Soft and warm and creamy

Four and a half hours until the new year.
Another year for my Master and me.

A check-up with the dermatologist showed me still free of cancer after 23 and a half years.

Hours with Daddy my Master showed us happy in each other's company. Plus he bought me  a BLT for lunch! On white toast. With mayonnaise. I love BLTs... Next week, we both go back to abstemious eating and regular exercise. And I return to my ordained bedtime.

We make each other happy.
Even with all the sturm und drang, we make each other happy.

Now off to a party.

Though after my pre-party nap I'm soft and warm and creamy and would rather just stay home, curled up with a cat or two, feeling my Master's arms around me as if he were still here.

I would be naked.
He, to start, would be wearing a sport jacket with his jeans.
The contrast gets me every time.

Every time.

I wish you all a happy, healthy, and peaceful New Year.
And love.
Joy and sex and lots of love.

I love you, Daddy.
For ever and ever.

Don't you two have sex anymore?!

Why yes, now that you mention it.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.

First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!

So yes.
To answer your questions.

He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.

For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.

He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.

Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.

Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.

I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...

The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.

My lover.

That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?

I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.

There is no one word.

He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.

He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.

I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.

So now...

Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.

I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.

I didn't want him to stop.

I wanted him to cane me.

And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.

And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.

The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.

And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...

I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.

And now he seems to have stopped pretending.

Putty in his hands

Some days I have to walk.
Some days there is other exercise.
To make me strong.
To make me shapely.
To help me lose weight.

There are particular areas of my body that interest him.
Particular exercises to encourage them in the desired direction.
Nothing unhealthy.
Unless you consider being molded to suit his desires unhealthy.

I find it inspiring.
Arousing.
Objectifying.

Delicious.

Plus there's a promise of a reward.
Something tangible.
For when I've reached some unstated goal.

To me, just pleasing him is reward enough.
But he has something else in mind.
It may just be sexy underwear.
It may be something else.
He's not telling.
Which makes me tingle.
And that's the whole idea anyway, isn't it?

There are two double closets in my bedroom. They are side by side, each with a pair of sliding doors, and the doors are mirrored. He has taken to standing us in front of the doors, facing them. I am naked, and he is fully dressed. He holds me to him, facing the mirror, my back against his front, my butt pulled into his crotch, my nakedness striking against his sport jacket. He pulls me tight against him. The picture we create burns itself onto the projection screens in the back of our minds.

I am sex.
I am pussy.
I am naked.
I am his.

I am his pleasure.
His joy and his torment.

And he?

He is my life.

(And now, after writing, my torment, too. I've turned myself on with my own words, and my pussy is screaming for relief. Not a chance. I wouldn't even ask. He keeps me for himself, keeps my pleasure for himself, my arousal oozes from my pores as he pulls my nakedness against him, as he grinds his cock into my ass through his slacks. I revel in my frustration, as every pleading contraction of my cunt and womb throughout the week reminds me of the joy of having ceded myself to his control and power and... that word he uses songs to say.)

She's so tight

"Where have you been?" they wonder.

Here.
There.
Around.
Living my life.

It's funny. I think of my relationship, which is still and always quite thoroughly a D/s relationships, and realize that it is also simultaneously more and more a relationship - unconventional as it may be. A committed relationship, without vows or rings and certainly without monogamy. But close and committed and intimate - not just physically intimate, either.

He has this fear that if he shows weakness, softness, vulnerability, I'll lose respect for him. It's not a totally stupid fear, as it was a way I have responded in the past to people who wanted me. A fear based on my own lack of respect for myself. "There must be something really wrong with him if he wants me that much."

A sudden realization... perhaps that's not a problem now because he has finally managed to make me believe in myself enough, to feel strong enough, that I don't feel threatened by someone who does want me that much.

In any case, it's not a problem now.
Not with him.
When he reveals his vulnerability, it makes me love him more.
Not that I didn't know it was there.
But when it's offered to me,
naked on a wooden plank,
knife by its side to use as I wish...

All I want to do is protect him.

So we've been living our lives.
Living our life.
With all our outside stresses inevitably impinging on our time together.
But we manage.

I am his refuge.
And he is my strength.

Both of my aged parents aren't well. My mom had the stroke I wrote of last spring, and 2 bouts of pneumonia, and what they're calling a silent heart attack. My dad was very ill with what may have been just a virus, but the high fever and just being in the hospital rendered him confused and sometimes downright hallucinatory. I was up visiting him a week ago and he kept trying to eat my hand. Very curious... He's coming out of it now, slowly, but when he finally leaves the hospital it's unlikely he'll go back to their apartment. Rather, he'll join my mom in the nursing wing of their continuing care place, leaving me and my sister to empty out the apartment and dispose of the stuff.

At least we are both very relaxed about all that and don't foresee any battles over who gets what. What a relief!

Of course, the fiend and I have our problems.
Old issues and new ones.

A brand new issue came to light the morning after he offered me that song that says what he will never say out of his own mouth. And he knows I'll laugh in his face (well, not really) if he denies the meaning of telling me to listen and then telling me to listen once more before trotting off to bed. There is no way he can claim he doesn't mean what he had to be meaning.

I'm happy.
Problems and all,
I'm happy.

We are so different in so many ways, we are probably protected by not being able to have a standard relationship because it would surely crash and split apart on the rocks of our differences. But now... what we are... what we are for each other... what we give each other...

[Excuse me while I go all moony for a bit.]

OK, that's enough. I have things to do before people come for tonight's debate party.

Oh?
You were wondering about the title of this post?

Ah yes.
Something he wanted you to know.

Tell them, he said.
Tell them you are very tight.
And not,
he said,
merely tight for someone your age.

So there.

PS - I lost 12 pounds in 6 weeks.

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?