Heart and cunt win again

Sometimes I think I'm sick.
Really.
Not just kinky.
Not just perverted.
But besieged by a merciless neurosis.

You should find someone else, he says periodically. Someone who can take care of you. I wish I could take care of you. I won't be able to take care of you. And he's right. Absolutely right. I do need someone to take care of me. I'm utterly broke, my physical health isn't so hot, my mental health is laden with diagnoses, and my job is worth doing if only for the insurance plan which gives me for free almost all of my pharmacopoeia of unusual size.

I should find someone I'd love in the ordinary sort of way. I love him. I do love him. But it's not the usual romantic sort of love. When I gaze into his eyes - and he insists that we hold each other's eyes, I get swatted if I close my eyes, he demands that constant connection - it's not the usual romantic connection. Not a swoony sort of thing. I don't have that swoony sort of lovey-dove feeling for him. He approaches the world in a strange sort of way, his friendliness comes with a helping of aggression, I wouldn't introduce him to my friends. He wouldn't fit with my gang.

I'd rather be with him.
This intense, possessive, tormented man.
He makes me feel safe.
Weird, no?
Says a whole lot about my upbringing.
It left me desperate for true intimacy.
And for acceptance.
Acceptance for what I actually am.
Encouragement to embrace my own reality.
Embraced for my own reality.
Admiration for my talent and beauty.
No one else ever talked about my being beautiful.

If I were smart, if my head could trump my... it's not even my heart, it's... it's my essence. If my head could trump my own essential truth, I'd be out looking for some rich guy to marry me and tell me I didn't have to work and he'd take me down to permanent sunshine from November through February and bring in someone to keep the house clean and neat because I'm clearly utterly incapable of doing that myself and I wouldn't have to worry about the prescription food for the cats or about spending my old age in a tent in the backyard with those cats while I rent out all 4 bedrooms in the house to pay the vet bills.

I turn 65 in February.

I stayed in my last marriage out of economic insecurity. I'd rather help the fiend embroider his fantasies of whoring me out to his friends than actually prostitute myself to another marriage as an albeit badly needed supplement to Social Security checks.

And no matter what happens in the future, I'll always have extraordinary memories of the hottest sex any almost-65 year old could possibly imagine.

The hottest sex most anyone could imagine, for that matter.

So there.
Take that, practicality.

On prosaic matters

My boss is gone.
Pushed out.
 
Happy me.


Yes.
I'm submissive.
Very much so.
But I don't grovel to just anyone.
I obey with respect.
Earned respect.
Which also means respect shown to me.

I'm looking forward to seeing what will happen next.
Meanwhile,
tomorrow,
Saturday,
I will suck my Master's cock.

Happy me.

SIRI is mine!

No, not the woman in my iPhone.
We haven't gotten that personal yet.
In fact we've hardly talked at all.

It's the other SIRI.
This one.

From LELO.
In purple.


The name "Siri", by the way, is Scandinavian, as is appropriate for a pleasure object (their term) made by a Swedish company. It is short for Sigrid, and means victory, wisdom, and beautiful. And it certainly was a beautiful victory to finally get one.

Free.
To review.

I was away at a conference this last week.
For work.
And I worked very hard.

Plus there was a long flight, and a 3-hour time difference, so I'm massively tired. Not a good thing just before running off to meet the sadist for our usual June hotel rendez-vous which got moved up to this weekend from its normal end-of-month date. At least it won't be 105 degrees this time! (That's Fahrenheit, for those of you using the other system. It equals around 40.5 C)

Anyway, someone at LELO had the not-inappropriate idea of having a booth at what was basically a medical conference. It was a bit of creative positioning which in fact made a lot of sense, and their booth generated both a lot of sales and a lot of talk.

There must have been a lot of vibrators going past the TSA agents on Thursday and Friday...

I bought (at a VERY reduced price) a little set of silicone balls to help with my Kegel exercises, and then - after explaining who and what I was (in a lowered voice, as I was there in an official capacity and didn't want people to know that I was also a sex blogger!) - begged for SIRI to be mine.

I probably begged harder than I had to.

So watch this space for a review, which will compare SIRI with my current standby, the LAYAspot.

Which reminds me that I do still owe EdenFantasys a review of the last toy they sent me. A very nice toy, too. Time to just get it out there - and BEFORE I do the one for SIRI. So keep an eye out for that as well.

And maybe I'll tell you a thing or two about my getaway this weekend.
If you ask really nicely.
Can you beg as shamelessly as I can?

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.

Daddy's pet: a Pavlovian success story. I think...

It was horribly embarrassing.
Even though no one but me knew.

We were in a departmental staff meeting. The director said that after this week he wouldn't need to check my work on a particular process.

"You're doing really well," he said.

Praise.

Do I even have to tell you what happened next?

Wet.
I responded as I always respond when praised.
My pussy became warm and swollen and wet.


Thank goodness I didn't blush!

And I feel NO attraction to the man whatsoever!
Nor is there any trace of dominance about him.

It was a purely Pavlovian response.

Perhaps I've been trained too well?

Being his little whore

He wanted his whore today.
Which has its advantages.
His whore's nose doesn't need blowing.
As opposed to his little girl's nose.
Or his emotional pet's nose.
There was none of that.
No crying.
No mooning.
No mourning the fact that this was our last Tuesday.

Which doesn't necessarily mean we won't have long visits any more. He says that quite a number of my Saturdays will be devoted to serving his pleasure. But no more regular thing.

I'm not worried, though.
I'm really not.
I feel calm.
Secure.
Treasured.
Happy.

And tomorrow I start my new job for real.
I start my job,
and my brain is waking up from its SADdened stupor,
and Daddy was VERY understanding about the effect of the SAD.

He challenged me today.
He said he wanted his whore.
Focused.
Detached
Working for him.
Working for his pleasure.
But he wanted to see me struggle.
And he's a tease.
He is.

So while I was trying to stay focused and detached, he was saying things with his mouth... with his lips... with his tongue... and he gave me that happy, contented smile when I said how hard it was not to yield to my feelings...

I hear Allison Krauss...

"You say it best when you say nothing at all."

And after.

After he came, which he badly needed, we sat and talked for a long time. About the holidays, and his hometown, and an old friend, and developing plans for him to share me with a Dom friend of his. With the Dom and his male sub. And about the possibility of taking me away to a beach town, and whether he'll let me sleep between his legs with my mouth by his cock.

[she sighs happily and wriggles at the thought]

And about the absolutely perfect framed print that he gave me for my office.
The print that was his.
Actually, it's still his.
Which is even better.
It will be his presence in my office.
There's no face in the picture.
But I'll feel his eyes on me,
as if the frame contained a small hidden camera.
So he can keep his eyes on his property.

On his treasure.

I am his treasure.

And he is my everything.

"You're higher than a kite!"

He tasted all the flavours of my tears today.
He wanted me to tell you that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Written last Tuesday, after a truly sweet and long time together. I meant to write more, but it somehow never happened. He soothed and banished my grief and fears over the changes to come, with reassurances in words and kisses and especially in his eyes that nothing of what we are will be lost. And there was his hand and the belt and even the nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane along with the kisses and the words in his eyes and then his fingers on my pussy and the belt on my pussy and it was all wonderful and close and rich and I'm happy but it's too soon after the solstice for my brain to have kicked back in again so this is all you get. And I know that today he is thinking of me. His poet. His pet. His sweet little girl.

Who was, in fact, higher than a kite.
As he said.

And today?
For me, a good movie and way too much Chinese food lie ahead.
With the lighting of the menorah on the restaurant table.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate.
However you celebrate.

With love.
Always love.
o.g.

So there's good news and bad news

Everything is complicated.
Always.
Complicated.

The good news is clear enough. 
I've gotten a job!!
Good work,
lousy money,
reasonable benefits,
GREAT holiday schedule.
And a very short commute.
Although not as short as my last job.

And there's the problem.
Anyone remember what happened with my last job?
Anyone remember
my Tuesday lunches?
When it wasn't sandwiches that filled my mouth?

I would race home,
strip off my clothes,
pop open the futon,
lay out the implements,
and greet him naked at the door.

Invariably, I was late getting back to the office.
But at least our snatched half hours were feasible.

And then I was laid off.
And our trysts stretched to one hour.
Two.
Even three hours now and then.
Every week.
Every Wednesday.
Until his schedule changed.
Then it was every Tuesday.

And now?
Not possible.
I won't be far from home.
But not close enough for a weekly lunchtime quickie.

And besides.
Now we're spoiled.
Very spoiled.
We've eaten of the fruit.
Such sweet fruit.
Sweet and tart and slightly poisonous,
leaving our lips hot and soft and moist
and red-stained with desire.

We're spoiled.
And I worry about how things might change
when the intensity of frequency is lost.

The sadist orders me not to worry.
And says he is already contemplating options.
Considering ways to make up for our missed Tuesdays.

So I try to have faith
and then smile
and remember
that this man who owns me
body and soul
always gets
whatever he wants.

Prioritizing

It's hard to get up enthusiasm for the hunt for a proper full-time paying when I know that landing one would mean giving up my ability to serve the sadist whenever he wanted me.

We've been so spoiled this last year.
Very spoiled.

How I do love you, Daddy!

Redundant

re-dun-dant [ri-duhn-duhnt]

–adjective

1. characterized by verbosity or unnecessary repetition in expressing ideas; prolix: a redundant style.
2. being in excess; exceeding what is usual or natural: a redundant part.
3. having some unusual or extra part or feature.
4. characterized by superabundance or superfluity: lush, redundant vegetation.
5. Engineering - (of a structural member) not necessary for resisting statically determined stresses.
6. Linguistics - characterized by redundancy; predictable.
7. Computers - containing more bits or characters than are required, as a parity bit inserted for checking purposes.
8. Chiefly British - removed or laid off from a job.

It all comes down to the same thing, really.

Excess.
Like an appendix.
Or a second car you rarely use and can't afford
Not needed.

In which case, in these tight economic times, if you are wise and responsible, you jettison the extra weight that is slowing you down, that is costing you money, that no longer has a function because you are changing direction and redesigning the carriage and mixing way too many metaphors - which all translates as my having been laid off today because they are indeed eliminating my position.

This sounds a lot more bitter than I actually am. If I weren't in such serious economic difficulties I wouldn't care at all. I have felt there was not much more I could learn there and no new place for me in any growth plans. I was feeling a strong urge to be home, to spend my days reading and writing and playing music and exercising and, always, through everything, serving the sadist.

Except there is of course this little issue of paying the bills.

So given that I am still getting over this truly awful, I am really quite cheerful. The fiend was very sweet about it. All he has to say are just a few words but that are always the right words. He knows me so well, and knows just the right way to take care of me. He offered to help me develop a schedule for my days which I know I need to do.

And I know, too, that a big reason why I don't feel so devastated by this latest in a lifetime of layoffs is that he has made me feel so strong and confident and good about myself that I don't take this as any kind of judgment on my worth. And I feel good about myself not just because he values me but because he has taught me to value myself - insisted on pain of bodily harm that I had better value myself! And I do. Not just because of threats, but because he has taught me and convinced me.

Meanwhile, there is a good chance (I'm holding my breath) that I may have a new housemate come September, which will make my finances a little less awful than they might otherwise be. And I get paid through the end of that month, after which unemployment kicks in. Of course, it will be almost completely devoured by payments for heath insurance, which I absolutely cannot give up. But somehow I will manage.

Somehow.

Now if only I could sell 8 stories a day...

Perhaps the philosopher was right

He worried about my job.
He worried about the stress.
I'd cry over the phone calls,
over their stress,
over their need,
over their grief and their loss.
And he'd think it was too much.
He wanted to protect me.
This man who liked to cane me
wanted to shield me from pain.

I'm not trained for this.
I'm not a therapist,
They know where to put it,
they learn how to let it go.
I think I store it up -
all the grief from all the calls,
all the anger, stress, and loss.
It sits there in my bowels,
undigested sorrow, needing
only one more crisis
to send it boiling up my throat and
spilling out in tears and need.

Perhaps it is too much for me.
Perhaps it makes me need too much,
perhaps I live too close to crying,
perhaps I give all that I've got
and need support he couldn't give
to give me the strength
to do it again.

We needed too much.
He needed my silence.
I needed his words.
And now we're left with nothing.
And I'm not there for him
and he's not there for me.
And there will be no us.

I wish there were an us.

Pain

loss
hurts.
need
hurts.
i thought
i'd found it.
i thought
we had it.
wishful thinking.

i wanted it so badly,
i built it from my need.

i had a rough day.
i was sweet and kind
and there
for a man who called.
a man in pain.
much worse pain than i'm in.
and i cried when we hung up
and sorted out my grief
and wished i had a lover
as in someone who loved me
whose job it was
to care for me
and i'd be there
to care for him.

not a chance.

still.
it could be worse.
i am treasured
and i am owned
and i
am being trained
to serve
his needs.
and in his cage
i'll find some peace.

at least i'll know where and who i am.

Over my head

Kitten had to play therapist today. Two different callers. Clinical depression. I've been through it enough myself to know it when I hear it.

Two separate desperate people. One, a 74-year old woman, so angry and discouraged she rejects all options as not worth trying. The other, a 60-year old man (not that old any more), crying over the phone, but ready to do what I say.

Promise me. For me. What are you going to do for me? You're going to call the hospital. You'll ask about support groups. Ask about a mental health clinic. Tell them you are very, very depressed. Tell them you need help. Promise me.

They need antidepressants. Both of them. Not that I can say that. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a therapist. But I know. I've been there. The man might get some. But the woman? No. She's too far gone. Too hopeless. Wants to be dead. Won't kill herself but wants to be dead.

I know that one, too. Used to happen to me late ever fall back in Michigan. November on top of clinical depression is a nearly lethal combination, except when you are so paralyzed by autumn and/or life that you have no energy to hurt yourself. So you just wish yourself dead.

She won't kill herself. And she won't get real help. But she called me right back after I hung up the first time. I'm not a therapist. I'm not a counselor. I'm not trained. This isn't my job. But by the end of the second, long call she sounded a little calmer, she was saying nice things about me, she was grateful... it was a start.

This isn't my job. I'm not supposed to do this. But they were desperate. I can't turn my back on the clinically depressed.

A lot of people thanked me today, blessed me today, were grateful for me today. That helped.

But when I hung up from the crying man, I put my head in my hands and sobbed.

Combatting kitten’s chronic tardiness

I have previously described how my position as the philosopher’s slave requires me to serve as his alarm clock. We are both bemused by how this simple task triggers in me such intense feelings of submission and erotic stimulation, not to mention fear of failure. The calls are usually a weekday event, made from work, which means there is always the chance that an incoming phone call will delay or cut short my own call to the cell phone for which I alone have the number. At least I don’t usually worry about forgetting to call, since my computer has been programmed to provide me with a series of reminders. On those occasions when I call from home – such as when he gives me the gift of allowing me to awaken him on the weekend – I am possessed by a cunt-tingling tension that I will somehow miss the exact minute.

My master’s wake-up time has varied. In the early days, he wanted me to ring him from bed at my own ungodly wake-up time of 6:30 am, after which he would go back to sleep. Except for the unbearably Type A members of the species, neither grad students nor professors are inclined to get up any earlier than they absolutely have to. Eventually, despite his delight at hearing my sleepy voice talking from his pillow to mine, the philosopher came to his senses , and the calls were ordered for his real wake-up time of 10:30. They have inched slowly earlier since then, and starting today we are experimenting with (gasp!) 9:00 am. Which is when I am due at work.

Except – and here’s the problem – I don’t usually make it to work by 9 am. I have developed this ridiculous tendency in the last decade of always being a little late. I horrified my master when he was here with my tendency to dither, as he called it. I always came up with something else I needed to do before we could leave the house. The delay in getting to work is even weirder, as I always manage to be just 10 minutes late, for no good reason at all. Whatever I need to do spreads out to fill that extra 10 minutes. Good thing the trip itself is only 10 minutes long!

However, starting today, I have a very powerful impetus to leave the house on time. If I don’t get to the office door by 9:00, I’ll be faced with the not very attractive choice of either calling my master late (obviously not an option when you are an alarm clock) or starting the call on my way up to the office, necessitating exposing the other people waiting for the elevator to a recitation of what I am wearing (pink panties and all) and then losing the call as the elevator heads upwards.

Do I have to tell you what happened this morning?

9:00 am. Right on time. There I was, unlocking the office door as I pressed #2 on my speed dial.

At last. When no one else could, my master found a way to cure my dilatory ways.

And thus the benefits of being a sex-slave flow over to the vanilla side of my life.

Thank you, master.
Thank you for your exquisite control.

I am such a lucky slave kitten!

rationing

i think i need to cut back on blogging.
persephone was right from the beginning.
every day is too much.

it eats up too much time.
it feeds my tendency towards obsession.
it keeps me inside my head.

if one of the points of this blog is to nurture my writing, than posting less often will allow me to spend more time on each piece, to ponder and edit and re-write. i can wait till real inspiration comes along, rather than feeling i have to come up with something every day. if i were in training for a daily newspaper column, then of course this would be great practice. but i’m not, and i’ve proven that i CAN get something out every day. to that end, daily posting has been very beneficial in forcing me to meet short deadlines – meeting deadlines has always been a problem. i am a champion procrastinator!

it IS nice to feel proud about something at least especially when i’m so down on myself for being disobedient…

my job, which i still love, is very stressful. there is much too much work for the time allotted and the staff available, and i get sucked into staying too late to avoid falling too far behind. i’m trying very hard to draw the line, but some days are better than others. and then i get home and feed the cats and feed myself and (sometimes) i clean up the dishes, and maybe pay a bill or clean the cats’ litter box or assemble the garbage to go out. i write for the blog and get ready for bed and then the philosopher calls and that is the very best part of the day.

i read other people’s blogs too much. i think the habit developed as a way to perpetuate the constant intense contact that the philosopher and i had during the first few months of our relationship. there’s no need for that now, much as i enjoy the simulation of spending time with my new blogger friends. and it’s not as if i don’t have “real world” friends to see and correspond with. and the newspaper to read. and movies to watch. oh, and novels… remember novels?

and walks after dinner.
and the health club.
and gardening.

oh, and practicing.
i’m supposed to be playing at least 15 minutes every day.

one can become so immersed in examining one’s life that there is no time to live it.

i’m living too much inside my head.
if i cut back on the blogging i think it will get me out in the sun more.

blogger now has this lovely feature where you can schedule the post’s appearance. i don’t even have to be at the computer right at the moment i want my latest masterpiece to go up. very convenient. i can write when there is world enough and time.

so what do you think, master?

maybe Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday?

The heart that has truly loved never forgets

A difficult phone call, the last of the day,
picked up when I should have gone home.

A man.
They can be the hardest.
He was filled with pain.
With love. And with pain.
He spoke of his wife.
The cancer.
Disfigurement.
Her pain.
And his.
The love.
And the longing…

Later, I remembered this…

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

by Thomas Moore. An Irishman, of course...

tired kittens

i'm exhausted.

i need more down time.

it's not so much a lack of sleep as an insufficiency of indolence.

i need more down time.

i love my new job. i really do. but there are so many new things to learn, and they are all more complicated than they need be. and this job went unfilled for 10 months except for 2 months in the fall with someone who really didn't work out. so everyone (the 2 other admin-type women, which is all there are except for the president) is overwhelmed, and they all work long hours, and i'm working from a half hour to 2 hours extra almost every day, with hopes that it will settle down some once i've learned everything.

ha!

at least i'm vigilant about leaving the office for a full hour for lunch. i hate spending the money to eat out, and sometimes run home for lunch. (yes, my office is THAT CLOSE to home!) but i need top get completely away from there to get a proper break.

still, i love it.

but i need more down time.

when i finally get home after my excruciating 1.4 mile commute (sorry about that...) there are the cats to feed and snuggle, and my own dinner, and writing for the blog, and correspondence, and checking to see how Z's Boob Fest is coming along (have you donated yet? every little euro helps - even dollars Canadian and US... don't you want to see my naughty nipples?) and glances at the newspaper and trying to keep up with my bills, and thank goodness the philosopher is doing his best to get me to bed on time because i'm in overdrive.

if he were here with me now, all i'd really want to do is curl up with him on the couch... my head in his lap... his cock in my mouth... i'd suck it idly, for comfort, as if it were a chupete (pacifier)... he'd stroke my hair and whisper "good kitten..."

if he were here now...

if he were here now i wouldn't be crying...

[sniffling, she tries to blot her eyes with a tissue, but forgets that she has glasses on and only succeeds in smidging the left lens.]

sorry about that. this is another one of those posts which has a life of its own.

i can hear the philosopher's voice.
he always uses the same inflection:
"don't cry, kitten..."

i'm sorry, master.
i'm sorry for crying.
i'm exhausted.
i need a weekend off
and instead i'm flying down to florida
to help my parents pack.
i should be grateful.
they have everything planned out.
they are in reasonable health.
they are moving back north to
a continuing care community
where they will have
friends and activities and
assistance and available
nursing care when they need it.
i am very grateful.
i don't have to worry.
but i'm exhausted.

i miss you, master.
i need you.
i need to feel you.
i need your presence.
i need the peace you bring.

not the kinds of thing you'd expect to hear from a slave kitten about her evil sadistic master, are they?

my cats are each sleeping in their own spots. Marko is in the IKEA chair. snoring. Ketzel is on the carpet in her cute pose, belly on offer, front paws drawn up to her chin. she's such a little flirt, she knows she is irresistible in that position. even when she's sleeping, she knows she's being cute.

i'm beyond wanting to be cute.
i'm exhausted and
i just need to be held.

Sometimes even sex bloggers don't want sex

Well... i suppose if the philosopher were here and demanding that i do my job as his little cockwhore, i would be delighted to comply. not that i would have a choice...

but writing about sex?

no thanks, not today.

i have a new job. i'm very happy to have a new job. i'm very happy to have this job. i'm very happy to have ANY job! it's been two years since i last had a permanent job.

but starting a job the day after switching to daylight savings time?

nunh-uh. very dumb idea. despite days of preparing by getting up much earlier than necessary for an unemployed girl, i just couldn't get to sleep early enough Sunday night. so i started off my new job with way too little sleep.

YAWN...

it's a good job. it's very very very close to home. i like my co-workers. but i may have managed to go almost the entire day without once thinking of being spanked or caned or fucked or led around on a leash...

hmmm...

my cunt is starting to twitch.

it's not dead after all!! i'm alive! i'm alive!!

we will return to our regularly scheduled perverted programming within the next few days. and i will try my sleepy best to keep you amused until then. of course, if people would comment, then i could write clever little responses. what i would really love is to hear if any of you wankers who found me through the masturbation-links blog masturbated to the masturbation post i wrote for you on Saturday. i'm a greedy little submissive slut in need of lots of approval and/or spankings to keep performing.

Destabilization

This is one of those days when I wish I weren't in a long-distance relationship. It's a day of too many emotions. It's a day of emotions that jostle against each other, that fight for attention, that jump up and down yelling ME ME ME until I want to crawl under a blanket until they all go away and I can go back to my usual level of angst and unreasonable optimism.

It was a day that started out low, tired and distressed, disappointed - it's only politics I suppose but when you think there's a chance of changing the world it feels like more than just politics. It was a day of thinking that if the Messiah came, maybe s/he'd wander around the country, wander around the world, and then sneak off before anyone noticed, thinking that the world wasn't ready yet, that the world doesn't know how to live without fear and hatred and isn't inclined to try.

And they call US perverts...

It was a day of long, intense conversations with strangers, of listening to anger and fear and despair and resentment and polarization higher than any wall you could build along our borders. There was the exhilaration of unexpected connections and sadness at what I was hearing.

It was a day of wandering though IKEA, as much to recapture the magic of my year in Sweden as to buy anything. I still have to remind myself not to speak Swedish to the employees. My Spanish is more useful around here.

It was a day of relief, of reassurance, as I finally got the call that I have a new job, after just about exactly 2 years of being more or less unemployed. Most of the time more unemployed. It's a job I really wanted - nonprofit so the pay is lousy, but they upped vacation time by 50% and switched their health insurance to what I needed. My commute will be 15 miles. Round trip. Per week. Total. And it's a job I'll enjoy with a mission that's personally meaningful. So yes, for a while I was pretty happy, but the low had been there first and it finally seeped back through, toxic waste rising back up through cracks in the sidewalk.

If the philosopher were here, he would put me through my paces. He'd order me to strip, tell me to kneel, put the collar around my neck, fasten the matching leash, and lead me back and forth across the dungeon floor. Crawling. I love to crawl. He'd bring down milk in a small bowl and make me lap it up, but it would be too small for my face to get down into it and I would fret with frustration. He would be stern and scold me. he would hurt me. he would spank me and beat me with his belt and then cane me as long as it took to make me cry. he likes when i cry but this time would be because he knew i needed to cry.

he'd hold me while i sobbed and whisper that i was a good kitten, that i was his good little slave, and he'd stroke my hair and soothe me and tell me that i am smart and strong and not to be afraid and not to have doubts and i'll be good at my job and the world will survive although it nearly didn't survive the last 7 disastrous years but somehow everything will be ok.

and i'd remember that sometimes miracles do happen because how else could we have been there together, and how else could i have stumbled on someone who knew exactly what i need? and i'd snuffle and snuggle and purr, and the warring emotions would stop slandering each other and each would look into the other's face and realize that one was just the mirror image of the other.

permission granted to ignore all of the above.

it's my blog and i'll cry if i want to.