Has it really been 2 years?

Two years ago, I opened submission & metaphor with the following post. I called it In the beginning...

Sex and words, passion and metaphors - w4m

Literate woman seeks intelligent man for creative erotic correspondence. Just saying how big you are and where you'd like to stick it won't do it. Must be comfortable with adjectives and metaphors. Let's create elaborate scenes, described in detail, exploring the heights of passion and pushing our fantasies to their edge with the power of our words.

I admit it, we won't get that special deep satisfaction and release that actual physical contact brings. But in some ways an on-line sexual conversation with a stranger can be even more intimate, revealing, and risky than jumping into bed, as we share our deepest longings and fantasies in a way that doesn't always happen face-to-face or body-to-body. So seduce me with the strength of your intellect and the power of your imagination, and I will open myself to whatever adventures you can conjure up, throw myself into your fantasies, and draw you into mine.

Age, location, race are all irrelevant. Your goal is for my heart to beat faster, among other obvious physical responses, when I see your name in my inbox, and for you to feel the same at seeing a message from me.

In your reply, give me a taste of what you have to offer.

"and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes." (in honor of the author's recent birthday)

[posted to craigslist Washington DC on Saturday, February 3, 2007 at 8:06pm]

This was the craiglist post that brought the philosopher to me, as well as harry, dominick, and Evan. It brought me the philosopher, and it changed my life.

All but Evan were Doms, and Evan enjoys control and other things that certainly turn up in BDSM circles. I asked if there were anything in the post that made them think I was open to being dominated, controlled, bound, hurt, and none of them saw it. At least not consciously.

A couple of years later I showed it to the sadist. He said the ad screamed submission, and had his name all over it.

He always sees things that others don't.

It is tempting to write about the past. About all the changes in the 2 years since I started this blog and the 3 years since I ran that ad. But those years had their chance. If you're new here and you're curious, here is a post from about a year ago that gives a snapshot of where we were then. Or where I thought we were. The three of us.

The philosopher.
The sadist.
And me.

As for now, I am posting a poem, separately, which will show
where I am now.
Who I am now.
Whose I am now.
With all my heart
and all my soul
and all my joy.

I love you, my Master.

Physical therapy

I had a hard day. News of a family medical crisis. It's serious and sad, and accompanied by the usual characteristic histrionics and dysfunctional dynamics.

I need cleansing.
I need catharsis.
I need a beating.

I've been e-mailing dominick today. If only he would come down, he could give me what I need. He could give me what he needs to administer. A long, slow, sadistic session, something wide and a cane descending again and again on my bound and vulnerable body. His fingers, his cock, my holes, after all these years, after all those fantasies, after all those e-mails, and the blushing pictures I took and sent him because he told me to and I do always want to please him.

I took the pictures according to his specifications. I am bent over, legs partly spread so he can see my lascivious labia hanging down and my puckered little brown ass hole, ever so tight and, at the time, quite virginal. And then in the second picture I have reached behind and buried the middle finger of my right hand in that little butt hole as far as I could drive it.

Just one little middle finger. Nothing compared to his lovely slender cock, which I still hope he will one day ram into me most energetically. I have a picture of his cock. Of his cock and of his belt. I keep hoping that he'll relent one day and agree to come down and acquaint me with both his cock and his belt.

I need a beating so that all I will know is the pain as his belt and his cane crash down on me and drive everything out. And then he will fuck me, pushing his pelvis against the welts he left across my reddened ass. And we will both cum, in a conflagration of combusted frustration and pain.

One day, dominick.
One day you will relent.
One day you will risk the disappointment of reality
and claim what has always been yours.

Dominick comes out of the shadows

I've been keeping a secret.
I had promised I'd keep it a secret.
Dominick has a blog.

He revealed it to me a while ago, but virtually no one else knew about it unless they stumbled across it by accident. I felt honored. But then it was right he should have told me about it. Many of the pieces had been written for me.

I could tell, reading through, I could tell which ones I had inspired. The embarrassing part was that some of those he had written a while back and sent to me, in one of those rare, occasional messages he would send me as a surprise gift. I had forgotten he had sent them, but I could tell they had been written for me.

Today, he reminded me of another of his verbal explorations of what has simmered between us since he came across my craigslist ad. He sent me to a page on the website Filthy Gorgeous Things. Again, I recognized the style, rich but deliberate, almost surgical in its descriptions. He is, of course, a sadist. The editors had discovered his blog and asked if they could post some bits from it. He only just found out his piece had gone up.

Do go read it and explore his blog as well. Most of his pieces are short, brief vignettes, erotic observations. They still cause my insides to curdle. They still make me yearn to meet him. I want to see his face as he surveys the canvas that is my body. I want to strain against my bonds. I want to feel the impact of his hand on my reddening ass. He has sent me a picture of his spear-like cock and his well-worn belt. I hunger to submit to the assault of each one.

I want him to hurt me.
I want him to fuck me.
I want him to taste my submission and my pain.

We have never met. He doesn't live in my city and he doesn't want to risk losing what we have become for each other.

But still.
There is this hunger.

Go read him.
There are no provisions for comments that I can see.
Come back and leave them here.
I'll pass them on.
Meanwhile, I'll nurse my fantasies.

Running wild

It was 71 degrees in Washington DC today.
There was a full moon a couple of nights ago.
I saw my demon muse Monday for the first time in 2 months.
And I suspect my hormones are running rampant.

I had a really bad case of spring fever today.

I'm surprised no one has killed me.

I couldn't think straight. My mind kept wandering off. I showered my demon muse with messages, which to some extent is part of my job, but I also sent inciting messages to all the doms I could think of. Which is ok, I'm sure they enjoyed it. I know that dominick did, and responded with a small piece of the seductively sadistic prose with which he is so cruelly stingy.

But then I went overboard, and sent a flirty message to the philosopher this morning and a shot of my naked tits this evening, having accidentally discovered how to crop my photos. It was actually a picture he took on his first visit, but vastly improved focusing down on the aforementioned features, as my face looks weird in that shot. Much more effective when presented as an ad for my perky nipples and pale pink aureoles. Ah, my poor sore red nipples. They've been worse though, and they will be again.

Anyway, please forgive me John - I know I'm supposed to leave you in peace and not try to distract you from your work. Just because I have spring fever, why should you suffer?

Just wait till April...

Bad kitten.

Luckily, my demon muse allowed me to cum for him tonight. Such lovely moans and sobs and gasps are waiting for him on his voice mail.

Happy kitten.

Naked to my self

I stood before the mirror
naked warm and rosy
glowing from my shower.

I looked at hair that waved
pre-Raphaelite and wild,
above those hard-tipped breasts.

I gazed back at my self
and smiled in happy wonder.
I smiled and said

"I love you."

and knew I truly meant it.
Thanks to all who helped me
have strength to truly mean it.

You know who you are.

What does it feel like...

A male friend, a fine writer, was speaking of his curiosity. I am poorly paraphrasing, I am protecting his privacy, I am protecting my privilege of access.

What? he wonders.
What appeals?
What doesn't?
What does it feel like?

What does it feel like, he wonders, these sensations that you experience that physically I can never know?

I know these questions.
I've had them myself.
Especially when in bed with the woman I thought I was in love with.

My clitoris wanted to be a cock.
My clitoris thought it was a cock.
My clitoris wanted to fuck her.

It was very very frustrating.

As some of you may remember, we were both involved with the same man. We were both involved with S--. And it was all at a distance. I was with her, and she would be with him the following weekend, and I couldn't help thinking that he would be able to do with her, to her, what I couldn't.

He could fuck her.
He could take his thoroughly lovely cock and move it inside her.

I knew what it would feel like for her.
I knew exactly what it would feel like for her.
What would it feel like for him?

Like my friend, I'm always wanting to know what it's like for the other side. It obsesses me. I was always asking the philosopher, I was always asking blogging doms, what does it feel like?

I posted this to craigslist as well as here, both as a lure and as an honest attempt at exploration - and received a very special response.

But I want more.

What does it feel like to have a cock?
What does it feel like to be a cock?
What does it feel like to swell at the thought of me?
What does it feel like to swell when you read my words?
What does it feel like to swell at the sound of my moans in your phone?
What does it feel like to slide inside me?
What does it feel like to push inside me?
What does it feel like to cum inside me?

What does it feel like to want me?

I know what it feels like to want you.

Blowing goat

I'm on a year-end shopping spree. I wander from store to store, checking out the merchandise. I take my items to the dressing room, stand before the mirror, and see how they look on me. I remove my clothes, press the new items against my nakedness, and see how they feel. How they make me feel.

Do they distract me?
Do they make me laugh?
Do they make me stop crying?

They say don't buy something new unless you can discard something old. I'm really not ready to discard something old. But I do seem to have lost something. And my heart is empty.

I wonder if I can rent to own, wear some of my choices for a few weeks, see if they grow on me.

You can't do that with clothes.
You can do that with men.

They are certainly ready to try me on.

I went back to the well. I went back to craigslist. After all, it worked last time. I used the same ad as last time. Except I put in a few more obvious references to BDSM. At least I thought they were more obvious...

It's odd... last time the 3 best responses were all from doms. They were beautiful, they had this tension, they drew me in... a few were from guys trying to date me, none very interesting, and then there were a number of fairly crassly sexual content that weren't well written at all. I really wanted nothing more than a correspondence, and I ended up with... well you know how it ends.

This time there are all these guys looking for relationships. Which is fine with me. That is ultimately what I am after. But NO ONE has written anything that compares to what I received last time from either dominick or harry or my red-haired philosopher. Though one guy sent me a string of bawdy rhymed couplets that could have been written centuries ago. He wants to take me out for coffee. Going straight for the sex is also an option, but I told him I'd stick with the coffee for now.

They send me pictures, these men. They are very visual, men are, and don't understand that sometimes it's better to spring the trap with words before letting me see how ordinary they look. On the other hand, there's this one guy.... black, 38, tall... I did tell him how old I am, he doesn't care, and the picture... I didn't want to embarrass him, I didn't want to embarrass myself, so I didn't tell him that I was drooling over it... meanwhile the couplet writer is an artist and photographer and around my age and I have suspicions that he could be a bit dominant in bed...

So OK, fine, sure, I'm amusing myself, I'm distracting myself. And then, this one guy who has been sending me poetry (uh-oh, here it comes) made references to "Some snippet from a past philosopher or poet", and "images of a broken heart", and I burst into tears.

It is all an illusion.

And yeah, you're right, Elspeth, it blows goat. But it's been 5 months now, 5 months since he broke up with me, and I see no reason to believe that one day he will finish the dissertation and say "There, kitten. I'm done. Let's pack up the cats and move to somewhere pretty and sunny. The cats will somehow get along, and so will we. So will we."

I'm trying my best to give up hope.
But this is the Age of Obama.
There is always Hope.

In the end, of course,
I'm not the only one shopping.
I placed my ad, end of season
markdowns, merchandise returned,
repriced for rapid clearance,
slightly irregular,
ragged round the edges,
you'll hardly see the
tear stains as long as you
never
say a word
about philosophers
or broken hearts.

Fringe Benefits

She sits at her desk, dully and dutifully.
Her will has vanished with the sun.
The sun vanished days ago.
She hasn't moved in an hour.

He rings her extension. Obediently, she rises and enters his office. She notices a small tingling between her thighs and deep in her brain. She is starting to awake.

He closes the door and gives his instructions. With a pinch of animation, she removes her clothes and presents herself for inspection. Selecting a rubber stamp from his desk drawer, he imprints the word APPROVED on each breast in official red letters. Returning that stamp to the drawer, he takes out another one, and leaves his signature just above the cluster of red curls that crowns her cunt.

She emits a barely perceptible sigh of satisfaction and relief.

The time has come.

Firmly, authoritatively, he turns her around and pushes her down over the broad wooden expanse. Systematically, he spreads her legs and attaches her ankles to steel rings permanently embedded at the desk's base. She hears the belt being pulled out sharply through its looped restraints.

As the first lash lands, she breathes a silent thank you.

He always knows what she needs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes I need to write things like this. But more often than not, I need to feel as if I am writing them for someone else.

It no longer seems appropriate to offer them to the philosopher. So I send them to dominick, with whom I still fitfully correspond. He knows there is no expectation of response. Whatever he does send back is honest and well written.

Today it was very dark. Never better than late dusk. I pushed my way through a day of cotton wool, both around my body and in my brain. I needed a spark, a sting, a spanking, to stir me awake. There were little tingles as I wrote the above hint of a story, but mostly I was only half-conscious as I typed the word "cunt" sitting there at work at my desk in an open room.

Just a few small tingles, wishing there were someone to take me into his office, someone to jolt me awake with a dose of endorphins from the searing pain he would deliver to my plump white bottom.

Maybe NIH should consider a study on the efficacy of spanking as a treatment for SAD.

Lunch with a Dom: Everything HURTS!!

I had lunch with a sadist today, and came back to the office in wretched pain and hardly able to breathe.

No, it's not what you're thinking. He didn't lay a hand on me. I am still owned, and I swore monogamy to the philosopher over a year ago. He didn't lay a hand on me except to put a bandage on my nose. And even then, he seemed to be doing his best not to touch me. Very strange, actually...

My little semi-poem Speak to me of spanking started life as an ad on craigslist, a few days after the philosopher tried to break up with me and I impulsively offered him 2 months of silence instead. I was grieving and angry and feeling totally unmoored. I was used to a steady diet of attention and control, as well as confidence in what we had and what we were to each other, despite the distance and long gaps between meetings. I felt safe and small and protected and happy. And now I was adrift with no land in sight and some real doubts as to whether such a thing as land even existed.

So I returned to craigslist. I needed to show how smart and clever and submissive I am. I needed doms and sadists to write back and talk to me like doms and sadists. I needed the stimulation, I needed people to remind me that I am a submissive. Thus "Talk to me about spanking" (the original subject line) was born.

Of course, I received a bunch of responses, many of whom hadn't read the directions. I've ended up corresponding with 3 of them. Two clearly have hopes, despite what I keep telling them, though one of those two is in fact very understanding of my situation and is being quite supportive. I've been learning things from all three of them, and the supportive one in fact feels like someone I would like to stay in touch with, much as I do with Dominick. (If the philosopher is reading this, I hope he understands that there is no danger here; this man is a friend and is helping me get through this difficult period. He seems to believe that my master will reclaim his kitten come September 1st.)

The third man was also an interesting correspondent, though due to his home situation I often received just a line or 2 here and there. He wanted to meet sometime and I said sure. It's partly my overall curiosity and partly an urgency to make some connection with people, face to face, from whom I don't have to hide this part of myself.

Over the course of a busy morning, we decided it could be lunch today. I suggested a place near the office and kept fielding phone calls until suddenly, less than an hour before we were to meet, I remembered that the cafe is closed on Mondays. That's what I get for multi-tasking! I sent an e-mail, but of course I was too late, so at 1:25 left the building to walk over to the cafe and suggest somewhere else.

I spotted him out front of the little building, and started explaining and apologizing for the situation and my spaciness - which meant that I was looking at him rather than down at the ground. I usually look down at the ground when I walk, because I'm such a klutzy kitten and can get tripped up on a perfectly flat surface. Both my master and my friends have to keep me from walking into cars when we cross the street.

So I wasn't looking at the ground as I walked towards him (let's call him Bob) through the empty parking space. I wasn't looking down and didn't realize that there was one of those raised concrete thingies that keep a car from pulling too far into the parking space and onto the sidewalk.

It attacked me. I fell straight forward. My face smashed into the sidewalk, as did everything else. And I could barely breathe.

I tried to say I was ok. But I wasn't. I couldn't get my breath back. I wonder if that's what it feels like to have a heart attack. It was probably from having fallen smack onto my lungs, and who knows what it did to my ribs.

Bob is not a warm person. But he was certainly worried. It didn't help that there was blood all over my nose. And I couldn't really talk. I couldn't tell him I was ok.

I had some packets of those moist towelette things in my fanny pack, and used one to clean the blood off my nose and my left palm. Bob offered me the ice in the remnants of his iced something-or-other, which I wrapped in the towelette and put on my nose, telling him about the big bag of frozen peas we keep on hand for my post-caning butt. A passer-by brought me a pile of paper towels, and eventually Bob went across to the Safeway to buy band-aids. I had to ask him to put it on my nose for me, which he did competently except for blocking both nostrils a bit. What a sadist!

And then we walked over to get lunch a couple of short blocks away.

It was a curious lunch. I was in pain and mostly thirsty (especially as I increased the lithium yesterday). And he seemed very tight, contained, stiff, dry, which was odd for me as I'm used to a lot of warmth from the people I know - including from the philosopher. Plus I am very open and warm if also open to sarcasm - hey, I'm a New Yorker, what do you want! - and am a bit of an exhibitionist. But it was interesting to be sitting there talking to someone who had been involved with BDSM for decades. There's none in his marriage now, and no sex at all, but until they had kids there was, and they even had a live-in pet for a year and a half. I'd love to be able to pry more out of him about THAT.

He said one thing which was just the sort of thing I'm always seeking from Doms. He was talking abut being a sadist, and how knowing that he wants to inflict pain makes him uncomfortable - much the same thing that Dominick has said. And then he said "It's as if all the poison is sucked out by the submissive."

Everything seemed to come together at that point. This took the symbiosis of BDSM one step further, one step beyond the Dom doing what he needs/wants to do and giving the sub what she needs/wants (apologies to those of you with other allocations of gender in this equation). It takes it to that point of catharsis, answering my repeated question of "How does it make you feel?" I do get pleasure from some of the pain I'm subjected to, and certainly am very aroused by all of it. I head down into subspace, and NOTHING compares with that. And when I come out of it all... slowly surfacing, not able to speak, I am cleansed. I am cleansed and I am cared for and I feel fresh and young and safe. And now someone on the other end of the pain is also saying it is cleansing - and in a deeper way than just coming home from a bad day at work and taking it out on her ass.

I'm curious to hear comments on this.

As for me... when I got back to the office I called my family doctor, since my whole torso hurts like hell and I'm still not breathing easily. She said no need for an x-ray - if I broke any ribs they can't do anything about it anyway. And I don't think I broke any ribs... it's more like I smashed in my lungs... and everything else... and my knees hurt and the palm of my hand and my nose is swollen and black and blue and it's a good thing I don't have any hot dates coming up.

I don't want any hot dates. I want my master. I want my lover. I want my best friend. The most awful, the hardest thing about it all was that I came back to the office and everything hurt and I'd been very very scared, worse than by the cane, and I couldn't call him. I couldn't even e-mail him. He's my BOYFRIEND, dammit! Well he had been... and all i wanted was to fire off an e-mail and tell him what had happened and that everything hurts and he would have written back "don't cry, kitten..." and asked if i had done this and this and that to take care of it and promised to call me that night.

And instead, I went to the ladies room and sat on the toilet and cried.

Matched set

Below are a pair of stories I've been saving up. Dominick wrote the first one in response to the fantasies he had elicited from me. It stunned me at first, and then brought forth my own version. Do please read his first. And keep in mind that mine was written with no in-the-flesh BDSM experience whatsoever.

This had not been my intent

written for me by dominick. see my version of the story here.
11 March 2007

I wrote this for you, and whilst it does not convey the intimacy i would like, it seemed to sate a creative streak i felt...
- - - - - -

this had not been my intent as I set out that evening, and I did not know what she expected would happen, but the progression felt entirely natural. I was curious, momentarily, as to what she was thinking as she lay on the bed, her hands bound above her head, her legs splayed, her feet secured at the far corners of the mattress, face downward, her head turned to one side looking at her upstretched arm. i would not consider myself a sadistic man, and certainly not lacking compassion for others, and was genuinely interested as I listened to her talk at the bar. i cared for her troubles, and I felt empathy as she described her sense of alienation, the troubles and travails of everyday life. it was not even that she was particularly alienated, she merely experienced the moments of ennui that we all feel. I really wanted her to feel a sense of companionship when I took her hand in mine, to let her know that she did have a friend, that I cared for her, despite having known her only a short time. we had laughed easily together, our conversation had been one lacking pretence, our gaze was one of shared warmth. having said that, I knew exactly what I wanted to do to her as I led her to the elevator and into the room that I was staying in.

I lifted her head slightly to slip the gag under it, forced her jaw open with my thumb and fingers on either side of her mouth, pushed it between her teeth, then clasped it at the back of her head. I moved the strip of fabric over her eyes and tied it, not too tight, behind her, ensuring that no light would reach her. I had asked, as we entered the room, if she trusted me, and she had said that she did. I looked at her, prone on the firm mattress, stretched, agape, and recognized that she was helpless, open to violation, mine. i ran my fingers gently from her shoulders down her back, and saw goose pimples rise on her skin, despite the warmth of the room. I kept running my hands down - over her buttocks, down her thighs, behind her knees and over her calves and saw her twitch slightly. I touched her lightly under her arms, tickling her, largely to see if the bonds were tight. Her muscles contracted and she pulled hard at the restraints, but could not move. I moved both of my hands firmly down each of her legs and felt the muscles under her skin pulled taught. I moved my hands back up the insides her thighs and felt the tendons on either side of her groin stretched to her legs spread wide across the bed. I pressed hard with my short nails until I could see faint red lines trail behind them. I sat astride her, the woolen fabric of my pants rough against her, as my fingers moved over her, pressing hard, creating four lined figures of eight on her skin. I moved down her body, my hand between her legs, fingers moving along her wide open sex, finding her wet, casually pushing against the contrast of soft flesh made hard as it became engorged, wiry hair and soft, tender slick skin, enjoying exploring the way that she felt. I made my fingers damp with her secretions, then spread her cheeks apart and moved my finger to her butt, resting it gently for a second against the sphincter, then pushing it a short way inside, watching the involuntary constriction at the touch, feeling the tightness of the muscle. then I stood, moved to the chair, retrieved the long slender crop, came back to the bed, raised it high above my head, kept it there for a short time, then brought it whistling down through the air, continuing the downward pressure as it hit both her buttocks hard, quickly wrapped down around her body then sprang back again, much as she moved her hips downward to escape the sensation, then brought them back up again. As I took the black rod away from her skin, I could see the red welt forming, a line neatly creating a perpendicular intersection across the skin, extending from one side of her body to the other. I raised the rigid strip of woven leather again, and repeated the downward motion, noticing the tension in her jaw as she anticipated the imminent sting, coming into contact with her slightly below the previous line, leaving it there for a short time. I could see her body wince as leather hit flesh, her head rose from the bed slightly, her hips moved down and the muscles in her legs flattened. I repeated the motion with the crop, bringing it down to create striations at small intervals from the top of her thighs to the small of her back. I then chose a single spot and brought it down ten times at that one place. I could almost see the blood rising to the surface of her skin, which was not quite broken.

she now lay still, the tensing and relaxing of her body seemed to have slowed. the blows did not rain upon her, but came in steady, almost hypnotic intervals. I brought the lash down one last time, then slowly took it away and moved to the side of the bed, lent down and felt the red skin. it was unnaturally warm to the touch, a strange contrast in color to the rest of her body. I reversed the earlier process, removing the blindfold, unclasping the gag, untying her feet then her hands. I stepped back to the chair, lit a cigar and watched as she blinked in the unexpected light, slowly moved her body, trying to find positions that did not cause her pain as the blood came back to her limbs. she rolled herself into a fetal position and self consciously wiped the tears from her eyes.

- - - -

comment by the author on 24 March:

the greatest difference between the story and reality is the end - to purport that I would be that cold after such a session is a little ridiculous - it would imply that I am completely callous, and although I may fantasize like that at times, or carry a scene through to a callous end, such as lighting a cigar and sitting back, the real end is when I offer comfort and tenderness. the fun of a scene is, to a degree, the closeness that develops, the trust and the intimacy, and having developed that, it is impossible to not be tender having administered so much pain, irrespective of the degree to which the person receiving the pain craves it. the tenderness may be the two you lying afterward, having had sex as a natural progression from the play, relaxing, or, especially, after a hard spanking, having had anal sex, which seems to develop a special bond.

We met in a bar

[my response to dominick's story. i appended the note at the end when i sent it to him. read his first.]

11 March 2007

We met in a bar.

A bad way to begin. I don't go to bars. And yet. We
met in a bar.

We met in a hotel bar. I was at loose ends, waiting
for things to fall into place. It was Spring. I was
restless. And I don't think straight in the Spring.

I sat at the bar. Even if I did go to bars I wouldn't
sit AT the bar. But it was Spring. I was restless. Not
thinking straight. Pretending I was in a movie.

It was like in a movie. A man sat down next to me. He
offered to buy me a drink. He didn't flinch when I
requested a Coke. Not diet. When it came, he led me to
a table. With a strong hand and an outstretched arm.
Well, a strong hand anyway, in the small of my back.
He wasn't leading me out of Egypt. But he definitely
had a goal in mind. I thought I knew what it was. When
all the time the audience was yelling No! Don't do it!

It was like in a movie. We sat at a table. We talked.
He listened well, and revealed enough to make me feel
comfortable. I did feel comfortable. And something
else. He was clearly in charge, a trait that only
recently I'd begun to find appealing. He sat
kitty-corner to me, not across the table. Our knees
kept bumping. He put his hand over mine, out of
understanding, it seemed. With affection, it seemed.
With confidence, most surely.

It was like in a movie. It was Spring. I coudn't think
straight. He was in charge. Whatever he asked for, I
would agree to.

I excused myself to go to the ladies' room. I felt his
eyes on me as I went. I found that my panties were
wet. I was not surprised. He knew my panties were wet.
I was sure of it. If he didn't know it before, he read
it in my eyes when I came back to the table.

It was like in a movie. He paid the check, helped me
out of my chair, took my arm, and led me to the
elevator. There was no need to discuss it. It was
Spring. I needed to get laid. I trusted him. Must have
been the accent.

He asked me if I trusted him. I told the truth, though
suddenly I wasn't so sure. But I ignored my doubts.
Something was making me ignore my doubts. I no longer
felt quite in control.

It was like in a movie. But I was no longer sure what
kind of movie. He took me in his arms. His kiss was
perfect - soft enough, firm enough, commanding enough.
He knew what he was doing. And it worked. I was ready
for anything.

He undressed me slowly and deliberately, running his
hands meditatively over each part of my body as he
revealed it. He kept his clothes on. He led me to the
bed, reaching for a bag on the way there.

It was like in a movie. I was watching it and I was in
it. Everything seemed to be happening very fast, but
in fact proceeded with steady focused care. He pulled
me down on the bed, onto my stomach, and straddled me.
I observed from a distance as he bound my hands above
my head. I felt ropes go around my ankles, and my legs
were stretched further apart than I'd ever managed on
the machines at the health club. There was strain,
but nothing I would actually classify as pain. Not
yet. That would come later.

Part of me was becoming alarmed, the part that was
still in my body. The observer wanted to see how the
movie ended. So I did not protest. He stroked my hair
and I looked up questioningly, but did not protest.
And then I couldn't protest, because now there was a
gag in my mouth. And then I wasn't looking at
anything, because he had blindfolded me. And now i was
truly frightened. And also frightfully aroused.

I stopped thinking. Now that I couldn't see, I focused
on feeling. I felt my helplessness, I felt the
bondage, I felt my vulnerability, and I gave myself up
to whatever was about to happen. I knew this was
something I wanted. I might regret it afterwards, but
for now this was something i wanted.

I gave myself up to it. Whatever he had in store for
me, I would submit.

His hands started to explore me. This didn't seem so
dangerous. It was exciting. I gave myself up to his
hands, and looked forward to more.

When he moved away from the bed, I thought he was
going for condoms.

I heard the first blow before I felt it, although I
didn't recognize it for what it was. The pain across
my buttocks was sudden, sharp. I would have gasped if
I hadn't been gagged. The inability to make any
comment drove me deeper into myself, but didn't lessen
the pain any. If anything, it increased my focus on
it. I braced myself for the invariable next one. Which
came, quite dependably.

There was something particularly appalling about the
deliberate, cold nature of the assault. He didn't say
a word. He landed one stroke after another on my
thighs, buttocks, and lower back. Even as the pain
melded into one huge mass, I could tell with the now
very small observer part of my brain that he was
carefully planting the stripes in a predetermined
pattern. Finally, he started whipping the same spot
again and again, and the observer disappeared. There
was nothing left but the pain. The helplessness and
the pain.

Finally, it was over. Still silent, he removed the
restraints in the reverse order they had been applied.
He moved away from the bed. I heard him settle into
the chair. It felt as if he were watching me. I heard
a match strike, and then smelt a cigar. A small part
of my old self flared up inside me. I hate cigars. But
it wasn't enough to wake me from the trance he had
whipped me into. I curled up in a fetal position, the
only position that didn't add to the pain. I curled up
and wept.

We met in a bar. It felt like a movie. An indie movie
showing at Sundance. A movie the audience might not
understand. The audience would see me weeping. The
End. But there was one more challenge left for the
filmmaker. How to make the audience know that the
whipping had driven out everything that was inside me.
And that, as the tears subsided, all that was left was
a deep peace.

NOTE: The interpretation of the woman's response was
pure speculation. I would be interested in hearing
your observations from experience.

Turning in an incomplete

please forgive me, master. i'm about two-thirds of the way done with a post about today's adventures Obama-izing, but am now too sleepy to finish. i promise i will complete my assignment tomorrow morning (or at worst tomorrow afternoon), and in the evening will give my readers the treat of receiving the story dominick wrote for me along with the one i wrote in return.

and now, to sleep... naked and cuddled down into the cool sheets, with that hot little kitty slut ketzel staking out turf at my feet. don't you wish you were holding my nakedness in your arms, tormenting my nipples as they reached towards November?

Hot and Buttery

I've had a cock up my ass exactly once. Or maybe not. There is some disagreement on the matter.

It happened (or didn't) quite a long time ago. A gentleman of my acquaintance and I had finally allowed our mutual attraction to overwhelm our efforts not to complicate a perfectly good friendship. Still, my self-deluding mind managed to maintain my favorite fiction that "everything-but" equaled not at all, so when he (quite reasonably under the circumstances) attempted vaginal entry I pushed his penis away with a not very persuasive "No." What followed took me completely by surprise. He rolled me over, got on top, and entered me from behind. The question is which orifice did he enter.

At the time I was quite naive. It really didn't feel like he'd made it into the expected hole. It didn't hurt much - his organ, while effective, is not all that big. But it sure didn't feel like he'd made it into where he was supposed to be. My assumption was that he had missed the target, as I couldn't imagine that he really meant to fuck my ass. Or maybe he thought that this would be a legal way to respect my half-hearted protest and still get relief. Whatever it was, I was too embarrassed to say anything about it until years later. But when I brought it up he denied its having happened, saying that if he'd been in there he certainly would have remembered.

Whichever hole he breached, the result was unquestionable. My nether regions were thoroughly eroticized. Whenever I was having sex, my ass was aching for action. Not just my anus; the whole thing. I wanted to be touched, massaged, spanked, and whipped. There were lots of fantasies featuring a cat-o'-nine-tails. As time went on and I learned more about what could be done, I dreamed of gang rapes that including fierce and brutal ass fucking. I'd have given anything to have my lover insert his finger into my anus. The desire made me nearly scream, but I couldn't bring myself to verbalize it. I'd think I was dropping sufficient hints by responding enthusiastically to any stimulation within a mile of the magic spot, but obviously my moans and wriggles weren't a clear enough signal.

When I finally embarked on my epistolary erotic adventures, I noticed in my correspondents an enthusiasm about anal sex that I had never witnessed in my flesh-and-blood-and-semen partners. This corroborated what had been showing up over the last few years in the huge collection of erotica I was steadily accumulating. I reacted with fear and longing and immense curiosity, which led me to pose some very direct questions.

Somehow, my obsession with having my butt abused was conveyed fairly early on to Harry, and it featured largely in his professed lust for me. The electronic nature of our relationship made it a lot easier for me to question him directly about the attraction of taking me in that way. As I've mentioned before, I haven't told him about this blog so as not to feed his continuing hunger for me any further. Therefore, I don't want to include large parts of what he wrote me. Too bad, as some of it is quite juicy. He gave a very detailed, step-by-step description of the process which was equal parts instruction manual and attempted seduction. But aside from all the other reasons I had for refusing his requests that I surrender my anus to him, there was fear of his cock. He loved to say how fat it is. And that sounds just plain scary. I'm sure he's very skilled at what he does, but it just didn't sound all that alluring. Long and thin would have been fine, but I just didn't see a double-wide kielbasa in my ass's future.

Of course, I also posed my question to Dominick, and I do have his permission to present our discussion here. Plus, I love sharing his writing, and only wish there were more of it. As always, his images and use of words, combined with self-reflection and analysis, taught me a lot from both emotional and intellectual vantages. His mentoring helped prepare me somewhat for the reality that lay ahead. Somewhat but not fully. The reality of submission is far greater than any analysis, than any fantasy.

In my role as the ever-curious student, in the midst of answering his very probing questions, I asked: "I also wonder what the big turn-on is for men in anal sex. Is it the aura of the forbidden? is it the tightness of that orifice? the different texture within that passageway? Is there a greater feeling of violation and perhaps even one of rape because of the greater force required to penetrate? "

My mentor replied: "Lastly, you asked about anal sex. I think that the factors you mentioned certainly come into play - there is incredible tightness there, and a slightly different feeling when moving in and out - one that seems hotter and slightly buttery, being gripped from all sides, viscosity which is not the same as being in the pussy. It really is a delicious sensation. But it also sort of embodies all the things that we were talking about before - there is that sense of taboo, but also one of a degree of sadism, but sadism that you know the body can handle and even enjoy if it is done right, that real sense of doing something to another person, it is an act which requires a degree of strength - you have to push harder, you may have to hold her harder at first to make it work - there is that sense of male muscles working to exact pleasure, which feels good. and lastly, and I am usually loathe to admit this, but most women who enjoy anal sex talk of it as being, to a greater degree than vaginal intercourse, a creator of a sense of togetherness, partly because the woman feels that she is being more giving of herself, and also more filled. and that sense of providing something that a woman enjoys definitely creates a degree of reflected glory. there is, of course, pleasure in giving."

I know you are all dying to ask why the philosopher hasn't satisfied my curiosity. It would be easy to pass the delay off to his inherent sadism, but in fact we just haven't gotten to it yet. There is so much to explore, on top of which there is that maxim of the theatre to always leave them wanting more.

I am a greedy little kitten, and I do always want more.

[For another take on the current obsession with anal sex, visit this post by Duke Orsino.]

The Inquisition

dominick's reply to my craigslist post stunned me. he struck hard at my embarrassing desires to be bound and beaten, but with a grace and compression of style that was completely missing in any of the bdsm ads i'd seen posted on craigslist. my reply ended in an attempt to let him know that this was what i was after:

Please continue to weave your web of words around me
now that I am bound to your bed, exposed to your view,
and helpless before your desire. You have captured me
with my own fantasies, somehow divined, and I beg you
to help me explore them more, thru your powerful
words. What happens next? And what can I do, within
the limits of our words, to bring you the pleasure you
have already brought me?

I await your command.

the rest of this post is his response. a long string of questions. i responded in utter submission. it never occurred to me not to supply anything he asked, although it took two long letters to do it.

he gave me a lot to think about. i wonder how different my answers would be now...

in the correspondence that followed, we returned to the issue of his "cold and clinical" desire to cause pain.

i love how he starts off with fairly straightforward questions and grows more and more intrusive, until finally his questions become bluntly arousing descriptions of sex and spanking, bondage and pain. my mind swam with the images he presented, thinking so THIS is what could happen to me... my cunt salivated, and i latched onto the image of his belt coming down on my ass. i claimed it for masturbation stimulation, until the philosopher brought my fantasy to life and proved it was all i'd hoped it would be.

= = = = = = = = = = =

what can you do, within the limits of our words, to bring me pleasure ? lay yourself bare, describe yourself...

tell me about your physical features. how tall are you ? how old are you ? how much do you weigh ? what size clothing do you wear ? do you have freckles, or is your skin without blemish ? do you tan well ? how would you describe the color of your skin ? what is your ethnicity ? what color are your eyes ? what color is your hair ? how long is your hair ?

tell me about your sense of personal style. is black a predominant color in your wardrobe ? do you think that great design can be found inexpensively, or that great design always comes at a cost, and everything else is a compromise ? do you feel comfortable in tight clothing, or do you feel excessively on display when too much of yourself is bared ?

describe your reaction to physical sensations. are you ticklish ? does it hurt when you are waxed ? do you dislike being waxed or see it as a necessary process, or even enjoy it ? how often do you exercise ? how do you exercise ? do you exert yourself until you are exhausted, or maintain an activity for a predetermined period of time ? do you exercise in the mornings or in the evenings ? how can you determine the onset of your period ? do you get acne ? can you feel your mood change ? do certain areas on your body become more sensitive ? when you begin to seduce yourself, as you fantasize, do you find yourself running your hands gently over your body, enjoying the sensation of your touch on your skin, or squeezing yourself hard, almost trying to cause pain ? do you use lubricant or lick your finger to create initial wetness, or is this necessary at all ? do you find that when you masturbate, you only require, or want, clitoral stimulation, or do you want to be penetrated also ? do you penetrate yourself with your finger ? which one ? how many ? do you have toys ? do you ever touch your anus when you masturbate ? do you find the idea of touching your anus repugnant ? when you touch your anus, whether with your finger or with something else, do you find it possible to relax enough to insert the digit ? is the sensation pleasurable ? do you always orgasm when you masturbate ? do you find that you can have orgasms of varying intensity when you masturbate ?

tell me about the last time that you had sex. how long ago was it ? how much did you like the partner ? was he well endowed ? did it matter to you ? were you exceptionally turned on by the time you had sex, or was it a perfunctory performance ? did foreplay include elements that were physically painful to you ? would you, or did you find it arousing to be caused pain ? why ? does the concept of pain change with your level of lust ? describe the sensation of being penetrated. is it possible to describe the physical sensation without involving emotional overtones ? is it merely, or absolutely, a sensation of togetherness, connectedness, or are there also elements of being taken, of giving yourself ? do you always orgasm as a result of sex ? if not, what percentage of the time would you not experience orgasm ?

you say that you have never felt restrained or restricted. what is your expectation as you lie there, helpless, perhaps slightly uncomfortable, on display, revealed to me ? do you imagine that I will act only tenderly to bring you pleasure, that I will, perhaps, go down on you, tease the tender flesh of your clit with my tongue, caress the nerve filled swell of your nipples ? do you imagine that I will exact the physical pleasure that your body can provide as you lie immobilized - force my cock between your lips, fill your mouth with its hardness, move it slowly out and then back in until it is slightly too far, creating an unpleasant but unavoidable reaction in the back of your throat ? that as you lie there, with your legs spread, the tendons on either side of your groin taut, your pussy slightly parted and your hands lashed to the head of the bed, that I will enter you, the undoubtedly accommodating flesh stretched as you feel me push against the many slicked nerve endings inside you. that I will push against you hard, filling and withdrawing, intent on exacting the sensations that only a warm, wet cunt can provide ? do you imagine that my desire may tend toward the more sadistic ? that, as you stand bent before the low dresser, your face pushed into its hard, wooden surface, your legs straight, the swell of your pert posterior taut as it bends at an acute angle, my cock buried deep inside you, that my joy needs you to feel the sharp sting of my hand on that stretched flesh before me. does the obvious passion of my pleasure allow you to bask in the reflected glow of each red imprint that I leave on your ass ? is there a mixing of the blissful heat that spreads from your crammed cunt and the burning of the spreading crimson across your flesh ? how would you feel if that same desire to hurt was more cold and clinical ? if you were, instead, lashed to the bed, your head turned to one side as your breasts pushed into the mattress, your ass exposed and nervous in the warm breeze that washes over it, and you heard the slide of my belt from the loops in my pants. does your fantasy of forced acquiescence include the sing of the leather through the ear for a split second before it spreads across your buttocks ? can you find pleasure in the welt that extends across the cheeks ? does this desire to hurt on my part, without an obvious degree of gratification, diminish the fantasy for you ?

tell me about the best sex that you have ever had. are there a number of "best" experiences, which are different ? what made these experiences the best ? is it possible to have "best" sex without entwining the emotions that you felt for your partner in the evaluation. can the best sex be purely a set of physical sensations ?

My First Dom

i will call him dominick.

which is not his real name. i don't know his real name. it's not his e-mail name, either. he asked me not to use that, which is a pity, because i couldn't make up anything i like as much. it has a grace, an implication of superiority finished off with an arabesque that gives the whole a touch of wry self-deprecating humor.

dominick responded to my craigslist ad perhaps an hour after the philosopher did. and his response froze me in my seat and seared my conflicted erotic soul.

i was very shy and, frankly, embarrassed about my fantasies of bondage and spankings and whippings. i couldn't bring myself to weave them into my ad in any blatant fashion. the best i could manage was a reference to "pushing our fantasies to their edge" and hoped this nearly invisible signal would lure the demons i sought.

when i asked later, each of the sadists denied noticing anything to make them think i was open to their fantasies of pain and dominance. but somehow, of the four best writers, three were admitted devotees of bdsm to some extent, and the fourth revelled in maintaining a stunning level of control of erotic encounters.

dominick was the last of the three doms to respond, but the first to mention ropes and pain. the philosopher's screen name and e-mail address referred to cruelty and The Story of O, but his words, while arousing and poetic, contained no hint of what simmered beneath.

i wish i could share dominick's words with you, but here, too, he asked me to hold back. there is the possibility that he might start his own blog, and he wants to reserve first right of refusal for himself. i do hope he starts one. there are relatively few doms with blogs, and fewer still with dominick's spare writing style and introspective clarity.

control screams from his words, in his message entitled merely "Words." he was miserly with his words. precise. i suspect that his bondage style is the same, using no more rope than is needed to get the job done, but with each wrapping around wrist and ankle lying in perfect proximity to its neighbor, each knot precisely placed for security, stimulation, and aesthetic effect.

dominick was the inspiration for my obsession with the possible existence of a dominant aura. if i met this man, if i didn't already know his tastes, would i feel his nature encircling my throat and my cunt? would i detect an aura of command in his voice as we volleyed meaningless phrases? if he placed his hand in the small of my back to lightly steer me through a door, would i welcome it as a sign of possession?

i have not met dominick in person, and by now we know too much about each other for a blind taste test to be feasible. i did meet dom #2, whose response popped up just minutes before dominick's. dom #2, whom i will call harry, became obsessed with fucking my ass, the virginity of which obsessed me, too. he wrote well, we corresponded for a while, and i finally agreed to meet him for lunch in a public place. i was already falling in love with the philosopher, but curiosity got the better of me. i knew i had no intention of ceding my ass, or any other body part, to anyone but the man who now owns me. still, the lunchtime rendez-vous seemed a good way to pursue my research.

the lunch was not a great success. i was nervous from harry's aggressive e-mail pursuit of me. dominick's detachment and meager correspondence were much more enticing than harry's oft-stated desire to claim me with shibari and buggery. physically, he did not attract me. i had expected this from his photo and age (about 5 years older), but one look confirmed it.

what ultimately killed the search for signs of obvious dominance and invalidated any results i might have gleaned was that harry, sensing my trepidations, decided to deliberately repress any gestures of dominance he might otherwise have displayed. unfortunately, this also served to distance his physical manifestation from his epistolary personality. we haven't met since, though i do still receive occasional testimony to my continuing existence as a source of erotic wishful thinking.

i always wondered why dominick never showed any interest in meeting, unlike most of the men who wrote me. i sometimes picked up an unidentifiable impression of distance, but decided that must mean he lived in one of the northern virginia suburbs of dc. to a resident of the maryland suburbs, that was as good as living in the antipodes, due both to misperceived physical distance and to virginia's general antipathy to gay rights and other liberal causes. dominick's use of "whilst" hinted at a british background of some flavor, and it turned out he was indeed originally from the antipodes. only recently did i discover that, like the philosopher, he was cruising craigslist that night from another city when he stumbled on my message in an online bottle.

our conversation continued in fits and starts. replies from him were rare but always welcome. they challenged me, they excited me, and they educated me. he bombarded me with questions. my answers clarified my desires and, i suspect, stimulated his own. it was dominick who inspired in me the specific desire to be spanked with a belt, which occupied my fantasies until the philosopher finally splashed his own belt across my buttocks, to the delight of us both.

i do have permission to share the rest of our correspondence, along with a story he wrote for me, which i will do over time after confirming his assent to each piece. we still write each other, as friends of a sort, i suppose. i update him on the progress of my relationship with the philosopher, and his replies and questions and interpretations of my experiences feed my unquenchable desire to understand. he does read this blog, and i hope he is pleased with my representation of our mutual dealings. if he feels moved to comment publicly i will be delighted, but have no expectations of that. one does not have expectations of such a man.

he is, after all, a dom.