Five Years

She smiles.

4 years

It was on Labor Day 4 years ago.
4 years ago, I begged him to take me in his service.

The day after, I wrote this:

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.

And now?

I had no idea.
No idea at all.

In captivity, I am free.
In my chains, I am strong.
In submission, I am beautiful.

And oh, yes.
I lost 5.4 pounds in the first week.

Lifelong Learning - Still on the Introduction: Ultimate Guide to Kink (2)

This feels like Torah study. You start reading an already small section of text, and before long a paragraph, a phrase, a word, a concept, sinks its hook into your brain and that's as far as you get. You both tunnel in and travel outward. Exploring. Making connections. Letting your mind go and then bringing it back home.

I opened The Ultimate Guide to Kink, thinking I had a half hour to finish the Introduction and head into Chapter One. I was armed with a pad of little yellow sticky flags. Tonight's color is yellow. For no real reason. It's the one that came to hand.

I made it all the way to the second page of the Introduction.
Page xii.
The bottom.
Where author/editor Tristan Taormino brings in the phrase
lifelong learners.

She says that marketers apply it to NPR listeners. Well, that certainly includes me. She says:

Lifelong learners are people who are self-motivated to continually seek out new knowledge and skills, through informal and formal education, to constantly develop and improve themselves.

Tristan applies this to people into kink. She goes on to this wonderful bit:

What the anti-kink fanatics don't understand about us is that we're geeks. Sex nerds. SM intellectuals. We pay money to spend a weekend going to classes.

Now those who've read me for a while know that neither I nor my Master go to kink classes. When I first dove headfirst into BDSM, it was through words. E-mails. Phone calls, eventually, as things progressed in my relationship with the philosopher. And then books. Even with the Internet, people like me always end up with books. The philosopher and I were headed to our first meeting in the flesh. We were both novices and there was so much to learn. So yes. Books. Independent study with Jay Wiseman's SM 101 and Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns (Philip Miller and Molly Devon) as texts. We both had fantasies around bondage, so the philosopher sent away for hemp ropes and studied technique through on-line videos.

It's a very good idea to know what you're doing when you get into BDSM.

But "regular" sex?
We think - oh yeah.
I can do that!
One cock.
One cunt.
Or two cocks.

Or two pussies and fingers and mouths trying to figure out what the hell they're doing and basing it all on what they've each done in bed with the guy they're both involved with... I guess I've never told that whole story here, have I?

Nope.
Not now.
No digressions.
Back to the topic at hand.

I don't know how the sadist first learned. I do know that the need came to him young - and he's not a young man. So it's not like now. There was no Internet. But knowing him as I do, I'm sure he was very deliberative. Focused. Creative. Definitely independent study. I doubt he went to classes. But he did work on it. And continues to. Lifelong learning.

You have to keep studying.
Exploring.

Not just because there's always more to learn on an absolute scale. But because there is nothing absolute about anything involving human beings. There is nothing that can be completely defined about relationships. As soon as a different person is involved, there's a new variable in the equation.

You can NOT know for sure what the outcome will be.
And so,
it's back to the lab.

Lifelong learning.

With pleasure in the process as well as in the result.

Cultivating consciousness.

As I quoted Tristan in my first post on The Ultimate Guide to Kink, which she said is

For the people who . . . cultivate consciousness in sex and relationships.

You can not ever stop this.
You must not ever stop this.
In anything.
With anyone.

Cultivating consciousness. 

This is what BDSM has to offer.

This,
this lifelong learning,
however we achieve it,
this constant consciousness,
is the key to the door
to magic
and joy
and self-knowledge
and knowledge of each other.

Welcome.

Rapprochement

We're talking again.
I had hurt him.
It amazes me that I can hurt him.

It moves me.
Frightens me.

But maybe...
when his attentions have been so scarce...
it's important for me to be reminded.

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.

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:

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.

Masturbation mania (14) - LELO's young, cute bargain line

 "Look, Daddy! Isn't it cute?"

Naked, used, I held out the hand that cradled the small, hot pink vibrator.
He eyed it dubiously.

"Very cute, my pet."

He paused.

"But aren't you afraid it might get lost?"

"Oh no, Daddy!
It doesn't go inside.
It's for my clitoris!
It's got this nice flat top that nestles up against it.
And feel it, Daddy!"

For one of the very few times in our relationship, the sadist did what I said, extending his hand to stroke the soft pink velvety silicone of my sweet new toy.

"You're right!"
Why did he sound surprised?
"Very soft."

"So may I masturbate, Daddy?
May I try it out?
For your pleasure, of course.
I'll think of you
and cum for you

and send you a full report."

"Yes, mt pet.
You may masturbate."

And with that, he left.

As I've said a few times before, I have this thing for LELO sex toys. The design, the packaging, the fact that they're made in Sweden... I have this thing for them, but I don't have a single one.  They're expensive. Too expensive of course for me to buy, and too expensive for EdenFantasys, generous as they've been, to send me for review.

So I continue my unrequited lust.

Recently, however, LELO came out with a new line of toys, called PicoBong. Don't ask me why "PicoBong." Who am I to try to penetrate the minds of marketers? The point is, they are trying to appeal to "a younger clientele at a more affordable price point." Personally, I think they're trying a bit too hard on the dedicated website, whose atmosphere is quite different from the elegance of the LELO site. But the idea is a good one. Not everyone can shell out a hundred bucks for a silicone orgasm inducer, as much as some of us may want to.

Hence, PicoBong.
Small devices.
No fancy packaging.
No recharging.

On the other hand, you do get my main requirements of safe, velvety silicone, stunningly quiet operation, thoughtful design, and - let's not forget - an orgasm. At least for me.

My chosen introduction to this cheaper, snappier incarnation of LELO was the Kiki C-Vibe. Since clitoral vibration is my best route to an orgasm, I'm always up for exploring new clit vibes. And it did look awfully cute. Plus I knew right off that the flat tip was a good design choice.

Ketzel thought it was cute, too.

 Kiki is the first toy she wanted to play with.
She batted it around like a toy mouse.
So we both enjoyed it!

There was one thing about Kiki I knew right off that I'd enjoy. When she arrived (and how could such a cutie not be a "she", no matter what the marketers named her), I immediately stuck in a battery to be sure she worked. *A* battery. One little battery. One very little battery. One little triple A battery. How much noise can a single AAA battery make?

Not much.
Not much at all.
I finally had a truly quiet vibrator.

Of course, as those of you with quick minds have already figured out, how much power can one AAA battery produce?

Not all that much here, either.
Kiki is a very gentle vibrator.
Which is fine for my delicate clit.
But not necessarily for everyone's.

Still, I did cum.

How much was due to still feeling the sadist's nakedness next to mine? And to his scent and his power lingering in the air of my bedroom and the blue cotton of my sheets? And to the time I had spent serving his needs while my own arousal served only to fire his?

Who can say... but it was the second time I tested it, which wasn't right after a visit, that Kiki quickly made me cum on her own.

Summary: this 62-year old sadist's pet will be happy to adopt youth-oriented PicoBong Kiki as a pet of her own. And come back Hallowe'en night for the lab reports I made to the fiend to find out if she'd be a good addition to your own menagerie.

Is there a schedule for these upheavals?

No longer angel

no longer slave

I fold my useless wings

and mourn the broken chain.

Happiness eludes me.

I smile at ghosts of flowers

that whip around and slash my face with thorns.

Someone.

Please.

Give me a map.

Or maybe I’m deluded

and there is no path here after all.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There are issues. A standing, recurrent issue. It comes up again every so often. As it did this weekend. I keep disappointing him. And then we slowly work our way back, until things seem more glorious than ever, and then he again starts thinking about the part that doesn't meet his expectations, and grows angry, and nothing I can say will make it right. And then the cycle resumes. But it's wearing me out.

Or maybe it's just that it feels like it's been raining for 2 months now.

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).

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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.

Relationships are like cocksucking - Part 2 of 2

Being a continuation of my part of the conversation about my post My Master's mea culpa. You can read Part 1 here, which includes an introductory diatribe about how all relationships are different. Even D/s or M/s or whatever you choose to call yourselves because it just feels right. Long-time readers or people who have run across my comments cluttering up their own blogs will be quite familiar with my views on the subject. Still, many of you are masochists, so just might want to hear me say it once again.

Yesterday's post was much too long when I finally quit writing from sheer exhaustion, so I'm addressing the rest of the comments today. And I'm doing it in a post because most readers don't seem to bother reading the comments. Which is a pity, because they were long and meaty this time and sure to spark more discussion.

At least I hope there is more discussion!

That was my fantasy all along, you know. To be an aging but still outrageously sexy courtesan in her Paris salon, entertaining assorted smart and sexy (and at least slightly wild and artsy wouldn't be bad either) members of the kinky class. However you define kinky. Me, I rarely use the word. But that's me. I'm weird about words.

So please say things!

[she's begging now... she's almost as good at begging as she is at cocksucking...]

Now.
Down to business.
If I had an assistant she'd be handing me the first letter...
Oops! We already did the first letter.
Let's see now...
Ah yes.
This one.

Sexperts brought up a good issue:

I'd just add that, is the "damage" to a level you can handle it and heal from quickly? My dom is not quite so sadistic as yours seems to be via your blog, but there are times he has genuinely scared me or hurt me. Lately, when he says he is afraid to lose control, I always say, "But I healed. It took a few hours or days, but the trust came back."

The few times the fiend has gone too far - or at least too far for me to handle - the big issue has not been the physical damage. It was that I would have what I call a "bad reaction." And it would take a varying amount of time for me to recover. The bruises would be around long after my equilibrium returned, but once I felt better emotionally I loved my marks!

However, this next part does not - can not - apply:

Depending on what you want, it might be okay to let him occasionally lose control if you can still get the trust back. I'm not saying every time, but on the rare occasions.

That phrase "let him"?
Not in my dictionary.

And this was the only time I have come out of my submissive fog, my state of extreme acceptance, and started wondering if I might have to think of how to handle this. Precisely because it felt so different. It didn't feel like the beast running wild. It felt like abuse. Otherwise, even when I've been scared, like the time he had the knife against my naked belly, it never occurred to me not to submit.

Now the irony of it all is that what he had done just wasn't all that bad. He was slapping my face. Hard. And once a few times in succession. For no reason I could understand. And the full irony of this came home as I was exploring a section of Sexperts' blog today. She has turned up here only recently - or at least made herself known only recently - so I had only been over to her place once before. This time I looked at the section labelled Dominance. Then at an article called Places to Hit, Spank, Bite, and Where Not To! And there, to my great embarrassment, under hitting, was this:

I enjoy being slapped across the face (lightly at first, with full force if I'm turned on and we are being wild) and my Dom says he loves the look of complete shock and then lust that comes over my face when he hits me.

I feel like such a wuss!
Which, of course, I shouldn't.
Because, as I say ad nauseum, everyone's different.
Still, it did sort of put things in perspective.
And I really, really appreciate that.

He went too far.
That is very true.
But only for me.
My life was NOT in danger.

Next.

swan.
swan is a very wise and perceptive woman.
She is both sensitive and analytical.
And she has been dealing with an armload of difficult situations.

These words were exactly what I needed to hear:

I can only offer you a deep understanding and perhaps companionship on this road you are walking.

Then she speaks about being on the edge.

You can continue to choose for yourself to remain balanced on that edge. I hope, too, that at some level known only to you (and perhaps to him), that you retain the capacity to see the way off the edge if that becomes important.

Encompassing both potentials is the most delicate power balance of all...

Holding on to the capacity to see my way off the edge... and also gaining a better perspective as to how close to the edge I actually am. I think I err in both directions - both overestimating my safety and underestimating the danger.

jcn doesn't have a blog. Not even a blogger profile, though that should be remedied very soon. She's around my age and has been living a BDSM marriage for around 40 years or so. With the same man. She's been through a lot.

In Part 1 of this post, I quoted her very accurate statement about the advisability of faking my reactions to my Master's... um... ministrations. Applications of pain. Whatever. I don't need to say anything more about that. You all, of course, are welcome to say whatever you want about anything here or in any other post.

Anyway. Here's another excellent point she made, which is something I think some of you might tend to miss:

Your fiend is experienced, and clever, and has repeatedly demonstrated both his concern for your well-being and his willingness to rework his own plans for the well-being of the relationship. I think it's remarkable that he has taken responsibility, and I feel more warmth for him that I usually do.

As I've said numerous times, the man is a sadist. Not merely someone who enjoys sadistic play. And still, he wraps himself in figurative chains to protect both me and the relationship. I am always deeply touched by this. And for him to take full responsibility for what happened last weekend - when he could easily growl and say that I overreacted - that touches me deeply. You do need to give him credit. This isn't something you often get from an absolute monarch.

He can certainly be cruel.
He'd admit to that himself.

But he is not not not one of those people whom Sophia referred to in her comment on Part 1. He is NOT a "harsh, cruel and unloving master."

mamacrow is a sweetheart. Plain and simple. And English. With a houseful of children. She often makes me laugh, and my Master has praised her intelligence because she has said nice things about him. He does have a sense of humor, you know.

I have nothing more to add, except to offer this excerpt and encourage you to read the rest of what she says. The rest of what they all have said. And then give us your thoughts.

And I'm impressed by his mea culpa too. It takes a 'real man' and a lot of courage to do that. even if it IS partly a manipulation :)

Which leads into agog's comment. I just love the name of her blog, by the way. Bumbling Towards Submission. Very honest. Really, we all of us, no matter how long we've been at it, are still feeling our way. If we ever get to thinking we have nothing left to learn, then we might as well give up.

She starts off her comment with this:

The best manipulation uses the truth, in my opinion. Just because he was manipulating you doesn't mean he didn't mean everything he said.

Which is very true.
I know it's true.

Which I why I sometimes smile to myself when he growls about how he manipulates me.

Ugh.
It's actually already Saturday here on the East Coast of the US.
But I said this would go up Friday so I'm dating it as Friday.

I admit it.
I do stretch the truth some times...

Thank you all for joining the conversation.
Please keep talking!

My Master. His slave.

Wisely, my Master has pulled back from showering me with expressions of his affection. We had both seen how it triggered a neurotic distancing reaction on my part which nearly destroyed the relationship. (We come up with so many ways to threaten our relationship. Probably because everything we do, as the sadist noted yesterday, is so intense. We don't seem to be capable of anything else.)

So no more playlists of romantic songs.
No more...

I can't reduce the way he was into a simple list. And it's too sad to think about their having been locked up. Although not completely. There was, for example, that Goethe quote he sent me. And there is the way he can be with me, a way that is not new but which now I can see for what it is. My confusion is gone, the back and forth between thinking he had feelings for me and thinking I must be believing my own fantasies. It's not a fantasy. He does have those feelings. But, as he put it, that's just not a way it is safe for him to be with me.

But for all he says that our physical relationship is based solely on his deriving pleasure from me, there are times...

On Tuesday, there were times that he felt like a lover. When he lay beside me on the futon, when our bodies spoke to each other in comfort and desire and delight. When I was on my knees beside him after he came, me on my knees with my arms around him and my head in his lap as he sat in his chair and he stroked my head... gently... at length... with such tenderness...

I felt that.
I felt a closeness.
And it didn't make my head do anything weird.
I felt we were lovers.
I felt we were friends.

And I felt - I knew - I know that he truly is my Master in a way that neither of us can define nor do we need to.

It is true.
It is real.
He is my Master.
I am [and I shiver here at the beauty of it] his slave.
These are not words that have been stuck on us.
These are states of being that we have come to.
Don't try to slot them into Master/slave discussions.
It won't work.
We feel that this is what we are.
We know that this is who we are.
It is not a game.
There is not suddenly a new list of duties and rules.
It just
is.
We are.

This post started out with a different title and a different aim. I had called it "My Master, my lover." But you know, I start writing and I never quite know where I'll end up.

Recipe swap, anyone?

It's not all sex and spankings

A little present I received from my Master, who is torturing himself by reading Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther. We all have our own notions of pleasure.

The accompanying note included this: "Is there any point at all in my warning you not to take every word as a message? Yes there are some touch-points (that's why I sent it) but try not to get nuts, OK?"

But she has been mine. I possessed that heart, that noble soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more than I really was, because I was all that I could be. Good heavens! Did then a single power of my soul remain inexercised? In her presence did I not display to its full extent, that mysterious feeling with which my heart embraces nature? Was not our intercourse a perpetual web of the finest emotions, of the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in their very eccentricity bore the stamp of genius? Alas, the few years by which she was my senior brought her to the grave before me. Never can I forget her firm mind or heavenly patience.

I'm afraid he was offended when I confessed to laughing at the line about her being a few years older, but I laughed only because this, for sure, applies to us.

His favorite line? The one ending:

their very eccentricity bore the stamp of genius

Impetuous, capricious, and tantrum prone: sounds like a dom I know...

Being as I am, living as I do, loving whom I do, gives me a somewhat different perspective on the world. A slightly skewed eye. An oddly prismatic lens.

I started reading with lust this review of a glorious production of King Lear starring Derek Jacobi, which is currently (and oh too briefly) playing at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. The lust was due to an intense desire to seethe play; I was almost glad to read that performances are pretty much sold out, as I haven't been in a traveling mood lately and likely wouldn't make the trip up to New York anyway.

But then I hit a paragraph that made me nearly smirk. Hmm, I thought. This sounds familiar.

To be a king, as it’s presented here, is to be utterly indulged, to have your every whim gratified on the spot. Patience is, for Lear, the opposite of a virtue, at least as we see him in the opening scene, when he announces his intention of turning over his kingdom to his three daughters. He is as impetuous, capricious and, when crossed, as tantrum prone as a child who has never heard the word no.

King Lear as dom?

Of love and poetry and chains

I gave him a gift.
A very special gift.

In a way, it was no more than was expected of me. Expect that what is normally expected of me is not that expected any more. Although when it suddenly is, I had better be prepared.

Longtime readers - there may be a few of you left - may remember that what first drew the sadist to me was "my mind", as glimpsed in my FetLife profile. Relative newcomers, or those in need of a refresher course, can read my first mention of the sadist in this post from late August of 2008 for a little introduction, and then go on from there a bit to get a taste for our early days.

Briefly, he thought I'd be his own little Anaïs Nin, his personal porn producer. He did come see me not longer after accepting me into his service. "You're beautiful!" he said, as if surprised - when it was I who was truly was surprised since no one had ever said that to me before.

He took to calling me his complication.
One day he kissed me.
Because he thought it would be pleasurable.

He decided he was correct in his judgment.

Anyway.
Back to My Mind.

He expects me to write for him.
Poems.
Stories.
Bits to make him hot.
And bits to stimulate his mind.

This is a man who reads Shakespeare and James Joyce's Ulysses during free minutes in his work day. And no, he is not by any means an academician. Just a smart man with a love of beauty.

Not only does he expect me to write for him, and suck his cock and make him lunch while trying not to be too crazy-making. I'm also supposed to be prepared to recite for him.

You know.
By heart?
At every visit.
A poem.
One of mine.

I've learned something very interesting along the way. Just because you've written something yourself doesn't mean it will be easy to memorize. Damn, I worked hard trying to brand some of those poems into my brain! Of course, at my advancing age, such projects are supposed to be beneficial, so I shouldn't complain. And as I practiced the poems aloud, I found words and lines that didn't flow as well when spoken as they did in my head. A great editing technique!

Though I've been lazy lately.
Not writing much poetry lately.
Nor stories.
Blame sturm und drang and winter.

Yeah.
Right.
Excuses.

April 23rd is Shakespeare's birthday. I was a theatre major centuries ago, with a passion for Shakespeare. That's what I really wanted to do. Shakespeare.

I got married instead.
Before finishing college.
But I've always remembered that April 23rd was William Shakespeare's birthday.
Except this year I forgot.

Hooray for Prairie Home Companion!
They featured various people
reading various Shakespeare sonnets
with varying degrees of artistry
but always with sincerity.

I e-mailed the sadist, admitting my embarrassment at having forgotten the Bard's birthday, and (after much research) including a carefully chosen sonnet. Beginning:

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:

He replied with thanks, deeming it lovely, but claiming to have trumped me with reference to a different sonnet.

I had him beat, of course - which is not a comfortable situation to admit to when dealing with one's Master, and a sadistic one at that. But given his respect for My Mind, he took it well. Because of course I knew of the sonnet he cited. And in case I hadn't, PHC had kindly included it in their little sonnet salute. But it seemed rather obvious, so I chose to show off my (newly acquired) in-depth knowledge of the collection.

Still, it's a beautiful and meaningful piece, and more so as I spent considerable time with it. Which I did. I memorized the damn thing, dear readers. In less than 3 days I committed it to memory and practiced different line readings until it was smooth and beautiful and artistic and moving and heartfelt and - he did love it so!

And the chains?

I was wrapped around in his heavy steel chain when I offered him my gift. It was drawn tightly round and round my neck, then up under my beautiful bare tits. And I knelt before him as he sat forward in his chair and he recognized the sonnet right away and his face was a garden of smiles growing more beautiful and happy with each word.

And later
after lunch
he began
our journey
into the pleasure
of pain.

Oh.
You wanted the sonnet?
I suppose there are some of you who haven't already guessed.
It's #57.
Worth knowing.
Worth sharing.
Worth learning.
And all about love.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

Undulations

Things are always changing.
Shifting.
Reversing.
Reverting.

Or so it seems.

I have to learn not to worry.
Our life is a wave, not an arrow.
There are cycles, and nothing is ever gone for good.
D/s is, after all a dynamic.
And so it is.
Dynamic.

He worries.
He panics.
He imagines things.

He goes all sweet and soft and smiling and then convinces himself that he can't be strict and mushy too. So suddenly it's No. Can't be like this. No more Mr. Romantic Guy. It's giving you ideas. It's affecting your performance. And you may only call me Sir.

Considering how we'd been for the last couple of weeks, this came as a great shock. A hard smack that sent me crashing to the ground.

Within a few days, he was going soft.
Providing structure but professing his obsessions.
Clearly happy at my request to call him my Lord again.

I need to have faith.
It's never all lost.
We are what we are.
We cannot help ourselves.
We cannot resist desire.
We cannot resist fate.

Masturbation mania (1) - testing the Siena Symphony

Beautiful.
As weird as it may appear in photos, the Siena Symphony is simply beautiful.

But let me back up.

As noted in this post weeks and weeks ago, I was one of a number of sex bloggers recently approached by EdenFantasys, an online seller of so-called Adult Toys. I liked their website, which I had already encountered (again, see the previous post for more details) and decided to accept their offer of free toys in exchange for reviews and links.

I chose the Siena Symphony, one of their G-spot Vibrators, because it was just plain weird. Not clumsy weird. Not awkward. Just... different. Not trying to look like something it wasn't.

In the end, I decided that it is beautiful.
In its own simple way, it is beautiful.
And once you realize that it is a product of Danish design, it all makes sense.
Elegant, modern, well-thought out...

My only regret was that family demands made it impossible for me to properly test it until now. So not only am I late in fulfilling my responsibility to EdenFantasys, but I was missing a great opportunity to get around the strict control that the sadist maintains over my orgasms. (I did, of course, obtain permission from him to participate in this program. He rightfully assumed that it would contribute to his pleasure as well as to mine. And we all know whose pleasure is the only one that counts in this relationship. Theoretically, anyway.)

In the end, I conducted 3 tests of the beautiful creature, under different conditions. The middle test was held last Tuesday, and was a demonstration for the sadist of the Symphony's effects on his pet. His comments, along with other more subjective reports, will be in tomorrow's post. Today's report will be a scientific examination, based on experiments conducted in my lab (pictured above).

The first thing I noticed was the lack of excess packing material. The shipping box wasn't outrageously bigger than the manufacturer's box, and the latter is a good place to keep the Symphony when not in use. I had hoped to get a picture of the cats exploring the latest member of the family; their meager interest is testimony to the lack of plastic in the package. Thanks to both the manufacturer and EdensFantasys on that!

In addition to storage, the box provides a handy representation of the 10 vibration patterns, which was very useful as I conducted my lab tests. With this and any multi-patterned toy, it's a good idea to take some time for systematic exploration. The first time I tried the Symphony, my trip through the patterns was more haphazard and I didn't get as much benefit from them.

I love the feel of the vibrator in my hand. It has a nice heft to it, feeling solid and well-made. And the silicone is almost velvety in texture. It cleans up easily, and I appreciated knowing that I wouldn't have to use it with a condom. Good thing that, considering its creative design.

The Symphony comes in 2 colors: a sweet pink and a soft lavender. I'm generally inclined towards purple, and the philosopher always liked me in pink so I still feel rather sensitive about that color. Lavender it was, then, and I was delighted with my choice.

I must admit to having been a little worried about the width of it. I'm not into having fat things in my cunt, be they real live penises or silicone substitutes. And this looked fat. I was happily surprised at how comfortable it felt inside me, especially given its unusual shape. Today's lab tests showed that the combination of shape and width makes the Symphony ideal for doing Kegel exercises, which the sadist urges me to practice. Unlike with other insertion toys, I found that it stayed wedged inside me while I squeezed my muscles around it without my having to hold it in place with my hand - which meant I could sit up in bed pulsing away with my pussy while e-mailing the sadist about what I was doing and feeling.

Time now to turn the creature on.

A slight negative here. I found it to be a bit loud, although EdenFantasys rates it only 2 bees out of a possible 5. I meant to turn it on and go into the other room to see how far the buzz carries, but forgot to. Still, I'm sure it's a lot quieter than other vibrators.

The other thing to note is that it is not the strongest vibrator out there. If you want to really blast your way to an orgasm, this is not your baby, and there were times that I wished it had a bit more oomph. The handy rating chart on the website gives the Symphony 4 vrooms out of 5. It's clearly a very solid, powerful motor, though, and the vibrations spread throughout the device (as the sadist insists on calling it).

And for me there are advantages to its not being overly strong. My sometime complaint about vibrators is that they can sort of numb my clit, which I don't find to be a pleasant sensation. But today, as I explored the various settings, I allowed them to work their magic on me. And magic it was. I yielded to the patterns the way I yield to the sadist. I didn't strain, I didn't push, I didn't reach for the orgasm. I just allowed myself to feel, and ended up with both a delicious symphony (yes, really) of sensuality and a slow rise to a deliciously satisfying orgasm.

oatmeal girl was reduced to mush.

And this despite the rather disruptive need to make notes along the way, not to mention e-mailing the sadist.

Uh-oh... just thinking about this afternoon's playtime is unleashing ripples of pleasure. All on its own, my womb is demonstrating its own pattern of pulsation, and my pussy is swelling and dripping. A bonus!

One more comment and I'll wrap up today's post. Come back tomorrow for a more subjective analysis, including the sadist's comments on my performance last Tuesday and excerpts from my messages to him during my time in the lab today.

The Symphony is promoted as a G-spot and clitoral vibrator. I'm not that experienced with G-spot work. In fact, it was the philosopher who taught me, via e-mail, how to find it and stimulate it! I did experiment with assorted internal positions today, and sometimes did sense something very special and different going on. But I never felt that I was taking full advantage of that aspect of the device. I'm looking forward to conducting further experiments. On the other hand, the unusual shape gave me many ways to induce pleasure via external stimulation, including laying the concave curve along my slit, with the tip heading in the direction of my little butt hole. Very nice...

I was quite happy with how the Symphony felt inside me. Quite happy indeed. For just plain fucking myself, I'd still like something similar to my now defunct FunFactory friend. But for a positively delicious (and not so often granted) session of sensual pleasure, and to provide me (meaning to provide the sadist, whether in attendance or not) with a most satisfying orgasm, I'll be happily returning to the Symphony.

Thank you, EdenFantasys!

Don't forget to come back tomorrow for Part 2, which will be less scientific and, I hope, more arousing.

Salad forks and spanking spoons

In fact, there was only one spanking spoon. Large and wooden. On the other hand, he did spank me briefly with one of the salad forks.

Sweetly.
He spanked me sweetly with a salad fork.
Little love pats with his salad fork that could barely be called a spanking at all.

Salad.
I made him a salad.
He came for lunch and I made him a salad.
He was with me for nearly 3 hours and nothing went wrong.
Nothing went wrong and his face kept lighting with beautiful smiles.

It was a very good salad.
Baby greens and sweet peppers in red and orange and yellow.
Sweet tiny grape tomatoes.
Sweet and crunchy sugar peas.
Tiny slices of salty olives.
Crumbled gorgonzola.
A healthy shot of basil.
Extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

Thank you, Trader Joe's.

I've never given him food before. It felt so domestic. And a little disconcerting at first. A sudden leap. A shift. A new role. Everything so new and different and beautiful and loving and sweet.

We kissed for about ten thousand years. We kissed with passion more than lust, with wonder, with tenderness, with desire that was a desire to connect, to melt, as much as or more than a desire for sex. We learned each other's mouths as if it were for the first time.

And in some ways, it was the first time.
Or maybe the first plus some, since the door had been opened on Saturday.
But Saturday was when we knew we were all right.
Saturday we welcomed that
we
were WE.
We are.

Today we began our new life.

When we talked, there was a difference.

We talked in person the way we used to talk by e-mail only. Only more so. He was open. There were no sharp edges. His face... I kept gazing at his face. At his eyes. And he would smile. There was so much happiness in that room that we were drunk on it.

He ate the salad.
He sat in his chair and ate his salad.
I sat at his feet and ate mine.

Then he called me to him, and took a tender green leaf and gently passed it over and around my left breast, circling the nipple that was smiling for him. He anointed my breast with oil and vinegar, then took my breast in his mouth and gently, sweetly, lovingly, sucked the dressing off.

My right breast was next.

"Lie down on the floor," he said.
I did as I was told,
lying on my back,
spreading my legs,
thinking he was going to flog my pussy.

Instead, he knelt beside me and slowly, tenderly, lay a trail of leaves in a delicate row down my body that began between my tits and ended above my pussy.

Then he ate them.
Off my body.
Slowly, tenderly, he ate his salad off my body.

Later, he told me that Daddy had returned.
Daddy, who had been hiding when things were bad.
Daddy, who was back and longing for his baby girl.

Daddy, who gave my baby bottom one hell of a spanking with the wooden spoon.

I made my Daddy very happy.
I made this man very happy.
The room was filled with smiles and happiness.
And we rejoiced in each other's arms.

Home to the cats and my Master

I'm back home for a tiny bit of R&R.
Two full days, with a travel day on either side.
Time for sleeping in my own bed.
Time for feline conflict resolution.
Time for working on my taxes.
Time for saying Kaddish on the occasion of my uncle's Yahrzeit.

Time for serving the sadist.

Saturday.
He thinks he can arrange a visit for Saturday.
And my orders are to recover from my trip so I can serve him with perfect focus.

We've been having problems again. Misunderstandings. The dangers of e-mail communication are well known. It's hard to get the right tone, the proper inflection, to clearly interpret what the other person has said. Still, it is rather ironic that two people who care for each other at whatever level and also care so much about language and specifically the written word should be so prone to misunderstandings.

I suspect it is precisely because we do care for each other. We are both very intense people, and I think it is too easy for each of us to believe that we have been rejected in some way. However we may see that manifested, it all comes down to the same thing. Believing that we've been rejected. Believing the other doesn't care enough. We may call it everything from lack of focus to disobedience to disapproval, but it is all the same thing.

And most likely to happen when life gets in the way.

Speaking of which... my dad is doing phenomenally! I can't get over it. Two days after the surgery, after having his chest cracked open and a bit of his heart replaced (yes, that tiny reference was deliberate), in an operation that lasted hours and hours and him having just turned 93... well, they had him up walking today! With a walker, but still!! He has been sitting up in a chair since yesterday. Today he is being moved out of the ICU into a regular hospital room and probably by Monday will be in a rehab facility.

I am so impressed!

The one we are worried about is my mom. From various causes, she has been showing signs of dementia (not Alzheimer's, though) for the past couple of years. And now it was looking worse. My sister and I aren't sure if her confusion and forgetfulness are being exacerbated by stress over my dad or whether it really has gotten that bad. So that both added to our worries and made our job harder. My sister is staying there till Sunday morning. I'll be returning Sunday night and remaining till next Thursday, but can't keep doing that. Neither of us can, and my folks do live in a place that can provide more care. The question is, at what point do we arrange for that, especially while my dad is recuperating. He will probably be home in 3-4 weeks, with some home care after that, but won't be fully recovered (meaning better than he has been for years) for 3-6 months. The stress of caring for her - worrying about her - will be hard on him.

Being with them, and with my sister, is hard on me. And hard on the sadist, and on the relationship, because even though I do always feel surrounded by him, and being owned by him makes me stronger, centered, contained, and happy, I can't give him as much of me while I'm with them as when I am on my own.

Still, we somehow make it through every upheaval.
And in spite of it all, and maybe even because of it, I end up loving him more.

Conflict resolution

I'm making progress.
I seem to be making progress.
I'm being creative and have made progress.

No, this time I'm not talking about the situation with the sadist. Although that is coming along well. Today, we each, independently, were feeling that we missed my serving him. You know, the whole D/s thing? We miss it. We both miss it. It's not that I don't still have that sense of submission underlying everything. But we haven't been interacting that way. And we both miss it.

Which is good.
We are in synch.
We are working together.

Nothing is guaranteed. And the fiend is still very worried that I am overestimating the character and depth of his feelings for me. And therefore that I am misrepresenting him here, and that you all are thinking it is more than it is. He repeated that it is somewhere in the middle of the scale. I really do think that's about where it is, with the bottom being a view of me as something to be used and discarded and the top being some grand romantic passion. Because of the way I write, because of my own romanticism, it could easily come out sounding more than that. But it's not. As I said to him tonight, I'm not expecting a Valentine's Day card. Which is true. But he is very intense, and whatever he does is very intense, and the way I write is very intense, so between us things can easily seem more than they are.

But that's not what this post is about.
It's about the cats.

You remember.
Ketzel and Marko?
Those 2 sweet kitties who like to curl up and lick each other?

Ha!
Not bloody likely.
And there has actually been a bit of blood.
There have been ongoing hostilities for over a year.

They generally occur around two activities.
Meals.
And my bedtime.

That Keztel. She is incredibly territorial. They used to both sleep with me. Or they each would at different times of the night, or on different nights. But lately, Keztel has made it quite clear that I belong to her. In her mind, I belong to her and the bedroom belongs to her and the bed belongs to her and if she has plopped herself down with me then Marko can just forget even coming into the room, let alone getting on the bed.

It used to be ok if he got up there with me first. She would come in later, sniff a bit, and then lie down on the other side of me, each hard against a leg. Sandwiching me. Such a pleasure. But the last time that happened, after Ketzel came up, she gave him the evil eye and he left.

I was very sad.
I love them both.
But Ketzel has this almost desperate neediness.
And possessiveness.

It was bad enough that they would fight. Physically fight. Which upset and worried me. But the final straw was when I couldn't sleep through the night because of growling and hissing and fighting at 2 am. A few nights ago I gave up, gathered my cell pone and my pillow, and went downstairs to the dungeon to sleep. On the futon. Ketzel rarely comes down there. Once I settled down, I slept through the night.

Obviously, this can't go on.
I can't let one stubborn ball of fur drive me out of my own room.
My own bed.

So the next night, I shut the door.
I didn't hear any yowling.
And I slept through the night.
The next morning, I found but one tiny turdlet as a symbol of her displeasure and of a tussle between them.

So for now, that's the new rule.
No kitties in the bed.
My allergist should be delighted.

The other move has been to play with Marko right after I feed him, which means he is less likely to come up and get in Ketzel's face or try to commit bestial incest. That has been working pretty well, too.

Still, it all takes a lot of work.
Balancing time.
Balancing attention.
Playing with Marko.
Snuggling with Ketzel.
Ignoring their scratching at the door.

It's worth it, though.
A truce by default.
Maybe if they don't fight for a long time,
they'll remember that they love each other.
Or used to.

[I had to pause in my writing. I'm on the couch. Ketzel wanted to crawl into my lap. She's so cute when she wants to crawl into my lap. Unfortunately, the aptly named laptop was already in my lap. I can't say I won. I can't even say the laptop won. She just changed her mind. It's pretty pathetic when I'm submissive even to my own cat!]

There's no more to tell, anyway.
Peace is possible.
With work,
with commitment,
peace is possible.

Relationships can be restored.
Isn't that nice to know?

Working for the Beast

I'm writing sadistic porn for the Beast. He likes me, it seems, or perhaps merely enjoys my suffering. So I have been assigned to serve his literary appetites, with the chance that he will put in a good word for me with the sadist.

The story I just sent him was so dark that I almost vomited as I proofread.
Which is no surprise, really.
I've been nauseous most of the day.

We've talked a lot today, the sadist and I
"Talked."
The modern way.
E-mails, texts, long conversations via IM.

He went to see his slave this morning.
It could have been me.
He had the time and it could have been me.
He even thought of that, of visiting me.
He pictured me.
The way I greet him,
standing naked behind the open door
so as not to embarrass the neighbors.
The way I stand against the dungeon wall,
the way I kneel before his chair.
And then...

I can't even describe the horrible, horror movie fantasy that came unbidden into his mind and left him afraid to look at my face. Afraid to look into my eyes. Because last Tuesday, when he looked into my eyes, the way he always looks into my eyes, he didn't find what was usually there. And in some ways I think that hurt him more than anything.

So he didn't come to see me.
He went to see his masochistic slave.
The slave survived - I'm assured he's all right -
and the sadist was somewhat cleansed.

He did a lot of thinking on the drive home.

We took a break, then he e-mailed me that he was sending me 4 more e-mails, which I should read without responding. He would then sign on to IM in 5 minutes. Except it must have been about 10 minutes, because I had time to read the e-mails and then listen to an assigned gut-wrenching song by his favorite singer-songwriter.

One of the e-mails told about the hour he had accidentally spent with the solider Friday night. Back at the bar. They didn't spend the whole time speaking of me. But obviously they did. Speak about me. What a concept.

Two of the e-mails referred to the possibility of never seeing me again.

I felt as if I'd been punched in my pale white belly. Something the sadist in fact likes to do. But he holds himself back with me.

Excuse me.
He has held himself back with me.
No assumptions can be made about the future.

And then we talked.
Instant messaging.
Must have gone on for hours.
So many ups and downs.
So many tears.
But in the end...

He is working on a new plan.
Very cautiously,
very vaguely,
he is working on a new plan.
There are no guarantees.
And so far there are only 2 points.

1. It will take time.

2. Since the stories I write specifically for the beast seem to win myself some support from him, the sadist thinks it would be a good idea to continue that activity. Except for scaring myself with how extreme and dark my imagination can be, I'm glad to be doing it. I hadn't written much in the way of fiction for a long time. And at least this way I feel that I'm doing something when really there is nothing I can do.

The sadist must heal.
He must recover.

The question that came up is whether he will recover from me, or merely from the wound that was inflicted by an arrow coming from my direction. At least, today, he mentioned the possibility that he might be able to consider (even if not believe) the idea that I didn't fire it deliberately. A small step, for sure, not to be given more weight than it deserves, but a generous step nevertheless.

So I wrote him (or, rather, the Beast) a story that makes me want to vomit.
I wrote a poem, too, though it's not quite finished.
And I'm not sure I should send it.
Perhaps I'll post it here instead.

Before I go off to watch one of his all-time favorite movies and then report my reaction, I want to add one caution about what I have been and will be writing about all this and everything else.

Especially about all this.

Be careful about what you assume about him and his reactions and feelings and psychology. What you read is my interpretation. It is not objective. It is filtered through my own weaknesses and emotions and neuroses and faulty memory. In some ways, for him, for any of us, objective truth is irrelevant. All that matters is how we experience the world. That is our reality. His experience of what I did and what I said and what was not in my eyes is his reality. What happens hereafter must proceed from there.

And my eyes?
I do not dispute that something he usually finds was absent from my eyes.

This I cannot dispute.
And therein lies my grief.