Love in the frame

We made love today.

This is not our usual habit.
Not that we don't love each other.
We each love the other.
I say it often.
He has said it rarely,
which makes the words
more precious. They still
hang there
in the air,
in my ears
barely heard,
never gone.

So yes.
We love.
But we don't usually make love.

Oh, we have sex.
Lots of sex.
Every week.
Occasionally,
very occasionally,
when possible,
twice a week.

But we don't usually make love.

We are together in many other ways. All the other ways that we are, all the other people that we are, to and for each other. Not pretending, not role-playing, not "How about I be the older married writer and you be the younger married waitress and I follow you home and fuck you in the outdoor shower." (If you haven't been watching The Affair on Showtime you really should. Really. Rich. Intense. Painful. Real.)

So no.
It's not a game.
I've said that before.
We've said that from the start.
Everything -
all the ways we are together -
this is our reality.
And we risk everything if we lose sight of that.

Besides.
He's a sadist.
And my submission is in the core of me.

But today...

Ah, today.
We sat together and talked as friends.
Which we are, you know.
Friends.
But that's probably even more
dangerous to admit
than our being in love.
We mustn't become confused.
Do you understand?

Still.
Today.
We sat on the bed and talked.
As friends.

I looked very beautiful today. White bra and white panties were his requirement for when I let him into the house, and I sat there on the bed in my white bra and white panties, looking overweight, yes, but beautiful, my still naturally red hair tumbling down my back and - for the first time - a white artificial gardenia pinned in the waves on the left side of my head. He smiled when he saw it, which was my intention, as he hadn't felt well and hadn't slept and I wanted to make him smile. He wanted me as his mistress today, and I wanted to make him smile.

So we sat on the bed and talked - mostly he talked - about his health and his night and the restaurant he'd be going to and a movie he saw. He was reclining slightly against a pile of pillows - his pasha throne - his shirt still on but eventually his jeans and underpants off and I sat there in my white cotton bra and white cotton panties with my right hand fondly fondling his cock and his scrotum and we were like the long-time lovers that we are but not necessarily the kind that are limited to once-a-week visits so there was no urgency, there was just happiness, until finally he figured fucking could be a good idea or else later he'd be desperate and his cock would scream at him and it would be too late, I wouldn't be there.

He must have flicked a switch in his brain, unleashed his cock, because suddenly it responded. It lengthened and swelled in my hand and even then there wasn't the urgency, the sadist was completely absent today, we were, dare I say it, a couple today, and as he eased me onto my back and lowered himself into me and brought his face to mine and his lips melted into my lips melted... have I ever said that his kisses are... but a description wouldn't do, how can you describe a perfectly ripe peach to someone who has eaten only apples?

And there were his eyes.
The sadist had stayed home.
My Daddy,
my Owner,
my Master,
they had all stayed home.

There was just love.
Soft comfortable love.

And when he came,
and after he came,
the smile in his eyes...

Beautiful, he said.
It was beautiful.
And this time, he wasn't just talking about me.

I suppose all this is my attempt to capture the moment. Keep it. Save it. So I won't forget because I do forget things, except this I don't think I will ever forget. There are moments together I have never forgotten and this must, surely, be one of them.

I want to pull it out of the crowd. I want to take this stone out of the little black velvet bag of so many precious stones, and lay it out on a cloth, and hold it up to the light, and set it in a ring so it can stand on its own and not get lost or diminished in all the memories of the past 6 years and the anticipated memories of the years to come. We worked hard to get to this point, we suffered a lot to get to this point, and today, I think today as our bodies joined in love and friendship, he showed that he trusted me with his vulnerability. And I trusted his trust so much that I allowed myself to mention it. And his carapace was so completely discarded, at least for the day, that all he did was softly smile.

Later, he sent me this song.

Delicious

3 kinds of nipple clamps.
Chains and leather bands.
One big black flogger.
And an orgasm.

Oh yes.
And a massage.

I wasn't even going to say that much.
My Master seemed disappointed.
He said I should add "More to come."

Was he talking about another post?
Or another event like today's?

In any case, it was a wonderful way to welcome Spring.

Thank you, Daddy.
And... to the other guy.

Summoned

We're working our way back.

Slowly working our way back towards where we were before the weekend we went away. Before the weekend when the beast bared his fangs, dripping with saliva, devoid of conscience.

Today, for the first time since that trip, he said the magic words.

Good girl.

But let's back up.

Saturday afternoon, the truth dawned.
A very telling truth.
Because consider this.
We were in such a place that we
each
could assume the other had decided to walk away.

A very sad state of affairs.

But there we were, on Saturday, realizing that he thought I had stopped communicating while I had thought he had stopped communicating.

I screwed up.
I really did screw up.

1. his statement when we began - that if I violated a certain rule (a very understandable rule with which I have no argument whatsoever) he would end it without another word - applied to one particular issue. One particular case. One particular topic. Very clearly defined. There was no reason for me to think it applied to anything else.

2. mostly because he is so busy and has so many responsibilities, it has happened before that he has gone more than a day without writing. In which case, when it has gone on so long that I'm worried something has happened to him or Yahoo has turned on him again or I unwittingly said something really wrong, I WRITE HIM and say Daddy? Is everything OK? Which is a perfectly reasonable thing for one person to say to another when they are in an intimate relationship. Even when it's a D/s relationship, and one that's as intense as ours obviously is.

But the various responses we had to our night away set this up.
And we each were hurting.
Badly.

He...

To understand how much I hurt him... making him think I had left... realizing how much I mean to him... not only did I feel terrible at having hurt him that way, but to know I could hurt him that way... to know I met that much to him.

I'm not used to meaning that much to someone.
It's hard for me to absorb.

Back to the weekend.

Saturday afternoon, we sorted it out.
I wrote my post.
And then wrote a long apology.
Which I couldn't send till the next morning.
Because he didn't want to hear any more from me that night.

The next morning, there was a one word message from around 1:30 am, asking why he should devote any more time to me.

Damn, I thought.
I thought we were going to be OK.
But I know what happens to him in the middle of the night.
I know what can happen as he lies awake in his bed.

I sent off my apology, and then tried to formulate an answer to his question. Obviously not an easy assignment. It's hard not to sound false when you're writing. Then a message came. Saying to stop trying to answer last night's message. He'd give me a chance to apologize in person. And to get him off.

I was to meet him at 11 am in a parking lot in his town.
Shorts and t-shirt.
No bra.

Which gave me just enough time to shower, dress, feed the cats, and snarf down enough breakfast to allow me to take my usual morning handful of medications. Luckily, as I'm finally losing some of my winter weight, I was able to fit into some very short shorts and a sweet little black short-sleeved sweater with a low neck that I had bought for his pleasure because it buttons all the way down the front. No bra as ordered. Also no panties. And a cute pair of Dansko heels.

He really likes tops that can be unbuttoned all the way down.
And he really likes me in heels.

I arrived early.
I waited in the parking lot of a sort-of fast food restaurant.
The parking lot was almost deserted,
as was the lot of the entire mall.
It didn't feel it ever had a lot of cars.

At 11, he pulled up alongside me and motioned me into his car. As I approached, I slowed down to make sure he saw how little of my body was covered with cloth.

I got in.
Not a word.
He drove towards the mall stores and then back around to the garbage dumpsters.

He left the car running.
We'd need the air conditioning.

He opened his fly and pulled out his cock.

With my hand,
with my mouth,
I did what I do so well.
What he trained me to do.
How to please him
HIM.
Not just any man.
HIM.

We all have our preferences.

And I blubbered, sobbing wildly.
I don't know if I've ever cried like that before.
Because I felt
so
fucking
bad!

We'd both messed up,
we both made faulty assumptions,
we were both so damn vulnerable
because we both care too much
that we each were open to the idea that
we'd obviously
been rejected
by the other.

Make sense?

Well, yes, I guess, if you are at all vulnerable and at some level can't believe that the one who claims to care really does.

So oh my God I cried and sobbed and was at least mildly hysterical as I sucked and jerked and really, it was the best thing that could have happened because there is NO WAY that anyone could have doubted my sincerity.

No way.

And he did cum.
In a reasonable amount of time.

This wasn't like one of his visits where the idea is to extend his pleasure for as long as his cock and his schedule will allow. This was an event with a goal. And the faster we achieved it, the better.

Actually, two goals.

Get him off.
And prove my sincerity.

He still sounded angry when he drove me back around the parking lot and delivered me at my car. But the process had begun. Cautiously, we started working our way back. And unlikely as it may seem, I could sense a difference in tone from the week before in the emailed instructions he sent that night.

And today?

Ah, today.
Tonight.
A little bit of the Daddy I had said I was missing.
Something interesting from his work day.
And a request for help in finding a long-lost song

I appreciated the incident from work.

And I found the song!
Found the song
and a great music video.

He'd been looking for the song for years.
And I found it.
He was very pleased.
He said he was pleased.

And then

in a separate message

this:

...

 

...  Good girl

I am a very happy pet.
And I think we'll be OK.


PS - To avoid any similar misunderstandings, he instructed me NEVER to stop writing. It didn't matter if he took an hour, a day, a week, or a year to reply. I was NOT to stop writing. No confusion there. And very reassuring.

Verboten - Sturm und Drang

Nothing heavy today.
I have a job.
To serve him.
To serve his pleasure.
To ease his stress.

So nothing heavy today.
No discussions about whether we'll survive.
Just sweet, light, softly sexy words
to remind him of the delight his treasure brings.

To remind him of his mistress
and his loving little girl.

Cautious.
We were cautious.
And he's clearly disturbed about himself.
But at least he played along.

And who can resist a fantasy about a vintage Cadillac Eldorado convertible?

A very small vacation

I'm sitting in an armchair by the window of our room in a dumpy Holiday Inn. It's a good thing he doesn't like a lot of light, as 2 bulbs are dead. He's not here, anyway, being out with friends.

He's fretting, though.
He'd rather be with me.
He enjoys my company, he said.
 I know that.
Just as I knew I was his mistress.
Being a mistress is more than being a readily available pussy.
It's more than being a sex slave.
Though I am that, too.
Being a mistress
(not to be confused with a Mistress!)
means be enjoys your company.
Means being part of his life.
In whatever limited way is possible and appropriate.

I remember the first time we were here together.
Two years ago.

I remember waiting in the room, cold and naked, huddled cold and naked on the floor between the beds, waiting, waiting wondering what was lurking at the end of the wait. And now? He snuck away between engagements and met me in the bar downstairs. In public. In the bar. Sitting and talking, recounting his day. Enjoying my company. One ill-advised kiss beside his car and then he was gone, sending texts that he wished he could escape his friends and be back with me. To hang out. Not just to have his cock sucked.

Still.
Waiting, I am content.
Calm and confident and content.
I feel safe, too.
He is taking steps.
Precautionary measures.
Measures to protect me against the beast.
Steps to bar the beast from the room.


I am pleased.
And relaxed.
Relaxing after my work week in California.
I sit in the armchair
feet propped up
reading a book he told me about.
Reading a book he bought for me.
Reading a book that is exercising my mind.

I am happy.
I am relaxed.
And he will be here soon enough.

(Had to reformat this post once I got home. Blogger didn't recognize my iPhone's line breaks.)

Transitions

It's a shock to the system.
A tearful withdrawal.
More than the fading away of endorphins.
He was gentler than he has been.
A hint of apology.
But he's right.
He's always right.
We can't stay there.
We can't stay in that state.
That dangerous place.
That den of seduction.

The cradle of friendship confuses our minds.
We both got drunk on hours and intimacy.
So the e-mail came like a slap in the face.
A reminder of my purpose,
my duty,
my mission.

It's just to make him cum.

As if that were all.
Just that and nothing more.

I reel,
I fume,
I cry and I hate him.

He's lying, of course.
To me and himself.
It's armour, you know,
and once I recover,
recover and apologize
for something not my fault,
I know that he's right.

Right to wear the armour
after standing there so naked,
his balls resting on the chopping block
with a knife beside my hand.

The risks that we took were more than the obvious.
The danger was great -
and we'll do it again.
Not very often
but sometime
again.

And I think of his words
and remember his eyes
and the hours we shared
and I know that he needs me

and my eyes are as soft and as moist as my pussy
as I turn away my head and cry.

If you beckon, I will come.

You can blog about this, he said.
I don't want to blog about this, I think.

What would it mean to list what we did?
Where we met.
What I ate.
What he drank.
What we watched.
How many times we each went to pee.

The hours we spent
talking and laughing
challenging Google
on Iris DeMent.

What would it mean
if you weren't there?

What would it mean
to describe his delight
as we sat there for hours
in a neighborhood bar,
feasting on chicken wings,
chatting with bar maids,
my bright blue eyes sparkling
from won games of chance?

What would it mean
if you heard what his eyes said,
or smelled the desire,
or touched the shared music,
as we made out like teenagers
wrestling the front seat,
parked by the dumpsters
yielding to need?

You can blog about this, he said.
But you must tell me every word.

So I'll show him every word.

But not every word was written.
Not everything gets spoken
when mere presence says it all.

We sang with eyes and kisses
which don't lie the way that words can.
We spoke with smiles and kisses
and then parted in the dusk.

Tended, tenderly, with caresses and pain

I am writing from somewhere very high up.
Open.
Expanded.
Floating.

I must be coming down a little, because as I sit here naked in bed, awake from a very long post-orgasmic nap, I can feel the pain building in my spanked and belt-beaten butt.

He knew what I needed.
What I needed for myself.
And what I needed for him,
to put me in that place he wanted me.
That place in which he can enjoy me.

And beyond.
He coaxed out his little girl.
Which he needed and I needed.
And then he sent me further.
Deeper and higher.
Deeper and higher into that awe-inspiring slave place.

I'm supposed to report to him after.
After he is gone.
Report to him on the experience from my perspective.
What I experienced and how I felt.

But I was horribly frustrated. I couldn't find the words. That place, the journey, what I felt, what I knew, what I touched on, the understanding that was so profound yet wouldn't solidify into description as if it were some perfect psychedelic trip while held safe in the arms of the man who was both guide and the drug itself. Except I wasn't in his arms.

Well, sometimes I was in his arms.
As he kissed me.
He has a graduate degree in kissing after years of independent study and lab experiments.

But the rest of the time I was sucking his cock.
Or sitting in his lap.
Or lying on my belly as my bottom reddened beneath his belt.
Or pinned to the futon by his body as his cock sought my tight little butt hole.

Later, he whipped me with his belt as I was sucking his cock. By then I was already pretty high. I could tell he was beating me harder than before, but as always happens when I'm that high, it didn't hurt as much. I could feel the impact, and it hurt a little, but I wasn't suffering from it.

I wished he had beaten me longer then.
But it's not for me to ask.
Everything is for him.
Even when it's what he thinks I need, it's to make me into what will please him.

Except you know what?
I'm sorry to contradict my Master, but that's not wholly true.
He cares for me.
A lot.
What was that term he allowed himself to use during our last night together?
He's "extremely fond" of me.
And from the way he said it, you could tell how much those words meant.

Plus when I was away.
He gave me a gift.
Special dispensation.
The prime directive was set aside.
The one about giving him what he wants, and not what he doesn't want.

You can write anything, he said.
Anything I wanted.
Anything I needed to say.
He took down the wall.
He was my lover.
He was my friend.
He was my strength.

Which, in fact, he always is.
But it's not safe to be that way without the structure.
The carapace.
For so many reasons.

But those parts of us are as much of what we are to and with each other as the rest of them. It's just that they need to be kept constrained. Like the beast in a way. Ironic, no? But I completely agree. For so many reasons, it would never work.

But sometimes he takes down the wall.
He takes care of me.
So he allowed me to say whatever I needed.
And granted me an unheard of 4 orgasms to be spread over the 5 days.
Because he knew what I needed.
Because he wanted to take care of me.
Because he wanted to ease my pain.

While today, he knew I needed the pain.

And then.
After he came.
After I gave him the release he needed,
as I sat on the floor before him,
my head in his lap,
he stroked my head,
he stroked my hair,
gently and tenderly
for the longest time.

And I felt very dear.
And very treasured.
And very safe.

Girls talk - about sex! (What else?)

Lunch with the girls today.
Meaning my friends from work.
Friends!
I've almost never had friends at work.
Real friends.
Friends I can go out to lunch with.
Open up to.
Be myself with.

Well, almost myself...
I've told them in normal terms about my relationship.
But not about the BDSM part of it.

But I did mention today that I review vibrators.

(And I really do have to get back to reviewing. If for no other reason than I owe a review for the last toy I got. A toy I liked. But between work and family stuff and my writer's block... well, it just hasn't happened. Which is stupid. Because all I have to do is transcribe my comments to my Master as I tested it. Soon...)

Anyway.
I have these friends.
Young women.
One is 22, one is 30, and the third... maybe mid-twenties?

Three of us started at the same time, and then we welcomed in the fourth when she arrived a few months later. We had wondered if she'd fit in, because the three of us tended to let it hang out. Who knows why?

The newest one has a boyfriend. I've got my Master. The 30-year old is married but getting almost no sex since her pregnancy maybe 4 years ago. The 22-year old really wants to get laid. She's striking and sharp, very smart and very wry. Most people bore her, she says. A problem.

But not as bad as the married one's problem.
She's never had an orgasm.
Or doesn't think she has.
In chorus, the 22-year old and I sang out "You'd know it if you had one."

So we talked to her a little about vibrators.
I think we should have a little party and show her ours.
Tell her about the options.
Too bad there isn't a good store in the area where we could take her.
A real store, not on line.
One of those stores started by women.
Someplace like Good Vibrations or Babeland.

I did now find via Google something in DC, though I'm not sure of the atmosphere. If only we could get her to go exploring with us one day! Of course, she has a family to get home to. And I'm booked on Saturdays.

Anyway, it feels good having friends to talk with so openly. Relatively openly. At least to be open about being so sexual. It's a relief.

But tell them I'm a slave?
That my Daddy whips me with his belt?

Not a chance.

Speaking of the beast, I had to go back up north last weekend to see my mom again, who was back in the hospital with pneumonia. Which is not uncommon with a stroke. The same hospital in which Maurice Sendak died. (I was very sad about that - Maurice Sendak dying. I loved Where the Wild Things Are, which I didn't read until I was in college. To be able to be angry, to run away, to be among creatures who accept you and respect you. And then to be able to return home. To be welcomed home and loved. Not judged. It's hard, these days. With my mother so ill. Knowing that I disappointed her, and that she could not accept me for who and what I was. I struggle with a lot of feelings these days.)

Anyway, I hated being away from my Daddy, and hated not being there for him. But it meant he could visit his masochist slave, where the beast is let loose and, hopefully, some of the stress of wanting to torture me is relieved. It turns out that he took Saturday regular visits from his slave in order to give me that day, once I went back to work. I had just started wondering if that was the case when he told me. I felt bad. I knew how awful I'd feel if my visits were cut back so he could be with someone else instead. So I was glad that his slave would benefit from my absence, and hoped that my Daddy's hunger would be eased. Which it was. At least to some extent. We'll see. This Saturday we'll see.

Unless my mother dies.
I don't really think she's into going on.
I don't know.
Some of her being uncooperative is from the increasing dementia.
Dementia mainly from the stroke now.
But some... I'm not sure.
Sometimes I think she doesn't think it's worth it like this.

When your parents are in their 90s, you're always expecting The Call. But now, it's even more. Which will be hard. But a blessing, too, perhaps. Very hard on my dad, but also a relief. He's exhausted. And then... it will be a pity. Our relationship has been getting a lot better lately, from my having visits with him alone. Ah well.

I guess that, after all, there were other things to talk about.
Other than sex.
At least here.

Where I can ramble on.

Thanks for just sitting and listening.
Because that's another thing friends do.
Sit.
And listen.
Without judgment.

And now I think I'll go cuddle the cats.
Because they don't judge me either.

Of lovers and friends i still can recall

I'm back.
I was in New York.
New York City.
Brooklyn, actually.
Up for a big, wild, 2-day music festival.
And to stay with a friend.
A guy.
He likes me.

We've known each other for years, flirted for years, were lovers for a while but not a pair, if you know what I mean. It would have been so convenient if it had worked. Efficient. We're part of the same crowd, albeit a geographically scattered one.

I like him.
We like each other.
We're fond of each other, actually.
And the sexual tension had gotten really high back then.
But the truth is, the sex wasn't all that hot.
Even on a vanilla scale.
And for a relationship...
Well, he can be kind of crotchety.
Maybe more so as he's gotten older.
Which he has.
He's 10 years older than me.
But he's always drawn women to him.
Curious.
And always younger women.
Much younger women.

He wants to start things up again.
Wanted to have sex again, anyway.
I think it was last year.
And I turned him down.

Boy that felt good! To be the one in control. The one with power. Though I was sad in a way. I'd like to be close to him. But, as I said, the sex wasn't that good. And - even more important - it would risk messing up our relationship, which is what happened last time. I was hurt in a way last time, to which he was oblivious, and it took a while for things to become comfortable again. Which they very much are now. I'd love things to be physical without full-scale sex. To be physically affection, which we are to an extent, but maybe more. Snuggling. That would be nice...

The sadist was not happy last year when he found out I'd turned down an overture.

That I'd turned down... I guess I should give the guy a blog name. "Ralph" should do.

Anyway, the sadist is convinced I was created to give men sexual pleasure, and was duly pissed last year that I had turned down both Ralph and S---. So I did resume fucking S--- when he was here last year, and that was a good thing to do, but am being stubborn about Ralph because I care for him and don't want to fuck things up through fucking.

Still, it was nice to see him, and (in the house with plus-or-minus 10 other people depending on the night) we were comfortable and affectionate.

It was a good weekend.

There was one odd moment, seeing at the festival another old friend, male, who was widowed exactly 1 year ago. He asked if my significant other was into dancing. I thought of the sadist, about whom no one knows and to whom I would never think of applying the term "significant other." Then I realized the friend was referring back to the philosopher, who did come with me to the festival one January, a little less than a year after we met on line. It would have been nice to have seen him while I was up in New York. And then, after the festival was over but before I came home, I got a message from him asking if I'd gone. And later, saying he wished he'd known sooner, we cold have met for lunch. I hadn't told him... I felt shy about it... not wanting to put him on the spot, not wanting to be turned down if he didn't want to see me. I'm sorry now for feeling shy. I like him. I truly enjoyed his company. I was very happy for the time we spent together. Even leaving out the D/s, which perhaps I felt more strongly and more consistently than he did. I was happy being with him, and happy to learn what it was like to be friends with someone I loved. To spend time really together.

It would be nice to go back up to New York just to visit people.

The philosopher would be on the list.
The list of friends.
Whether or not lovers.

Friends are precious, and should not be lightly tossed aside.
Especially redheaded Irishmen.

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.

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?

He was there for me

I was upset.
The shooting.
It hit me hard.

I'm not sure why this one so much.
Anti-Semitism is nothing new.
Hatred is nothing new.
Guns, violence, crazies...
Maybe because it was 12 miles from home.
Maybe because I've been there.
Maybe because with Obama
this was supposed to be a new world.
And there are those out there
doing their best
doing their worst
to cover us with evil
and drown us in darkness.

When he accepted me into his service, he was very clear as to what he would not be for me. It was all very strict and specific, and there were many good reasons for that. "I am not your boyfriend, I am not your tennis partner..." etc. etc. Those are the ones I remember off-hand.

Still, as I became more and more distressed, I felt this irresistible urge to curl up next to him, curl up into him, feel his arms around me making me feel safe. Not possible. And not to be expected. Or anything like it.

But I wrote him an emotional e-mail.
And signed on to yahoo chat.
And waited.

He came.
He was there for me.
He came as a man.
No more and no less.
No dominance.
No posturing.
Whatever he may claim,
he was there as a friend.
And as a man.
He was what I needed.
And I would do anything for him.

True ownership isn't taken.
True ownership is earned.

And tonight, he owns me more than ever.

Stalled

I'm very creative in the morning.
Creative and... twitchy.
I settle down in my office chair
and my cunt twitches, waving its
hand in the air, saying
"me, me me, I know the answer!
Pick me!"
Erotic images tease my brain
and leak onto the pages of my
little writer's notebook.
And there they die.
I am a solar-powered poet
with an endorphin-dependent mind.
Deprived of fuel, I idle.
Instead, I swap sweet and
genial messages with my
wild Irish philosopher,
reckless no more,
his sadistic side on
hiatus, surfacing in the
sporadic kinky film plug.
We talk until bedtime.
I don my ex-slave shirt and
snuggle between cool sheets,
sinking into dreams of selkies
submitting to tamers of the sea.

Long distance can sometimes seem not so far

we were together last night.
the philosopher and i were together
or as close together as we could be
with 250 miles between us.
he wasn’t here for the party
of a dozen people and
homemade soup
and somersault salutes
and champagne celebration.
but he was here.
he phoned.
and phoned again.
and again.
every half hour or so
he phoned and we talked
and exulted and rejoiced
and we shared the victory
and we shared the speeches
and we shared the inspiration
and we shared the history
and tears of joy
and we were together
and i feel him here still.

Kitten has fans

I feel good about my writing. I'm proud of it and don't really need other people to tell me that it's good.

Except I LIKE being told by other people that it's good. Especially by other writers.

Now that feels a little scary, to speak of "other writers." But I'm getting used to it. And certainly my sadistic Svengali is helping with that. And what also helps is when someone writes me out of the blue and asks if he can include one or more of my pieces on his site.

This happened just the other day, when I received this message from A PUBLISHED WRITER. (You know, as in published on paper, as in I actually have a volume of erotica with one of his stories in it and I recognized his name!)

- - - - - - - -
Howdy! I really like your site and would like to exchange links with you.

My own blog, Frequently Felt, is "A lobcock of erotic trivialities, oddities, and miscellanea transcribed with jaundiced talent for naught but a boxing Jesuit indulgence by a disreputable posse mobilitatis" which is silly-speak for a blog featuring fun and weird sex stuff.

I often feature articles on sex and sexuality like reviews, interviews, erotic artists, podcasts and videoclips. Please feel free to use any of this content as long as you reference it came from me. I, of course, will do the same.

As M.Christian I am also an extensively published celebrity author of erotica ... "with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, and Filthy; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll."

Please feel free to check out my home site at www.mchristian.com for information on my works and other fun erotic stuff.
- - - - - - - -

So I checked out the sites, and they seemed safe enough (meaning I didn't think he was trying to steal the products of my occasional bursts of perverted inspiration), and decided ok, I'll let him have The Performance. And not only did he forward me a lovely little comment proving that the story had achieved at least part of what it was designed to do ("Yes, that was a good one, felt myself growing stiff...."), and flatter me by calling it "a great story", but he ended up sending a horde of horny readers to me.

I'd like to say two things at this point. The first is that, except for We Met in a Bar, none of these stories would exist without the philosopher. Even the ones I wrote by myself. They reflect our relationship, they drew on our shared fantasies, and eventually they drew on our living explorations of what had previously been no more than fantasies. My name is on them, but he is a co-author.

Maybe that's why I'm not writing any more stories. At least not at the moment. It's true that I'm spending a lot of time working on poems. Part of that is to please my demon muse, my demanding tutor who guides me with both praise and punishment. (Kitten wriggles in search of a more comfortable sitting position...) But it's not that stories are forbidden. It's only that my inspiration hasn't run that way. Even the darkest of the old stories are filled with a love and playfulness that I'm not quite ready to get back in touch with. And I do miss that. I miss writing the stories. I miss the old joint stories. And I miss the love and the playfulness.

The love is still there. It will always be there, Although I am at peace now with the break-up, and with the philosopher's reasons. And I accept his reasons, and I accept, finally, with all my heart, I do believe that it did mean something to him, and I think in fact that this was what I needed to be able to let go of the hope that things could go back to the way they were. This was what I needed to be able to move on, while still saying that he and our friendship are the most important things, and that my fiendish writing instructor is not a replacement.

All this is by way of an apology to new readers who stop this way after reading The Performance and any future stories on M. Christian's site. There are more stories listed under the label "stories", and I also encourage you to read the philosophers words under the label "philosopher." (Oh, I do stun myself with my creativity sometimes...) But for now, the new creative stuff will be by way of poetry.

There have been other fans, including a writer I met on FetLife who asked me to contribute something to a site of his (which I suppose I should be thinking about), and I have posted some of my stories on FetLife as well. I am also to be found on Love Boudoir as a "center-stage featured blog." And now I am getting really embarrassed about all this boasting, but mainly it's to call people's attention to these other sites who are being so nice to me - and to tell you other writers to check out M. Christian's blog and if you think you have anything appropriate, to send it his way. He is definitely looking for new talent.

Three more things - and please forgive me if my mind seems to be wandering tonight...

1. I get more referrals from persephone's obedience (my friend meg's blog) than from anywhere else. That's a good excuse for me to mention her in the context of this post, but really I don't need an excuse at all. She is involved in a relationship with 2 amazing people, and not only are her adventures fascinating, but her analysis of it all is thought-provoking and instructive. Do please check her out if you haven't already.

2. I forgot. Oh no, wait, I remember... more embarrassment... um... it has to do with... no. Well... it's that I really appreciate that these people want to put my stuff out there, but that the praise I get from just 2 people means more than all the rest combined... whether as those 2 precious words held dear by any submissive, or a beloved friend's "I really liked that one"... these mean more than anything. So there.

3. To my reader in A2 - I would love it if you'd e-mail me and say "Hi." GO BLUE!

And now that I've babbled on meaninglessly, I think I'll stop writing so I can go lie down on my stomach...

He says i'm beautiful

He says i’m beautiful.
i’m dubious.
He says we’ll work on it.
i look in the mirror.
i seem to have changed
and it’s not just the hair.
can beauty blossom
on the shores of sixty?
perhaps. and it helps
not crying every day.
but if i am beautiful,
and i’m hearing it more,
it isn’t really new.
and as my hair lengthened
over all these months
i grew into my self.
i glowed from being owned.
and even as we are
such friends as we are now
the glow is with me still.

I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night

Well, no.
Not really.
Even though tomorrow IS Labor Day here in the U.S.

I saw my master.
Just for a moment.

He may have inhabited my dream for longer than that, but that's all I remember. An image of how he was, crossing the street, the one and only time we met in his home town. I see him as he was, crossing the street from the train station, his tall body, his broad cautious face, his hair, long thick hair like mine is now... was there wind? I seem to see it caught by the wind.

He was my master then. So I say master now. Just for this dream.

He is my friend now. A very precious friend. We have made that decision - well, he made the decision to be nothing more than that, and I accepted the decision, and am committed to the friendship, and cherish it so yes, we made the decision.

I'm a little slow.
OK, I'm a LOT slow.
I just, as I wrote the previous paragraph, realized why I saw him and am having these thoughts.

Tomorrow, Labor Day, was to have been the end of the Summer Silence. The day of re-evaluation. The day to examine where we had been and where we were and where we were going. Except it already happened, on a day that is now hard to celebrate as an anniversary because it now marks both a beginning and an end.

I am so attuned to ritual and observances that my subconscious notes them for me should I turn my eyes away for even a moment.

Tomorrow, I suppose, we should celebrate our friendship.
Which is no small thing.
The philosopher doesn't really have friends.
Not close ones.
Not friends that aren't his siblings.
So I feel honored.
I have a number of friends.
And a few close ones.
But none like this.

So.
Friendship.

And yet.
I saw him last night.
And this morning,
when I came this morning,
I thought of him.
Whenever I cum,
whatever the immediate inspiration,
whatever the procedure that brings me there,
whenever I cum with those loud painful sobs
that burst from my lungs
that pour from my heart
sobs that cause Marko to jump from the bed

whenever i cum

i think of you.

You still own my orgasms
whether you want them or not.

The friend and the fiend

yes, i’m still here.

i know i’ve been quiet for a couple of days, but i’m ok. it felt like a very long week – vacation recovery will do that. and then there was the democratic convention every night…

the philosopher called me twice this week. the first time was Monday evening. i was not surprised. i was down in the dungeon – oops, i mean the family room – watching the convention, and i had taken the cell phone down with me. i’m not like most Americans, i don’t keep it with me all the time – well, i did when the philosopher owned me, he would be quite irate if he called and i didn’t answer.

however, in this case i took it down with me because i KNEW he would call.

i knew.

it has been a week of telepathy.

so he called to hear from my own lips about my adventure with Motorcycle Man. and i told him, though not all the little details of how MM did this or that to me. i told him the important parts – that he was in the room with me the whole time, and that i couldn’t cum without hearing him say “Cum, kitten. NOW!” and i explained what i had said here and here, that our friendship was the most important thing. which it is.

i’ve been thinking about that, now that we are spending time together again. phone time, and not daily, but still time together. because of how our relationship started, the erotic component, and then the D/s dynamic which developed and took hold, were the biggest parts. we did talk about other things, but we’re both into ritual, and the rituals took hold.

it was when we were together that we had the full beauty of the friendship, the perfect calm and comfort of each other’s presence. we talked all the time, but i think that if we could have shut up we could have been happily, silently together for hours and hours, because it felt like the most natural thing in the world to have him here, to curl up on the couch, to cook, to shop, to walk down the street hand-in-hand.

so yes, i am happy having a focus on the friendship, and even without being able to say that i am owned, i am back to feeling safe and calm.

which means i am off the market for now. i’m happy. i’m not looking for a boyfriend. i’m not looking for a dom. i’m not looking for a master.

but during our Monday conversation, the philosopher asked a very valid question.

what about the blog?
will i keep it going?
will it no longer be a sex blog?

of course i’ll keep it going!

i feel more complete reconnecting with my writer self... the stuff just bubbles up out of me, especially the poems. it’s embarrassing, really, how they just flow, i tend to discount them because of that – they’re not real, they’re not art, if i don’t have to slave over them.

so i certainly don’t want to give up the blog. but i was starting to feel a bit… dry. i can’t see writing every day about how happy i am that the philosopher and i are friends. and at the moment i feel uncomfortable about posting old conversations from my slave kitten days.

maybe a new picture of Marko each day?

naah… i don’t think so.

now, i’ve mentioned before that i’ve been hanging out at that electronic cocktail party called FetLife. and i’ve been both bemused and somewhat embarrassed at the little following i’ve collected there of horny 30-year old men. i do love it that they are undeterred by my clearly stated advanced age – very reassuring should i ever want to pursue anything further. but just because someone says he’d happily spank me doesn’t mean i’ll be offering my ass any time soon. i’m clearer about that now.

still, i keep feeling restless, and deprived of inspiration.

and then a few days ago a very odd and evil man contacted me. he is of course smitten with my writing (hey – i can be snotty occasionally, can’t i? – that’s what happens when a slave kitten is unchained…) and he understands the power of the mind in bdsm. so we’ve been corresponding for a few days and he has become my demon muse. the things in his fiendish mind trigger the dark side of my creativity and poems and vignettes have been springing forth. i’m feeling more vibrant now that i’m being creative again, because i really did miss it.

Sacrificial lamb in the alcove was the first creative product of this… what? i’m not sure what to call it. perhaps “collaboration” is as appropriate as anything. in a way i feel like he’s not only my evil muse but my patron. in his fantasies i think i am his poetic nightingale in a gilded cage (or at least that’s my image). he doesn’t want my body; he already has a slave as an outlet for his considerable sadism. he wants the products of my mind. he is a patron who pays with praise and inspiration, and i respond with pieces that reflect his mind as filtered through mine.

so watch for weird pieces, perhaps bizarre poems and vignettes that demonstrate how my imagination works in his service. i’m still hoping my creativity can become broader, i’d still like to be able to write things i can show my mother. but for now i will continue to produce these oddities.

and cultivate the garden that is my friendship with the philosopher.

Clarity

calm
centered
no longer crying

clear eyes
clear head
clear path
at least for now

as for you, my
coterie of suitors
persistent in your courtship,
i’ll talk with you
i’ll write to you
i’ll even flirt
(oh, i love to flirt)
but i won’t play with you.

someday maybe.
but not now.
i can’t now.
i don’t want to now.

i own myself.
i set my own bedtime.
i choose my own panties.
i obey my own orders.
and i’m bound to the truth.

[with thanks to Motorcycle Man, for being
kind and funny and understanding, and
showing me how cute i look in a leather collar,
and for helping me to see.]