How do you use me? Let me count the ways.

A pair of poems, written in response to yesterday's encounter and recommitment.

The literary inspiration should be obvious.
The first poem was the direct response.
The next was an attempt to wrestle it into proper sonnet form.
Wrestling indeed.
A struggle for sure.
But then, he loves seeing me struggle.

He's not into bondage, by the way.
He expects self-restraint.
Force of will.
And of not that, restraint by his hands.

Anyway, here is the pair of efforts, posted with his permission. I'm nearly trembling with delight at how returning to his control has inspired me. (He does inspire trembling. Especially with orgasm denied.)

Note: I'd be most grateful for any comments, if only to let me know that you are here and noticed that I am.

~ ~ ~ ~

How Do You Use Me?How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.

You beat me to the heat and depth and pain

My ass can bear when offered to your belt

And then beyond to what you know I need.

You torture me with twists and bites and slaps

On tender tits and taunting nipple ends

While feeding on my frightened helpless screams

And holding fast my wrists with brutal grip.

You show no mercy towards those tender parts

That cower there between my beaten thighs

And blush and swell with want and pain and shame.
You fuck me sore with angry hungry lust

And drink capitulation from my eyes

And know that I will love you all the same.

~ ~ ~

How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.

You beat me to the heat and depth and pain

Your belt upon my ass can fast attain

And then beyond until my wild eyes glaze.

You torture me with slaps and bites and twists

On tender tits and taunting nipples red

While feeding on my frightened cries of dread

And making clear the purpose of our trysts.

You show no mercy to poor Pussy’s cave 

That cowers wet between my beaten thighs

And blushing, swells with want and pain and shame.

With hungry thrusts you fuck your someday slave

And drink capitulation from my eyes -

And know that I will love you all the same.

Now it's you spanking my pussy

Don't kid yourself, Sir. Or do. It's all the same to me. Doesn't change the facts. You fancy yourself in control. Of your sub. Of your mind. Of your cock. Of your life. Even, perhaps, of me. You go looking for me. For someone like me. So you can insert yourself within the moist folds of my life, of the glimpses I give you of my life.

But, my horny reader. You're just the fish. And this time I'm the angler, dangling words and images on the end of my invisible line, casting them out into the waters of your search engine, until Google tosses you up on my shore.

I lick you. Those magic words are the tip of my tongue running up and down your pleading cock, barely touching at first, only teasing, only hinting, until I suck you in, take you all the way down, shove you between my cheek and my teeth, twirl my tongue around your swelling desperation, humming as I work, whispering the words you want, the words you need, the words you embroider into a dubious reality that you wish could be true, as you embellish my vignettes with visions of faces and tits and tight little pussies and even tighter little butt holes.

The words.
Like hand-tied flies,
never quite concealing the sharpened hook.

pussy
spanked pussy
caned pussy
flogged pussy

Daddy spanked his little girl's pussy.

You spanked her pussy, you spanked her cunt, you spanked her ass, you thrust your fingers inside her tortured orifice and found her hot and wet and tight and so red you could believe her pussy itself was blushing because she knows that the pain turns her on, not even a lot of pain, not even the action, just the words... like you it can be just the words... she can almost think herself into cumming... you can do it yourself, you know... just by whispering the words in her ear...

I need to hurt you, Baby.
I'm going to hurt you.
Bring me my belt, sweetheart.
Bring me the flogger.
Have the cane on the bed when I arrive.

I'm going to hurt you.

Or just the shift of your body.
I feel you raise your arm
as I'm bent over your cock,
serving your cock,
delighting your cock,
my ass up near your head,
I feel you raise your arm
and I know it's coming.
Your palm on my ass.

And by now I'm so deep into that place where you put me when you put your hand around my neck and push against my windpipe, just enough, not to stop my breathing but as a reminder, your hand as leather collar, reminding me I'm yours, reminding me of joy, flicking that little switch that always needs a little pain, a little force to take me to that place in which my face changes, my eyes change, and then I'm home.

I suck your cock.
I'm in that place.
You spank my ass.
You spank my pussy.
I'm so deep
I'm so high
I can tell you're hitting me hard
Yet barely register pain.

Please spank me, Daddy.
Please beat me.
Please whip me.
Please spank my pussy.
Please take your belt to my ass.
Please make me
moan
and whimper
and cry
and wriggle,
make me writhe and wriggle,
while you pinch my nipple
and your cock
jerks
at my gasp.

Well, that sure made me hot. How about you, Sir? Not the "You" who in reality got to spank me. You, dear reader, you don't get to spank me. Sorry, buster. You can pretend, though. No one can stop you from pretending. And I know this is what you want because you leave a trail of search words behind you. Pretty much the same ones all the time. So I sing the siren song of spanked pussies and draw you closer until you wreck on my shores.

At least I hope it helps you cum.
I do like to make men cum.
I like to see them lost in their pleasure.
And I like to feel them spurt.
To feel the action within their organs of which they are so proud.

Look how big I am.
Do you like a big cock?
I'm going to shove my big cock inside your little butt hole.
I'm going to make you scream.
You're going to suffer for me.

Is that what you'd like to be saying to me as you shove your swollen cock inside my pussy which is so damn hot because of how you tortured me first?

Think about.
That's your assignment.
Think about hurting me
spanking me
spanking my pussy
spanking my cunt
spanking my clit
whipping my ass with your belt
covering my ass with welts from your cane.
Then fucking me.
Hard.
Sodomizing me.
Using me.
Filling me.
Seizing my long red curls in your fist
And then cumming with a roar.

Like that?

I give you that as a gift.

And then I think of the man who loves me.
Who treasures me.
Who teaches me to treasure myself.

The man who didn't even try to look stern and domly when he came through my door yesterday because he was so damn happy to see me that his face was beautiful with smiles, that his eyes could hide nothing so discipline be damned, he was with his mistress, with his pet, with his slave and precious little girl and in two weeks we will have two whole days together - and nights, he says. Two whole nights.

And as of tomorrow, Labor Day in the U.S. where workers are denied May Day as their holiday, as of tomorrow September 1st it will be 6 years since I begged to be taken into my Master's service and he accepted me.

And in enslaving me, he freed me to be who I really am.

Begging

Please.
Please!
Please, Daddy...

In pain.
In nipple clamps.
Writhing against the bonds and the pain.

Please what?

Pause.
Breathe.

Focus.
Accept.

Absorb.

Yield.

Please... please let me suffer for you more...

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.

Iron rings in the concrete floor

Chains or rope?

That is the question.

I'm going to torture you, he whispered...

... so softly that I could hardly hear him.
He whispered other things, too,
which I heard even less. Aging
is taking vengeance on my hearing.
There were words here and there,
intensity overcoming inability.
I caught words, promises, warnings,
about begging, pleading, the implication
that these would accomplish nothing.

He didn't, you know.
Though I would have yielded, you know.
But he didn't.
He doesn't.
Not like that.
Not like his dark fantasies, his
desperate desires.

I held him fast all in my arms.
I said the right words and took him inside me.
and held him fast,
my fearsome fearful shape shifter,
and as he came so passed the spell
and he lay in my arms a naked man.

He protects me.

In the epic battle between Love and the Beast,
Love always wins.


One of my favorite versions of the referenced ballad, which is one of many dealing with love conquering the evil spell. "But first I'll change all in your arms..."

Nipple clamps...

... in my future.
My very near, if undefined future.

My pussy is so aroused that she's screaming.
I do hope he lets me cum on Saturday.

Please, Daddy?
Please let me cum on Saturday?

Pain and joy and submission.

Nothing much to report.
Bruises are fading, though still dramatic.
And I wrote the first draft of a poem.

It's been a while.
The poem.
And it felt good.
A relief.

The spanking.
The whipping.
The hair brush that broke after just a few swats.
The hard slaps to my face that did not leave a mark.
I can never understand why they don't leave a mark.
And I hate...
I hate that I respond to it.

See? I guess there is something to report... 

There have been changes during these many quiet months. The relationship has evolved over time. Deepened. Survived more of our usual crises. Survived crises in our other lives. In what you might think to call the real world but to me only the hours we spend together are the real world and the rest is the illusion that provides a structure of practicality within which our real world exists.

I won't talk about the complications of his life except to say that there was no way they couldn't affect our own interactions. As for me, my mom had a stroke a year and a half ago and finally died late last June. It was time. And a relief. My dad is still alive, edging towards a hundred, with creeping dementia. He's become a lot sweeter though, and I know I'll mourn him when he's gone. I even wish I lived closer, which is a first. So few years of a good relationship. Too few years. But better than nothing.

I became unhappy at my job, because my department head was micromanaging me until I couldn't breathe. And now - poof! - he was forced out. Happy me! No guarantee how things will turn out, but at least one sure bad thing will be gone in a week and a half. And so. I repeat. Happy me.

Happy pet.

Which goes back to last weekend.
Punishment.
Correction.
Training.
I did something quite bad.
Thoughtless.
Explainable.
But he doesn't take explanations.
And anyway, I should have known better.
The bad thing happened last July.
We're slowly working our way back.
And then I...
It doesn't matter really.
A small thing but a telling thing.
So the whipping.
And all the rest.
Punishment and correction and training.
And eventually just for his pleasure.

In the end, it worked. Not just to convey the lesson, but also to cleanse me. To center me. To beat out of me all the accumulated emotional debris as well as the dust bunnies and fog clouding my (his words) beautiful brain.

A deepening of my submission.
An appreciation.

Because the beauty, the glory, the transcendence of such an abuse of my body is not the pain - although I do admit that up to a point (quickly reached) there is some measure of pleasure in it and - here comes the part that always embarrasses me and perhaps some of you as well - I grow sloppy wet as he beats and pinches and whips and slaps and... But the true beauty of it all, the part that feels best of all, is the submission. The offering. The acceptance. So that even as he brings his whipping belt down hard (for me) on the sensitive, vulnerable, screaming tissues of my sweet pink pussy, I try ever so hard to keep my legs open and accept whatever his own pain and desire drive him to do to me. And later, after, lying close and soft and warm next to his sated body, listening to the murmurings of his for-now eased mind, I feel the joy of having yielded to him everything I am. Of having given him everything in irrational and unlimited trust.

And my reward is the safety and comfort of the sadly not physical cage in which he keeps me, and the hours lying beside him with his collar around my neck.

PS - No. He most certainly did not allow me to cum, although he deliberately brought me very close.

My butt hurts. My heart doesn't.

He says it.
Over and over.

Without the words, true, but as clearly as if he were shouting it from the top of the Washington Monument. Which is still closed for repairs of damage suffered in an unlikely earthquake a while back.

Like us.
That there is an us.
A very unlikely earthquake.

So many unlikely things...

Today, this man who declares he doesn't believe in aftercare, this man was lying next to me, luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm. The last few weeks have been very intense, it's been 2 weeks since we were together and he has made many wordless avowals for longer than that. So he's lying there, looking up at me, recovering, and I ask if he's OK, and he says yes - and then he asks if I'm OK. Which he never does. But it was very intense, "even for us," he says, and he has learned that he doesn't always realize if it has been too much for me, and now he has taken to worrying about that, to put it in the box of things he should be aware of as he tries to protect me from himself.

From the beast.

He said he took special steps yesterday to protect me. He wouldn't say what, but I suspect he went and unleashed some of his sadistic desire on another of the Others. To release the tension. There was still some left for me today - and why shouldn't there be? It's not just that he wants to cause pain. He wants to hurt me.

And I wanted him to hurt me.

Which he did.

He spanked me a lot.
Just with his hand.
But hard.
And often.
At various times during his 2 hours visit.
Harder and harder.
And the longer he was here
the harder he spanked me
and the less I could feel it.

Now I feel it.
I'm getting cold.
Some of the endorphins must be wearing off.
Not all of them.
I'm still very floaty.
But enough to allow my butt to hurt.

And it does really hurt.
I wonder if his hand hurts, too?

I'm happy that my butt hurts.

My pussy hurts, too.
From all the fucking.
Beautiful, beautiful fucking.

Some of it was fucking.
And some was making love.
The expression on his face.
That smile...

I'm very happy.
We were both very happy.
And very, very intimate.

He doesn't pretend any more.
That, he acknowledged.
He didn't say those other words.
But he did say he doesn't pretend any more.
And that's about as close as you can get.

And the words?
They could never say as much
as the smile
on his lips
and in his eyes.

But damn it.
My butt sure hurts!

Thank you, Daddy...

The Soldiers' Whore - a story

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St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon

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Anger vented, pet protected

One of my favorite lines from my story You awake ahead of the alarm (printed in M. Christian's anthology Best  S/M Erotica Vol. 3) is this:

She has no gradations of grief at disappointing you. Any failure feels like the end of the world to her.

This is horribly, unfortunately true. I am terrified of failure because I'm terrified of rejection. That by not being good enough I won't be wanted. That one way or another, I will be shut out. As I beg the sadist whenever we have one of our episodes: "Please don't send me away."

I trace this back to my parents. Which is a whole other story that I won't go into. But I realized last night that I developed a very strong fight or flight instinct. And the flight part manifests itself in two ways: as a physical urge to leave, quit, get out, give up... and as a flight to inner safety, behind a strong wall that locks away any feelings.

This, in some ways, was the scariest part of this little episode. I shut down inside. I stopped having any feelings for him - or rather, I walled them off so I thought they had gone. I thought - all right then, I'm not what he wants me to be, I can't be, I never was. I won't walk away from him, but if he sends me away I'll be relieved. Because I can't stand disappointing him.

But - with him - it never ends up that way. Even the separation early in our first year... I had never meant for it to be over then. I merely misunderstood, and was angry, and then he... well, obviously we made it through that.

Tuesdays are his usual day with me. He was curt this morning. Short, economical e-mails relative to his plans. The first was but 3 words. And then he told me to take the cane, the paddle, the wooden spoon, and the chain outside and lock them up in my car.

You see?

He does protect me!

Besides, he has ways to hurt me far more powerful than implements of pain.

He has words.

He has silence.

We had a lot of time.

And we worked our way through.

He even gave me the gift of what could almost be termed an apology.

He also left a very serious bite mark on my left butt cheek.

(Again, he looked after me, advising me to cleanse it. I wiped it down with rubbing alcohol. It stung, so I knew I was doing the right thing. Then I coated it with antiseptic ointment and covered it with a bandage. Human bites do carry a danger of infection, and a visit to the doctor for treatment of a big butt bite would be highly embarrassing...)

The last couple of months have been hard on both of us. He's been under a lot of stress from many sources. One thing ends, another immediately erupts, and then something else lands on top of it all. Thinking about it dispassionately, I'm not surprised we had a blow up on Sunday.

As for me... well, we've had 2 months of rain. Two months of rain with sun promised in just another few days and then it would be pushed back and pushed back and pushed back...

Finally.

Today.

It arrived.

Autumn.

Sunny and cool and dry.

For at least a week.

I am sorely tempted to shout "Praise be to God" even though - if I believe in God at all, which isn't quite certain - I don't believe in that sort of God. But in this case... well it feels like credit ought to be apportioned somewhere.

The point is that 2 months of rain when you have SAD and are still supposed to be recharging your personal solar battery is NOT A GOOD THING. I've been struggling. Concentration has been shaky at best, moods not all that firm, and my ability to think minimal. 

Plus the issue is a persistent one. This won't be the last time we'll bump up against it. If only we could keep from reacting on such a deep emotional level! 

Still, we made it through. And at the end, as we talked about ordinary things, he enthroned in the Eames chair and me, still naked, sitting on the floor at his feet with my head resting on his right knee, I felt the gentleness of his hand stroking my hair and the love flowing back through me and knew that I couldn't make him so angry if I didn't also make him feel so good.

Daddy's little slave outdoes herself

Imagine an Irishman left without words.

All that remained was one:

"Amazing."

His hand, my butt

He spanked me.

So "Nu...?" you say. Or would say if you were one of my long-dead Yiddish-speaking grandfathers. Either one. The Socialist or the Communist. Take your pick.

Where was I?
Ah yes.

So "Nu...?" you say.
He's a dom.
A sadist.
I should be surprised?

Well, yes. Because there hasn't been much spanking of this slave's smooth, soft, sumptuous bottom lately. The sadist has been cautious, hoping not to awaken the beast who has been lolling around in the heat of these past few weeks. Still, a man has appetites. Not to mention a precious toy which it's a pity not to use to full advantage

So he spanked his treasure's bottom.
And pinched his little slave's nipples.
And renewed the bite marks on her neck and lower lip.

It wasn't a bad spanking.
Just enough to leave a lingering pain a few hours later.

A treasured, ringing reminder
of pain
and love
and the hour or so I spent worshiping his cock with my mouth.

Senior sex? Who you calling a senior?

Every so often, I call attention to how old I am.

Sometimes because it puzzles me.
The number.
It puzzles me.
I can't relate to it.

And sometimes because it's good to let people know that "older" people can still have - and do have - sex. Hot sex. Satisfying sex. Kinky sex. Moon-about-it-for days-afterwards sex.

More than sex.

A life-changing,
unacceptable,
transgressive,
admittedly risky,
and thoroughly preoccupying
relationship.

It doesn't end with your first grey hair.

Of course, I don't have that many grey hairs. Which is part of my confusion. When I look in the mirror I see beauty. Not just because the sadist taught me to see it. It's because somehow my looks improved as I got older. Odd, no?

And then there's this mane of red hair.
A head of bouncing and thoroughly natural red waves and curls.

Unless I look at my hands, it's hard to connect with the number.
Ever not sure how old someone is?
Look at the hands.
We lose that lovely, plumpifying collagen as we age.
The skin thins.
Sags.
Wrinkles.

But most people don't know to look at the hands.
So they think I'm still 40 or 45 or so.

Oh yeah.
You new readers.
Waiting for the number?

62.

Red mane,
perky nipples,
slurpy pussy,
raging libido,
the works.

I'd probably still be masturbating daily if the sadist hadn't staked a claim to my orgasms, to be doled out one by one for his pleasure - and sometimes as a reward for good service.

I'm 62.
Those 40-year olds do keep flirting with me.
(Today's guy was very tempting...)
I haunt the dreams of the man who owns me.

I'm 62.
I ooze sex.

I'm 62.
I am pussy.
Every inch of me is pussy.
In and out, every inch of me is pussy.

Just ask my Master.

I am female.
I am alive.
I am sexual.

That about covers it.
No?

Thought control

You run your mind gently across my lips and let it slip down the soft slide of my left breast. Your thoughts nibble at my provoking nipples, one tiny red pillow adorned with the barest remnant of a scab. Memories poke up their tousled heads. You chase them away, and force your errant brain deep into the yeast dough mound of my pale belly. Your ruminations tickle my clit before slipping into my pussy.

Miles away, I groan, and wish I had permission to touch.

The dance of pain

Holiday weekends confuse me. Even though I'm not working, I have an inner sense of the pattern of the week that's almost physical. It's certainly visual. A holiday throws things off. I'm not sure where I'm standing.

What I do know is that tomorrow is Tuesday. And despite an impending change in my Master's schedule, Tuesday for now is still the day I serve him lunch and my mouth and my nipples - and my pale, round belly like a somewhat-smaller-than-before mound of rising yeast dough. And all the other parts of me he owns and enjoys and uses and fucks and hurts.

Tomorrow, Tuesday, he will be hurting me.
Or so it appears.

I have my instructions.
Special preparations.

Being currently minus a renter as well as minus a job, I have reclaimed the dungeon bedroom.

Place the flogger and the cane in the basement bedroom.
The flogger on the bed.
The cane in the closet.

The flogger is so beautiful.
I love my flogger.

Even more than the first one, which broke apart while he whipped me. But he'd decided that one was too hard for me to take, anyway. The ends of the cords were knotted. This one is gentler, plus 2 shades of blue and a sweet, soft brown. He can enjoy whipping me very hard and it doesn't hurt too much.

The cane, as I've said before, is not a standard cane.
It's a long strip of wood, ragged on one end.
A nasty thing.
He has to tap it against my butt very light to keep it from hurting like hell.
It usually hurts like hell.

He was thinking about hurting me this weekend.
He was obsessing about hurting me.

But you know? I'm not worried. Because I know he wants to hurt me. Needs to hurt me. I think one reason why our night in the hotel was such a shock was because that wasn't what either of us expected it to be. I was to be calm, peaceful, focused on pleasing him, focused on serving him. Our times together always end up intense because that's the way we are - although he does like to blame it all on me. But the night had been defined as calm.

Last year he beat my butt with the back of my hairbrush, but that didn't cause an upheaval because I knew I had screwed up a small but crucial task and expected to be punished. So he beat me and it hurt a lot but then it was over and I was cleansed of my guilt and then we went on and it was a beautiful night.

Tomorrow he needs to hurt me.
Because.
Because he needs to.

Maybe that's one of the differences between a sadist and someone who is merely sadistic. At times, my Master needs to hurt me. And then he will, while restraining himself as much as possible from hurting me more than I can bear.

He takes care of me.
He protects me.
Even as he is teaching me to embrace the pain.
To connect it with pleasure.
To want it.
To beg for it.

What I really want is to please him.
To serve him and to please him.

[dead air]

I just had to shake my head. I wrote those two preceding sentences and fell into an undefined reverie that was all feeling... all intimacy... that magical borderless union between the sadist and his prey...

He likes to use that word.
Prey.
And to some extent it is quite accurate.
But there is something else.
Something more.
When the victim is willing and loving and giving.
It's a dance.
A dark dance.
A sensuous dance.
A dangerous dance,
but sweet and intoxicating.

The sadist leads.
And when I'm in his arms
and he bends me back almost to the ground,
my nipples sparkling towards the sky,
he presses his mouth to my naked throat
and sinks his teeth into my neck.

Relationships are like cocksucking - Part 1 of 2

Really!
I'm not trying to be funny.
Well, OK.
I am trying to be funny.
But not merely funny.

A relationship is like sucking cock.
No one size fits all,
be it your parents' relationship
or BDSM
or teenagers just finding their way.
We can read books,
talk to our friends,
pore over advice columns,
but in the end
all we have
is us.

All you have is that cock in your mouth which could be much too long or unusually short or so fat you could choke on it or so thin it could wriggle down your throat like a worm. You can study all the basic techniques but in the end it's what he likes combined with what you can do and the fantasies you can trigger and your own sparks of creativity.

My Master trained me very carefully before he allowed me to start sucking. Clear descriptions of what he likes, suggested exercises to practice by myself, very direct and directive feedback on my performance - and for his pains, he has the services of one of the best damn cocksuckers in the world.

For him.
And his other subs can probably say pretty much the same thing.

But only for him.

I was good before we met. Before the training started. I could give you testimonials. Now I'm even better. But I would never claim that any other cock would experience the same level of satisfaction as his does. Especially not the first time round. When he brings his friends to fuck me, to use me, which is definitely under discussion, I will work very hard to please them as much as I please him. But I'll have to do a lot of experimenting. Improvising. Reading the signs. Listening to their grunts.

Learning to suck cock is not like studying an arithmetic textbook.
There is no one right answer
and there is no one right way to get there.
Same thing with relationships.
All relationships.

Which brings us back to BDSM.
And what my long-time readers are probably sick of hearing me say.
D/s
M/s
S & M

It's pure BS if you think you can say
a Master is like this,
a sub must do that,
a slave is one who,
a Dom has to be.

A D/s relationship (for example) is still just a relationship.
What matters is how the parties see it.
What matters is what works for you.

There.
Got that out of the way.

There were some lengthy comments in response to yesterday's post: My Master's mea culpa. I really like lengthy comments. I like the thought that goes into them, and I like that people care enough to take the time to write that much. I'm very grateful for everything that was said.

But I also know that most people don't read the comments. And I only ended up replying to the first one. So 1) if you follow the link from the title in the previous paragraph, you'll get the post with all the comments in full; and 2) here are excerpts from each one, with some measure of response from me. I do hope that the conversation continues! I don't claim to be perfect. I don't claim to know all. I certainly don't claim to know what's right for the rest of you. But I have been serving the sadist for just 2 months shy of 3 years, and while obviously neither of us has all the answers I do think I know a whole lot about who and what we are.

Still, I can always use some help. And writing and discussing here, as well as some private conversations, have been a great help in getting me through the last few days back to feeling grounded again. And I do feel grounded again. I see it in perspective. I am not walking away. What we have is too good, and we have worked too hard for it. We'll get through this and keep on working to build on what we have.

And now, the comments.

Sophia Anne is a sub and a relative newcomer to this space. This was her first comment, and I really appreciate her speaking up. She started off with "perhaps I have no business posting this comment when I don't know your full story." Everyone is free to comment, but it's true that some sorts of comments are more appropriate when you know more about the people involved. She warned me abut the danger of abuse, which is a good and fair warning. What I was aware of at the time was exactly that. It didn't feel like sadistic behaviour that was too much for me to deal with. It felt like irrational, drunken abuse. And that scared me. But note that this was the first time in nearly 3 years that I have felt like that.

She then went on:

Safe and loving doms channel their sadism into ways that will not cause serious harm and in ways that are also beneficial to the sub, i.e. meeting her masochistic and emotional needs without going too far. In other words, they practice self-control.

As I said in my direct reply, the sadist, my sadist, has never claimed to be safe. In fact, he has warned me again and again that he is not safe. This has always been a very serious warning, and is testament to the way he treasures me. [I'm deliberately not using the word "loving." Not every dom(me) loves his or her sub, but they can still be caring and responsible.] The fiend is not just sadistic. He is a sadist. A real one. I do know this. He has never claimed otherwise. He cannot always completely control himself but continues to work very hard to protect me. You cannot imagine what this entails. It's far more serious than my swearing off ice cream because I'm on the edge of being diabetic. And damn, it's summer and I really want some ice cream!

Also, while he does meet my needs far more than any other, safer person I've ever been involved with, including my 2 ex-husbands even when things were good [were things ever really good with #2?], the ultimate focus of the relationship is to serve his needs. Period. Luckily for me, building up my self-respect and self-image, teaching me that I am beautiful, and encouraging my creativity all serve his own needs. I have grown and healed in very real ways in his ownership. I am very, very fortunate. These were my real needs. To be given structure. To be directed. To be appreciated. I am not in fact a masochist, although he has been teaching me about pain, and the beautiful intimacy that comes from the shared experience of causing pain and suffering it.

I am not trying to "have my masochistic needs met." If that's all I wanted then yes, there are plenty of people who would oblige me. Who would "play with me." But we do not play. This is not a game. It is a serious, exquisite connection with a man who has been training and guiding and using submissives and slaves for decades. Longer than some of my readers have been alive. It does feel as if your comment was meant largely as a general statement. But it's a good idea to do a little research into a specific circumstance before implying that someone has not earned the right to call himself Master. The ones I really worry about are the ones who demand you call them that right away, long before the relationship warrants it. I also worry about one-size-fits-all doms, who expect every "sub" and "slave" to serve them in the same way, who have the same expectations of each person in their care, without bothering to learn what it is they have acquired and then respond to the unique capabilities and characteristics of their property. You shouldn't try to make a Mini Cooper perform like a Jaguar.

But even the best driver occasionally goes too fast.
And cracks up the car.
Even a treasured car.
So you check yourself and the vehicle for damages,
berate yourself,
patch both of you up,
and learn from your mistakes.

I'm going to jump over the next couple of readers and slip ahead to Master Roger. He is Sophia Anne's master and can be found writing on the same blog.

He wrote:

This may or may not help but I suggest you improve your acting skills. Try reading "An Actor Prepares" by Stanislavsky.

You say that inflicting pain gives your Master pleasure, but what aspect is it that pleases him the most?

Is it doing actual physical damage to you or is it hearing you scream and cry and beg?

If it is the latter I believe you could save your skin and increase your Master's pleasure by becoming more verbal and expressive when taking his punishment.

Don't wait to be in extreme pain before you protest. Pretend to be in more pain than you actually are.
Yes, you are acting, but the purpose of your performance is to give your Master the experience he seeks without more harm than necessary to yourself.

Actually, having been trained in the theatre, I have read Stanislavsky and studied his techniques. As far back as high school, which was a long time ago.

As for the suggestion that I fake my suffering, I'll let reader jcn have the first word, as she put it so eloquently:

Master Roger suggests feigning pain, but all that I understand of the fiend, all that is written about him here, screams that he would have an unholy fit if he thought you were FAKING shit! And despite the fact that I'm a pain slut, I wouldn't want to be around the sadist when he was having a fit!

My Master always knows when I am lying.
Or not even full out lying.
I don't lie.
But fooling myself.
Thinking I understand something, or feel it, when I don't yet.
He is a true Master of what he does.
He has an uncanny ability to read people.
So he would know if I were acting.
And there's no way he would accept it.

However, Master Roger is right about his wanting to know that he is hurting me. But he wants the truth of it. Because - again - we're not playing. It's not just ooh, lets have some hot S&M sex and I'll whack at your butt and it'll make me hard and I'll cum with a bang.

It's the intimacy of it.
What flows between the sadist and his victim.
And sometimes, all it takes is the smallest thing.
He takes my nipple between two fingers
as I give him my eyes
and he sees what happens in those eyes
as he squeezes
just enough
to cause the merest amount of pain.
It doesn't take much with me.
I'm not a masochist.
And he sees the change in my eyes.
Something flows between our eyes.
We both open
and I give him everything and more
and he takes everything and more
but oh...
I get so much, too.

Never has a cock fucking a pussy achieved that level of intimacy.
Never.

You can't get that if you're acting.

This is way too long for one post, so I will finish tomorrow. And I do owe you guys a sex toy review! But here is one more quote from Master Roger:

Your role as a slave is to please your Master. Being a good actress is merely on [sic] more skill a good slave should have to facilitate pleasing her Master.

This gets back to my opening statement and my constant insistence that there is no official policy as to what defines any sort of BDSM - or any - relationship. No one has the authority to say this is what a sub or slave is or is supposed to do.

My role as a slave is what my Master says it is.
The skills *I* need as his slave are what he demands of me.
It's a question of who I am,
what my special talents are,
what desires I raise in him,
and what is between us.
What our unique relationship is.

I would be out of his life pretty fast if he thought I was acting.
Our relationship is based on honesty.

I'm sorry if it sounded as if I was picking on either of you, but the areas you both hit are things I feel pretty fiercely about. For my relationship. With my Master. On top of my general aversion to the idea of BDSM having set rules and definitions. As I said to Sophia Anne, there is no kinky Bureau of Standards to say how we may use certain terms and how we must conduct our relationships.

All relationships are hard.
Everyone fucks up sooner or later.

The emotional pain I suffered at the hands of my second husband without his ever striking me was far worse, and far more destructive, than anything my truly loved Master has ever done to me. And ex-hubby #2 never apologized. He didn't care at all. He barely noticed me.

Who was the real self-centered sadist?

I'll address the rest of the comments tomorrow - and please add new ones!

Meanwhile, please forgive this last bit of self-indulgence.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Taking care of my Master's property. Meaning me.

We're on a diet.
We're all on a diet.
Including the cats.
If only I could find a kitty health club for them!

I get blood tests twice a year. I'm on all sorts of medication, so need blood tests twice a year to be sure my kidney isn't crapping out. Turns out I have the kidneys of a horse, or so one doctor said, but you still have to check. And then there's all that other stuff. Like my thyroid level due to the little bit of lithium I take, and the high cholesterol I inherited from my mom, and the tendency to diabetes I got from my dad.

I got the worst they each had to offer.
Though I did get my mom's red hair.
And her amazing nipples.
She still has amazing nipples at age 90.

She would thoroughly plotz if she knew what my Master likes to do with that hair and those nipples I inherited from her. Hell, can you imagine her reaction if she knew I had a Master? A dangerously sadistic Master who is my only protection against his own urges?

Yum.
I admit that I'm enjoying the idea...

Blood tests.
Back to the blood tests.

I had the full report sent directly to me as well as to my stable of doctors. There were some things that concerned me and then my master, so I trotted off to my family doctor who happens to be, conveniently, a geriatrician as well, having already discussed the report by e-mail with my brilliant psychopharmacologist.

(FYI - geriatricians are trained have a particularly holistic approach to medicine, and make less money because they spend more time with their patients.)

The things that seemed like new problems aren't really and, while the numbers were high, they're better than last year. As I suspected, my thyroid numbers were high which means my thyroid is underperforming which, to my relief, explains why I've been feeling so sluggish and is easily corrected.

My cholesterol levels are surprisingly good.
Hooray!
Happy pet.

But.
The diabetes thing...
Having looked a little better last fall,
it looks a little worse now,
and if I don't get it under control
it's medication for me.
Not to mention that diabetes is a BAD thing to have.

So it's serious diet time.

BUT!!
Happy day!
My Master is taking a interest.
I am his property
and he expects his property to be kept in good working order.

I've really been wishing he would take control of my diet.
Because clearly I can't do it for myself.

It's not like he's going to monitor what I do every day. But he expects me to make a plan, and to keep to it. I am to have a healthy diet plan, and I'm to exercise, and I'm to lose weight, and I'm to get my blood sugar levels down.

I'm to exercise.
Including some very specific exercises.
Exercises meant to accentuate the ravine running down my back.
The trough from which he can drink champagne
in a little over 3 weeks
when we once again
spend the night
in a room with white linens.

As for my tubby tabby cats,
I'm stuck dealing with them myself.

Masturbation mania (6) - submitting to the Fun Factory Bootie

As you can see from the photograph, responses to part 1 of my adventures with the Bootie butt plug inspired me to boil my little purple pal. Afterwards, I figured that I shouldn't have worried about the pot remaining suitable for cooking, as it would have been sterilized by the boiling. I ended up tossing in the other plug as well - although neither was betraying any hint of unwelcome perfume.

I only wish I had cleaned the stove first. Oh well. At least my butt plugs are spotless, even if my kitchen isn't.

Towards the end of yesterday's post, I gave a first hint of how my use of and intense reaction to the Bootie affected the sadist. I'll rewind my story a bit and then go on from there, as his response led to what happened to me the following day - and is why, a week later, my body still displays spots of green.

We were e-mailing back and forth during the hours of anal invasion.

me:
What do you want to do to me, my Lord?
Right now?
If I were naked before you right now?

Invaded and chained....

He:
Violate and degrade you.

me:
yes, my Lord.
i feel very small now, my Lord...
... and subdued.
a small, subdued, whimpering pet...

He:
I am going to take a brief nap now, and dream of degrading you. Keep the plug in until I awake.

And later, after his nap, after he ordered me to remove the plug:

He:
You will have it available for me when I visit. You may not use it unless authorized by me.

me:
Yes, my Lord.

You are sounding very stern, my Lord.
Hard.
Commanding.
You have gone to a certain place, also, I think...

He:
I have, my pet. And I may remain there until Tuesday.

me:
oh.
i see, my Lord.
from the thought of a butt plug, my Lord?
or rather, from the thought of my little butt hole being violated?

He:
All of it, including your reactions, have fueled my fire.

The beast was awake and on the prowl.

And it came to pass just as he predicted. His hunger didn't abate, and I felt the beast breathing on my neck all through Monday. I was prepared to be hurt. And I knew he would want to use the butt plug. The difference, though, was that, rather than being punished, I would be serving his sadistic side, which I don't often get to do because of how he protects me from his worst. And I didn't suffer his worst. Not at all. He continued to protect me, and for that I am always grateful.

I won't go into all the details of what he did that day, as they don't really relate to this review. What is important to note is the major impact (ahem...) this particular item had on both of us.

I've said that we don't play, and that is true. Everything we do is very real, very much an integral part of our relationship, even as there are things done and endured for my Master's pleasure. However, some of our interactions are more light-hearted than others. I don't feel it is inappropriate to refer to my vibrators as sex toys. But I just can't see calling this butt plug a toy of any sort.

And yes, he did whack at my butt with the cane.
He flogged me and spanked me
and twisted my nipples.
Some of that hurt like hell.
Some of it came after he aroused me
and was part of his new project
to forge a link between pleasure and pain.
Then I felt the impact
but it didn't hurt
and I begged for more.
Except for when he spanked my inner thigh.
That hurt like hell,
arousal or no.
He'll remember that for sure...

But back to the butt plug.

He ordered me to bring it to him.
To lube it up and bring it to him.

I slathered it with lube, remembering how it had hurt going in when I inserted it, and afraid of how it would feel when he rammed it through my little hole. I probably put on too much, because it wasn't quite as securely inside me as it had been on Sunday.

He ordered me down on the floor before him, on my hands and knees. He didn't insert the plug. He shoved it in. I think it took him but one false try before he got it inside me. Easier for someone else to do it, as he wasn't holding back in response to the immediate feedback of discomfort.

My memory becomes a little fuzzy here, but perhaps it was right after this that he started fucking my ass with the little hunk of purple silicone. Or, to use my Master's preferred terminology, butt fucking me. And here we hit one of the few weaknesses in the Bootie. It's great as a butt plug, it's great for long-term wear. It's comfortable yet... inspiring, and it stays solidly in. But because of the curve, it's not that good for butt fucking. Still. Nothing's perfect. And the sadist did a pretty good job with it anyway.

I was still on my hands and knees before him, the plug being moved back and forth in my ass, when suddenly he shoved two fingers into my pussy. Now I was being fucked in two holes at once.

Coldly.
Purposefully.

I was aroused as hell.
And I started feeling...
demeaned.

It surprised me.

I should be used to ambivalence by now.

I told him.
I told him how I felt.
Aroused and demeaned.
Humiliated by what felt like an old fantasy.
A fantasy we shared.

I'm starting to float away now as I recall it... what it felt like... and what it brought to mind... being forced down on one strange guy's cock while another one fucked me in the ass. Friends of his. While he watch and enjoyed seeing me used. Objectified...

Very powerful.

And then he had me where he wanted me.
Dripping wet.
Time for the next activity.
That's when he spanked me.
Harder and harder
and it didn't even hurt
but only made me want more.

There were other things that afternoon. But this is supposed to be a butt plug review. So I'll leave it there. Except to say that he allowed me to leave the butt plug in as long as I wanted and I only removed it because I really needed to poop.

I do love the Bootie.
I really do the Bootie.

And I think it will contribute to many more intense adventures for me and my beloved, sadistic Master.