.
It's a long strip of wood, ragged on one end.
A nasty thing.
He has to tap it against my butt very light to keep it from hurting like hell.
It usually hurts like hell.
He was thinking about hurting me this weekend.
He was obsessing about hurting me.
But you know? I'm not worried. Because I know he wants to hurt me. Needs to hurt me. I think one reason why our night in the hotel was such a shock was because that wasn't what either of us expected it to be. I was to be calm, peaceful, focused on pleasing him, focused on serving him. Our times together always end up intense because that's the way we are - although he does like to blame it all on me. But the night had been defined as calm.
Last year he beat my butt with the back of my hairbrush, but that didn't cause an upheaval because I knew I had screwed up a small but crucial task and expected to be punished. So he beat me and it hurt a lot but then it was over and I was cleansed of my guilt and then we went on and it was a beautiful night.
Tomorrow he needs to hurt me.
Because.
Because he needs to.
Maybe that's one of the differences between a sadist and someone who is merely sadistic. At times, my Master needs to hurt me. And then he will, while restraining himself as much as possible from hurting me more than I can bear.
He takes care of me.
He protects me.
Even as he is teaching me to embrace the pain.
To connect it with pleasure.
To want it.
To beg for it.
What I really want is to please him.
To serve him and to please him.
[dead air]
I just had to shake my head. I wrote those two preceding sentences and fell into an undefined reverie that was all feeling... all intimacy... that magical borderless union between the sadist and his prey...
He likes to use that word.
Prey.
And to some extent it is quite accurate.
But there is something else.
Something more.
When the victim is willing and loving and giving.
It's a dance.
A dark dance.
A sensuous dance.
A dangerous dance,
but sweet and intoxicating.
The sadist leads.
And when I'm in his arms
and he bends me back almost to the ground,
my nipples sparkling towards the sky,
he presses his mouth to my naked throat
and sinks his teeth into my neck.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Dominance and domesticity
A Tuesday.
As usual on a Tuesday, my Master's work schedule has him within a very few miles of my home. We have fallen into a pattern now. He does what he can to keep a few hours open for a visit. Conceivably, he could be here as early as shortly after 10 am, but he is more likely to arrive anywhere between 11 and 1:30.
And then he stays.
No more snatched half hours like when I was working and would run home to strip off my clothes, suck his cock, clear away the tell-tale traces of our meeting, pull my clothes back on and dash back to the office, eating a sandwich as I drove the mile and a half and arriving always late and always not quite there at all. Not to mention that it often hurt to sit.
Not very satisfactory.
Although maybe it fit where we were at the time.
It accentuated the primacy of my service, despite the inconvenience.
Now, though, in our third year, even given all our struggles - or perhaps because of them - we are comfortable with each other. So he comes and spends hours and eats lunch and cums before he goes.
What is there to say about a day such as today? Certainly I could recite this detail and that.
How he ordered me to touch myself for the longest time, sitting before him, while he watched - watched my face, not my pussy, watched me arouse myself for his pleasure...
How he spent the weekend obsessing over my belly, until a vision of it all soft and pale and round kept him awake much of the night, and how he found a way to pose me lying back over a mound of pillow and afghan so that I approximated the image that had haunted him... and how I kept my belly all soft and yielding despite my fear that he would hurt me and how he really didn't hurt me there at all.
How for the first time he didn't tell me I could eat after he had lunched on the beautiful, delicious, and horribly healthy salad I made for him as usual. How I vaguely noted that fact but didn't really care.
How he came and spent hours even though he had some work to do, which he managed to somehow accomplish while I sat naked before him, touching myself per his order, and then fondling his cock, although every few minutes he had to stop and lean over and enjoy my mouth with the sweetest, gentlest, and most erotic kisses you could possibly imagine. No phone calls while I sucked his cock, though. Not this time. He sent me upstairs to get lunch while he made his phone calls. Probably just as well.
It was so comfortable having him down in the dungeon, working, making his phone calls, while I puttered around upstairs, putting the finishing touches on the salad, all the while naked and with the long chain of his ownership clipped tight around my neck and wound round it again and again in a hard and heavy and very welcome reminder of his ownership.
So many little things.
So many lovely little things.
And in the end, after he came in my mouth, which he doesn't usually do, I sat at his feet with my head against his belly and he stroked my hair, so sweetly, so gently, for the longest time, and with such affection...
And the walls of the room swelled with our happiness.
As usual on a Tuesday, my Master's work schedule has him within a very few miles of my home. We have fallen into a pattern now. He does what he can to keep a few hours open for a visit. Conceivably, he could be here as early as shortly after 10 am, but he is more likely to arrive anywhere between 11 and 1:30.
And then he stays.
No more snatched half hours like when I was working and would run home to strip off my clothes, suck his cock, clear away the tell-tale traces of our meeting, pull my clothes back on and dash back to the office, eating a sandwich as I drove the mile and a half and arriving always late and always not quite there at all. Not to mention that it often hurt to sit.
Not very satisfactory.
Although maybe it fit where we were at the time.
It accentuated the primacy of my service, despite the inconvenience.
Now, though, in our third year, even given all our struggles - or perhaps because of them - we are comfortable with each other. So he comes and spends hours and eats lunch and cums before he goes.
What is there to say about a day such as today? Certainly I could recite this detail and that.
How he ordered me to touch myself for the longest time, sitting before him, while he watched - watched my face, not my pussy, watched me arouse myself for his pleasure...
How he spent the weekend obsessing over my belly, until a vision of it all soft and pale and round kept him awake much of the night, and how he found a way to pose me lying back over a mound of pillow and afghan so that I approximated the image that had haunted him... and how I kept my belly all soft and yielding despite my fear that he would hurt me and how he really didn't hurt me there at all.
How for the first time he didn't tell me I could eat after he had lunched on the beautiful, delicious, and horribly healthy salad I made for him as usual. How I vaguely noted that fact but didn't really care.
How he came and spent hours even though he had some work to do, which he managed to somehow accomplish while I sat naked before him, touching myself per his order, and then fondling his cock, although every few minutes he had to stop and lean over and enjoy my mouth with the sweetest, gentlest, and most erotic kisses you could possibly imagine. No phone calls while I sucked his cock, though. Not this time. He sent me upstairs to get lunch while he made his phone calls. Probably just as well.
It was so comfortable having him down in the dungeon, working, making his phone calls, while I puttered around upstairs, putting the finishing touches on the salad, all the while naked and with the long chain of his ownership clipped tight around my neck and wound round it again and again in a hard and heavy and very welcome reminder of his ownership.
So many little things.
So many lovely little things.
And in the end, after he came in my mouth, which he doesn't usually do, I sat at his feet with my head against his belly and he stroked my hair, so sweetly, so gently, for the longest time, and with such affection...
And the walls of the room swelled with our happiness.
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