"fun factory bootie on bike"?
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Thursday, September 4, 2014
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, November 12, 2013
Are you a lurker? We all have our flaws...
I know you're out there.
It's OK.
I'm not mad.
I'm glad you're there.
I see your footprints and I feel reassured.
You didn't forget me.
You had faith.
You kept coming by until I came back.
Or else you're new here.
You stumbled onto the edge of the glade.
You heard me singing to myself and hid behind the tree to listen.
It's OK. I'm shy - and a bit of an exhibitionist. I pitch my singing just loud enough to be heard beyond the edge of the glade. So I'm glad you heard. I'm glad you stayed around to listen. To try to decipher what the hell I'm singing about. You even put up with my tears.
But everything comes at a price.
For old friends and new ones.
For the peeping toms, too,
directed to me by a perverted Google search.
So here's the price you have to pay.
Step out from behind the tree.
Admit that you're here.
You don't have to offer admiration.
Tell me I suck if that's the way you feel.
(I do suck, you know.
I suck cock.
I'm really very good at sucking cock.
I'm even learning to take it down my throat.
He's been training me.
He says I'm his good girl.
So sometimes I take it down.
And sometimes he shoves it down.
On Saturday.
He shoved it down.
Way down.
I'd never felt anything like that before.
He was very pleased.
And that's what it's all about, isn't it?
Giving pleasure.
Giving him - everything.)
Now we all know I'm not big on participating in kinky community activities. But I do get into this one. Which one? Oh right. I didn't say. It's Love Our Lurkers Day. Courtesy of Bonnie of My Bottom Smarts. Do check out her blog, as a small thank you for her efforts in making this day possible. And check out the list of other participating disreputable bloggers. You might come across some others that catch your fancy. Or, to be blunt, who turn you on. Just don't leave me for one of them, OK? I have a very strong fear of rejection...
It's OK.
I'm not mad.
I'm glad you're there.
I see your footprints and I feel reassured.
You didn't forget me.
You had faith.
You kept coming by until I came back.
Or else you're new here.
You stumbled onto the edge of the glade.
You heard me singing to myself and hid behind the tree to listen.
It's OK. I'm shy - and a bit of an exhibitionist. I pitch my singing just loud enough to be heard beyond the edge of the glade. So I'm glad you heard. I'm glad you stayed around to listen. To try to decipher what the hell I'm singing about. You even put up with my tears.
But everything comes at a price.
For old friends and new ones.
For the peeping toms, too,
directed to me by a perverted Google search.
So here's the price you have to pay.
Step out from behind the tree.
Admit that you're here.
You don't have to offer admiration.
Tell me I suck if that's the way you feel.
(I do suck, you know.
I suck cock.
I'm really very good at sucking cock.
I'm even learning to take it down my throat.
He's been training me.
He says I'm his good girl.
So sometimes I take it down.
And sometimes he shoves it down.
On Saturday.
He shoved it down.
Way down.
I'd never felt anything like that before.
He was very pleased.
And that's what it's all about, isn't it?
Giving pleasure.
Giving him - everything.)
Now we all know I'm not big on participating in kinky community activities. But I do get into this one. Which one? Oh right. I didn't say. It's Love Our Lurkers Day. Courtesy of Bonnie of My Bottom Smarts. Do check out her blog, as a small thank you for her efforts in making this day possible. And check out the list of other participating disreputable bloggers. You might come across some others that catch your fancy. Or, to be blunt, who turn you on. Just don't leave me for one of them, OK? I have a very strong fear of rejection...
Monday, December 10, 2012
Beaten butt update. PLUS Honored Again!
Yes, it still hurts.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Sex and poetry and prose
Sometimes,
not often enough,
I post things here.
Sometimes it's poetry.
Sometimes it's prose.
And sometimes
it's poetry
that looks
like prose.
When I write that way, it's not that I want you to think it's a poem. I'm pretty clear - in my own mind anyway - about when what I'm writing is a poem. I don't always know where it's going, what it will end up saying, but I do know when I mean it to be a poem.
Other pieces, though, are - and were always meant to be - prose. But they're more than just the words. The words have different weight, different meaning, depending on how they're said. The line breaks, the alliteration I can't resist, they make you stop. Listen. Turn back and think again.
A recent article in the New York Times on-line discusses the power of poetry to make us stop and listen and think. To consider the words and images in a different way.
As an example, the authors cite a project which took posts from the Craigslist "Missed Connections" category and transformed them into poetry by inserting line and stanza breaks. The words weren't changed, but the line splits triggered phrasing changes, which accented different words and - yes - altered our understanding of what was said in the first place.
The article is called Philosophy and the Poetic Imagination. Do go for the general discussion as well as for the authors' analysis of the following, which, yes, began life on Craigslist. The title of the poem was the subject line of the post.
And the sex I mentioned in my own subject line?
False representation.
A loss leader.
There hasn't been any sex.
Not for a while.
Not for me.
Not for the drunk Irish guy.
Or for my Irish guy.
Poor Daddy.
Poor me.
We just have to wait
and write about poetry
and talk about music
and think about sex.
And each other.
not often enough,
I post things here.
Sometimes it's poetry.
Sometimes it's prose.
And sometimes
it's poetry
that looks
like prose.
When I write that way, it's not that I want you to think it's a poem. I'm pretty clear - in my own mind anyway - about when what I'm writing is a poem. I don't always know where it's going, what it will end up saying, but I do know when I mean it to be a poem.
Other pieces, though, are - and were always meant to be - prose. But they're more than just the words. The words have different weight, different meaning, depending on how they're said. The line breaks, the alliteration I can't resist, they make you stop. Listen. Turn back and think again.
A recent article in the New York Times on-line discusses the power of poetry to make us stop and listen and think. To consider the words and images in a different way.
In our view, part of what makes language artistic is that we have to explore it actively in order to appreciate it. We may have to look beneath the surface, and think harder about what images the author has used, who the author purports to be, and even how the language is organized. These efforts can lead to new insights, new perspectives and new experiences.
As an example, the authors cite a project which took posts from the Craigslist "Missed Connections" category and transformed them into poetry by inserting line and stanza breaks. The words weren't changed, but the line splits triggered phrasing changes, which accented different words and - yes - altered our understanding of what was said in the first place.
The article is called Philosophy and the Poetic Imagination. Do go for the general discussion as well as for the authors' analysis of the following, which, yes, began life on Craigslist. The title of the poem was the subject line of the post.
Drunk Irish Guy to the Girl in the Red Tights on the Subway to Queens
drunk irish guy
to the girl in the red tights
on the subway to queens
i really hope
I did not creep you out…
I was so drunk
and you were so hot…
I wish I could have met you
at a different moment
and a different place.
And the sex I mentioned in my own subject line?
False representation.
A loss leader.
There hasn't been any sex.
Not for a while.
Not for me.
Not for the drunk Irish guy.
Or for my Irish guy.
Poor Daddy.
Poor me.
We just have to wait
and write about poetry
and talk about music
and think about sex.
And each other.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Masturbation mania (16) - Pussy sings with Harmonia from Close2You
Overdue.
Very long overdue.
As you can tell from the dry autumn leaves in the photo.
One of the victims of my diminished urge to write has been the good folks at EdenFantasys, online purveyor of sex toys. I had a simple deal with them. They sent me a toy a month and in exchange I posted an honest review. With links and a picture. In fact, they would get two posts, including my in-action report as sent to the sadist and designed to be titillating. Plus at least one of the photos would include a cat or two - despite their clear lack of interest in my toys. Silicone doesn't do much for my furry beasts. Now if there were some feathers on the end...
Back to work.
The sadist is away this weekend.
No visit today.
No serving.
And no orgasm!
Maybe he figures if I'm not giving him one, I shouldn't be allowed to give myself one. Which is hard since I'm expected to be especially diligent with my Kegel exercises this weekend, and plan on making her squeeze hard and repeatedly around the elegantly tapered Sinfonia from Close2You. I haven't been writing about my exercise regimen - not writing much about anything for months and months. The short version is that my Master wants my aging pelvic muscles to be able to firmly grasp and pulse around his demanding cock. So I've been working out, with an exercise program designed as if I were doing weight-lifting at a gym. A GYN Gym. It's already showing results.
And yes, pussy is pulsing in time with the radio as I write.
But back to the issue at hand.
The item that enjoyed the warmth of my cunt.
Harmonia, a lovely G-spot vibrator made by Close2You, the same folks who made the Sinfonia I like so much.
Since I can't give it another run today, due to the masturbation ban [insert pout here], I'm relying on the messages I sent my Master when I first tested Harmonia last November. I used her a number of times since then, especially when I was in the mood to have something filling me. Though I must admit that my favorite vibrators continue to be my little lavender Meany from Fun Factory, preceded and followed by the same company's clitoral vibe LAYAspot. Until recently, that is, when I finally talked someone from LELO into giving me my long-standing lust object, Siri. Which I love love love.
But more on Siri another time.
For now, here's an introduction to Harmonia, with most of my buzz-by-buzz report to follow tomorrow.
Harmonia is, like her sisters from Close2You, beautifully packaged, and last October the company won an award for Best Product Design at the international EROFAME Trade Convention in Hanover. Good visual design and packaging shouldn't make that much of a difference, but I find that it does. It sets a mood.
This is for me.
To do something nice for myself.
This is for my pleasure.
And I love that it comes with a storage bag. Velvet on the outside and smooth on the inside. The box sets the mood, but the bag is truly practical. So I start off with the attitude that this is a company what knows what I need. That knows what will make me feel good.
The box is foreplay.
The bag is aftercare.
Here is how I began my report to the sadist as I ran my first test on Harmonia.
The new toy.
It's big, Daddy.
Very flexible.
A bright rose pink.
It's silicone, my material of choice. I like the texture, Sir, and it's very safe. I can use it without a condom. Happy vibrator, Daddy! Nothing keeps its velvety surface from feeling my own soft, moist velvet.
It's very flexible. Bends to about halfway down. It's got this bulbous tip meant for the G-spot, so I suppose it's so flexible to assist in getting it to hit just the right spot.
It's VERY noisy, Daddy! Even at the first level of vibrations. I've become more used to those buzzes over time, but I'll see if it's too distracting.
It's called Harmonia.
Another one from the company with the music theme.
I will feel your eyes on me.
Listen for my moans.
To this I should add the reminder that silicone toys should be used with water-based lubricants only, and that they do tend to attract lint, so should be washed both before and after use. For controls, there are two buttons, which give access to a number of speeds as well as to various patterns.
Somewhere I have the little booklet which illustrates the various options - another very thoughtful touch!
One reason I chose Harmonia was because it's a G-spot vibrator. The philosopher was the one who taught me to find my G-spot. Over the phone, yet! He always did get good reviews for his teaching... Anyway, I knew I had one, I knew I responded to it, but no vibrator had ever gotten it to explode for me. I hoped Harmonia could succeed where the others had failed.
Come back later and find out how she did.
Friday, July 13, 2012
He says it with songs
I won't see him this weekend.
He's going out of town.
And then tomorrow I'm going out of town.
And then we're both in town
but the weekend after he's away
and the next two weekends I'm away...
It sucks sometimes.
Not a very poetic statement but why be poetic?
There was one real advantage to being unemployed.
It was easier to be together.
We had a lot more options.
Which reminds me.
Since I've been so stingy with my posts, head on over to the home of the Erotiterrorist and take a look at this suggestion for a story. Or a novel. Or a series. Trailer Park of Bondage. It reminds me of what Remittance Girl said in a review of a book that was billed as a well-written version of Fifty Shades of Grey: "Had this been a novel about two realistic, imperfect, damaged souls who struggled to negotiate a sexual and emotional relationship in the wake of those experiences, it would have been a very good, and very hot, novel." A statement that inspired me to start a piece that I think has potential but I was at work so couldn't keep at it for 3-4 hours and get the first draft churned out. So it is languishing.
I refuse to talk here about Fifty Shades of Grey.
Except to say that it, too, sucks.
Big time.
I'm avoiding what I actually came here to write about.
He's going out of town.
If I weren't going to be away next weekend it wouldn't be so bad. I get an extra day to try and get things done. Like clean the house. Pay my bills. Refinance my mortgage to include the massive debt I amassed during 17 months of unemployment and 8 months without a rent-paying housemate.
Happily, I have a new housemate arriving late August.
A woman.
Someone I know from a long time ago.
Someone I like.
Someone the cats like.
Why am I avoiding the reason for the post?
Because it's so personal.
Because he laid himself bare.
Without using his own words.
I asked him to give me some songs for the weekend. He likes to do that, compile songs for me to listen to. I always read too much into the lyrics. Or maybe I don't.
This time
with some of the songs,
I don't think I did.
And no.
I won't name the songs he gave me.
He gave me the list and then said: I spoil you.
And when I was done listening, I had to agree.
It was an amazing gift.
I won't list the songs.
We deserve some privacy.
But the last one was by Johnny Mathis.
And I'll listen again
in my bed
in the dark
and it will play all night in my dreams.
He's going out of town.
And then tomorrow I'm going out of town.
And then we're both in town
but the weekend after he's away
and the next two weekends I'm away...
It sucks sometimes.
Not a very poetic statement but why be poetic?
There was one real advantage to being unemployed.
It was easier to be together.
We had a lot more options.
Which reminds me.
Since I've been so stingy with my posts, head on over to the home of the Erotiterrorist and take a look at this suggestion for a story. Or a novel. Or a series. Trailer Park of Bondage. It reminds me of what Remittance Girl said in a review of a book that was billed as a well-written version of Fifty Shades of Grey: "Had this been a novel about two realistic, imperfect, damaged souls who struggled to negotiate a sexual and emotional relationship in the wake of those experiences, it would have been a very good, and very hot, novel." A statement that inspired me to start a piece that I think has potential but I was at work so couldn't keep at it for 3-4 hours and get the first draft churned out. So it is languishing.
I refuse to talk here about Fifty Shades of Grey.
Except to say that it, too, sucks.
Big time.
I'm avoiding what I actually came here to write about.
He's going out of town.
If I weren't going to be away next weekend it wouldn't be so bad. I get an extra day to try and get things done. Like clean the house. Pay my bills. Refinance my mortgage to include the massive debt I amassed during 17 months of unemployment and 8 months without a rent-paying housemate.
Happily, I have a new housemate arriving late August.
A woman.
Someone I know from a long time ago.
Someone I like.
Someone the cats like.
Why am I avoiding the reason for the post?
Because it's so personal.
Because he laid himself bare.
Without using his own words.
I asked him to give me some songs for the weekend. He likes to do that, compile songs for me to listen to. I always read too much into the lyrics. Or maybe I don't.
This time
with some of the songs,
I don't think I did.
And no.
I won't name the songs he gave me.
He gave me the list and then said: I spoil you.
And when I was done listening, I had to agree.
It was an amazing gift.
I won't list the songs.
We deserve some privacy.
But the last one was by Johnny Mathis.
And I'll listen again
in my bed
in the dark
and it will play all night in my dreams.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
If you beckon, I will come.
You can blog about this, he said.
I don't want to blog about this, I think.
What would it mean to list what we did?
Where we met.
What I ate.
What he drank.
What we watched.
How many times we each went to pee.
The hours we spent
talking and laughing
challenging Google
on Iris DeMent.
What would it mean
if you weren't there?
What would it mean
to describe his delight
as we sat there for hours
in a neighborhood bar,
feasting on chicken wings,
chatting with bar maids,
my bright blue eyes sparkling
from won games of chance?
What would it mean
if you heard what his eyes said,
or smelled the desire,
or touched the shared music,
as we made out like teenagers
wrestling the front seat,
parked by the dumpsters
yielding to need?
You can blog about this, he said.
But you must tell me every word.
So I'll show him every word.
But not every word was written.
Not everything gets spoken
when mere presence says it all.
We sang with eyes and kisses
which don't lie the way that words can.
We spoke with smiles and kisses
and then parted in the dusk.
I don't want to blog about this, I think.
What would it mean to list what we did?
Where we met.
What I ate.
What he drank.
What we watched.
How many times we each went to pee.
The hours we spent
talking and laughing
challenging Google
on Iris DeMent.
What would it mean
if you weren't there?
What would it mean
to describe his delight
as we sat there for hours
in a neighborhood bar,
feasting on chicken wings,
chatting with bar maids,
my bright blue eyes sparkling
from won games of chance?
What would it mean
if you heard what his eyes said,
or smelled the desire,
or touched the shared music,
as we made out like teenagers
wrestling the front seat,
parked by the dumpsters
yielding to need?
You can blog about this, he said.
But you must tell me every word.
So I'll show him every word.
But not every word was written.
Not everything gets spoken
when mere presence says it all.
We sang with eyes and kisses
which don't lie the way that words can.
We spoke with smiles and kisses
and then parted in the dusk.
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.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Mouthing off
That's what I'm not going to do.
I'm not going to start spewing frustration.
I'm not going to offer any snarky psychological analyses.
I'm just going to mentally pace, saying everything inside my head, but I'm not going to write any of it here. And you know why? Not because someone might recognize him from his behaviour patterns. And not because any of the small handful of readers who do know who he is would find out things about him that maybe they shouldn't. And not because I'm afraid he would read what I have to say. Because he told me he no longer reads here. And I believe him.
I'm not going to say all the things roiling around in my head because I love him and am committed to him and all this - the realities of our lives and our emotions and insecurities - is frankly none of your business.
But that doesn't stop the thoughts.
Or the steam coming out of my ears.
Or other stuff coming out.
I'll let you know when things get sorted out.
I'm not going to start spewing frustration.
I'm not going to offer any snarky psychological analyses.
I'm just going to mentally pace, saying everything inside my head, but I'm not going to write any of it here. And you know why? Not because someone might recognize him from his behaviour patterns. And not because any of the small handful of readers who do know who he is would find out things about him that maybe they shouldn't. And not because I'm afraid he would read what I have to say. Because he told me he no longer reads here. And I believe him.
I'm not going to say all the things roiling around in my head because I love him and am committed to him and all this - the realities of our lives and our emotions and insecurities - is frankly none of your business.
But that doesn't stop the thoughts.
Or the steam coming out of my ears.
Or other stuff coming out.
I'll let you know when things get sorted out.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Another special, secret nothing
Special.
Very special.
And secret.
Which is the wrong word.
Private.
That's the right word.
More and more I've been wanting to keep things private.
And again, that's the wrong choice of word.
Not keep things private.
They are private.
They are already private.
They are a reflection of our relationship.
Like his taking me away with him to the casino.
Although what we did there, how we were there, was not at all shocking. But it seems almost easier to write about the really kinky stuff, the sadist as sadist, floggers and belts and strips of wood landing on my pale, reddening butt, than about smiles and laughs and shared dinners.
The inner intimacies cradle the true nakedness.
Very special.
And secret.
Which is the wrong word.
Private.
That's the right word.
More and more I've been wanting to keep things private.
And again, that's the wrong choice of word.
Not keep things private.
They are private.
They are already private.
They are a reflection of our relationship.
Like his taking me away with him to the casino.
Although what we did there, how we were there, was not at all shocking. But it seems almost easier to write about the really kinky stuff, the sadist as sadist, floggers and belts and strips of wood landing on my pale, reddening butt, than about smiles and laughs and shared dinners.
The inner intimacies cradle the true nakedness.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Sweet, sexy, and submissive: they still like me!
I admit it.
I've been waiting.
Watching.
Wondering.
Do they still like me?
[a suspenseful pause]
Yup.
It seems they do.
I'm back on the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers.
And I was moved up to #15.
Of course, the title is a misnomer. I'm not claiming to be the 15th best sex blogger out there. Or any sort of "Best" sex blogger. The most I'll say is that I'm a good blogger, somewhat outside the usual variety of sex bloggers, with fans who nominated me and members of the judging panel who liked me. Which I'm not sneering at.
Hell, I'm real happy about it.
You know what submissives are like.
We crave approval.
Submissive bloggers are probably even worse.
This award is like a giant GOOD GIRL plastered all over the Internet.
Which reminds me of a thought I had earlier today:
Why is it always my gay male friends who are telling me they love me?
They make me feel good and all, but...
well, you know...
Nope.
Put that away.
Not gonna happen.
Back to business.
Which means giving a huge thanks to Rori
and the rest of the judges
and those of you who nominated me.
And to the sadist
who makes my life
extraordinary.
I love you, Daddy.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>
Here is the whole list.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2011.
Please take some time to visit a few bloggers who are new to you.
I especially point you to Joan Price, who at #14 is just above me. She, too, is over 60, and is dealing directly with issues of sex and aging. She does what I don't. Maybe we're a good pairing. I mostly act as if age is irrelevant. I feel young, I look (relatively young), the sadist makes me feel young, even in my non-kinky life I try to push that confusing number out of my mind.
62.
I'm 62.
That does not compute.
Joan, though, faces it head on.
She says yes, we've aged.
But don't let that stop you.
Be aware of how your body has changed.
Be good to it.
But still enjoy it.
Enjoy sex.
Enjoy relationships.
And learn what you need to so you can enjoy them more.
In light of that, check out this post: Things You'll Never Hear Him Say When He Sees You Naked. It applies to anyone who doesn't look like a model. Not to mention those of you who look amazing but can't see or accept that. And make sure to read all the comments. Including the one from me.
And now, for The List.
I've been waiting.
Watching.
Wondering.
Do they still like me?
[a suspenseful pause]
Yup.
It seems they do.
I'm back on the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers.
And I was moved up to #15.
Of course, the title is a misnomer. I'm not claiming to be the 15th best sex blogger out there. Or any sort of "Best" sex blogger. The most I'll say is that I'm a good blogger, somewhat outside the usual variety of sex bloggers, with fans who nominated me and members of the judging panel who liked me. Which I'm not sneering at.
Hell, I'm real happy about it.
You know what submissives are like.
We crave approval.
Submissive bloggers are probably even worse.
This award is like a giant GOOD GIRL plastered all over the Internet.
Which reminds me of a thought I had earlier today:
Why is it always my gay male friends who are telling me they love me?
They make me feel good and all, but...
well, you know...
Nope.
Put that away.
Not gonna happen.
Back to business.
Which means giving a huge thanks to Rori
and the rest of the judges
and those of you who nominated me.
And to the sadist
who makes my life
extraordinary.
I love you, Daddy.
~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>
Here is the whole list.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2011.
Please take some time to visit a few bloggers who are new to you.
I especially point you to Joan Price, who at #14 is just above me. She, too, is over 60, and is dealing directly with issues of sex and aging. She does what I don't. Maybe we're a good pairing. I mostly act as if age is irrelevant. I feel young, I look (relatively young), the sadist makes me feel young, even in my non-kinky life I try to push that confusing number out of my mind.
62.
I'm 62.
That does not compute.
Joan, though, faces it head on.
She says yes, we've aged.
But don't let that stop you.
Be aware of how your body has changed.
Be good to it.
But still enjoy it.
Enjoy sex.
Enjoy relationships.
And learn what you need to so you can enjoy them more.
In light of that, check out this post: Things You'll Never Hear Him Say When He Sees You Naked. It applies to anyone who doesn't look like a model. Not to mention those of you who look amazing but can't see or accept that. And make sure to read all the comments. Including the one from me.
And now, for The List.
- Guy New York (@quickiesnewyork) and The Dirty Gentleman from Quickies in New York
- Charlotte Times (@charlotte_times) from The Life and Charlotte Times
- Kendra Holliday (@TBK365 and @beautifulkind) from The Beautiful Kind
- Amie Wee (@crevicecanyon) from Crevice Canyon
- Riff Dog from Ashley and Me
- Catherine Toyooka (@Catcoaches) from Sex Spoken Here: Secrets of a Sexuality Educator
- Vineyard Road (@vineyardroad) from Vineyard Road
- David (@DavidinVegas) from A View from the Top
- Quizzical Pussy (@quizzicalpussy) from Quizzical Pussy
- Athol Kay from Married Man Sex Life
- Dick and Jane from Dick-n-Jane
- EA (@easilyaroused) from Easily Aroused
- Axe (@unspeakableaxe) from Unspeakable Axe
- Joan Price (@JoanPrice) from Naked at Our Age – Better Than I Ever Expect
- Oatmeal Girl (@oatmeal_girl) from Submission & Metaphor
- Dark Gracie (@darkgracie) from Dark Gracie
- Mistress Lilyana (@MistressLilyana) from Mistress Lilyana
- Kyle Jones (@butchtastickyle) from Butchtastic
- Cheeky Minx (@LoveHateSexCake) from Love Hate Sex Cake
- Adam from The Mind of a Married Man
- Dr. Marty Klein (@drmartyklein) from Sexual Intelligence
- Lady Pandorah (@ladypandorah) from Lady Pandorah’s Sanctuary
- Holly (@pervocracy) from The Pervocracy
- Brooke from Puppy Tales
- Lady Dragonfly (@miladydragonfly) from Lady Dragonfly
- nilla (@swirlednilla) from Vanillamom’s Blog
- Wilhelmina Wang (@wilhelminawang) from Heartbreak Nymphomania
- Holden (@packingvocals) from Packing Vocals
- 25 Things from 25 Things About My Sexuality
- Thumper (@thumperMN) from Denying Thumber
- Kake (@poeticerotica) from Poetic Erotica
- Lucas (@top2bottom) from Top to Bottom
- Ms. Diane D from Bi and Large – Cuckolding with a Twist
- Betty Dodson and Carlin Ross (@dodsonandross) from Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross – Sex Information Online
- Kat (@shackledkat) from Prowling with Kat
- The Gentle Nibbles Writing Team (@gentlenibbles) from Gentle Nibbles
- Pandora (@pandorablake) from Spanked, Not Silenced
- Molly (@mollysdailykiss) from Molly’s Daily Kiss
- Vixen from Secrets of a Blue-Eyed Vixen
- DDD from Dick Dyke Dick
- Jade (@piecesofjade) from Pieces of Jade
- Jiz Lee (@jizlee) from Jiz Lee
- Sin from Finding My Submission
- Kris from The Phone Courtesan
- SapioSlut from SapioSlut
- Rockin’ (@RockinwithaCock) from Light Switch
- Rachael (@rabbitwhite) from Rachel Rabbit White
- Neo Dom Tom from A Bedroom Dom
- Daisy Danger (@daisydanger) from The True Life Sex Adventures of Daisy Danger
- Violet & Rye (@UCAppetites) from Uncommon Appetites
- Kaya from Under His Hand
- Lilith (@lilith9465) from Lilith Land
- Lady Grinning Soul (@LadyGrinSoul) from Lady Grinning Soul
- Septimus from Dirty Art by Septimus
- Roxy (@sroxy) from Uncommon Curiosity
- Anakin (@AnakinDarth) and Padme (@padmeamidala) from Journey to the Darkside
- Dr. Charlie Glickman (@charlieglickman) from Adult Sexuality Education
- Lily from theblackleatherbelt
- Arabella (@askarabella) from Bombshells & Rockstars
- SN from Peel It Off!
- Bre from Owned, Collared, Loved
- Adriana Ravenlust from Of Sex and Love
- Delilah (@definingdelilah) from Defining Delilah
- Arthur and Annabelle (@lustandconfused) from Lust and Confused
- Lorelei (@suggestive) from Suggestive Tongue
- Kitty Stryker from PurrVersatility
- Mollena (@Mollena) from The Perverted Negress
- Naughty Lexi from Exploits of Lexi
- Karen Blue (@kissinbluekaren) from Kissing Blue Karen
- Arti (@ArtiAbsinthium) from Absinthe Cocktail
- Figleaf (@talkingfigleaf) from Real Adult Sex
- Miranda and Aarron from The Swingers Attic
- Blacksilk (@BlacksilkBlog) from Blacksilk’s Boudoir
- Violet (@violetscreaming) from Screaming Violet
- Ferns (@Ferns__) from Domme Chronicles
- SlipperyWhnWhet (@SlipperyWhnWhet) from A Slut’s Memoir
- Fruit Taster (@fruittaster) from Fruits of Libido
- Mrs. Discontented (@DiscontentedMrs) from Mrs. Discontented
- Aisha from Being Aisha
- Ruby Ryder from Pegging Paradise
- Chrystal Bougon from Better Sex Radio
- Lipstick Lori (@lipsticklori) from Rarely Wears Lipstick
- CarrieAnn (@CarrieAnn_) from A View from the Floor
- Dangerous Lilly (@dangerouslilly) from This Could Be Dangerous
- Electronic Doll (@electronic_doll) from Post Modern Sleaze
- Jerome from Let’s Talk About Sex
- Dusk (@dusk_in_chains) from Dusk (in chains)
- Innocent Loverboy (@innocentlb) from Innocent Loverboy
- RHS from The Redheaded Slut
- Violet Blue (@violetblue) from Tiny Nibbles
- Amy (@AnalAmy) from Anal Amy
- Curvaceous Dee (@curvaceousdee) from Curvaceous Dee
- Jason Stotts (@Jstotts) from Erosophia
- Mistress Kay (@mistress_kay) from Kinky World
- Viemoira from Cavern of the Beast
- Lucid (@lucidobsession) from Lucid Obsession
- ♀ & sss (@sweatshopsissy) from Sweat Shop Sissy
- Kat from She Makes the Rules
- Yummy from Sexual Adventures of a Married Woman
- YOU! – As always, I want to leave a place on this list for ALL the awesome sex bloggers out there! So please leave a comment on Between My Sheetswith your name/URL to tell us about your sexy blog.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
More on that love thing
And the conversation continues across blog lines.
I began this post while watching Once Upon a Time.
Prince Charming.
Love at first sight.
All that.
It was not love at first sight with my demon muse.
Not even love at first message.
I laughed at his first message.
I laughed and was intrigued.
Intellectually stimulated.
Trapped, of course.
He knows how to do that.
He knew what I was and knew what bait to use.
But love?
It took me by surprise.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you for the comments left here and on sin's original post, as well as to sin and others for their follow-up posts. This is an important topic to explore, and it's important to see the various perspectives.
Damn.
Snow White just saved Prince Charming's life.
I'm embarrassed by the warmth I feel and the tears that flow.
I know most of you didn't read the comments here, so I'll share and address them now. swan was the first. I can always count on her for an intelligent and analytical approach. Analytical and and incisive. You can read her own post on the topic over at her place. Part of her comment to my post was this:
"it is hard to describe the sort of love"
We have a word.
We use it as a convention.
Love.
We say it but we don't all mean the same thing.
And we can't really describe what we do mean.
What we do feel.
What I felt for the fiend,
what I called "love"
when it grabbed my head and forced me to look in its eyes,
was not what I felt for the philosopher,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #2,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #1
or for the woman who broke my silly, vulnerable heart.
And the love I felt for the sadist 3 years ago
was not the same as what I feel now.
I don't think I would ever have called it romantic love.
It is what it is.
Which does complicate the conversation.
I'm grateful that at least he knows what it is.
And accepts it.
Values it.
Appreciates it.
Even if he doesn't return it in the same currency.
Which brings us to Florida Dom's very valid question:
The thing is, I don't experience it as holding back his love.
We are - all of us - what we are.
We feel what we feel.
We order our lives in a way that makes sense to us.
I know that I am important to him.
I know that I add to his life.
There is a connection...
And then there's this.
Between when we met and when everything fell apart, ex-hubby #2 and I were together for 20 years. I thought he loved me. He said he loved me. Hell, he married me! And never - never once in all those years - did I ever feel the kind of connection I have had, in all its various incarnations, with the sadist.
Never did I feel he was really thinking about me.
Never did I feel he really knew me.
Never did I feel he really cared about me.
Even at his most objectifying, the sadist has always made me feel more respected, more valued, and more treasured than my ex-husband ever did. Ever. Even during what were supposedly the good years.
The lack of the word "love" is trivial compared to that.
I'll come back to this. Meanwhile, do check out the full comments on yesterday's post, including a long one from mamacrow - who should not apologize for its length. Her input is welcome - and that post began with my own over-long comment on sin's original post - which you might want to read if you haven't already, as well as sin's follow-up post and with all the comments and sfp's post on the matter as well.
And please - do leave your thoughts here as well.
However long they may be.
I love the conversation.
I began this post while watching Once Upon a Time.
Prince Charming.
Love at first sight.
All that.
It was not love at first sight with my demon muse.
Not even love at first message.
I laughed at his first message.
I laughed and was intrigued.
Intellectually stimulated.
Trapped, of course.
He knows how to do that.
He knew what I was and knew what bait to use.
But love?
It took me by surprise.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you for the comments left here and on sin's original post, as well as to sin and others for their follow-up posts. This is an important topic to explore, and it's important to see the various perspectives.
Damn.
Snow White just saved Prince Charming's life.
I'm embarrassed by the warmth I feel and the tears that flow.
I know most of you didn't read the comments here, so I'll share and address them now. swan was the first. I can always count on her for an intelligent and analytical approach. Analytical and and incisive. You can read her own post on the topic over at her place. Part of her comment to my post was this:
I also think that it is hard to describe the sort of love that arises out of and alongside D/s because our culture is so attached to the fairy tale version of happily ever after treacle sweet imitation that the messy, difficult, rough and tumble of human animal emotion and attachment doesn't even have words most of the time...
"it is hard to describe the sort of love"
We have a word.
We use it as a convention.
Love.
We say it but we don't all mean the same thing.
And we can't really describe what we do mean.
What we do feel.
What I felt for the fiend,
what I called "love"
when it grabbed my head and forced me to look in its eyes,
was not what I felt for the philosopher,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #2,
which was not what I felt for ex-hubby #1
or for the woman who broke my silly, vulnerable heart.
And the love I felt for the sadist 3 years ago
was not the same as what I feel now.
I don't think I would ever have called it romantic love.
It is what it is.
Which does complicate the conversation.
I'm grateful that at least he knows what it is.
And accepts it.
Values it.
Appreciates it.
Even if he doesn't return it in the same currency.
Which brings us to Florida Dom's very valid question:
You explained the situation very well, but am curious how you are dealing with it. Is it difficult for you that he is holding back his love or do you accept that is the way it is?
The thing is, I don't experience it as holding back his love.
We are - all of us - what we are.
We feel what we feel.
We order our lives in a way that makes sense to us.
I know that I am important to him.
I know that I add to his life.
There is a connection...
And then there's this.
Between when we met and when everything fell apart, ex-hubby #2 and I were together for 20 years. I thought he loved me. He said he loved me. Hell, he married me! And never - never once in all those years - did I ever feel the kind of connection I have had, in all its various incarnations, with the sadist.
Never did I feel he was really thinking about me.
Never did I feel he really knew me.
Never did I feel he really cared about me.
Even at his most objectifying, the sadist has always made me feel more respected, more valued, and more treasured than my ex-husband ever did. Ever. Even during what were supposedly the good years.
The lack of the word "love" is trivial compared to that.
I'll come back to this. Meanwhile, do check out the full comments on yesterday's post, including a long one from mamacrow - who should not apologize for its length. Her input is welcome - and that post began with my own over-long comment on sin's original post - which you might want to read if you haven't already, as well as sin's follow-up post and with all the comments and sfp's post on the matter as well.
And please - do leave your thoughts here as well.
However long they may be.
I love the conversation.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Cognitive dissonance and BDSM
It took four and a half days. Finally, someone was brave enough to leave the comment I had been expecting from the moment I finished writing the post I called Ouch. Screwed up again.
This morning, goodgirl wrote:
The full quote, the last two lines of my post, is this:
Here, an admission.
I felt extremely uncomfortable as I wrote it.
And I left it in as a challenge.
A challenge as much to myself as to my readers.
Because that is a horrible thing to say.
As a concept, as a tenet, it is absolutely inexcusable.
And yet.
I thought it.
I felt it.
At that time.
In that context.
As I wrote.
But if I let myself truly think about it, my stomach clenches.
So I tried not to think about it.
An exquisite example of cognitive dissonance.
As I write about it now, I'm suddenly reminded of something very different. Or maybe not so different as a psychological experience.
I was raised an atheist. A third-generation left-wing Jewish atheist. While my parents gave us a strong sense of Jewish identity, they were very clear on the non-existence of God. Religion was something that distracted people from improving the lot of the masses and making the world a better place. (Knowing very little about Judaism, they didn't know that tikkun olam, healing the world, is precisely the job we were given, but that's another discussion entirely.)
Eventually, I was drawn - felt compelled - to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. I talked with a rabbi, I read, I went to services, I found things I could relate to. But largely I preferred services that were mostly in Hebrew. Despite the fact that I didn't know what I was saying.
In fact - precisely because I wouldn't know what I was saying.
Because otherwise the highly rational part of me would push past the part that found meaning and fulfillment in ritual, the part that sensed the existence of something else, and while poking at my stomach would say: "How can you say this stuff?!?"
I rarely ascribe things to "God." Notice that above, when I spoke of tikkun olam, I didn't say it was the job that God gave us. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. And yet, I really have, on a few widely disparate occasions, become disconcertingly aware of something else.
I do not like talking about those occasions.
They make me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet they were very real.
Cognitive dissonance makes us very uncomfortable.
There is another psychological state that walks hand-in-hand with cognitive dissonance. And that is suspension of disbelief. A very deliberate suspension of disbelief.
Yes, I am very happy in my relationship. But I am admittedly uncomfortable enough about a few of its aspects that I don't reveal it to friends who are not part of this world. They would worry about me. And really, rationally, how could I blame them? Aside from everything else, I should be out looking for someone who will commit to looking after me as I grow older. Who could take care of me, financially and otherwise. Instead I have made a commitment to a man who... well, you know. Or some of it at least. You've read it here.
In order to write what I do, not to mention do what I do, I push away my thoughts of real slavery. Of real abuse, sexual and otherwise. Of forced prostitution, of children who are sold, of children whose real daddies do things to them that no child should have to endure. Things that no daddy should even think of doing. These are real horrors in the world - realities we should not close our eyes to, realities we should not close our minds to, realities we must acknowledge even as we do things that some of us, at least - perhaps precisely because our awareness is so keen - feel we must keep from those who care about us.
So I write from another place.
That place from which I can say
a man has the right to beat his slave.
For pleasure or punishment.
But there was no way I could go deeply enough into that place to enable me to write that line without cognitive dissonance standing on my shoulder, like an angel of good intent, whispering into my ear the true horror of the words I left for you to read.
So thank you, goodgirl, for being honest enough to admit what you felt.
Because if we didn't have those feelings,
at least sometimes,
we would have to seriously question our own humanity.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A reassurance, for my new readers and for those who may have forgotten. None of us, in any relationship, can truly say that our safety is assured, whether physical or emotional. The old hit-by-a-bus possibility. But I can say this. This man I write about - this sadist - is aware of the potential dangers and works very hard to protect me. And it is that level of consciousness that feels like the greatest protection of all.
This morning, goodgirl wrote:
Hello
For reasons I can not even explain nor understand myself your last sentence, "a man has the right to beat his slave" prickled me to my very core. To each his/her own; freedom of speech and choice I believe but reading those words felt offensive and is just one of the many reasons why I feel conflict with the exchange of Dominance/submission; Sadism/masochism; Master/slave.
You appear very happy in your relationship and that is truly all that matters for you and the exchange you have.
For me though, this entry just fills me with sadness.
The full quote, the last two lines of my post, is this:
Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.
Here, an admission.
I felt extremely uncomfortable as I wrote it.
And I left it in as a challenge.
A challenge as much to myself as to my readers.
Because that is a horrible thing to say.
As a concept, as a tenet, it is absolutely inexcusable.
And yet.
I thought it.
I felt it.
At that time.
In that context.
As I wrote.
But if I let myself truly think about it, my stomach clenches.
So I tried not to think about it.
An exquisite example of cognitive dissonance.
As I write about it now, I'm suddenly reminded of something very different. Or maybe not so different as a psychological experience.
I was raised an atheist. A third-generation left-wing Jewish atheist. While my parents gave us a strong sense of Jewish identity, they were very clear on the non-existence of God. Religion was something that distracted people from improving the lot of the masses and making the world a better place. (Knowing very little about Judaism, they didn't know that tikkun olam, healing the world, is precisely the job we were given, but that's another discussion entirely.)
Eventually, I was drawn - felt compelled - to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. I talked with a rabbi, I read, I went to services, I found things I could relate to. But largely I preferred services that were mostly in Hebrew. Despite the fact that I didn't know what I was saying.
In fact - precisely because I wouldn't know what I was saying.
Because otherwise the highly rational part of me would push past the part that found meaning and fulfillment in ritual, the part that sensed the existence of something else, and while poking at my stomach would say: "How can you say this stuff?!?"
I rarely ascribe things to "God." Notice that above, when I spoke of tikkun olam, I didn't say it was the job that God gave us. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. And yet, I really have, on a few widely disparate occasions, become disconcertingly aware of something else.
I do not like talking about those occasions.
They make me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet they were very real.
Cognitive dissonance makes us very uncomfortable.
There is another psychological state that walks hand-in-hand with cognitive dissonance. And that is suspension of disbelief. A very deliberate suspension of disbelief.
Yes, I am very happy in my relationship. But I am admittedly uncomfortable enough about a few of its aspects that I don't reveal it to friends who are not part of this world. They would worry about me. And really, rationally, how could I blame them? Aside from everything else, I should be out looking for someone who will commit to looking after me as I grow older. Who could take care of me, financially and otherwise. Instead I have made a commitment to a man who... well, you know. Or some of it at least. You've read it here.
In order to write what I do, not to mention do what I do, I push away my thoughts of real slavery. Of real abuse, sexual and otherwise. Of forced prostitution, of children who are sold, of children whose real daddies do things to them that no child should have to endure. Things that no daddy should even think of doing. These are real horrors in the world - realities we should not close our eyes to, realities we should not close our minds to, realities we must acknowledge even as we do things that some of us, at least - perhaps precisely because our awareness is so keen - feel we must keep from those who care about us.
So I write from another place.
That place from which I can say
a man has the right to beat his slave.
For pleasure or punishment.
But there was no way I could go deeply enough into that place to enable me to write that line without cognitive dissonance standing on my shoulder, like an angel of good intent, whispering into my ear the true horror of the words I left for you to read.
So thank you, goodgirl, for being honest enough to admit what you felt.
Because if we didn't have those feelings,
at least sometimes,
we would have to seriously question our own humanity.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A reassurance, for my new readers and for those who may have forgotten. None of us, in any relationship, can truly say that our safety is assured, whether physical or emotional. The old hit-by-a-bus possibility. But I can say this. This man I write about - this sadist - is aware of the potential dangers and works very hard to protect me. And it is that level of consciousness that feels like the greatest protection of all.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Washed out
I haven't been a very dependable a blogger lately.
Blame it on the weather.
There's been far too much weather.
Meaning rain.
Far too much rain.
Yesterday, I finally dragged my large lightbox upstairs, as my brain had completely shut down. I was so desperate for light that I overdosed. It didn't make me lively, but did keep me up till 3 am. Bad girl, because then I slept till 10 this morning, meaning I missed much of whatever morning light there was.
NOTE to those who are contemplating light therapy for winter sluggishness or depression or full-out SAD. You're supposed to start using it before you can tell that you've slowed down. Meaning in mid-August, just a few minutes as early in the morning as possible (yeah, right...) and then gradually increasing. But this was an emergency. I keep that big box in the dining room once the season starts, and have a Sunlight Jr. on the kitchen counter, with another Sunlight Jr. for my office desk when I'm fortunate enough to have paying employment. (At home, I mainly work at the thoroughly buried dining room table.)
Anyway, today the sun came out. Still somewhat feeble, but a promising sign nevertheless. And I actually managed to get some things done!
Lots left to do for the sadist, including revising a long-ish poem he assigned months ago. Plus I owe you all the second half of my review of the Silky G, after which I can write about my utterly delicious and delightfully classy new vibrator. In black and grey. Not like me at all, but it looked so elegant on the website and in fact it is. And damn, but it feels good... Whoo-ee!
But that's for another time.
(Though if you follow the link, you'll see that it's on sale...)
Oh, and everything is quite wonderful with me and the fiend. The things he says with his mouth but without words...
There.
Now you know I haven't forgotten about you all.
Feel better?
Blame it on the weather.
There's been far too much weather.
Meaning rain.
Far too much rain.
Yesterday, I finally dragged my large lightbox upstairs, as my brain had completely shut down. I was so desperate for light that I overdosed. It didn't make me lively, but did keep me up till 3 am. Bad girl, because then I slept till 10 this morning, meaning I missed much of whatever morning light there was.
NOTE to those who are contemplating light therapy for winter sluggishness or depression or full-out SAD. You're supposed to start using it before you can tell that you've slowed down. Meaning in mid-August, just a few minutes as early in the morning as possible (yeah, right...) and then gradually increasing. But this was an emergency. I keep that big box in the dining room once the season starts, and have a Sunlight Jr. on the kitchen counter, with another Sunlight Jr. for my office desk when I'm fortunate enough to have paying employment. (At home, I mainly work at the thoroughly buried dining room table.)
Anyway, today the sun came out. Still somewhat feeble, but a promising sign nevertheless. And I actually managed to get some things done!
Lots left to do for the sadist, including revising a long-ish poem he assigned months ago. Plus I owe you all the second half of my review of the Silky G, after which I can write about my utterly delicious and delightfully classy new vibrator. In black and grey. Not like me at all, but it looked so elegant on the website and in fact it is. And damn, but it feels good... Whoo-ee!
But that's for another time.
(Though if you follow the link, you'll see that it's on sale...)
Oh, and everything is quite wonderful with me and the fiend. The things he says with his mouth but without words...
There.
Now you know I haven't forgotten about you all.
Feel better?
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Three years . . .
There should be an adjective.
Three [something-or-other] years.
Perhaps that word my Master used when my physical service rendered him nearly speechless.
Three amazing years.
Or maybe:
Three extraordinary years.
Or even:
Three unlikely years.
Or how about:
Three years of struggle and joy.
For me, too, in this as in so many other things, words are inadequate.
Utterly, inevitably inadequate.
The richness and complexity of
who we are and
how we are and
what we are
cannot be pinned down.
What we have is an exquisite, elusive butterfly that you will never catch and nail to a board for a thorough and dispassionate examination.
There is nothing dispassionate about our relationship.
Below is what I posted on September 2, 2008, one day after I begged my Master to allow me to serve him, which happened a mere one week after he first found me on FetLife. He found me, wanted me, set his trap, and got me. All in the space of a week, which was exactly what he had predicted to his masochist slave.
You can read the whole post below, but you might want to go back and read it in situ. In context. with some of the surrounding posts. Including our first meeting in the flesh. (I notice that there, as so often now, I display an unwillingness to really describe our interactions.)
The following speaks of the philosopher as well as of the sadist - so I suppose I should offer this update that we've had some extended e-mail conversations in the last few months, kicked off by the death of Osama bin Laden. Which is good. What the philosopher and I had was also very special, and I was sad that we were no longer in contact. (Note: he did finally finish his dissertation. And does still read here.)
Here, then, is a remembrance and a tribute
to what was
and what is
and what will be.
A remembrance filled with love (and offered with uncorrected capitalizations).
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This change in my life I never imagined existed. Not for me. Not now. And certainly not quite this fast.
In some ways I’m not even sure what happened. Or how. One day I start getting odd messages from an evil man whose over-the-top enthusiasm for my writing makes me laugh. A day or so later, I’m inspired to write a very dark piece which I don’t feel like posting here. By Saturday we were having some horribly long volleys of messages and I was still teasing him for the way he worshiped my words, but I was distracted and aroused and aching to please him.
On Monday, Labor Day, I begged him to let me serve him. I am perhaps the first literary service slut in history.
Monday was very odd. It could have been a very rough day – the day on which my poor philosopher would have called to discuss where we went from here – if he hadn’t already dismissed me by e-mail on the anniversary of his taking possession of me as his slave kitten, his selkie, and as his best friend. It could have been a very very difficult day.
But it wasn’t.
The philosopher wrote me after reading about the fiend and about my dream, acknowledging what the day would have been. I was so, so happy, spending all that time writing back and forth, talking about the film i had seen (Starting Out in the Evening, which I liked a lot), learning that the dissertation is going well now and that i’m free to ask about it whenever i wish. Things are good between us, however they might be defined.
Meanwhile, my demon muse and i continued to write throughout the day, and… and i have no idea what happened. I’m not going to share the conversation; it loses something in translation and feels too intensely personal. Too intense. Very personal. Mainly, there was all this frustration on both sides that the other just couldn’t understand what needed to happen next. My fault, really, for being so afraid of rejection and for not knowing the rules.
What i CAN say is that by Sunday i was desperately wanting to please him. The more nice things he said, the more intensely submissive i felt. i was drunk on it, i think… perhaps my intense desire to serve him was a way to jump in the barrel and drown in the sweet strong wine of his approval.
(and yes i know i have completely lost any consistency in my capitalization and i’m not going to correct it. you can see what happens to my mind as i write. certainly, when i’m feeling submissive “I” gets rapidly replaced by “i” – not as a conscious thing, just as a reflection of something very deep and very uncontrollable. except, of course, by someone who very much wants to control me.)
so yes. i am his service slut. his literary service slut. his imprisoned poet, his treasured pet. i'm not totally sure what he wants of me, but whatever it is, i will give, and will learn to anticipate. i do know that we won't see each other all that often - but then, i am used to that. and since much of what he is looking to accomplish with me is guiding and disciplining and inspiring my writing, e-mail works just fine. i am already seeing a difference. (and oh... i have a secret goal... aside from all the other things i hope to achieve through my demon mentor's training, i'd really love to be able to write a sonnet one day. i've wanted to write a sonnet for years.)
while i may not be totally sure of what my poetic dominant wants of me, it is quite clear and agreed upon what he doesn't want of me. he has no intention of being my boyfriend, and i am not looking for that from him. our goals are clear, the work will be hard, and our time together will be focused. it's true that i thought i was done with active BDSM for now, but every so often an opportunity comes along that is too rich and exciting and fulfilling and challenging to pass up. however, that doesn't change the fact that as far as Relationships go, with a capital "R", i'm feeling quite fulfilled at the moment.
because there is the philosopher. even as friends, even as we are, whatever we are to each other, i regard this bond between us as my primary relationship. and my sadistic jailer knows that. he respects that and he supports that.
i wonder if something like this would have helped things when the philosopher tried to break up with me as far back as last February. what with the stress of the dissertation, he has been feeling overwhelmed by the relationship for a long time. everything came to feel onerous – putting me to bed, giving me attention, giving me the control i needed, even accepting my love perhaps… i’m not totally sure, really. what if we had been able to think of this as a solution? someone for me to serve, someone to command my obedience, to give me attention, to praise me and to chastise me, to arouse me and control me, and to nurture my submission. i would still have belonged to the philosopher, we both would have had that to hug to ourselves to keep us safe and warm at night. but i would have been out of his hair and locked away safe until he was done and ready to resume life. and then we would have figured out together the new rules for a relationship that would work for us both.
but things don’t happen that way. we don’t always think of solutions when we need them, when life is coming apart, and i can’t imagine going shopping for someone to take me in hand. besides, that’s not how my life works. opportunities present themselves. people suddenly appear, people far beyond what i could have imagined. and then there is no choice. all i can say is “yes, Sir” and obey.
besides, the philosopher was always so possessive, even when he tried not to be, that i can’t imagine his having accepted such a thing.
so now he is my best friend, and i try not to say “yes, sir” when he calls me kitten. because i don’t ever want him to stop calling me kitten. and i still think of him a lot, i could never stop that, but am saved from brooding by this demon ex machina who commands my submission and demands my words and scares me and delights me and makes me tremble and makes me want to throw myself at his feet which maybe i can do later this week. how else should i feel about a man who likes my very feeble singing?
i am happy.
And today, I put the philosopher’s picture back on my desk. He is part of my life, whatever label we may stick on his role, and i like being reminded of that. Besides, he’s cute.
Three [something-or-other] years.
Perhaps that word my Master used when my physical service rendered him nearly speechless.
Three amazing years.
Or maybe:
Three extraordinary years.
Or even:
Three unlikely years.
Or how about:
Three years of struggle and joy.
For me, too, in this as in so many other things, words are inadequate.
Utterly, inevitably inadequate.
The richness and complexity of
who we are and
how we are and
what we are
cannot be pinned down.
What we have is an exquisite, elusive butterfly that you will never catch and nail to a board for a thorough and dispassionate examination.
There is nothing dispassionate about our relationship.
Below is what I posted on September 2, 2008, one day after I begged my Master to allow me to serve him, which happened a mere one week after he first found me on FetLife. He found me, wanted me, set his trap, and got me. All in the space of a week, which was exactly what he had predicted to his masochist slave.
You can read the whole post below, but you might want to go back and read it in situ. In context. with some of the surrounding posts. Including our first meeting in the flesh. (I notice that there, as so often now, I display an unwillingness to really describe our interactions.)
The following speaks of the philosopher as well as of the sadist - so I suppose I should offer this update that we've had some extended e-mail conversations in the last few months, kicked off by the death of Osama bin Laden. Which is good. What the philosopher and I had was also very special, and I was sad that we were no longer in contact. (Note: he did finally finish his dissertation. And does still read here.)
Here, then, is a remembrance and a tribute
to what was
and what is
and what will be.
A remembrance filled with love (and offered with uncorrected capitalizations).
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Life makes its own decisions
Sometimes, things happen very very fast. Which can really blindside you if you never imagined they existed.This change in my life I never imagined existed. Not for me. Not now. And certainly not quite this fast.
In some ways I’m not even sure what happened. Or how. One day I start getting odd messages from an evil man whose over-the-top enthusiasm for my writing makes me laugh. A day or so later, I’m inspired to write a very dark piece which I don’t feel like posting here. By Saturday we were having some horribly long volleys of messages and I was still teasing him for the way he worshiped my words, but I was distracted and aroused and aching to please him.
On Monday, Labor Day, I begged him to let me serve him. I am perhaps the first literary service slut in history.
Monday was very odd. It could have been a very rough day – the day on which my poor philosopher would have called to discuss where we went from here – if he hadn’t already dismissed me by e-mail on the anniversary of his taking possession of me as his slave kitten, his selkie, and as his best friend. It could have been a very very difficult day.
But it wasn’t.
The philosopher wrote me after reading about the fiend and about my dream, acknowledging what the day would have been. I was so, so happy, spending all that time writing back and forth, talking about the film i had seen (Starting Out in the Evening, which I liked a lot), learning that the dissertation is going well now and that i’m free to ask about it whenever i wish. Things are good between us, however they might be defined.
Meanwhile, my demon muse and i continued to write throughout the day, and… and i have no idea what happened. I’m not going to share the conversation; it loses something in translation and feels too intensely personal. Too intense. Very personal. Mainly, there was all this frustration on both sides that the other just couldn’t understand what needed to happen next. My fault, really, for being so afraid of rejection and for not knowing the rules.
What i CAN say is that by Sunday i was desperately wanting to please him. The more nice things he said, the more intensely submissive i felt. i was drunk on it, i think… perhaps my intense desire to serve him was a way to jump in the barrel and drown in the sweet strong wine of his approval.
(and yes i know i have completely lost any consistency in my capitalization and i’m not going to correct it. you can see what happens to my mind as i write. certainly, when i’m feeling submissive “I” gets rapidly replaced by “i” – not as a conscious thing, just as a reflection of something very deep and very uncontrollable. except, of course, by someone who very much wants to control me.)
so yes. i am his service slut. his literary service slut. his imprisoned poet, his treasured pet. i'm not totally sure what he wants of me, but whatever it is, i will give, and will learn to anticipate. i do know that we won't see each other all that often - but then, i am used to that. and since much of what he is looking to accomplish with me is guiding and disciplining and inspiring my writing, e-mail works just fine. i am already seeing a difference. (and oh... i have a secret goal... aside from all the other things i hope to achieve through my demon mentor's training, i'd really love to be able to write a sonnet one day. i've wanted to write a sonnet for years.)
while i may not be totally sure of what my poetic dominant wants of me, it is quite clear and agreed upon what he doesn't want of me. he has no intention of being my boyfriend, and i am not looking for that from him. our goals are clear, the work will be hard, and our time together will be focused. it's true that i thought i was done with active BDSM for now, but every so often an opportunity comes along that is too rich and exciting and fulfilling and challenging to pass up. however, that doesn't change the fact that as far as Relationships go, with a capital "R", i'm feeling quite fulfilled at the moment.
because there is the philosopher. even as friends, even as we are, whatever we are to each other, i regard this bond between us as my primary relationship. and my sadistic jailer knows that. he respects that and he supports that.
i wonder if something like this would have helped things when the philosopher tried to break up with me as far back as last February. what with the stress of the dissertation, he has been feeling overwhelmed by the relationship for a long time. everything came to feel onerous – putting me to bed, giving me attention, giving me the control i needed, even accepting my love perhaps… i’m not totally sure, really. what if we had been able to think of this as a solution? someone for me to serve, someone to command my obedience, to give me attention, to praise me and to chastise me, to arouse me and control me, and to nurture my submission. i would still have belonged to the philosopher, we both would have had that to hug to ourselves to keep us safe and warm at night. but i would have been out of his hair and locked away safe until he was done and ready to resume life. and then we would have figured out together the new rules for a relationship that would work for us both.
but things don’t happen that way. we don’t always think of solutions when we need them, when life is coming apart, and i can’t imagine going shopping for someone to take me in hand. besides, that’s not how my life works. opportunities present themselves. people suddenly appear, people far beyond what i could have imagined. and then there is no choice. all i can say is “yes, Sir” and obey.
besides, the philosopher was always so possessive, even when he tried not to be, that i can’t imagine his having accepted such a thing.
so now he is my best friend, and i try not to say “yes, sir” when he calls me kitten. because i don’t ever want him to stop calling me kitten. and i still think of him a lot, i could never stop that, but am saved from brooding by this demon ex machina who commands my submission and demands my words and scares me and delights me and makes me tremble and makes me want to throw myself at his feet which maybe i can do later this week. how else should i feel about a man who likes my very feeble singing?
i am happy.
And today, I put the philosopher’s picture back on my desk. He is part of my life, whatever label we may stick on his role, and i like being reminded of that. Besides, he’s cute.
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