He thinks a lot of himself.
Or so he says.
He wants me to know that he thinks a lot of himself.
Such a mammoth ego.
A mammoth ego needing so much support.
Wanting constant massaging,
like his lovely cock,
hungry for attention
from hand and mouth and more
to keep it smartly hard.
Such vulnerability.
Such beautiful vulnerability.
Does he know that's something I love about him?
He tries to hide it.
And now.
As we sort things out.
It took me ever so long to see.
He had to say it nearly straight out.
He needs to save face.
He does know he triggered it.
He knows the beast escaped.
He knows he didn't protect me.
But what he focuses on is what I did to him, how I left without a word, how I tossed away 7 years (actually 6 and a half) because of half an hour (seemed more like an hour), how I waffled about whether it was over or not...
Because.
Because he knows what he did.
He knows the effect it had on me.
But he needs to feel - to pretend - that he was the one who was wronged. Like when he has trouble cumming because of too much to drink, and he says it will be all my fault if he can't cum even though he knows - and I know - that it's not my fault at all. Sometimes, after, he has even said that, reassured me, that he knows it wasn't my fault but he needs to act like it was.
So I'm being good and doing as he says and accepting that he has doubts. And he has always had doubts, it has always been hard to fully believe that I do love him, do want to fully give myself over to him, even though I do sometimes fight it and run scared because really, given issues I've always had with authority even as I've so badly needed someone to take control, is it any surprise that some sense of rebellion remains?
In fact, he's got a plan that seems to be working. He's wise for us to ease back in. And what he so badly needs is to feel that he's back in control.
Which is also why he won't let me masturbate.
I love it that he won't let me masturbate.
Just as I love how sweetly he stroked me
as I even more sweetly sucked on his cock.
Showing posts with label control. Show all posts
Showing posts with label control. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Thursday, November 14, 2013
On assignment
I'm writing for my Master tonight.
He knows that I've been writing again.
Writing here.
Writing at all.
And given that he owns me
he thinks - rightfully so -
that he has a right to some of my produce.
The fruits of his fields.
It's a collaborative effort. He is presenting me with little scenarios, each involving one of his friends, and I am to finish the scenes. He plants the seeds, partially sprouted, and I shine my light on them until they blossom into a small pornographic gem.
There is a bondage component to the exercise.
I am allowed only 3-4 sentences.
He is a cruel man, my Master.
It's not for nothing that I call him the sadist.
He is one.
In many different ways.
How lucky I am!
He knows that I've been writing again.
Writing here.
Writing at all.
And given that he owns me
he thinks - rightfully so -
that he has a right to some of my produce.
The fruits of his fields.
It's a collaborative effort. He is presenting me with little scenarios, each involving one of his friends, and I am to finish the scenes. He plants the seeds, partially sprouted, and I shine my light on them until they blossom into a small pornographic gem.
There is a bondage component to the exercise.
I am allowed only 3-4 sentences.
He is a cruel man, my Master.
It's not for nothing that I call him the sadist.
He is one.
In many different ways.
How lucky I am!
Saturday, December 8, 2012
The carrot & the stick. Mainly, the stick.
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Wednesday, December 5, 2012
A glimpse of sun
He is getting better.
I can tell.
The Dom is flexing his muscles,
applying the whip from afar.
There is arousal and relief all around.
A visit Saturday is "not impossible."
Life is good.
I can tell.
The Dom is flexing his muscles,
applying the whip from afar.
There is arousal and relief all around.
A visit Saturday is "not impossible."
Life is good.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Saved by the masochist slave
He gets these urges sometimes.
Seriously sadistic urges.
You know.
I've written about them before.
He wants to torture me.
Seriously torture me.
It keeps him up at night when he gets in that mood. He sees it. He tastes it. He hears my screams and sees my body writhing, my back rising and arching, hears me moaning, begging - and then screaming... His description sounds as if it could as easily refer to passion, orgasm...
Certainly his words catapult me into an agony of arousal.
But that's not the kind of pain he has in mind.
And the only guaranteed orgasm would be his.
He doesn't dare do to me what he wants to do.
He knows I couldn't handle that much pain.
He's afraid he'll go too far.
He's afraid it would destroy us.
And more than anything,
he doesn't want to lose me.
But the thought of it.
It's so seductive.
To me it's so seductive.
And he knows that, too.
He won't tell me what he wants to do to me. He won't tell me the horrible things he does do to his masochist slave. He has, in the past, mentioned some things that he knows I'll eventually accede to. As if I had a choice. Not that he would force it on me. He's more like a snake. Hypnotizing me. Knowing that I will never make him stop. The only thing I react against is when he slaps my face in a way that makes me worry about bruises. In a way that lets me know he's out of control. That scares me. And now scares him, because he doesn't realize things are going bad until the the next day. Until he reads my account of it the next day. He worries about that now. Because he... because of what he feels for me.
I wish I could give him what he needs.
I wish it were safe for him to torture me.
Whatever that means.
He has talked about electro-torture in the past.
Serious electro-torture.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
In a way, it scares him too, I think.
The thought of doing it to me.
Because, again, he's afraid of losing control.
Of going too far.
So he protects me.
He continues to protect me.
Because he has these feelings for me.
Feelings he says in every way he can
without saying those dangerous words.
He protects me.
And tortures his masochist slave instead.
He had been torturing the slave before. Before he found me. That's the point of owning a masochist, isn't it? And each of them has a need filled. Not just the giving and receiving of pain, but also being served and providing service. Relieving pain while receiving pain. For the sadist does suffer during these times. He suffers from the unbearable need to inflict pain, the overwhelming need to hear the screams, and the awful desire to have me be the one writhing and screaming and sobbing as he demonstrates his desire and feelings for me by making my suffering surpass his own.
It doesn't happen that often.
He doesn't have such attacks that often.
But he did last weekend.
And he found relief today.
He wants to figure out why the attack came on when it did. and why it was so severe. I have my own theories. One of those perfect storm things, part of which was being deprived of my body on Saturday because I was sick. Part of which was knowing that I was with S-- on Wednesday night. He's always very aroused at the thought of others enjoying his mistress. His treasure. So first there was his awareness of another man touching and kissing and fucking me, an awareness that filled him all through that night. And then he read the account of the night that I was required to send him the following day. Add to that a different sort of event on Friday - not a sexual activity but related to his activities. And here we return to his doing without me on Saturday, followed by an electronic conversation Saturday night that was frightening in its intimacy and new revelations.
He can't help himself.
Sometimes he tells me things...
So of course by Sunday the bars on the beast's cage had been bent apart and the hungry monster was prowling the halls.
Luckily, my Master had already arranged to use his slave today.
For some people, today was a holiday.
So the slave was home.
And the slave's ass saved mine.
Knowing it was for my protection.
Being told how grateful I was.
While I waited.
The fiend e-mailed me his ETA.
I was at work.
"You'll share the experience with me," he wrote.
My breath stopped.
I had been feeling tense all day.
Feeling his presence, his hands on my body,
slashes of the cane and of the single tail whip burning my butt.
Finally, lunchtime, I left the building.
A message arrived.
There was screaming.
He had almost called me.
I don't know that I could have tolerated the sounds of such pain.
I tried to walk, but instead sat outside on a low concrete ledge and waited. The screams had eased his desperation. All that was left was to cum.
Was for him to cum.
I was there with him.
Not physically.
But there with him nevertheless.
Waiting.
Not breathing.
He gave me a 4-minute warning of when he would cum.
The time passed.
My body let go.
I took a deep breath.
He was OK.
I knew he was OK now.
And I knew he had felt me there with him.
I had to be with him.
Because it all had to do with me.
He wrote me from the car.
He was feeling much better.
His slave was fine.
I was grateful for the reassurance.
I always feel guilty.
And especially now.
I think this was the first time the slave was explicitly told that it was all because of me. Another pain my Master inflicted. I felt bad. Bad and guilty and very, very grateful.
Grateful that my body was saved from horrors I can only imagine.
And grateful that this sadist I love was saved from the torments he visits on himself.
Love can hurt.
In so many ways.
Seriously sadistic urges.
You know.
I've written about them before.
He wants to torture me.
Seriously torture me.
It keeps him up at night when he gets in that mood. He sees it. He tastes it. He hears my screams and sees my body writhing, my back rising and arching, hears me moaning, begging - and then screaming... His description sounds as if it could as easily refer to passion, orgasm...
Certainly his words catapult me into an agony of arousal.
But that's not the kind of pain he has in mind.
And the only guaranteed orgasm would be his.
He doesn't dare do to me what he wants to do.
He knows I couldn't handle that much pain.
He's afraid he'll go too far.
He's afraid it would destroy us.
And more than anything,
he doesn't want to lose me.
But the thought of it.
It's so seductive.
To me it's so seductive.
And he knows that, too.
He won't tell me what he wants to do to me. He won't tell me the horrible things he does do to his masochist slave. He has, in the past, mentioned some things that he knows I'll eventually accede to. As if I had a choice. Not that he would force it on me. He's more like a snake. Hypnotizing me. Knowing that I will never make him stop. The only thing I react against is when he slaps my face in a way that makes me worry about bruises. In a way that lets me know he's out of control. That scares me. And now scares him, because he doesn't realize things are going bad until the the next day. Until he reads my account of it the next day. He worries about that now. Because he... because of what he feels for me.
I wish I could give him what he needs.
I wish it were safe for him to torture me.
Whatever that means.
He has talked about electro-torture in the past.
Serious electro-torture.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
In a way, it scares him too, I think.
The thought of doing it to me.
Because, again, he's afraid of losing control.
Of going too far.
So he protects me.
He continues to protect me.
Because he has these feelings for me.
Feelings he says in every way he can
without saying those dangerous words.
He protects me.
And tortures his masochist slave instead.
He had been torturing the slave before. Before he found me. That's the point of owning a masochist, isn't it? And each of them has a need filled. Not just the giving and receiving of pain, but also being served and providing service. Relieving pain while receiving pain. For the sadist does suffer during these times. He suffers from the unbearable need to inflict pain, the overwhelming need to hear the screams, and the awful desire to have me be the one writhing and screaming and sobbing as he demonstrates his desire and feelings for me by making my suffering surpass his own.
It doesn't happen that often.
He doesn't have such attacks that often.
But he did last weekend.
And he found relief today.
He wants to figure out why the attack came on when it did. and why it was so severe. I have my own theories. One of those perfect storm things, part of which was being deprived of my body on Saturday because I was sick. Part of which was knowing that I was with S-- on Wednesday night. He's always very aroused at the thought of others enjoying his mistress. His treasure. So first there was his awareness of another man touching and kissing and fucking me, an awareness that filled him all through that night. And then he read the account of the night that I was required to send him the following day. Add to that a different sort of event on Friday - not a sexual activity but related to his activities. And here we return to his doing without me on Saturday, followed by an electronic conversation Saturday night that was frightening in its intimacy and new revelations.
He can't help himself.
Sometimes he tells me things...
So of course by Sunday the bars on the beast's cage had been bent apart and the hungry monster was prowling the halls.
Luckily, my Master had already arranged to use his slave today.
For some people, today was a holiday.
So the slave was home.
And the slave's ass saved mine.
Knowing it was for my protection.
Being told how grateful I was.
While I waited.
The fiend e-mailed me his ETA.
I was at work.
"You'll share the experience with me," he wrote.
My breath stopped.
I had been feeling tense all day.
Feeling his presence, his hands on my body,
slashes of the cane and of the single tail whip burning my butt.
Finally, lunchtime, I left the building.
A message arrived.
There was screaming.
He had almost called me.
I don't know that I could have tolerated the sounds of such pain.
I tried to walk, but instead sat outside on a low concrete ledge and waited. The screams had eased his desperation. All that was left was to cum.
Was for him to cum.
I was there with him.
Not physically.
But there with him nevertheless.
Waiting.
Not breathing.
He gave me a 4-minute warning of when he would cum.
The time passed.
My body let go.
I took a deep breath.
He was OK.
I knew he was OK now.
And I knew he had felt me there with him.
I had to be with him.
Because it all had to do with me.
He wrote me from the car.
He was feeling much better.
His slave was fine.
I was grateful for the reassurance.
I always feel guilty.
And especially now.
I think this was the first time the slave was explicitly told that it was all because of me. Another pain my Master inflicted. I felt bad. Bad and guilty and very, very grateful.
Grateful that my body was saved from horrors I can only imagine.
And grateful that this sadist I love was saved from the torments he visits on himself.
Love can hurt.
In so many ways.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Body modification
That's his word for it.
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Living with the beast
I'm thinking... maybe I should approach his sadism as if he had a chronic illness. After all, for better or worse, I have experience with such things. Ex-hubby #2 had Crohn's disease. It was always there. Always a concern. I was always noting how long he was spending in the bathroom. Wondering how long until he was doubled over in pain. How long till I'd have to insist on a trip to the emergency room.
But only sometimes did it get completely out of control.
At which point things became miserable.
For us both.
Although in that case, it was his body that suffered.
Whereas now...
No, no, no!
He has never sent me to the hospital.
Or anywhere near it.
Wipe that thought right out of your heads.
He works very hard to protect me.
He works a lot harder at controlling his sadism
(at least where I'm concerned)
than ex-hubby #2 ever did with respect to his Crohn's.
But sometimes, with both of them, there are flare-ups.
They're inevitable.
Who knows all the reasons?
Although I have my own suspicions.
And then there's this.
It turned out that all of ex-hubby's professions of love were lies. Or maybe more accurately misunderstandings on his part. He didn't really know what love is.
Whereas my Master
my Owner
my Daddy
so carefully controls his avowals of affection
that I know -
I know -
that whatever he does allow himself to say,
whatever emotions he does allow himself to admit to,
he most definitely means.
And then
my only response
my only possible response
is silence
as I take the words
and turn them over in my hands
wondering at their shy glow.
But only sometimes did it get completely out of control.
At which point things became miserable.
For us both.
Although in that case, it was his body that suffered.
Whereas now...
No, no, no!
He has never sent me to the hospital.
Or anywhere near it.
Wipe that thought right out of your heads.
He works very hard to protect me.
He works a lot harder at controlling his sadism
(at least where I'm concerned)
than ex-hubby #2 ever did with respect to his Crohn's.
But sometimes, with both of them, there are flare-ups.
They're inevitable.
Who knows all the reasons?
Although I have my own suspicions.
And then there's this.
It turned out that all of ex-hubby's professions of love were lies. Or maybe more accurately misunderstandings on his part. He didn't really know what love is.
Whereas my Master
my Owner
my Daddy
so carefully controls his avowals of affection
that I know -
I know -
that whatever he does allow himself to say,
whatever emotions he does allow himself to admit to,
he most definitely means.
And then
my only response
my only possible response
is silence
as I take the words
and turn them over in my hands
wondering at their shy glow.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Leather and heels; feminism and sucking cock
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Sunday, January 29, 2012
A challenge
This song came up on the bluegrass station.
A gospel song.
I'm not a Christian.
I can't say for sure whether I believe in God.
But I do like religious music of various sorts.
Stained glass bluegrass.
Black gospel for sure.
Early music masses.
My tastes are most definitely eclectic.
And then there's the sadist.
And me.
And his ownership.
And my struggles.
Can I really yield as completely as he wishes me to.
This song came up.
The words...
I wanted to send the lyrics to him
but wasn't sure I could swear I was ready to mean them.
To promise that full a commitment.
I want to.
I try.
But it scares me.
To cede everything...
that does scare me.
Here is the song, by the artists I heard on the radio.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TkBywnSwd6Q
And here are the first verse and the chorus.
A gospel song.
I'm not a Christian.
I can't say for sure whether I believe in God.
But I do like religious music of various sorts.
Stained glass bluegrass.
Black gospel for sure.
Early music masses.
My tastes are most definitely eclectic.
And then there's the sadist.
And me.
And his ownership.
And my struggles.
Can I really yield as completely as he wishes me to.
This song came up.
The words...
I wanted to send the lyrics to him
but wasn't sure I could swear I was ready to mean them.
To promise that full a commitment.
I want to.
I try.
But it scares me.
To cede everything...
that does scare me.
Here is the song, by the artists I heard on the radio.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TkBywnSwd6Q
And here are the first verse and the chorus.
The Lowest Valley, by Pearl Mullins
Lord I don't want to do one thing on my own
Put me where you want me Lord where I belong
Give me the strength Lord to do thy perfect will
And when I'm in the lowest valley I can climb the highest hill
Lord I want to be what you want me to be
Lord I want to do the things you want me to do
Lord I want to stay in the center of thy will
When I'm in the lowest valley I can climb the highest hill
Monday, January 16, 2012
Of lovers and friends i still can recall
I'm back.
I was in New York.
New York City.
Brooklyn, actually.
Up for a big, wild, 2-day music festival.
And to stay with a friend.
A guy.
He likes me.
We've known each other for years, flirted for years, were lovers for a while but not a pair, if you know what I mean. It would have been so convenient if it had worked. Efficient. We're part of the same crowd, albeit a geographically scattered one.
I like him.
We like each other.
We're fond of each other, actually.
And the sexual tension had gotten really high back then.
But the truth is, the sex wasn't all that hot.
Even on a vanilla scale.
And for a relationship...
Well, he can be kind of crotchety.
Maybe more so as he's gotten older.
Which he has.
He's 10 years older than me.
But he's always drawn women to him.
Curious.
And always younger women.
Much younger women.
He wants to start things up again.
Wanted to have sex again, anyway.
I think it was last year.
And I turned him down.
Boy that felt good! To be the one in control. The one with power. Though I was sad in a way. I'd like to be close to him. But, as I said, the sex wasn't that good. And - even more important - it would risk messing up our relationship, which is what happened last time. I was hurt in a way last time, to which he was oblivious, and it took a while for things to become comfortable again. Which they very much are now. I'd love things to be physical without full-scale sex. To be physically affection, which we are to an extent, but maybe more. Snuggling. That would be nice...
The sadist was not happy last year when he found out I'd turned down an overture.
That I'd turned down... I guess I should give the guy a blog name. "Ralph" should do.
Anyway, the sadist is convinced I was created to give men sexual pleasure, and was duly pissed last year that I had turned down both Ralph and S---. So I did resume fucking S--- when he was here last year, and that was a good thing to do, but am being stubborn about Ralph because I care for him and don't want to fuck things up through fucking.
Still, it was nice to see him, and (in the house with plus-or-minus 10 other people depending on the night) we were comfortable and affectionate.
It was a good weekend.
There was one odd moment, seeing at the festival another old friend, male, who was widowed exactly 1 year ago. He asked if my significant other was into dancing. I thought of the sadist, about whom no one knows and to whom I would never think of applying the term "significant other." Then I realized the friend was referring back to the philosopher, who did come with me to the festival one January, a little less than a year after we met on line. It would have been nice to have seen him while I was up in New York. And then, after the festival was over but before I came home, I got a message from him asking if I'd gone. And later, saying he wished he'd known sooner, we cold have met for lunch. I hadn't told him... I felt shy about it... not wanting to put him on the spot, not wanting to be turned down if he didn't want to see me. I'm sorry now for feeling shy. I like him. I truly enjoyed his company. I was very happy for the time we spent together. Even leaving out the D/s, which perhaps I felt more strongly and more consistently than he did. I was happy being with him, and happy to learn what it was like to be friends with someone I loved. To spend time really together.
It would be nice to go back up to New York just to visit people.
The philosopher would be on the list.
The list of friends.
Whether or not lovers.
Friends are precious, and should not be lightly tossed aside.
Especially redheaded Irishmen.
I was in New York.
New York City.
Brooklyn, actually.
Up for a big, wild, 2-day music festival.
And to stay with a friend.
A guy.
He likes me.
We've known each other for years, flirted for years, were lovers for a while but not a pair, if you know what I mean. It would have been so convenient if it had worked. Efficient. We're part of the same crowd, albeit a geographically scattered one.
I like him.
We like each other.
We're fond of each other, actually.
And the sexual tension had gotten really high back then.
But the truth is, the sex wasn't all that hot.
Even on a vanilla scale.
And for a relationship...
Well, he can be kind of crotchety.
Maybe more so as he's gotten older.
Which he has.
He's 10 years older than me.
But he's always drawn women to him.
Curious.
And always younger women.
Much younger women.
He wants to start things up again.
Wanted to have sex again, anyway.
I think it was last year.
And I turned him down.
Boy that felt good! To be the one in control. The one with power. Though I was sad in a way. I'd like to be close to him. But, as I said, the sex wasn't that good. And - even more important - it would risk messing up our relationship, which is what happened last time. I was hurt in a way last time, to which he was oblivious, and it took a while for things to become comfortable again. Which they very much are now. I'd love things to be physical without full-scale sex. To be physically affection, which we are to an extent, but maybe more. Snuggling. That would be nice...
The sadist was not happy last year when he found out I'd turned down an overture.
That I'd turned down... I guess I should give the guy a blog name. "Ralph" should do.
Anyway, the sadist is convinced I was created to give men sexual pleasure, and was duly pissed last year that I had turned down both Ralph and S---. So I did resume fucking S--- when he was here last year, and that was a good thing to do, but am being stubborn about Ralph because I care for him and don't want to fuck things up through fucking.
Still, it was nice to see him, and (in the house with plus-or-minus 10 other people depending on the night) we were comfortable and affectionate.
It was a good weekend.
There was one odd moment, seeing at the festival another old friend, male, who was widowed exactly 1 year ago. He asked if my significant other was into dancing. I thought of the sadist, about whom no one knows and to whom I would never think of applying the term "significant other." Then I realized the friend was referring back to the philosopher, who did come with me to the festival one January, a little less than a year after we met on line. It would have been nice to have seen him while I was up in New York. And then, after the festival was over but before I came home, I got a message from him asking if I'd gone. And later, saying he wished he'd known sooner, we cold have met for lunch. I hadn't told him... I felt shy about it... not wanting to put him on the spot, not wanting to be turned down if he didn't want to see me. I'm sorry now for feeling shy. I like him. I truly enjoyed his company. I was very happy for the time we spent together. Even leaving out the D/s, which perhaps I felt more strongly and more consistently than he did. I was happy being with him, and happy to learn what it was like to be friends with someone I loved. To spend time really together.
It would be nice to go back up to New York just to visit people.
The philosopher would be on the list.
The list of friends.
Whether or not lovers.
Friends are precious, and should not be lightly tossed aside.
Especially redheaded Irishmen.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Daddy's nun fetish
The sadist has a thing for nuns.
I've known about it almost as long as I've known him.
Since maybe a day or two after he found me.
Nuns.
I'm a naive thing.
I didn't know people had nun fetishes.
People probably have fetishes about everything.
Anyway.
It fascinated me.
Intrigued me.
To be swathed in a full nun's habit.
To be innocent.
Maybe.
Bent over.
Butt exposed.
Soft white buttocks whipped.
To be despoiled.
Raped.
I absorbed his fantasies into myself.
And I wanted to please him.
I've always wanted to please him.
So pretty early on, I decided I would somehow have to get my hands on a nun's habit. Get my soft white Jewess body into a nun's habit. Note: I hate that word. Jewess. It feels dehumanizing. But it turns the sadist on. And I play to his desires. His fetishes. Which gets us back to the nuns. The habit. Where the hell was I going to get a nun's habit? A real one?
And then I mentioned it to one of you. She used to comment as jcn and now has a profile but I can't remember what name she uses. Anyway, she said she had a friend who was a nun who was trying on the case. And then someone came into where she works and asked if anyone could use a nun's costume. A good one.
That was this summer.
Today, the sadist got to see it.
With me in it.
And then not in it.
I've said that we don't "play." We don't role play either. There are different aspects to our relationship, to how we are with each other, to the needs we serve for each other. Emotional needs. Sexual needs.
This.
Me in the nun's habit.
What he did to me.
It was the closest to role play as we've ever gotten.
But it was more than that. Far more. Oh yes. You could call it a scene. A scenario. But it was also a ritual. A ritual we both needed. I was to make confession. To think, to search, to self-examine. To open. To offer.
Confession.
Penance.
Absolution.
This morning, as I finished compiling the list, it suddenly hit me.
All my failings.
All my faults.
All my weaknesses.
I was devastated.
Distraught.
And later, as I began to read it to him,
swathed in the very convincing
and totally obscuring
nun's habit,
I started to cry.
And sob.
It was a true confession.
From the heart.
When he talked to me about it beforehand, while I was away for Thanksgiving, he reassured me that it was just a fine-tuning. Not an engine replacement. Not preparation to trade me in for a newer model. And he was right. I did need this. Not that I needed reminding of my faults and failings. I haven't forgotten them. I never forgot them. But every so often I need to face them. Especially the ones that involve sins against the sadist. Whom I serve and whom I love. For both reasons, my failings are unacceptable.
To me.
Far more than to him, it turns out.
I confessed and I sobbed.
He comforted me.
Reassured me.
Stroked my back.
Eventually, he did punish me.
I needed that, too.
He almost didn't punish me, he said.
Because I have an interview in a few days.
He didn't want to do anything that might make it too uncomfortable for me.
But he couldn't keep from doing it.
I was too hot in that nun's habit.
And I needed it.
It cleansed me.
The thing is, the sadist is not one of those Doms I sometimes read about who need to tear down their subs. His bigger concern is that he thinks I'm amazing. beautiful. Brilliant. His treasure. And I have a hard time swallowing it. And that makes him more angry than just about anything.
I'd been afraid of the coming punishment. I wanted to do penance, but was afraid he would beat me with that nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane. Which is what he usually uses for punishment. It hurts like hell. And it's a nasty sot of pain. It scares me.
But he didn't.
He didn't cane me.
And he didn't flog me,
which would have been appropriate.
He whipped me
With his belt.
I kind of like being whipped with a belt. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be for my pleasure. And it didn't feel like that. It was supposed to cleanse me of my grief and my guilt. And thus be something I could embrace. It wasn't an angry beating. And... punishment seems like something external. Something imposed. Whereas penance... you offer to do it. It's a cleansing pain, a cleansing suffering. And the belt... the choice of the belt over the cane... it felt loving.
I told him that.
Assuring him that "loving" was not implying that other, related word.
He understood.
And did not protest my characterization.
A loving whipping to cleanse me of my sins and my guilt.
A firm, loving whipping,
his belt landing on my soft, bare, proffered bottom
as I posed on the futon on my hands and knees,
everything but my reddening butt swathed in black
and my head and hair buried beneath the veil.
There was more, of course. It was happy and beautiful and fierce and we had to struggle to keep the beast under control. It was close sometimes. I'd been afraid he'd be there. Because of the nun. And he was there. I saw him in my Daddy's eyes. I felt his hand tight around my neck. And he was dangerously close when later, for his pleasure, Daddy whipped my pussy.
With the belt.
He left the belt with me.
He'll be whipping me with it again.
He'll be buckling it around my neck again.
He'll wrap it around my neck and pull me to him
as he lies back on the futon
while I kneel between his legs
sucking his happy cock.
The nun will be back, too.
I've known about it almost as long as I've known him.
Since maybe a day or two after he found me.
Nuns.
I'm a naive thing.
I didn't know people had nun fetishes.
People probably have fetishes about everything.
Anyway.
It fascinated me.
Intrigued me.
To be swathed in a full nun's habit.
To be innocent.
Maybe.
Bent over.
Butt exposed.
Soft white buttocks whipped.
To be despoiled.
Raped.
I absorbed his fantasies into myself.
And I wanted to please him.
I've always wanted to please him.
So pretty early on, I decided I would somehow have to get my hands on a nun's habit. Get my soft white Jewess body into a nun's habit. Note: I hate that word. Jewess. It feels dehumanizing. But it turns the sadist on. And I play to his desires. His fetishes. Which gets us back to the nuns. The habit. Where the hell was I going to get a nun's habit? A real one?
And then I mentioned it to one of you. She used to comment as jcn and now has a profile but I can't remember what name she uses. Anyway, she said she had a friend who was a nun who was trying on the case. And then someone came into where she works and asked if anyone could use a nun's costume. A good one.
That was this summer.
Today, the sadist got to see it.
With me in it.
And then not in it.
I've said that we don't "play." We don't role play either. There are different aspects to our relationship, to how we are with each other, to the needs we serve for each other. Emotional needs. Sexual needs.
This.
Me in the nun's habit.
What he did to me.
It was the closest to role play as we've ever gotten.
But it was more than that. Far more. Oh yes. You could call it a scene. A scenario. But it was also a ritual. A ritual we both needed. I was to make confession. To think, to search, to self-examine. To open. To offer.
Confession.
Penance.
Absolution.
This morning, as I finished compiling the list, it suddenly hit me.
All my failings.
All my faults.
All my weaknesses.
I was devastated.
Distraught.
And later, as I began to read it to him,
swathed in the very convincing
and totally obscuring
nun's habit,
I started to cry.
And sob.
It was a true confession.
From the heart.
When he talked to me about it beforehand, while I was away for Thanksgiving, he reassured me that it was just a fine-tuning. Not an engine replacement. Not preparation to trade me in for a newer model. And he was right. I did need this. Not that I needed reminding of my faults and failings. I haven't forgotten them. I never forgot them. But every so often I need to face them. Especially the ones that involve sins against the sadist. Whom I serve and whom I love. For both reasons, my failings are unacceptable.
To me.
Far more than to him, it turns out.
I confessed and I sobbed.
He comforted me.
Reassured me.
Stroked my back.
Eventually, he did punish me.
I needed that, too.
He almost didn't punish me, he said.
Because I have an interview in a few days.
He didn't want to do anything that might make it too uncomfortable for me.
But he couldn't keep from doing it.
I was too hot in that nun's habit.
And I needed it.
It cleansed me.
The thing is, the sadist is not one of those Doms I sometimes read about who need to tear down their subs. His bigger concern is that he thinks I'm amazing. beautiful. Brilliant. His treasure. And I have a hard time swallowing it. And that makes him more angry than just about anything.
I'd been afraid of the coming punishment. I wanted to do penance, but was afraid he would beat me with that nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane. Which is what he usually uses for punishment. It hurts like hell. And it's a nasty sot of pain. It scares me.
But he didn't.
He didn't cane me.
And he didn't flog me,
which would have been appropriate.
He whipped me
With his belt.
I kind of like being whipped with a belt. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be for my pleasure. And it didn't feel like that. It was supposed to cleanse me of my grief and my guilt. And thus be something I could embrace. It wasn't an angry beating. And... punishment seems like something external. Something imposed. Whereas penance... you offer to do it. It's a cleansing pain, a cleansing suffering. And the belt... the choice of the belt over the cane... it felt loving.
I told him that.
Assuring him that "loving" was not implying that other, related word.
He understood.
And did not protest my characterization.
A loving whipping to cleanse me of my sins and my guilt.
A firm, loving whipping,
his belt landing on my soft, bare, proffered bottom
as I posed on the futon on my hands and knees,
everything but my reddening butt swathed in black
and my head and hair buried beneath the veil.
There was more, of course. It was happy and beautiful and fierce and we had to struggle to keep the beast under control. It was close sometimes. I'd been afraid he'd be there. Because of the nun. And he was there. I saw him in my Daddy's eyes. I felt his hand tight around my neck. And he was dangerously close when later, for his pleasure, Daddy whipped my pussy.
With the belt.
He left the belt with me.
He'll be whipping me with it again.
He'll be buckling it around my neck again.
He'll wrap it around my neck and pull me to him
as he lies back on the futon
while I kneel between his legs
sucking his happy cock.
The nun will be back, too.
Friday, November 18, 2011
"Come here, my pet."
It hits me every time.
I see a reference to pets and I startle.
Just a little.
A moment of translation
from what the sign means
to what I am.
Today it was from the cat food.
The words stamped on the can of kitty tuna:
PET FOOD ONLY.
As if pets were some lesser creatures.
I am his pet.
I am his treasure.
And yet I am forbidden.
Probably a good idea.
But still...
What if we had driven together out to the casino?
What if I had begged for a pee stop?
Would he have obeyed the sign
and taken me from the car on the end of the chain?
Would he have made me pee in the designated area?
Would I have tottered through it on my black spike heels?
Would I have been naked except for the shoes?
It was a warm day after all...
You see what happens?
My imagination escapes me.
Leashes can be useful at times...
Friday, November 11, 2011
The multiplication of pleasure
An old lover was in town this week.
S--
He spent two nights in my bed.
Per order of the sadist.
Our sexual relationship had ended a couple of years ago. S--'s decision. He "realized" he could no longer have sex without a love relationship. Interesting - and a big reversal for him. A year later he reversed again, but I turned him down - partly because I was afraid it might screw up our friendship relationship but mostly because I was completely absorbed with the sadist.
The sadist, however, was not happy.
He says I was born to provide sexual pleasure.
He wants me to have sex with other men.
He wants me to focus on their pleasure.
He wants what I do to reflect what I've learned serving him.
He wants me to feel that in the act I am serving him.
And then he wants a complete report.
Because it arouses him to think of his pet slut serving other men at his command. This isn't a cuckolding thing, because he is always in control. What I do is in obedience to him - especially since it's not necessarily something I am always comfortable with. What finally changed things for me was when I really understood that it would be arousing for him. Something clicked, and then I was fine.
So I felt his eyes on me, as if he were standing over the bed watching S-- make a delicious meal out of my pussy. Delicious for S-- and delicious for me and properly arousing for the sadist.
Everyone ended up happy.
Check back for more details.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.
Life has me busy.
PS - when the sadist was here last Tuesday, he deliberately made sure not to mark me. He thought it would be impolite, knowing that the next night I would be with S--. On the other hand, he was also tempted to be sure to mark me. His mark of ownership. But good manners prevailed.
S--
He spent two nights in my bed.
Per order of the sadist.
Our sexual relationship had ended a couple of years ago. S--'s decision. He "realized" he could no longer have sex without a love relationship. Interesting - and a big reversal for him. A year later he reversed again, but I turned him down - partly because I was afraid it might screw up our friendship relationship but mostly because I was completely absorbed with the sadist.
The sadist, however, was not happy.
He says I was born to provide sexual pleasure.
He wants me to have sex with other men.
He wants me to focus on their pleasure.
He wants what I do to reflect what I've learned serving him.
He wants me to feel that in the act I am serving him.
And then he wants a complete report.
Because it arouses him to think of his pet slut serving other men at his command. This isn't a cuckolding thing, because he is always in control. What I do is in obedience to him - especially since it's not necessarily something I am always comfortable with. What finally changed things for me was when I really understood that it would be arousing for him. Something clicked, and then I was fine.
So I felt his eyes on me, as if he were standing over the bed watching S-- make a delicious meal out of my pussy. Delicious for S-- and delicious for me and properly arousing for the sadist.
Everyone ended up happy.
Check back for more details.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.
Life has me busy.
PS - when the sadist was here last Tuesday, he deliberately made sure not to mark me. He thought it would be impolite, knowing that the next night I would be with S--. On the other hand, he was also tempted to be sure to mark me. His mark of ownership. But good manners prevailed.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Betting on the shoes - and winning
It was the shoes.
The shoes did it.
Those black spike-heeled shoes.
Of course, the shoes couldn't do it all on their own. The whole point of the shoes was to show off my extraordinary calves. The sadist is absolutely smitten with my calves - and really, they have always been very shapely. It's nice to have them appreciated.
Nearly everything was perfect.
Very close to perfect and no major catastrophes.
Although there wasn't any major tension hanging over this tryst, I think we both knew how important it was for things to go well. The last one left me shaken, the previous one was ill-advised, and the first one, though basically glorious, showed my tendency to miss details. This one was just for us. Just for him and just for us. Not tagged on to something else into which he was squeezing me.
Two things strayed from perfection.
One was my dress.
He had it in mind that I'd be wearing a Little Black Dress.
That's what he was picturing.
And I ended up in a soft green sweater dress.
A lovely dress.
Soft.
Short.
Swingy.
Embracing my tits.
Defining my hips.
Lingering above my knees.
But he was disappointed.
Next time, I'll be in black.
I've already begun the hunt.
The other flaw was that we didn't have as much time as we'd hoped. Work kept him into the afternoon on Tuesday, and he had to leave at 9 am on Wednesday. That was particularly annoying as check-out wasn't till noon. But we made the best of it.
And then there were the shoes.
And my calves.
The normal plan is for me to book the room, arrive early, prepare myself, the bed, the lights, and other details, and then wait. I text him the room number as soon as I've checked in, and then wait. I wait for him to come up to the room.
But this hotel presented a complication.
You couldn't ride the elevator up to the rooms without a key card.
You needed the card to select a floor.
The sadist wouldn't have a card.
New plan.
He texts his arrival.
I wait for him in the lobby, just inside the doors.
When I see him, I turn and walk towards the elevators.
Slowly.
Of necessity, slowly.
I'm not used to walking in any sort of heel, let alone spikes.
I feel him following me.
Watching me.
His eyes on my body.
On my butt.
On my calves.
Especially on my calves.
I know that other people are probably watching me, too. As does he. I stand out. It's a beautiful, marble lobby, but I'm the only one who looks worthy of being there. The only one nicely dressed. Casinos aren't what they used to be. Or what I imagine they used to be. I'd never been to one before. I was sort of wishing for Monte Carlo.
So I walked to the elevators
with the sadist following,
his eyes on my calves,
and his cock aimed at my butt hole.
We were off to a good start.
The shoes did it.
Those black spike-heeled shoes.
Of course, the shoes couldn't do it all on their own. The whole point of the shoes was to show off my extraordinary calves. The sadist is absolutely smitten with my calves - and really, they have always been very shapely. It's nice to have them appreciated.
Nearly everything was perfect.
Very close to perfect and no major catastrophes.
Although there wasn't any major tension hanging over this tryst, I think we both knew how important it was for things to go well. The last one left me shaken, the previous one was ill-advised, and the first one, though basically glorious, showed my tendency to miss details. This one was just for us. Just for him and just for us. Not tagged on to something else into which he was squeezing me.
Two things strayed from perfection.
One was my dress.
He had it in mind that I'd be wearing a Little Black Dress.
That's what he was picturing.
And I ended up in a soft green sweater dress.
A lovely dress.
Soft.
Short.
Swingy.
Embracing my tits.
Defining my hips.
Lingering above my knees.
But he was disappointed.
Next time, I'll be in black.
I've already begun the hunt.
The other flaw was that we didn't have as much time as we'd hoped. Work kept him into the afternoon on Tuesday, and he had to leave at 9 am on Wednesday. That was particularly annoying as check-out wasn't till noon. But we made the best of it.
And then there were the shoes.
And my calves.
The normal plan is for me to book the room, arrive early, prepare myself, the bed, the lights, and other details, and then wait. I text him the room number as soon as I've checked in, and then wait. I wait for him to come up to the room.
But this hotel presented a complication.
You couldn't ride the elevator up to the rooms without a key card.
You needed the card to select a floor.
The sadist wouldn't have a card.
New plan.
He texts his arrival.
I wait for him in the lobby, just inside the doors.
When I see him, I turn and walk towards the elevators.
Slowly.
Of necessity, slowly.
I'm not used to walking in any sort of heel, let alone spikes.
I feel him following me.
Watching me.
His eyes on my body.
On my butt.
On my calves.
Especially on my calves.
I know that other people are probably watching me, too. As does he. I stand out. It's a beautiful, marble lobby, but I'm the only one who looks worthy of being there. The only one nicely dressed. Casinos aren't what they used to be. Or what I imagine they used to be. I'd never been to one before. I was sort of wishing for Monte Carlo.
So I walked to the elevators
with the sadist following,
his eyes on my calves,
and his cock aimed at my butt hole.
We were off to a good start.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Pussy on stilts
I bought heels today.
2 pairs of 3 inch heels.
This is a big deal for me.
I don't wear heels.
Well, I do have one pair I wear occasionally.
But they're Dansko's.
The people who also make my clogs.
They're not very high and they're pretty cute.
But he said I have to wear heels.
For a special occasion.
And that won't be the last time I wear them.
Though maybe the last time I wear them with anything else, he said.
Luckily, I was already at the thrift store when the order came down, and within 20 minutes of receiving the message I had found 2 pairs that looked as if they've only been worn once. The tops are all thin straps, so my toes don't suffer the usual feeling of confinement. Except for my occasional foray in clogs, I almost always wear Birkenstocks, either sandals or closed shoes, so my toes are used to spreading out. My toes are used to being happy. Which makes it hard to find shoes that have enough room for them. An array of skinny straps solves that problem.
They do NOT solve for a lack of cork in the sole. The heels on both pairs are relatively solid, so I should manage to walk without immediately falling over, but the soles are very thin and merely trying them on as I stood there in the thrift store made my feet hurt.
The man is truly a sadist.
Though I doubt he has any idea how uncomfortable they are.
Not that he cares, of course.
And neither should I.
If it turns him on,
if it amuses him,
if it arouses him
to see his little pussy in heels,
then so be it.
But I'll have to walk very slowly.
Carefully.
As if my ankles were shackled.
Makes my pussy twitch just to think of it.
Another way to be chained...
I will love suffering for him.
2 pairs of 3 inch heels.
This is a big deal for me.
I don't wear heels.
Well, I do have one pair I wear occasionally.
But they're Dansko's.
The people who also make my clogs.
They're not very high and they're pretty cute.
But he said I have to wear heels.
For a special occasion.
And that won't be the last time I wear them.
Though maybe the last time I wear them with anything else, he said.
Luckily, I was already at the thrift store when the order came down, and within 20 minutes of receiving the message I had found 2 pairs that looked as if they've only been worn once. The tops are all thin straps, so my toes don't suffer the usual feeling of confinement. Except for my occasional foray in clogs, I almost always wear Birkenstocks, either sandals or closed shoes, so my toes are used to spreading out. My toes are used to being happy. Which makes it hard to find shoes that have enough room for them. An array of skinny straps solves that problem.
They do NOT solve for a lack of cork in the sole. The heels on both pairs are relatively solid, so I should manage to walk without immediately falling over, but the soles are very thin and merely trying them on as I stood there in the thrift store made my feet hurt.
The man is truly a sadist.
Though I doubt he has any idea how uncomfortable they are.
Not that he cares, of course.
And neither should I.
If it turns him on,
if it amuses him,
if it arouses him
to see his little pussy in heels,
then so be it.
But I'll have to walk very slowly.
Carefully.
As if my ankles were shackled.
Makes my pussy twitch just to think of it.
Another way to be chained...
I will love suffering for him.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Trapped
I learn this lesson again and again.
Each time there's a struggle.
A chasm.
A blow-out.
Each time he scares me by what is required.
Each time I scare him that I don't really mean it.
It truly is not a game.
It is very much for real.
I do belong to him.
There is no escaping it.
For either of us.
Ever.
Each time there's a struggle.
A chasm.
A blow-out.
Each time he scares me by what is required.
Each time I scare him that I don't really mean it.
It truly is not a game.
It is very much for real.
I do belong to him.
There is no escaping it.
For either of us.
Ever.
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.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
He says I need direction
"You need my direction. Remind me Tuesday."
Well, of course I need his direction!
Especially now, having been on my own for a week.
There's a reason I respond to ownership.
A reason I gravitate towards dominance.
I need it.
And not from just anyone.
I had a good time.
And in some ways, it was good to have the freedom.
But I always carried him within me.
And coming home,
leaving where I was,
leaving the people I was with,
was a lot easier knowing I was coming home
to resume being
who I really am.
(Boy, would my friends be surprised...)
Well, of course I need his direction!
Especially now, having been on my own for a week.
There's a reason I respond to ownership.
A reason I gravitate towards dominance.
I need it.
And not from just anyone.
I had a good time.
And in some ways, it was good to have the freedom.
But I always carried him within me.
And coming home,
leaving where I was,
leaving the people I was with,
was a lot easier knowing I was coming home
to resume being
who I really am.
(Boy, would my friends be surprised...)
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Assignments commandments taboos
They're like the Ten Commandments.
Sometimes thou shalt.
Or else thou shalt not.
This for his pleasure.
That for my safety.
Laws and rituals
designed and decreed.
This to learn.
Recite it on Tuesday.
That do not mention
ever again.
I make a note.
I schedule reminders.
I take no chances.
This is how I worship.
For him,
I am orthodox.
Sometimes thou shalt.
Or else thou shalt not.
This for his pleasure.
That for my safety.
Laws and rituals
designed and decreed.
This to learn.
Recite it on Tuesday.
That do not mention
ever again.
I make a note.
I schedule reminders.
I take no chances.
This is how I worship.
For him,
I am orthodox.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Lingering on the edge
More details.
In my comments on yesterday's post, I promised more details.
Edge play.
Keeping him on the edge of cumming for over an hour.
It's by his choice, of course.
His directive.
His training.
Never up to me.
He knows what he wants.
He taught me how to deliver.
And gets from me even more.
I do it with my mouth.
With my hands, too, of course, but especially with my mouth.
With my lips and my tongue and my teeth...
And my words.
My breath.
My sighs.
My moans.
My whimpers.
Get one of your recent toys, he said.
I should have picked the latest one. The new purple rabbit. I needed another session with it. You'll read about that tomorrow. But instead I reached for the LAYAspot. I think I may be growing fonder of it than I wrote in my review. And it's perfect for what I knew my Master wanted.
To watch me.
To watch me arouse myself.
To listen.
The noises I make...
My voice, my breath, they do something to him...
I spread out an old red bathmat, to keep from staining the carpet with AstroGlide and pussy juice. I spread my legs, turned on the lubricated little clit vibrator, and pressed it gently against me.
He watched.
With concentration.
He watched and I started rising...
It seemed like a long time but I guess it wasn't long enough.
"I may cum, Daddy. If I'm cumming, may I cum for you?"
"Don't rush," he said gently.
"Don't reach for it."
I let myself fall back.
I never did cum.
I felt his eyes on me.
I began to talk.
I felt as if I were in a peep show. Behind glass. Not because I wanted to be working there, but because I had to. I felt eyes on me. Other men's eyes, though sometimes he came to watch, too. At times I felt the chain... around my neck, on my ankle, pulled taut so I felt constrained, restrained... not that I would have refused, resisted, but to be sure I felt that none of this was for me. It was all for those watching, who got off on knowing that I felt their eyes, that I felt them watching.
That I knew I was no one.
That I had no volition.
That I was there as a slave.
And that if they fucked me, if later they fucked me, they would use me as if I were one of those masturbation toys for men that simulate cunts and mouths and tight little butt holes.
At one point, as these words leaked from my lips without my intention even as I knew that they'd please him, the sadist leaned forward in his throne of a chair. I was on the floor before him, and he leaned forward and observed me with the detachment of a researcher. He observed me. He listened. Closer, he caught every little morsel of sound.
Later, I sucked his cock. Or maybe before and after. I can't really remember. It's all part of my service. Taking as much time as he wants. As much time as he has. Teaching me to feel. To feel him feeling me. Have you tried that yet? I felt what his lips and tongue felt as they enjoyed my mouth. I felt what his cock felt as my mouth traveled up and down over him, pulling, sucking, pressing my tongue down against the base before suddenly releasing him and running my tongue or finger tips over his balls.
"Bitch!"
He cries that out sometimes when I suddenly desert his cock.
But it's what he wants.
To take him up and back.
To lead him along the path of pleasure
and keep him teetering on the edge,
only to pull him back
before leading him to the edge
again
and again
and again.
Until it's time.
And then he cums.
And I'm his sweet baby girl.
I lay my head in his lap,
and wrap my arms around his waist,
and he strokes my hair
and he feels all soft and sweet
and he tells me how good I made him feel
but he doesn't even have to say it.
Because I know.
All his tension is gone.
And my only regret is that soon he'll have to leave.
PS - I left some things out...
In my comments on yesterday's post, I promised more details.
Edge play.
Keeping him on the edge of cumming for over an hour.
It's by his choice, of course.
His directive.
His training.
Never up to me.
He knows what he wants.
He taught me how to deliver.
And gets from me even more.
I do it with my mouth.
With my hands, too, of course, but especially with my mouth.
With my lips and my tongue and my teeth...
And my words.
My breath.
My sighs.
My moans.
My whimpers.
Get one of your recent toys, he said.
I should have picked the latest one. The new purple rabbit. I needed another session with it. You'll read about that tomorrow. But instead I reached for the LAYAspot. I think I may be growing fonder of it than I wrote in my review. And it's perfect for what I knew my Master wanted.
To watch me.
To watch me arouse myself.
To listen.
The noises I make...
My voice, my breath, they do something to him...
I spread out an old red bathmat, to keep from staining the carpet with AstroGlide and pussy juice. I spread my legs, turned on the lubricated little clit vibrator, and pressed it gently against me.
He watched.
With concentration.
He watched and I started rising...
It seemed like a long time but I guess it wasn't long enough.
"I may cum, Daddy. If I'm cumming, may I cum for you?"
"Don't rush," he said gently.
"Don't reach for it."
I let myself fall back.
I never did cum.
I felt his eyes on me.
I began to talk.
I felt as if I were in a peep show. Behind glass. Not because I wanted to be working there, but because I had to. I felt eyes on me. Other men's eyes, though sometimes he came to watch, too. At times I felt the chain... around my neck, on my ankle, pulled taut so I felt constrained, restrained... not that I would have refused, resisted, but to be sure I felt that none of this was for me. It was all for those watching, who got off on knowing that I felt their eyes, that I felt them watching.
That I knew I was no one.
That I had no volition.
That I was there as a slave.
And that if they fucked me, if later they fucked me, they would use me as if I were one of those masturbation toys for men that simulate cunts and mouths and tight little butt holes.
At one point, as these words leaked from my lips without my intention even as I knew that they'd please him, the sadist leaned forward in his throne of a chair. I was on the floor before him, and he leaned forward and observed me with the detachment of a researcher. He observed me. He listened. Closer, he caught every little morsel of sound.
Later, I sucked his cock. Or maybe before and after. I can't really remember. It's all part of my service. Taking as much time as he wants. As much time as he has. Teaching me to feel. To feel him feeling me. Have you tried that yet? I felt what his lips and tongue felt as they enjoyed my mouth. I felt what his cock felt as my mouth traveled up and down over him, pulling, sucking, pressing my tongue down against the base before suddenly releasing him and running my tongue or finger tips over his balls.
"Bitch!"
He cries that out sometimes when I suddenly desert his cock.
But it's what he wants.
To take him up and back.
To lead him along the path of pleasure
and keep him teetering on the edge,
only to pull him back
before leading him to the edge
again
and again
and again.
Until it's time.
And then he cums.
And I'm his sweet baby girl.
I lay my head in his lap,
and wrap my arms around his waist,
and he strokes my hair
and he feels all soft and sweet
and he tells me how good I made him feel
but he doesn't even have to say it.
Because I know.
All his tension is gone.
And my only regret is that soon he'll have to leave.
PS - I left some things out...
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