He didn't beat me today.
He didn't spank me.
He didn't whip me with his belt.
He didn't use on my pale skin the beautiful brown and turquoise leather flogger that many years ago he had his masochist slave make for me. The slave knew whom it was for; the sadist we share has many ways to inflict pain. This flogger is the second model. The first one came apart in use, and the Sadist judged its knotted ends too harsh for me. It's not that he spares me, although I know he protects me. It's more that he can achieve the same effects with less extreme methods, and he doesn't want to risk losing me by going too far. I'm grateful to his masochist slave for giving him the extreme suffering that I cannot.
But not today.
The previous two weeks were hard.
Hard on my flesh and hard on my emotions.
Butt, tits, belly, pussy, all suffered horribly beneath his belt and hands.
I'm still puzzled that my bruises weren't worse.
But today?
Today's training session was different.
Training.
Retraining.
Retraining in some of the
techniques that he
desires
requires
demands
when I serve his pleasure.
So no belt.
No flogger.
Only the lightest of nipple torture,
Which always takes me to
That Place
where I disappear
and all that remains is His.
And then, because I knew, because I saw the signs, the invisible signal, I spread my thighs apart. I spread my thighs and offered those most tender, sensitive tissues to what turned out to be a very gentle spanking. It did fell gentle, yet when he pushed his way into me, when he thrust again and again, it hurt - and I was grateful for the pain because it made me cry out each time he pushed into me and I know that my pain and my cries please him and excite him and it reminded me how my body is his and it's all about his pleasure and what the hell kind of feminist thinks things like this?
But that's who we are.
That's who he is.
That's who I am
and he makes me feel so
strong
and so
safe
and who are any of you to dare question?
I have never been so happy
Showing posts with label belt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label belt. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Friday, February 14, 2020
What, no bruises?
I feel cheated.
Deprived.
After all those blows
and all that pain
why is the canvas of my
ass but spattered with spots
of pink? Where are my
black and blue badges of courage?
My heart is scarred by your
anger. Your words left
dark red cane stripes on my soul.
I peer over my shoulder,
straining to see my ass in the mirror.
Ah! There's one! Two days gone
and the red belt mark has morphed
to blue. I breathe a prayer of thanks.
Deprived.
After all those blows
and all that pain
why is the canvas of my
ass but spattered with spots
of pink? Where are my
black and blue badges of courage?
My heart is scarred by your
anger. Your words left
dark red cane stripes on my soul.
I peer over my shoulder,
straining to see my ass in the mirror.
Ah! There's one! Two days gone
and the red belt mark has morphed
to blue. I breathe a prayer of thanks.
Friday, February 7, 2020
I hate it. I want it. I need it. Please, Sir, whip away my sins!
My bruises disappoint me.
The brevity of my punishment disappoints me.
I expected more.
I expected worse.
I was relieved when it ended.
Scared and grateful when he beat me again.
It wasn't enough.
As a punishment it wasn't enough.
Cleanse me, Sir.
Whip my guilt away.
Tie down my arms so I can't
protect
my tits from your belt.
Make me suffer enough to atone.
I can never suffer enough to atone.
And it did do the job.
Even though you didn't choke me.
Even though the chain stayed out of your hands,
away from that most vulnerable
hole
between my legs.
You didn't bring a new
strip
of wood
to use as a
cane
in place of the one I angrily discarded
when I left you.
You were my Tam Lin
but I didn't hold on
as
enchanted
you changed from one
fearsome beast
to another.
I was scared.
I was angry.
So I ran.
And then looked for you in
every
other
man
I met.
Can your belt beat out of me that guilt?
Not really.
Not ever.
But spanking my pussy as you held my legs apart
Whipping with anger, with love and with lust
You slashed to shreds my stubborn will
As if with the knife you're
forbidden
to bring in the house
closing your ears and sadistic soul to the
siren song of
my belly.
I sobbed.
I suffered.
I surrendered my soul.
And offered myself to
everything
everything
I ran from before.
Oh Matron Saint of Foolish Vows,
please help me keep my word!
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!
Thursday, February 6, 2020
How do you use me? Let me count the ways.
A pair of poems, written in response to yesterday's encounter and recommitment.
The literary inspiration should be obvious.
The first poem was the direct response.
The next was an attempt to wrestle it into proper sonnet form.
Wrestling indeed.
A struggle for sure.
But then, he loves seeing me struggle.
He's not into bondage, by the way.
He expects self-restraint.
Force of will.
And of not that, restraint by his hands.
Anyway, here is the pair of efforts, posted with his permission. I'm nearly trembling with delight at how returning to his control has inspired me. (He does inspire trembling. Especially with orgasm denied.)
Note: I'd be most grateful for any comments, if only to let me know that you are here and noticed that I am.
~ ~ ~ ~
With hungry thrusts you fuck your someday slave
The literary inspiration should be obvious.
The first poem was the direct response.
The next was an attempt to wrestle it into proper sonnet form.
Wrestling indeed.
A struggle for sure.
But then, he loves seeing me struggle.
He's not into bondage, by the way.
He expects self-restraint.
Force of will.
And of not that, restraint by his hands.
Anyway, here is the pair of efforts, posted with his permission. I'm nearly trembling with delight at how returning to his control has inspired me. (He does inspire trembling. Especially with orgasm denied.)
Note: I'd be most grateful for any comments, if only to let me know that you are here and noticed that I am.
~ ~ ~ ~
How Do You Use Me?How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.
You beat me to the heat and depth and pain
My ass can bear when offered to your belt
And then beyond to what you know I need.
You torture me with twists and bites and slaps
On tender tits and taunting nipple ends
While feeding on my frightened helpless screams
And holding fast my wrists with brutal grip.
You show no mercy towards those tender parts
That cower there between my beaten thighs
And blush and swell with want and pain and shame.
You fuck me sore with angry hungry lust
You fuck me sore with angry hungry lust
And drink capitulation from my eyes
And know that I will love you all the same.
~ ~ ~
How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.
You beat me to the heat and depth and pain
Your belt upon my ass can fast attain
And then beyond until my wild eyes glaze.
You torture me with slaps and bites and twists
On tender tits and taunting nipples red
While feeding on my frightened cries of dread
And making clear the purpose of our trysts.
You show no mercy to poor Pussy’s cave
That cowers wet between my beaten thighs
And blushing, swells with want and pain and shame.
With hungry thrusts you fuck your someday slave
And drink capitulation from my eyes -
And know that I will love you all the same.
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
The juicy stuff. You know you want it.
One of the Prime Directives which, I confess, I'm not always so good at observing:
I haven't been very good about that here, either.
First I give you nothing at all.
Then I blather about some married man nearly getting in trouble
because his wonderful wife is not where he is
and he's lonely for companionship.
How boring.
So I'll give you what you do want.
Just a small slice.
How we resumed our previous category of relationship after having been apart for over a year, followed by around 15 months as lovers.
Not sure what name to give the character of our relationship, as BDSM seems...
Inadequate.
And submission?
Something's missing from that term, too, although I can't nail down what.
In any case, a chance to return to that other way of being together was offered and gratefully, if nervously, accepted. Because, as he has always said and I agreed, this is not a game. Not for us. We're embarking back on it very seriously.
And there is real danger.
The Beast lurks, always lurks, though I've been warned not to refer to him by name and not to call to him. For various reasons, there are times when he can't be guaranteed to maintain control of his sadistic nature which is beyond someone who just enjoys inflicting pain as part of their sexual interactions. He loves me - he truly does love me and sometimes even manages to say the words. He doesn't want to risk injuring me, or doing something that would cause an irreparable destruction of the relationship.
"He."
I keep referring to him as "he."
I don't know what else to say.
I don't think of him as the Fiend anymore.
I don't really think of him as the Beast either - even if that name were not taboo.
We're going way, way back with my training, so I am not allowed to call him "my Master" anymore. Not there yet. And after years of calling him "Daddy" - which made us both feel ever so good - that's packed away for now. I may address him only as "Sir" but it seems weird to refer to him that way. So for now, it's just "he." "Him." No capital letter unless at the beginning of a sentence.
And today?
Today.
A ritual.
They always work so well.
Confession.
Punishment.
Forgiveness.
The confession pleased him.
I included the major sin which he was almost convinced I would omit.
And thus, my punishment was much lighter than he had planned.
Certainly lighter than I expected.
Which doesn't mean it was light.
He whipped my ass with his belt.
Hard.
Very hard, he says.
I was draped over a leather footstool and he beat me with great intent.
But he didn't lose control.
We continued in the bedroom.
Again, the belt.
On my ass, as I was bent over the foot of the bed, leaning on my forearms.
The belt.
One blow to each tit.
The belt.
Hard, between my spread legs on tissues that are much too tender to be treated that way.
And then?
The punishment was over.
He got in the bed, and had me get in, and held me to him while I sobbed, and he comforted me, and talked more about what had been said and what had been done.
And about love, too.
But the pain hadn't ended.
Hurting me for his pleasure.
As opposed to hurting me because It Needed To Be Done.
Whipping poor Pussy to make her swollen and sore, so she'd be extra tight around his cock and so it would hurt when he fucked me. Often he will spank her with his hand, hard, but this time he went back to whipping her with his belt. Hard. And then with the curled palm of his hand. Very hard. And I struggled so, because I'd made up my mind that I would not protect myself, that I would offer him whatever he felt I deserved and whatever would give him pleasure. But it hurt so much, God it hurt, the belt on top of the previous whipping, and then his hand on top of all that, and I couldn't bear it... I tried so hard to hold my legs open but our bodies must protect themselves and he was up on his knees looking down at me with a most fierce and determined expression and would have what he wanted and he pulled my legs apart, forced my legs apart, held my legs apart and I struggled but there was nothing I could do and he spanked me there over and over until I was almost beyond feeling it... everything was falling away and there was nothing but the pain and the helplessness... and I see him now. That image living in my brain.
And it's so vibrant.
So intense.
And I'm so grateful that he forced that pain on me.
So grateful that despite my struggles I offered it to him.
Willingly gave him my physical vulnerability along with the emotional.
And yes.
When he fucked me it hurt.
And yes.
I was red and tight and swollen inside.
And yes.
I whimpered and moaned and cried out that it hurt.
And he came with a roar.
And he loves me.
And no.
Of course I'm not allowed to cum.
Give him what he wants.
Not what he doesn't want.
I haven't been very good about that here, either.
First I give you nothing at all.
Then I blather about some married man nearly getting in trouble
because his wonderful wife is not where he is
and he's lonely for companionship.
How boring.
So I'll give you what you do want.
Just a small slice.
How we resumed our previous category of relationship after having been apart for over a year, followed by around 15 months as lovers.
Not sure what name to give the character of our relationship, as BDSM seems...
Inadequate.
And submission?
Something's missing from that term, too, although I can't nail down what.
In any case, a chance to return to that other way of being together was offered and gratefully, if nervously, accepted. Because, as he has always said and I agreed, this is not a game. Not for us. We're embarking back on it very seriously.
And there is real danger.
The Beast lurks, always lurks, though I've been warned not to refer to him by name and not to call to him. For various reasons, there are times when he can't be guaranteed to maintain control of his sadistic nature which is beyond someone who just enjoys inflicting pain as part of their sexual interactions. He loves me - he truly does love me and sometimes even manages to say the words. He doesn't want to risk injuring me, or doing something that would cause an irreparable destruction of the relationship.
"He."
I keep referring to him as "he."
I don't know what else to say.
I don't think of him as the Fiend anymore.
I don't really think of him as the Beast either - even if that name were not taboo.
We're going way, way back with my training, so I am not allowed to call him "my Master" anymore. Not there yet. And after years of calling him "Daddy" - which made us both feel ever so good - that's packed away for now. I may address him only as "Sir" but it seems weird to refer to him that way. So for now, it's just "he." "Him." No capital letter unless at the beginning of a sentence.
And today?
Today.
A ritual.
They always work so well.
Confession.
Punishment.
Forgiveness.
The confession pleased him.
I included the major sin which he was almost convinced I would omit.
And thus, my punishment was much lighter than he had planned.
Certainly lighter than I expected.
Which doesn't mean it was light.
He whipped my ass with his belt.
Hard.
Very hard, he says.
I was draped over a leather footstool and he beat me with great intent.
But he didn't lose control.
We continued in the bedroom.
Again, the belt.
On my ass, as I was bent over the foot of the bed, leaning on my forearms.
The belt.
One blow to each tit.
The belt.
Hard, between my spread legs on tissues that are much too tender to be treated that way.
And then?
The punishment was over.
He got in the bed, and had me get in, and held me to him while I sobbed, and he comforted me, and talked more about what had been said and what had been done.
And about love, too.
But the pain hadn't ended.
Hurting me for his pleasure.
As opposed to hurting me because It Needed To Be Done.
Whipping poor Pussy to make her swollen and sore, so she'd be extra tight around his cock and so it would hurt when he fucked me. Often he will spank her with his hand, hard, but this time he went back to whipping her with his belt. Hard. And then with the curled palm of his hand. Very hard. And I struggled so, because I'd made up my mind that I would not protect myself, that I would offer him whatever he felt I deserved and whatever would give him pleasure. But it hurt so much, God it hurt, the belt on top of the previous whipping, and then his hand on top of all that, and I couldn't bear it... I tried so hard to hold my legs open but our bodies must protect themselves and he was up on his knees looking down at me with a most fierce and determined expression and would have what he wanted and he pulled my legs apart, forced my legs apart, held my legs apart and I struggled but there was nothing I could do and he spanked me there over and over until I was almost beyond feeling it... everything was falling away and there was nothing but the pain and the helplessness... and I see him now. That image living in my brain.
And it's so vibrant.
So intense.
And I'm so grateful that he forced that pain on me.
So grateful that despite my struggles I offered it to him.
Willingly gave him my physical vulnerability along with the emotional.
And yes.
When he fucked me it hurt.
And yes.
I was red and tight and swollen inside.
And yes.
I whimpered and moaned and cried out that it hurt.
And he came with a roar.
And he loves me.
And no.
Of course I'm not allowed to cum.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Now it's you spanking my pussy
Don't kid yourself, Sir. Or do. It's all the same to me. Doesn't change the facts. You fancy yourself in control. Of your sub. Of your mind. Of your cock. Of your life. Even, perhaps, of me. You go looking for me. For someone like me. So you can insert yourself within the moist folds of my life, of the glimpses I give you of my life.
But, my horny reader. You're just the fish. And this time I'm the angler, dangling words and images on the end of my invisible line, casting them out into the waters of your search engine, until Google tosses you up on my shore.
I lick you. Those magic words are the tip of my tongue running up and down your pleading cock, barely touching at first, only teasing, only hinting, until I suck you in, take you all the way down, shove you between my cheek and my teeth, twirl my tongue around your swelling desperation, humming as I work, whispering the words you want, the words you need, the words you embroider into a dubious reality that you wish could be true, as you embellish my vignettes with visions of faces and tits and tight little pussies and even tighter little butt holes.
The words.
Like hand-tied flies,
never quite concealing the sharpened hook.
pussy
spanked pussy
caned pussy
flogged pussy
Daddy spanked his little girl's pussy.
You spanked her pussy, you spanked her cunt, you spanked her ass, you thrust your fingers inside her tortured orifice and found her hot and wet and tight and so red you could believe her pussy itself was blushing because she knows that the pain turns her on, not even a lot of pain, not even the action, just the words... like you it can be just the words... she can almost think herself into cumming... you can do it yourself, you know... just by whispering the words in her ear...
I need to hurt you, Baby.
I'm going to hurt you.
Bring me my belt, sweetheart.
Bring me the flogger.
Have the cane on the bed when I arrive.
I'm going to hurt you.
Or just the shift of your body.
I feel you raise your arm
as I'm bent over your cock,
serving your cock,
delighting your cock,
my ass up near your head,
I feel you raise your arm
and I know it's coming.
Your palm on my ass.
And by now I'm so deep into that place where you put me when you put your hand around my neck and push against my windpipe, just enough, not to stop my breathing but as a reminder, your hand as leather collar, reminding me I'm yours, reminding me of joy, flicking that little switch that always needs a little pain, a little force to take me to that place in which my face changes, my eyes change, and then I'm home.
I suck your cock.
I'm in that place.
You spank my ass.
You spank my pussy.
I'm so deep
I'm so high
I can tell you're hitting me hard
Yet barely register pain.
Please spank me, Daddy.
Please beat me.
Please whip me.
Please spank my pussy.
Please take your belt to my ass.
Please make me
moan
and whimper
and cry
and wriggle,
make me writhe and wriggle,
while you pinch my nipple
and your cock
jerks
at my gasp.
Well, that sure made me hot. How about you, Sir? Not the "You" who in reality got to spank me. You, dear reader, you don't get to spank me. Sorry, buster. You can pretend, though. No one can stop you from pretending. And I know this is what you want because you leave a trail of search words behind you. Pretty much the same ones all the time. So I sing the siren song of spanked pussies and draw you closer until you wreck on my shores.
At least I hope it helps you cum.
I do like to make men cum.
I like to see them lost in their pleasure.
And I like to feel them spurt.
To feel the action within their organs of which they are so proud.
Look how big I am.
Do you like a big cock?
I'm going to shove my big cock inside your little butt hole.
I'm going to make you scream.
You're going to suffer for me.
Is that what you'd like to be saying to me as you shove your swollen cock inside my pussy which is so damn hot because of how you tortured me first?
Think about.
That's your assignment.
Think about hurting me
spanking me
spanking my pussy
spanking my cunt
spanking my clit
whipping my ass with your belt
covering my ass with welts from your cane.
Then fucking me.
Hard.
Sodomizing me.
Using me.
Filling me.
Seizing my long red curls in your fist
And then cumming with a roar.
Like that?
I give you that as a gift.
And then I think of the man who loves me.
Who treasures me.
Who teaches me to treasure myself.
The man who didn't even try to look stern and domly when he came through my door yesterday because he was so damn happy to see me that his face was beautiful with smiles, that his eyes could hide nothing so discipline be damned, he was with his mistress, with his pet, with his slave and precious little girl and in two weeks we will have two whole days together - and nights, he says. Two whole nights.
And as of tomorrow, Labor Day in the U.S. where workers are denied May Day as their holiday, as of tomorrow September 1st it will be 6 years since I begged to be taken into my Master's service and he accepted me.
And in enslaving me, he freed me to be who I really am.
But, my horny reader. You're just the fish. And this time I'm the angler, dangling words and images on the end of my invisible line, casting them out into the waters of your search engine, until Google tosses you up on my shore.
I lick you. Those magic words are the tip of my tongue running up and down your pleading cock, barely touching at first, only teasing, only hinting, until I suck you in, take you all the way down, shove you between my cheek and my teeth, twirl my tongue around your swelling desperation, humming as I work, whispering the words you want, the words you need, the words you embroider into a dubious reality that you wish could be true, as you embellish my vignettes with visions of faces and tits and tight little pussies and even tighter little butt holes.
The words.
Like hand-tied flies,
never quite concealing the sharpened hook.
pussy
spanked pussy
caned pussy
flogged pussy
Daddy spanked his little girl's pussy.
You spanked her pussy, you spanked her cunt, you spanked her ass, you thrust your fingers inside her tortured orifice and found her hot and wet and tight and so red you could believe her pussy itself was blushing because she knows that the pain turns her on, not even a lot of pain, not even the action, just the words... like you it can be just the words... she can almost think herself into cumming... you can do it yourself, you know... just by whispering the words in her ear...
I need to hurt you, Baby.
I'm going to hurt you.
Bring me my belt, sweetheart.
Bring me the flogger.
Have the cane on the bed when I arrive.
I'm going to hurt you.
Or just the shift of your body.
I feel you raise your arm
as I'm bent over your cock,
serving your cock,
delighting your cock,
my ass up near your head,
I feel you raise your arm
and I know it's coming.
Your palm on my ass.
And by now I'm so deep into that place where you put me when you put your hand around my neck and push against my windpipe, just enough, not to stop my breathing but as a reminder, your hand as leather collar, reminding me I'm yours, reminding me of joy, flicking that little switch that always needs a little pain, a little force to take me to that place in which my face changes, my eyes change, and then I'm home.
I suck your cock.
I'm in that place.
You spank my ass.
You spank my pussy.
I'm so deep
I'm so high
I can tell you're hitting me hard
Yet barely register pain.
Please spank me, Daddy.
Please beat me.
Please whip me.
Please spank my pussy.
Please take your belt to my ass.
Please make me
moan
and whimper
and cry
and wriggle,
make me writhe and wriggle,
while you pinch my nipple
and your cock
jerks
at my gasp.
Well, that sure made me hot. How about you, Sir? Not the "You" who in reality got to spank me. You, dear reader, you don't get to spank me. Sorry, buster. You can pretend, though. No one can stop you from pretending. And I know this is what you want because you leave a trail of search words behind you. Pretty much the same ones all the time. So I sing the siren song of spanked pussies and draw you closer until you wreck on my shores.
At least I hope it helps you cum.
I do like to make men cum.
I like to see them lost in their pleasure.
And I like to feel them spurt.
To feel the action within their organs of which they are so proud.
Look how big I am.
Do you like a big cock?
I'm going to shove my big cock inside your little butt hole.
I'm going to make you scream.
You're going to suffer for me.
Is that what you'd like to be saying to me as you shove your swollen cock inside my pussy which is so damn hot because of how you tortured me first?
Think about.
That's your assignment.
Think about hurting me
spanking me
spanking my pussy
spanking my cunt
spanking my clit
whipping my ass with your belt
covering my ass with welts from your cane.
Then fucking me.
Hard.
Sodomizing me.
Using me.
Filling me.
Seizing my long red curls in your fist
And then cumming with a roar.
Like that?
I give you that as a gift.
And then I think of the man who loves me.
Who treasures me.
Who teaches me to treasure myself.
The man who didn't even try to look stern and domly when he came through my door yesterday because he was so damn happy to see me that his face was beautiful with smiles, that his eyes could hide nothing so discipline be damned, he was with his mistress, with his pet, with his slave and precious little girl and in two weeks we will have two whole days together - and nights, he says. Two whole nights.
And as of tomorrow, Labor Day in the U.S. where workers are denied May Day as their holiday, as of tomorrow September 1st it will be 6 years since I begged to be taken into my Master's service and he accepted me.
And in enslaving me, he freed me to be who I really am.
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.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Pain and joy and submission.
Nothing much to report.
Bruises are fading, though still dramatic.
And I wrote the first draft of a poem.
It's been a while.
The poem.
And it felt good.
A relief.
The spanking.
The whipping.
The hair brush that broke after just a few swats.
The hard slaps to my face that did not leave a mark.
I can never understand why they don't leave a mark.
And I hate...
I hate that I respond to it.
See? I guess there is something to report...
There have been changes during these many quiet months. The relationship has evolved over time. Deepened. Survived more of our usual crises. Survived crises in our other lives. In what you might think to call the real world but to me only the hours we spend together are the real world and the rest is the illusion that provides a structure of practicality within which our real world exists.
I won't talk about the complications of his life except to say that there was no way they couldn't affect our own interactions. As for me, my mom had a stroke a year and a half ago and finally died late last June. It was time. And a relief. My dad is still alive, edging towards a hundred, with creeping dementia. He's become a lot sweeter though, and I know I'll mourn him when he's gone. I even wish I lived closer, which is a first. So few years of a good relationship. Too few years. But better than nothing.
I became unhappy at my job, because my department head was micromanaging me until I couldn't breathe. And now - poof! - he was forced out. Happy me! No guarantee how things will turn out, but at least one sure bad thing will be gone in a week and a half. And so. I repeat. Happy me.
Happy pet.
Which goes back to last weekend.
Punishment.
Correction.
Training.
I did something quite bad.
Thoughtless.
Explainable.
But he doesn't take explanations.
And anyway, I should have known better.
The bad thing happened last July.
We're slowly working our way back.
And then I...
It doesn't matter really.
A small thing but a telling thing.
So the whipping.
And all the rest.
Punishment and correction and training.
And eventually just for his pleasure.
In the end, it worked. Not just to convey the lesson, but also to cleanse me. To center me. To beat out of me all the accumulated emotional debris as well as the dust bunnies and fog clouding my (his words) beautiful brain.
A deepening of my submission.
An appreciation.
Because the beauty, the glory, the transcendence of such an abuse of my body is not the pain - although I do admit that up to a point (quickly reached) there is some measure of pleasure in it and - here comes the part that always embarrasses me and perhaps some of you as well - I grow sloppy wet as he beats and pinches and whips and slaps and... But the true beauty of it all, the part that feels best of all, is the submission. The offering. The acceptance. So that even as he brings his whipping belt down hard (for me) on the sensitive, vulnerable, screaming tissues of my sweet pink pussy, I try ever so hard to keep my legs open and accept whatever his own pain and desire drive him to do to me. And later, after, lying close and soft and warm next to his sated body, listening to the murmurings of his for-now eased mind, I feel the joy of having yielded to him everything I am. Of having given him everything in irrational and unlimited trust.
And my reward is the safety and comfort of the sadly not physical cage in which he keeps me, and the hours lying beside him with his collar around my neck.
PS - No. He most certainly did not allow me to cum, although he deliberately brought me very close.
Bruises are fading, though still dramatic.
And I wrote the first draft of a poem.
It's been a while.
The poem.
And it felt good.
A relief.
The spanking.
The whipping.
The hair brush that broke after just a few swats.
The hard slaps to my face that did not leave a mark.
I can never understand why they don't leave a mark.
And I hate...
I hate that I respond to it.
See? I guess there is something to report...
There have been changes during these many quiet months. The relationship has evolved over time. Deepened. Survived more of our usual crises. Survived crises in our other lives. In what you might think to call the real world but to me only the hours we spend together are the real world and the rest is the illusion that provides a structure of practicality within which our real world exists.
I won't talk about the complications of his life except to say that there was no way they couldn't affect our own interactions. As for me, my mom had a stroke a year and a half ago and finally died late last June. It was time. And a relief. My dad is still alive, edging towards a hundred, with creeping dementia. He's become a lot sweeter though, and I know I'll mourn him when he's gone. I even wish I lived closer, which is a first. So few years of a good relationship. Too few years. But better than nothing.
I became unhappy at my job, because my department head was micromanaging me until I couldn't breathe. And now - poof! - he was forced out. Happy me! No guarantee how things will turn out, but at least one sure bad thing will be gone in a week and a half. And so. I repeat. Happy me.
Happy pet.
Which goes back to last weekend.
Punishment.
Correction.
Training.
I did something quite bad.
Thoughtless.
Explainable.
But he doesn't take explanations.
And anyway, I should have known better.
The bad thing happened last July.
We're slowly working our way back.
And then I...
It doesn't matter really.
A small thing but a telling thing.
So the whipping.
And all the rest.
Punishment and correction and training.
And eventually just for his pleasure.
In the end, it worked. Not just to convey the lesson, but also to cleanse me. To center me. To beat out of me all the accumulated emotional debris as well as the dust bunnies and fog clouding my (his words) beautiful brain.
A deepening of my submission.
An appreciation.
Because the beauty, the glory, the transcendence of such an abuse of my body is not the pain - although I do admit that up to a point (quickly reached) there is some measure of pleasure in it and - here comes the part that always embarrasses me and perhaps some of you as well - I grow sloppy wet as he beats and pinches and whips and slaps and... But the true beauty of it all, the part that feels best of all, is the submission. The offering. The acceptance. So that even as he brings his whipping belt down hard (for me) on the sensitive, vulnerable, screaming tissues of my sweet pink pussy, I try ever so hard to keep my legs open and accept whatever his own pain and desire drive him to do to me. And later, after, lying close and soft and warm next to his sated body, listening to the murmurings of his for-now eased mind, I feel the joy of having yielded to him everything I am. Of having given him everything in irrational and unlimited trust.
And my reward is the safety and comfort of the sadly not physical cage in which he keeps me, and the hours lying beside him with his collar around my neck.
PS - No. He most certainly did not allow me to cum, although he deliberately brought me very close.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Hairbrush research continues (plus tales of my whipping)
I'm passing your comments on, of course.
From the hairbrush-as-hairbrush point of view, it sounds like a combination of natural and plastic bristles is recommended, given that my hair is thick and wavy/curly. Not the very thickest or curliest kind of hair, but it definitely has a good bit of texture of its own.
The reason the other one broke is that it was not a solid piece. Oh, and it was cheap, but that wasn't the real problem. The head flew off the handle. We were in the bathroom of the hotel room. He did get a lot of pleasure out of my poor bottom. His hand, his belt, my hairbrush... Even my collar when he momentarily couldn't find the belt!
He used the belt as a whip this time. Usually, I think, he folds it in half. But this time I had to pull the loose tale through the buckle, after which he wrapped it around his fist a few times before whipping me for long spells and at various times.
Long spells for him, anyway. Most of my spankings and beatings and canings and such have been relatively short, except as punishment/correction/training. Which much of this was. Until later, when he whipped me purely for his pleasure.
I think that when he whipped my pussy it was for his pleasure.
Plus he needed to whip me.
He needed to hurt me.
He needed to hurt me,
and then held back from hurting me as much as he wanted to.
I knew he needed it.
And I knew that I needed it, too.
And today?
I have a collection of very impressive bruises
(poor Pussy isn't looking very pink today)
and I feel very calm
and very centered
and very, very owned.
From the hairbrush-as-hairbrush point of view, it sounds like a combination of natural and plastic bristles is recommended, given that my hair is thick and wavy/curly. Not the very thickest or curliest kind of hair, but it definitely has a good bit of texture of its own.
The reason the other one broke is that it was not a solid piece. Oh, and it was cheap, but that wasn't the real problem. The head flew off the handle. We were in the bathroom of the hotel room. He did get a lot of pleasure out of my poor bottom. His hand, his belt, my hairbrush... Even my collar when he momentarily couldn't find the belt!
He used the belt as a whip this time. Usually, I think, he folds it in half. But this time I had to pull the loose tale through the buckle, after which he wrapped it around his fist a few times before whipping me for long spells and at various times.
Long spells for him, anyway. Most of my spankings and beatings and canings and such have been relatively short, except as punishment/correction/training. Which much of this was. Until later, when he whipped me purely for his pleasure.
I think that when he whipped my pussy it was for his pleasure.
Plus he needed to whip me.
He needed to hurt me.
He needed to hurt me,
and then held back from hurting me as much as he wanted to.
I knew he needed it.
And I knew that I needed it, too.
And today?
I have a collection of very impressive bruises
(poor Pussy isn't looking very pink today)
and I feel very calm
and very centered
and very, very owned.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
P is for Pain; so are peas.
Except I'm out of peas.
Frozen peas.
A big bag of frozen peas
to ease the pain
after the big beating Daddy gave his baby girl.
A welcome beating.
A desired beating.
A belt beating.
It's not that I like the pain exactly. But if I'm going to be beaten, I do... here I'm not sure what word to use. Like it more? Resist it less? Something about the sensation of that leather belt coming down on my ass...
He steadied me with his hand on the small of my back. He steadied me and swung the leather down. He went up and down my butt and onto the very top of my thighs. He knew I wanted it. Even though it was hard to take. He knows. Daddy almost always knows. He knows there is something about being whipped with his belt that his baby girl can almost say she likes.
She certainly wants it.
And she likes that word.
Not beaten.
The other one.
Whipped.
She likes to think about how he whipped her.
About he hurt her.
About how she screamed
and her screaming made him hot.
He always wants to hear her pain.
To hear her scream that he's hurting her.
He wants her to beg him to stop.
and he wants her to beg him for more.
Screaming.
Begging.
Crying.
It was not an act.
And now she's the one getting hot.
Remembering.
Remembering how he steadied her.
Remembering how he beat her.
Remembering how he hurt her.
Remembering how she lay there.
Holding still (more or less).
Accepting.
Submitting.
Welcoming.
There's an amazing intimacy to the exchange of pain.
The giving and receiving,
the inflicting and accepting.
She becomes soft.
She becomes wet, of course,
and also soft.
Very soft.
He whipped me early on, and then again later, while I was on my hands and knees between his legs sucking his cock, he took up the belt and brought it down again and again on my already stinging butt. He was whipping me very hard, he said, harder than before. But it didn't feel as bad because I was floating on cradling clouds of endorphins. They numb me. He spanked me on my reddened butt, he whipped me having already whipped me, and it just didn't hurt as much as it should have.
And then he touched me.
Caressed my skin.
Kissed my mouth.
And everything felt softer.
My mouth, my skin,
everything was softer,
yielding.
Another piece of the magic.
And then he raped his baby girl's tight little butt hole.
Which also hurt.
And which I also wanted.
And he came in my ass.
And I felt his pulsing.
And when it was over
and we lay close together
I looked in his face
and I saw it was good.
As for the peas... well yes, a nice cold compress would probably have been a good idea, as I realized later when I used the toilet at Starbuck's and it was cold and it felt ever so good. But I'm out of peas. Except for half a small bag. Which are peas destined to be eaten. And besides, I like the pain. In a way, the after-pain is part of my aftercare. I fondle it. Admire it. Sing to it. Float on it until the endorphins start to wear off and the analgesic wine I had for dinner starts to wear off, and you know... maybe a couple of Tylenol would be a good idea right around now...
Frozen peas.
A big bag of frozen peas
to ease the pain
after the big beating Daddy gave his baby girl.
A welcome beating.
A desired beating.
A belt beating.
It's not that I like the pain exactly. But if I'm going to be beaten, I do... here I'm not sure what word to use. Like it more? Resist it less? Something about the sensation of that leather belt coming down on my ass...
He steadied me with his hand on the small of my back. He steadied me and swung the leather down. He went up and down my butt and onto the very top of my thighs. He knew I wanted it. Even though it was hard to take. He knows. Daddy almost always knows. He knows there is something about being whipped with his belt that his baby girl can almost say she likes.
She certainly wants it.
And she likes that word.
Not beaten.
The other one.
Whipped.
She likes to think about how he whipped her.
About he hurt her.
About how she screamed
and her screaming made him hot.
He always wants to hear her pain.
To hear her scream that he's hurting her.
He wants her to beg him to stop.
and he wants her to beg him for more.
Screaming.
Begging.
Crying.
It was not an act.
And now she's the one getting hot.
Remembering.
Remembering how he steadied her.
Remembering how he beat her.
Remembering how he hurt her.
Remembering how she lay there.
Holding still (more or less).
Accepting.
Submitting.
Welcoming.
There's an amazing intimacy to the exchange of pain.
The giving and receiving,
the inflicting and accepting.
She becomes soft.
She becomes wet, of course,
and also soft.
Very soft.
He whipped me early on, and then again later, while I was on my hands and knees between his legs sucking his cock, he took up the belt and brought it down again and again on my already stinging butt. He was whipping me very hard, he said, harder than before. But it didn't feel as bad because I was floating on cradling clouds of endorphins. They numb me. He spanked me on my reddened butt, he whipped me having already whipped me, and it just didn't hurt as much as it should have.
And then he touched me.
Caressed my skin.
Kissed my mouth.
And everything felt softer.
My mouth, my skin,
everything was softer,
yielding.
Another piece of the magic.
And then he raped his baby girl's tight little butt hole.
Which also hurt.
And which I also wanted.
And he came in my ass.
And I felt his pulsing.
And when it was over
and we lay close together
I looked in his face
and I saw it was good.
As for the peas... well yes, a nice cold compress would probably have been a good idea, as I realized later when I used the toilet at Starbuck's and it was cold and it felt ever so good. But I'm out of peas. Except for half a small bag. Which are peas destined to be eaten. And besides, I like the pain. In a way, the after-pain is part of my aftercare. I fondle it. Admire it. Sing to it. Float on it until the endorphins start to wear off and the analgesic wine I had for dinner starts to wear off, and you know... maybe a couple of Tylenol would be a good idea right around now...
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.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Living with the beast
I'm thinking... maybe I should approach his sadism as if he had a chronic illness. After all, for better or worse, I have experience with such things. Ex-hubby #2 had Crohn's disease. It was always there. Always a concern. I was always noting how long he was spending in the bathroom. Wondering how long until he was doubled over in pain. How long till I'd have to insist on a trip to the emergency room.
But only sometimes did it get completely out of control.
At which point things became miserable.
For us both.
Although in that case, it was his body that suffered.
Whereas now...
No, no, no!
He has never sent me to the hospital.
Or anywhere near it.
Wipe that thought right out of your heads.
He works very hard to protect me.
He works a lot harder at controlling his sadism
(at least where I'm concerned)
than ex-hubby #2 ever did with respect to his Crohn's.
But sometimes, with both of them, there are flare-ups.
They're inevitable.
Who knows all the reasons?
Although I have my own suspicions.
And then there's this.
It turned out that all of ex-hubby's professions of love were lies. Or maybe more accurately misunderstandings on his part. He didn't really know what love is.
Whereas my Master
my Owner
my Daddy
so carefully controls his avowals of affection
that I know -
I know -
that whatever he does allow himself to say,
whatever emotions he does allow himself to admit to,
he most definitely means.
And then
my only response
my only possible response
is silence
as I take the words
and turn them over in my hands
wondering at their shy glow.
But only sometimes did it get completely out of control.
At which point things became miserable.
For us both.
Although in that case, it was his body that suffered.
Whereas now...
No, no, no!
He has never sent me to the hospital.
Or anywhere near it.
Wipe that thought right out of your heads.
He works very hard to protect me.
He works a lot harder at controlling his sadism
(at least where I'm concerned)
than ex-hubby #2 ever did with respect to his Crohn's.
But sometimes, with both of them, there are flare-ups.
They're inevitable.
Who knows all the reasons?
Although I have my own suspicions.
And then there's this.
It turned out that all of ex-hubby's professions of love were lies. Or maybe more accurately misunderstandings on his part. He didn't really know what love is.
Whereas my Master
my Owner
my Daddy
so carefully controls his avowals of affection
that I know -
I know -
that whatever he does allow himself to say,
whatever emotions he does allow himself to admit to,
he most definitely means.
And then
my only response
my only possible response
is silence
as I take the words
and turn them over in my hands
wondering at their shy glow.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Mistress
Yes.
Mistress.
He said it.
He called me that.
His mistress.
He said he had only just realized it!
Me, I've known it for a while.
It felt good to hear him say it.
And he felt VERY good when I said it.
When I called myself his mistress.
Damn, it turned him on.
Big time.
And made me very happy.
Something about the word. The concept. Maybe because it's recognized in the regular world. Even though nobody will hear it. But I'll hear it. Inside. And he'll say it to me.
It's not the same.
It's not the same as being his sub.
His pet.
His slave.
It's.. it's a more defined place in his life.
And it's definitely not being one of many.
Whatever he may say sometimes, I know I'm not just one of many.
I have known.
And now I know it more.
There were other things on this night we had.
A night and a hotel room.
Intimate things.
Things too intimate to share.
Private things.
Meaningful, sharing, intimate things.
And scary things.
It's spring.
The beast is on the prowl.
He scared us both.
But we'll be ok. Time and again we fight past the effects of these moments. Because what we have - who we are together - it's worth the effort. We are worth the effort.
And I'm his mistress.
Mistress.
He said it.
He called me that.
His mistress.
He said he had only just realized it!
Me, I've known it for a while.
It felt good to hear him say it.
And he felt VERY good when I said it.
When I called myself his mistress.
Damn, it turned him on.
Big time.
And made me very happy.
Something about the word. The concept. Maybe because it's recognized in the regular world. Even though nobody will hear it. But I'll hear it. Inside. And he'll say it to me.
It's not the same.
It's not the same as being his sub.
His pet.
His slave.
It's.. it's a more defined place in his life.
And it's definitely not being one of many.
Whatever he may say sometimes, I know I'm not just one of many.
I have known.
And now I know it more.
There were other things on this night we had.
A night and a hotel room.
Intimate things.
Things too intimate to share.
Private things.
Meaningful, sharing, intimate things.
And scary things.
It's spring.
The beast is on the prowl.
He scared us both.
But we'll be ok. Time and again we fight past the effects of these moments. Because what we have - who we are together - it's worth the effort. We are worth the effort.
And I'm his mistress.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
The limits of Google when arranging an illicit tryst
I have an assignment.
A research assignment.
A multi-part project, researching possibilities.
For next weekend.
For a clandestine getaway.
Hotels.
Bars.
Restaurants.
But for the town we'll be visiting, I'm not coming up with what we need. At least, not when I try to search for it according to our true parameters.
Google does not recognize the word "tryst."
Nor does it want to consider "illicit."
The closest Google gets is "illegal."
And "trust."
Not quite what I was after.
"Clandestine"?
Nothing.
What I really want is a restaurant with small private rooms... red velvet drapes... a fainting couch... privacy and discretion. A place thick with atmosphere for a man whose cock is thick with desire in which he can enjoy an assortment of sensual pleasures.
Where we could count on not being disturbed if he decided to drink his champagne from the trough formed by his pet's back. And if by chance he were disturbed, he could count on the offender stealing silently away and making no comment to anyone.
If he were disturbed.
For I, of course, will be expected to maintain my focus on serving his pleasure no matter where we are or who might join us or what might happen. I will be merely one of the objects assembled to assure him a pleasurable weekend of self-indulgence.
Sometimes it is hard to really believe that. But then, when he wraps his belt around my neck, this man who isn't really into leather but likes it on me takes me to a place, to a time, to a condition... more Roman than antebellum, really, where owning another person was... I'm slipping away now as I write this... slipping back to where I was a mere 4 hours ago, as I knelt naked before him, the belt wrapped round and round my neck... my pussy is convulsing now... I can't think... can't focus... we had been apart for three weeks due to this and that... and then... I'm not supposed to use that word now... the "s" word... but I was there.
The belt around my neck, the leather, it took me there.
Tomorrow, I will be with S--.
Daddy wants me to be.
I'm to fuck him.
Please him.
Make him feel good.
And all the time see the man who owns me standing there.
Watching.
Listening.
Enjoying.
And should S-- comment on the welts left by Daddy's belt on my pale, round ass... I am to say "He whips me."
A research assignment.
A multi-part project, researching possibilities.
For next weekend.
For a clandestine getaway.
Hotels.
Bars.
Restaurants.
But for the town we'll be visiting, I'm not coming up with what we need. At least, not when I try to search for it according to our true parameters.
Google does not recognize the word "tryst."
Nor does it want to consider "illicit."
The closest Google gets is "illegal."
And "trust."
Not quite what I was after.
"Clandestine"?
Nothing.
What I really want is a restaurant with small private rooms... red velvet drapes... a fainting couch... privacy and discretion. A place thick with atmosphere for a man whose cock is thick with desire in which he can enjoy an assortment of sensual pleasures.
Where we could count on not being disturbed if he decided to drink his champagne from the trough formed by his pet's back. And if by chance he were disturbed, he could count on the offender stealing silently away and making no comment to anyone.
If he were disturbed.
For I, of course, will be expected to maintain my focus on serving his pleasure no matter where we are or who might join us or what might happen. I will be merely one of the objects assembled to assure him a pleasurable weekend of self-indulgence.
Sometimes it is hard to really believe that. But then, when he wraps his belt around my neck, this man who isn't really into leather but likes it on me takes me to a place, to a time, to a condition... more Roman than antebellum, really, where owning another person was... I'm slipping away now as I write this... slipping back to where I was a mere 4 hours ago, as I knelt naked before him, the belt wrapped round and round my neck... my pussy is convulsing now... I can't think... can't focus... we had been apart for three weeks due to this and that... and then... I'm not supposed to use that word now... the "s" word... but I was there.
The belt around my neck, the leather, it took me there.
Tomorrow, I will be with S--.
Daddy wants me to be.
I'm to fuck him.
Please him.
Make him feel good.
And all the time see the man who owns me standing there.
Watching.
Listening.
Enjoying.
And should S-- comment on the welts left by Daddy's belt on my pale, round ass... I am to say "He whips me."
Saturday, February 18, 2012
He wants me to speak of his pain
He suffers.
He wants you to know that he suffers.
He wants me to speak of his pain.
The beast was here today. Which surprised me. I had no warning. Though I should have realized something was up when the sadist preceded his visit by a warning against "moony-ness" and an order for strict focus on service to his cock. Now it's quite clear to me that when things become moony and emotional and all, it's not all my fault. He opens the door to that, he goes there, he radiates his feelings for me and his own softness and his joy at being with me along with gratitude that I am his. He can't fool me. Not any more.
[ . . . ]
Hours have passed.
I'm back on the sofa, sitting again between two very soft cats.
I had to stop before.
My mind strayed.
I lost focus.
Became very sleepy.
Delayed reaction.
Because yes.
The beast was here today.
And he took his belt to my ass.
He took his belt to my ass and
hours later
it finally hurt.
At first I didn't realize what was going on. I thought it was a punishment for missing my bedtime the other night by 2 minutes. I e-mail him before turning out the light, so he did know what time it was. But I'd had no inkling that he was pissed off about it so I was surprised and confused and he was bringing the belt down hard on my ass.
Harder even than I realized.
Which happens.
When he's been there for a while.
When I've been kneeling before him and he's been kissing me.
Arousing me.
Sending me into that place.
If he hurts me then, he can hurt me harder and it doesn't fully register.
But he hadn't been there that long.
At least I don't think so...
Certainly I wasn't deeply in that place.
It wasn't till he was on his way out that he let on that he'd swung the belt down quite hard on my ass - very satisfying, he said it was - and that he was surprised it hadn't hurt me more. I did cry when he beat me, but more from confusion, from distress at what I thought was anger, than from severe pain. I've felt pain that was much worse. Delivered by him.
The beast.
I realized the beast was there,
but thought he had arrived in anger.
But that wasn't it.
He was hungry.
He wanted to torture me.
Don't worry.
He didn't.
And except for very brief flashes, he has been absent for a long time.
This time, though...
The beating wasn't a punishment, Daddy said.
It was purely recreational.
He was very upset.
He struggles.
He suffers.
It hurts.
He was this close to the edge, he said. I've always thought of it as an increase by degrees. A little pain, a little more, a lot more, until it crosses a line and becomes more than I can handle.
Though, oh - how I wish I could handle it!
How I wish I could give that to him!
But I can't.
And we both know it.
It's dangerous to play with. Because what he explained today was that it's not like slowly turning up the heat. It's like going along and then suddenly - he's over the cliff. It could be that sudden. And the beast would be in control.
Though he doesn't like using that construct.
Splitting off that part of himself as if it were another man.
A man with his own name.
A man who has tried to seduce me and will do so again.
He has to own that part of himself.
The part that wants to torture me.
The part that wants to do things he will not describe.
The part that wants to hear the full range of what my voice can do
as he does the full range of unspeakable things to my body.
As he makes me suffer.
He wants you to understand.
To understand his suffering.
To know that this is real.
It is not a game.
It is not something he plays at.
It's not some kinky sex game.
It's not role play.
It's not "I'm a sadist - yuck, yuck, yuck..."
It's real.
And while he does get pleasure from inflicting pain,
he does not get pleasure from being battered by his urges.
He did not go too far.
He stopped himself.
He stepped back from the edge
and brought himself down
while saying things with his kisses which showed how he cares.
But he suffered.
Being in that state is a high.
So he was crashing.
Even as he was being gentle and loving
and saying all those things without words,
he was in pain.
Think of it as the pain of withdrawal.
Later, an hour or so later, when he finally came in my mouth - which he doesn't usually do because he likes to see my face - he talked about it. About the struggle. The pain. He was worried. Disturbed. He hadn't had an attack in quite a while. He worried about truly hurting me. About losing control. He spoke again about his concern that maybe he shouldn't see me again - though we both know it's too late for that. Who we are... how far we've come... what we are like together... we have a relationship. Not a very standard one. Not one that many would approve of. But we are mostly definitely we. He won't walk away.
He can't.
Me, I have faith.
I truly believe that his feelings for me are stronger than the beast. There may be times that he'll go a little too far. Every so often. But then he'll look at me in wonder and see both all those things that make the beast want to devour me and all the things that make him retract his claws and hide his fangs and then fold me in his arms and hold me tight, my nakedness close to his.
The curious thing is that what I was picking up all that time was not the beast's hunger. It was the stress underneath. When, later, he was wondering what triggered the return of his compulsion, I brought up the stress. We've seen it before - although he always seems to forget - that stress tends to break the bars of the cage that usually holds back the beast. And I do know he's under a lot of stress, although he has largely refused to talk about it. Not just to me but - it seems - to anyone. He feels he has to be strong. To be in charge of everything and not show how hard it is for him. He has told me that much directly.
Under all that stress, something has to crack.
So it was the distress of the stress I felt.
That concerned me.
That made me want to comfort and soothe him.
I do love him.
I do trust him.
And my heart aches for his suffering.
PS - He has made arrangements to visit someone who can willingly feed the beast's hunger. He hadn't realized until he arrived today that there was any danger. And there's a chance we can spend the night together, away, during one of the weekends in March. A very happy possibility. For us both.
He wants you to know that he suffers.
He wants me to speak of his pain.
The beast was here today. Which surprised me. I had no warning. Though I should have realized something was up when the sadist preceded his visit by a warning against "moony-ness" and an order for strict focus on service to his cock. Now it's quite clear to me that when things become moony and emotional and all, it's not all my fault. He opens the door to that, he goes there, he radiates his feelings for me and his own softness and his joy at being with me along with gratitude that I am his. He can't fool me. Not any more.
[ . . . ]
Hours have passed.
I'm back on the sofa, sitting again between two very soft cats.
I had to stop before.
My mind strayed.
I lost focus.
Became very sleepy.
Delayed reaction.
Because yes.
The beast was here today.
And he took his belt to my ass.
He took his belt to my ass and
hours later
it finally hurt.
At first I didn't realize what was going on. I thought it was a punishment for missing my bedtime the other night by 2 minutes. I e-mail him before turning out the light, so he did know what time it was. But I'd had no inkling that he was pissed off about it so I was surprised and confused and he was bringing the belt down hard on my ass.
Harder even than I realized.
Which happens.
When he's been there for a while.
When I've been kneeling before him and he's been kissing me.
Arousing me.
Sending me into that place.
If he hurts me then, he can hurt me harder and it doesn't fully register.
But he hadn't been there that long.
At least I don't think so...
Certainly I wasn't deeply in that place.
It wasn't till he was on his way out that he let on that he'd swung the belt down quite hard on my ass - very satisfying, he said it was - and that he was surprised it hadn't hurt me more. I did cry when he beat me, but more from confusion, from distress at what I thought was anger, than from severe pain. I've felt pain that was much worse. Delivered by him.
The beast.
I realized the beast was there,
but thought he had arrived in anger.
But that wasn't it.
He was hungry.
He wanted to torture me.
Don't worry.
He didn't.
And except for very brief flashes, he has been absent for a long time.
This time, though...
The beating wasn't a punishment, Daddy said.
It was purely recreational.
He was very upset.
He struggles.
He suffers.
It hurts.
He was this close to the edge, he said. I've always thought of it as an increase by degrees. A little pain, a little more, a lot more, until it crosses a line and becomes more than I can handle.
Though, oh - how I wish I could handle it!
How I wish I could give that to him!
But I can't.
And we both know it.
It's dangerous to play with. Because what he explained today was that it's not like slowly turning up the heat. It's like going along and then suddenly - he's over the cliff. It could be that sudden. And the beast would be in control.
Though he doesn't like using that construct.
Splitting off that part of himself as if it were another man.
A man with his own name.
A man who has tried to seduce me and will do so again.
He has to own that part of himself.
The part that wants to torture me.
The part that wants to do things he will not describe.
The part that wants to hear the full range of what my voice can do
as he does the full range of unspeakable things to my body.
As he makes me suffer.
He wants you to understand.
To understand his suffering.
To know that this is real.
It is not a game.
It is not something he plays at.
It's not some kinky sex game.
It's not role play.
It's not "I'm a sadist - yuck, yuck, yuck..."
It's real.
And while he does get pleasure from inflicting pain,
he does not get pleasure from being battered by his urges.
He did not go too far.
He stopped himself.
He stepped back from the edge
and brought himself down
while saying things with his kisses which showed how he cares.
But he suffered.
Being in that state is a high.
So he was crashing.
Even as he was being gentle and loving
and saying all those things without words,
he was in pain.
Think of it as the pain of withdrawal.
Later, an hour or so later, when he finally came in my mouth - which he doesn't usually do because he likes to see my face - he talked about it. About the struggle. The pain. He was worried. Disturbed. He hadn't had an attack in quite a while. He worried about truly hurting me. About losing control. He spoke again about his concern that maybe he shouldn't see me again - though we both know it's too late for that. Who we are... how far we've come... what we are like together... we have a relationship. Not a very standard one. Not one that many would approve of. But we are mostly definitely we. He won't walk away.
He can't.
Me, I have faith.
I truly believe that his feelings for me are stronger than the beast. There may be times that he'll go a little too far. Every so often. But then he'll look at me in wonder and see both all those things that make the beast want to devour me and all the things that make him retract his claws and hide his fangs and then fold me in his arms and hold me tight, my nakedness close to his.
The curious thing is that what I was picking up all that time was not the beast's hunger. It was the stress underneath. When, later, he was wondering what triggered the return of his compulsion, I brought up the stress. We've seen it before - although he always seems to forget - that stress tends to break the bars of the cage that usually holds back the beast. And I do know he's under a lot of stress, although he has largely refused to talk about it. Not just to me but - it seems - to anyone. He feels he has to be strong. To be in charge of everything and not show how hard it is for him. He has told me that much directly.
Under all that stress, something has to crack.
So it was the distress of the stress I felt.
That concerned me.
That made me want to comfort and soothe him.
I do love him.
I do trust him.
And my heart aches for his suffering.
PS - He has made arrangements to visit someone who can willingly feed the beast's hunger. He hadn't realized until he arrived today that there was any danger. And there's a chance we can spend the night together, away, during one of the weekends in March. A very happy possibility. For us both.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Leather and heels; feminism and sucking cock
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
"You're higher than a kite!"
He tasted all the flavours of my tears today.
He wanted me to tell you that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written last Tuesday, after a truly sweet and long time together. I meant to write more, but it somehow never happened. He soothed and banished my grief and fears over the changes to come, with reassurances in words and kisses and especially in his eyes that nothing of what we are will be lost. And there was his hand and the belt and even the nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane along with the kisses and the words in his eyes and then his fingers on my pussy and the belt on my pussy and it was all wonderful and close and rich and I'm happy but it's too soon after the solstice for my brain to have kicked back in again so this is all you get. And I know that today he is thinking of me. His poet. His pet. His sweet little girl.
Who was, in fact, higher than a kite.
As he said.
And today?
For me, a good movie and way too much Chinese food lie ahead.
With the lighting of the menorah on the restaurant table.
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate.
However you celebrate.
With love.
Always love.
o.g.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Strangled
I've lost my voice.
Oh, not physically.
Mentally.
I'm being strangled by SAD.
Strangled... the sadist had his hand very tight around my neck last Tuesday. After I had made my confession. After he had whipped me with his belt as I was down on my hands and knees on the futon, every part of me draped in my nun's habit.
Every part of me but my reddening butt, now adorned with the stripes of pain and penance left by his belt.
It was after that.
As I knelt before him to serve his pleasure.
After I had stripped off the pieces of the habit.
Slowly stripped off the black and the white and the yards of black.
Stripping before his eyes.
Letting the long dress drop to my feet.
Revealing my nakedness beneath.
I was naked in so many ways.
But I digress.
I'd much rather be strangled by his large, firm hand.
It somehow makes me feel safe as it circles my throat.
As I hear myself gasp for air.
Or gurgle.
This time I was gurgling.
Being strangled by SAD does not make me feel safe.
I am its prisoner.
And not in a good way.
There is no affection in its stranglehold.
And I return none.
You might say there is intimacy, as we live close together for a few months each year. We are so close that when SAD moves in I see everything through its eyes. And even when it isn't here, I feel it looming. Breathing on my neck. When it finally leaves, its soft seductive voice breathes into my ear: "I'll be back." And I know it will.
Yes, its voice is seductive.
It draws me down into sleep.
Sleep from which I never quite awaken.
Sleep.
Stupor.
A mind that is dulled by the shortened days.
Even today, when the sun was dancing.
Laughing.
Beckoning.
Come! it smiled.
Come out and play with me.
But I lay on the couch as if drugged.
I lay there with Ketzel on my belly.
And I slept like a cat.
Perhaps today that was from hormones.
Could be.
They play games with me,
coming and going so fast that I sense no cycle.
But whatever it was,
I lost another day.
Still, I should be grateful. The SAD held off, and didn't fully move in until now. Except for the sabotage of grey skies, it should start moving out by the end of the month. At first it will move out slowly. A fork one day, then a pile of towels, eventually a box of books. But it will move out. Until suddenly, in March or April, I'll be unbearably bouncy.
My manic season is short.
But I love it.
My compensation prize.
For now, though, I'm dulled and sleepy, soft and vulnerable, struggling to get through the day, and excited only by thoughts of the sadist and his kisses and the leather belt which now hangs in the closet with the belts that I wear.
I think of the leather belt.
I feel its tail gently whipping my pussy.
I feel its weight landing hard and sharp on my ass.
And I ponder the teasing morsels the sadist is feeding me about a plan which seems to be drawing nearer to being realized.
A plan?
What plan, you wonder.
Ha!
The sadist isn't the only one who can tease, you know.
Oh, not physically.
Mentally.
I'm being strangled by SAD.
Strangled... the sadist had his hand very tight around my neck last Tuesday. After I had made my confession. After he had whipped me with his belt as I was down on my hands and knees on the futon, every part of me draped in my nun's habit.
Every part of me but my reddening butt, now adorned with the stripes of pain and penance left by his belt.
It was after that.
As I knelt before him to serve his pleasure.
After I had stripped off the pieces of the habit.
Slowly stripped off the black and the white and the yards of black.
Stripping before his eyes.
Letting the long dress drop to my feet.
Revealing my nakedness beneath.
I was naked in so many ways.
But I digress.
I'd much rather be strangled by his large, firm hand.
It somehow makes me feel safe as it circles my throat.
As I hear myself gasp for air.
Or gurgle.
This time I was gurgling.
Being strangled by SAD does not make me feel safe.
I am its prisoner.
And not in a good way.
There is no affection in its stranglehold.
And I return none.
You might say there is intimacy, as we live close together for a few months each year. We are so close that when SAD moves in I see everything through its eyes. And even when it isn't here, I feel it looming. Breathing on my neck. When it finally leaves, its soft seductive voice breathes into my ear: "I'll be back." And I know it will.
Yes, its voice is seductive.
It draws me down into sleep.
Sleep from which I never quite awaken.
Sleep.
Stupor.
A mind that is dulled by the shortened days.
Even today, when the sun was dancing.
Laughing.
Beckoning.
Come! it smiled.
Come out and play with me.
But I lay on the couch as if drugged.
I lay there with Ketzel on my belly.
And I slept like a cat.
Perhaps today that was from hormones.
Could be.
They play games with me,
coming and going so fast that I sense no cycle.
But whatever it was,
I lost another day.
Still, I should be grateful. The SAD held off, and didn't fully move in until now. Except for the sabotage of grey skies, it should start moving out by the end of the month. At first it will move out slowly. A fork one day, then a pile of towels, eventually a box of books. But it will move out. Until suddenly, in March or April, I'll be unbearably bouncy.
My manic season is short.
But I love it.
My compensation prize.
For now, though, I'm dulled and sleepy, soft and vulnerable, struggling to get through the day, and excited only by thoughts of the sadist and his kisses and the leather belt which now hangs in the closet with the belts that I wear.
I think of the leather belt.
I feel its tail gently whipping my pussy.
I feel its weight landing hard and sharp on my ass.
And I ponder the teasing morsels the sadist is feeding me about a plan which seems to be drawing nearer to being realized.
A plan?
What plan, you wonder.
Ha!
The sadist isn't the only one who can tease, you know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
