I feel cheated.
Deprived.
After all those blows
and all that pain
why is the canvas of my
ass but spattered with spots
of pink? Where are my
black and blue badges of courage?
My heart is scarred by your
anger. Your words left
dark red cane stripes on my soul.
I peer over my shoulder,
straining to see my ass in the mirror.
Ah! There's one! Two days gone
and the red belt mark has morphed
to blue. I breathe a prayer of thanks.
Showing posts with label punishment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label punishment. Show all posts
Friday, February 14, 2020
Friday, February 7, 2020
I hate it. I want it. I need it. Please, Sir, whip away my sins!
My bruises disappoint me.
The brevity of my punishment disappoints me.
I expected more.
I expected worse.
I was relieved when it ended.
Scared and grateful when he beat me again.
It wasn't enough.
As a punishment it wasn't enough.
Cleanse me, Sir.
Whip my guilt away.
Tie down my arms so I can't
protect
my tits from your belt.
Make me suffer enough to atone.
I can never suffer enough to atone.
And it did do the job.
Even though you didn't choke me.
Even though the chain stayed out of your hands,
away from that most vulnerable
hole
between my legs.
You didn't bring a new
strip
of wood
to use as a
cane
in place of the one I angrily discarded
when I left you.
You were my Tam Lin
but I didn't hold on
as
enchanted
you changed from one
fearsome beast
to another.
I was scared.
I was angry.
So I ran.
And then looked for you in
every
other
man
I met.
Can your belt beat out of me that guilt?
Not really.
Not ever.
But spanking my pussy as you held my legs apart
Whipping with anger, with love and with lust
You slashed to shreds my stubborn will
As if with the knife you're
forbidden
to bring in the house
closing your ears and sadistic soul to the
siren song of
my belly.
I sobbed.
I suffered.
I surrendered my soul.
And offered myself to
everything
everything
I ran from before.
Oh Matron Saint of Foolish Vows,
please help me keep my word!
The brevity of my punishment disappoints me.
I expected more.
I expected worse.
I was relieved when it ended.
Scared and grateful when he beat me again.
It wasn't enough.
As a punishment it wasn't enough.
Cleanse me, Sir.
Whip my guilt away.
Tie down my arms so I can't
protect
my tits from your belt.
Make me suffer enough to atone.
I can never suffer enough to atone.
And it did do the job.
Even though you didn't choke me.
Even though the chain stayed out of your hands,
away from that most vulnerable
hole
between my legs.
You didn't bring a new
strip
of wood
to use as a
cane
in place of the one I angrily discarded
when I left you.
You were my Tam Lin
but I didn't hold on
as
enchanted
you changed from one
fearsome beast
to another.
I was scared.
I was angry.
So I ran.
And then looked for you in
every
other
man
I met.
Can your belt beat out of me that guilt?
Not really.
Not ever.
But spanking my pussy as you held my legs apart
Whipping with anger, with love and with lust
You slashed to shreds my stubborn will
As if with the knife you're
forbidden
to bring in the house
closing your ears and sadistic soul to the
siren song of
my belly.
I sobbed.
I suffered.
I surrendered my soul.
And offered myself to
everything
everything
I ran from before.
Oh Matron Saint of Foolish Vows,
please help me keep my word!
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
The juicy stuff. You know you want it.
One of the Prime Directives which, I confess, I'm not always so good at observing:
I haven't been very good about that here, either.
First I give you nothing at all.
Then I blather about some married man nearly getting in trouble
because his wonderful wife is not where he is
and he's lonely for companionship.
How boring.
So I'll give you what you do want.
Just a small slice.
How we resumed our previous category of relationship after having been apart for over a year, followed by around 15 months as lovers.
Not sure what name to give the character of our relationship, as BDSM seems...
Inadequate.
And submission?
Something's missing from that term, too, although I can't nail down what.
In any case, a chance to return to that other way of being together was offered and gratefully, if nervously, accepted. Because, as he has always said and I agreed, this is not a game. Not for us. We're embarking back on it very seriously.
And there is real danger.
The Beast lurks, always lurks, though I've been warned not to refer to him by name and not to call to him. For various reasons, there are times when he can't be guaranteed to maintain control of his sadistic nature which is beyond someone who just enjoys inflicting pain as part of their sexual interactions. He loves me - he truly does love me and sometimes even manages to say the words. He doesn't want to risk injuring me, or doing something that would cause an irreparable destruction of the relationship.
"He."
I keep referring to him as "he."
I don't know what else to say.
I don't think of him as the Fiend anymore.
I don't really think of him as the Beast either - even if that name were not taboo.
We're going way, way back with my training, so I am not allowed to call him "my Master" anymore. Not there yet. And after years of calling him "Daddy" - which made us both feel ever so good - that's packed away for now. I may address him only as "Sir" but it seems weird to refer to him that way. So for now, it's just "he." "Him." No capital letter unless at the beginning of a sentence.
And today?
Today.
A ritual.
They always work so well.
Confession.
Punishment.
Forgiveness.
The confession pleased him.
I included the major sin which he was almost convinced I would omit.
And thus, my punishment was much lighter than he had planned.
Certainly lighter than I expected.
Which doesn't mean it was light.
He whipped my ass with his belt.
Hard.
Very hard, he says.
I was draped over a leather footstool and he beat me with great intent.
But he didn't lose control.
We continued in the bedroom.
Again, the belt.
On my ass, as I was bent over the foot of the bed, leaning on my forearms.
The belt.
One blow to each tit.
The belt.
Hard, between my spread legs on tissues that are much too tender to be treated that way.
And then?
The punishment was over.
He got in the bed, and had me get in, and held me to him while I sobbed, and he comforted me, and talked more about what had been said and what had been done.
And about love, too.
But the pain hadn't ended.
Hurting me for his pleasure.
As opposed to hurting me because It Needed To Be Done.
Whipping poor Pussy to make her swollen and sore, so she'd be extra tight around his cock and so it would hurt when he fucked me. Often he will spank her with his hand, hard, but this time he went back to whipping her with his belt. Hard. And then with the curled palm of his hand. Very hard. And I struggled so, because I'd made up my mind that I would not protect myself, that I would offer him whatever he felt I deserved and whatever would give him pleasure. But it hurt so much, God it hurt, the belt on top of the previous whipping, and then his hand on top of all that, and I couldn't bear it... I tried so hard to hold my legs open but our bodies must protect themselves and he was up on his knees looking down at me with a most fierce and determined expression and would have what he wanted and he pulled my legs apart, forced my legs apart, held my legs apart and I struggled but there was nothing I could do and he spanked me there over and over until I was almost beyond feeling it... everything was falling away and there was nothing but the pain and the helplessness... and I see him now. That image living in my brain.
And it's so vibrant.
So intense.
And I'm so grateful that he forced that pain on me.
So grateful that despite my struggles I offered it to him.
Willingly gave him my physical vulnerability along with the emotional.
And yes.
When he fucked me it hurt.
And yes.
I was red and tight and swollen inside.
And yes.
I whimpered and moaned and cried out that it hurt.
And he came with a roar.
And he loves me.
And no.
Of course I'm not allowed to cum.
Give him what he wants.
Not what he doesn't want.
I haven't been very good about that here, either.
First I give you nothing at all.
Then I blather about some married man nearly getting in trouble
because his wonderful wife is not where he is
and he's lonely for companionship.
How boring.
So I'll give you what you do want.
Just a small slice.
How we resumed our previous category of relationship after having been apart for over a year, followed by around 15 months as lovers.
Not sure what name to give the character of our relationship, as BDSM seems...
Inadequate.
And submission?
Something's missing from that term, too, although I can't nail down what.
In any case, a chance to return to that other way of being together was offered and gratefully, if nervously, accepted. Because, as he has always said and I agreed, this is not a game. Not for us. We're embarking back on it very seriously.
And there is real danger.
The Beast lurks, always lurks, though I've been warned not to refer to him by name and not to call to him. For various reasons, there are times when he can't be guaranteed to maintain control of his sadistic nature which is beyond someone who just enjoys inflicting pain as part of their sexual interactions. He loves me - he truly does love me and sometimes even manages to say the words. He doesn't want to risk injuring me, or doing something that would cause an irreparable destruction of the relationship.
"He."
I keep referring to him as "he."
I don't know what else to say.
I don't think of him as the Fiend anymore.
I don't really think of him as the Beast either - even if that name were not taboo.
We're going way, way back with my training, so I am not allowed to call him "my Master" anymore. Not there yet. And after years of calling him "Daddy" - which made us both feel ever so good - that's packed away for now. I may address him only as "Sir" but it seems weird to refer to him that way. So for now, it's just "he." "Him." No capital letter unless at the beginning of a sentence.
And today?
Today.
A ritual.
They always work so well.
Confession.
Punishment.
Forgiveness.
The confession pleased him.
I included the major sin which he was almost convinced I would omit.
And thus, my punishment was much lighter than he had planned.
Certainly lighter than I expected.
Which doesn't mean it was light.
He whipped my ass with his belt.
Hard.
Very hard, he says.
I was draped over a leather footstool and he beat me with great intent.
But he didn't lose control.
We continued in the bedroom.
Again, the belt.
On my ass, as I was bent over the foot of the bed, leaning on my forearms.
The belt.
One blow to each tit.
The belt.
Hard, between my spread legs on tissues that are much too tender to be treated that way.
And then?
The punishment was over.
He got in the bed, and had me get in, and held me to him while I sobbed, and he comforted me, and talked more about what had been said and what had been done.
And about love, too.
But the pain hadn't ended.
Hurting me for his pleasure.
As opposed to hurting me because It Needed To Be Done.
Whipping poor Pussy to make her swollen and sore, so she'd be extra tight around his cock and so it would hurt when he fucked me. Often he will spank her with his hand, hard, but this time he went back to whipping her with his belt. Hard. And then with the curled palm of his hand. Very hard. And I struggled so, because I'd made up my mind that I would not protect myself, that I would offer him whatever he felt I deserved and whatever would give him pleasure. But it hurt so much, God it hurt, the belt on top of the previous whipping, and then his hand on top of all that, and I couldn't bear it... I tried so hard to hold my legs open but our bodies must protect themselves and he was up on his knees looking down at me with a most fierce and determined expression and would have what he wanted and he pulled my legs apart, forced my legs apart, held my legs apart and I struggled but there was nothing I could do and he spanked me there over and over until I was almost beyond feeling it... everything was falling away and there was nothing but the pain and the helplessness... and I see him now. That image living in my brain.
And it's so vibrant.
So intense.
And I'm so grateful that he forced that pain on me.
So grateful that despite my struggles I offered it to him.
Willingly gave him my physical vulnerability along with the emotional.
And yes.
When he fucked me it hurt.
And yes.
I was red and tight and swollen inside.
And yes.
I whimpered and moaned and cried out that it hurt.
And he came with a roar.
And he loves me.
And no.
Of course I'm not allowed to cum.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Hairbrush research continues (plus tales of my whipping)
I'm passing your comments on, of course.
From the hairbrush-as-hairbrush point of view, it sounds like a combination of natural and plastic bristles is recommended, given that my hair is thick and wavy/curly. Not the very thickest or curliest kind of hair, but it definitely has a good bit of texture of its own.
The reason the other one broke is that it was not a solid piece. Oh, and it was cheap, but that wasn't the real problem. The head flew off the handle. We were in the bathroom of the hotel room. He did get a lot of pleasure out of my poor bottom. His hand, his belt, my hairbrush... Even my collar when he momentarily couldn't find the belt!
He used the belt as a whip this time. Usually, I think, he folds it in half. But this time I had to pull the loose tale through the buckle, after which he wrapped it around his fist a few times before whipping me for long spells and at various times.
Long spells for him, anyway. Most of my spankings and beatings and canings and such have been relatively short, except as punishment/correction/training. Which much of this was. Until later, when he whipped me purely for his pleasure.
I think that when he whipped my pussy it was for his pleasure.
Plus he needed to whip me.
He needed to hurt me.
He needed to hurt me,
and then held back from hurting me as much as he wanted to.
I knew he needed it.
And I knew that I needed it, too.
And today?
I have a collection of very impressive bruises
(poor Pussy isn't looking very pink today)
and I feel very calm
and very centered
and very, very owned.
From the hairbrush-as-hairbrush point of view, it sounds like a combination of natural and plastic bristles is recommended, given that my hair is thick and wavy/curly. Not the very thickest or curliest kind of hair, but it definitely has a good bit of texture of its own.
The reason the other one broke is that it was not a solid piece. Oh, and it was cheap, but that wasn't the real problem. The head flew off the handle. We were in the bathroom of the hotel room. He did get a lot of pleasure out of my poor bottom. His hand, his belt, my hairbrush... Even my collar when he momentarily couldn't find the belt!
He used the belt as a whip this time. Usually, I think, he folds it in half. But this time I had to pull the loose tale through the buckle, after which he wrapped it around his fist a few times before whipping me for long spells and at various times.
Long spells for him, anyway. Most of my spankings and beatings and canings and such have been relatively short, except as punishment/correction/training. Which much of this was. Until later, when he whipped me purely for his pleasure.
I think that when he whipped my pussy it was for his pleasure.
Plus he needed to whip me.
He needed to hurt me.
He needed to hurt me,
and then held back from hurting me as much as he wanted to.
I knew he needed it.
And I knew that I needed it, too.
And today?
I have a collection of very impressive bruises
(poor Pussy isn't looking very pink today)
and I feel very calm
and very centered
and very, very owned.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Beaten butt update. PLUS Honored Again!
Yes, it still hurts.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Over 2 days later and it still hurts.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed,
the same bed on which he caned me for an awfully long time
without the numbing benefit of endorphins,
and it still hurts.
Not that the endorphins would make any difference at this point. They did kick in during the punishment, and as the visit went on, so I didn't realize for quite a while how much he had hurt me. But now... days later...
It was hard to sit today.
And my work mostly involves sitting.
It was strange. There were a couple of hours during which it was fine once I lowered myself into my chair. And then suddenly I couldn't for the life of me get comfortable. I'd shift and squirm and feel that for sure I was trying to settle my naked ass onto a hard, bare, splintered board. And now, sitting on my nice soft bed...
It hurts!!
I'm quite impressed.
And I think it's time for another dose of Tylenol.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now.
As for the honor.
It came just before Thanksgiving, when I was out of town, and then there was this and that so I never got to properly announce it. Especially as I was rather embarrassed, given that I didn't even know I'd been nominated this year, or even expect it, given how irregular my posting has been.
"What IS she babbling about?"
I made the list again.
The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Isn't that lovely?
In thanks, and in recognition of everyone else, here's the whole list. Please do go visit some writers you've never heard of. Just promise not to desert me in the process. OK?
And thanks to Rori and to all you patient people who keep coming back here, hoping I'll pop up again saying something horribly artistic or dirty or both.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
The carrot & the stick. Mainly, the stick.
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Saturday, October 27, 2012
Don't you two have sex anymore?!
Why yes, now that you mention it.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.
First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!
So yes.
To answer your questions.
He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.
For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.
He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.
Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.
Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.
I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...
The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.
My lover.
That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?
I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.
There is no one word.
He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.
He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.
I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.
So now...
Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.
I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.
I didn't want him to stop.
I wanted him to cane me.
And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.
And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.
The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.
And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...
I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.
And now he seems to have stopped pretending.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.
First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!
So yes.
To answer your questions.
He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.
For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.
He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.
Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.
Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.
I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...
The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.
My lover.
That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?
I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.
There is no one word.
He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.
He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.
I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.
So now...
Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.
I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.
I didn't want him to stop.
I wanted him to cane me.
And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.
And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.
The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.
And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...
I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.
And now he seems to have stopped pretending.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Body modification
That's his word for it.
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
Body modification.
He likes to be threatening.
Me, I call it a diet.
He's putting me on a diet.
A very strict, healthy, effective diet.
He knows it's effective.
From personal experience.
He thinks my fans won't like it.
He says blog readers are fine with canings
and fine with nipple torture,
and giving a slave to friends to fuck.
But diets?
Bad.
I think he's wrong.
At least in this case.
Because he is NOT saying there's anything wrong with my body. He's not trying to make me feel bad about myself. It's purely because he enjoys the control. I can't remember what triggered it but all of a sudden it struck him that he'd enjoy doing it.
Enjoy the control.
Enjoy my humiliation.
The supervised weigh-ins.
The rewards if I've done well.
The punishments when I haven't.
But here's the thing.
On the one hand, I love feeling controlled.
The thought of it makes my pussy wriggle and run.
Even the thought of the punishments gets me all excited.
And I know there will be punishments.
Because I'm on this weird 2 week hormonal cycle
so no matter how good I've been
there will be a couple of days when my weight shoots up
and with my luck
it will always hit on a day that he weighs me.
Ah well. He'll enjoy beating me. And it is my job to give him pleasure, right? I'm sure he'll use the cane. I don't enjoy the cane. He makes statements with the cane. And he knows I like being spanked. Though there are ways to spank me, and to whip me with his belt, that make it feel like a punishment. Especially if he does it when he first arrives. Before the endorphins kick in. Before things stop hurting so much.
My butt hurts right now.
It just started.
I think it's from a little caning.
Which wasn't a punishment.
It was a statement.
And I was in the closet.
In the walk-in cedar closet
where I'd been waiting in the dark
against the wall
and now was gripping the heavy iron bar
as the strip of wood he uses as a cane came down
again
and again
but really not that hard -
or I thought it wasn't that hard -
and it made a statement.
Which I can't tell you.
Not because I'm not allowed. He didn't say I couldn't tell you. But I'm not sure I can explain it. Or that I want to. It's another stage in the process. So maybe at some point. Right now it just feels too intimate. And words are inadequate. So not now.
Anyway, I was talking about the diet.
The body modification.
For his pleasure.
Pleasure in the process
more than in the results.
And here's what's on the other hand that I referred to way up the page. I do need to go on a diet. For health reasons. At least 20 pounds and as much as 40. Really! If you saw me, you'd say no. Can't be. But just as my age doesn't show, the extent to which I'm overweight doesn't really show. At some point I'm sure he'll decide my face is too thin, and that my belly isn't round enough. Because he has this thing about my belly...
And the third hand is that I'm highly deficient in discipline and self-control. Which is why I've been sorry all along that he didn't want to put me on a diet. I am grateful that he is taking control. I'll be grateful even for the punishments, because we both know how effective they are.
I've never forgotten the time he beat me for my typos.
Really beat me.
So I know how well punishments can work.
Plus there's one more thing.
I don't know what other ideas he might have about body modification.
But I know he really likes my hair.
The color.
The curls.
The length.
So I don't have to worry about his cutting it off
or making me dye it black.
Because that I couldn't do.
Anyway.
What do you all think?
Because you know he'll want to hear.
Are you upset about his putting me on a diet?
Saturday, February 18, 2012
He wants me to speak of his pain
He suffers.
He wants you to know that he suffers.
He wants me to speak of his pain.
The beast was here today. Which surprised me. I had no warning. Though I should have realized something was up when the sadist preceded his visit by a warning against "moony-ness" and an order for strict focus on service to his cock. Now it's quite clear to me that when things become moony and emotional and all, it's not all my fault. He opens the door to that, he goes there, he radiates his feelings for me and his own softness and his joy at being with me along with gratitude that I am his. He can't fool me. Not any more.
[ . . . ]
Hours have passed.
I'm back on the sofa, sitting again between two very soft cats.
I had to stop before.
My mind strayed.
I lost focus.
Became very sleepy.
Delayed reaction.
Because yes.
The beast was here today.
And he took his belt to my ass.
He took his belt to my ass and
hours later
it finally hurt.
At first I didn't realize what was going on. I thought it was a punishment for missing my bedtime the other night by 2 minutes. I e-mail him before turning out the light, so he did know what time it was. But I'd had no inkling that he was pissed off about it so I was surprised and confused and he was bringing the belt down hard on my ass.
Harder even than I realized.
Which happens.
When he's been there for a while.
When I've been kneeling before him and he's been kissing me.
Arousing me.
Sending me into that place.
If he hurts me then, he can hurt me harder and it doesn't fully register.
But he hadn't been there that long.
At least I don't think so...
Certainly I wasn't deeply in that place.
It wasn't till he was on his way out that he let on that he'd swung the belt down quite hard on my ass - very satisfying, he said it was - and that he was surprised it hadn't hurt me more. I did cry when he beat me, but more from confusion, from distress at what I thought was anger, than from severe pain. I've felt pain that was much worse. Delivered by him.
The beast.
I realized the beast was there,
but thought he had arrived in anger.
But that wasn't it.
He was hungry.
He wanted to torture me.
Don't worry.
He didn't.
And except for very brief flashes, he has been absent for a long time.
This time, though...
The beating wasn't a punishment, Daddy said.
It was purely recreational.
He was very upset.
He struggles.
He suffers.
It hurts.
He was this close to the edge, he said. I've always thought of it as an increase by degrees. A little pain, a little more, a lot more, until it crosses a line and becomes more than I can handle.
Though, oh - how I wish I could handle it!
How I wish I could give that to him!
But I can't.
And we both know it.
It's dangerous to play with. Because what he explained today was that it's not like slowly turning up the heat. It's like going along and then suddenly - he's over the cliff. It could be that sudden. And the beast would be in control.
Though he doesn't like using that construct.
Splitting off that part of himself as if it were another man.
A man with his own name.
A man who has tried to seduce me and will do so again.
He has to own that part of himself.
The part that wants to torture me.
The part that wants to do things he will not describe.
The part that wants to hear the full range of what my voice can do
as he does the full range of unspeakable things to my body.
As he makes me suffer.
He wants you to understand.
To understand his suffering.
To know that this is real.
It is not a game.
It is not something he plays at.
It's not some kinky sex game.
It's not role play.
It's not "I'm a sadist - yuck, yuck, yuck..."
It's real.
And while he does get pleasure from inflicting pain,
he does not get pleasure from being battered by his urges.
He did not go too far.
He stopped himself.
He stepped back from the edge
and brought himself down
while saying things with his kisses which showed how he cares.
But he suffered.
Being in that state is a high.
So he was crashing.
Even as he was being gentle and loving
and saying all those things without words,
he was in pain.
Think of it as the pain of withdrawal.
Later, an hour or so later, when he finally came in my mouth - which he doesn't usually do because he likes to see my face - he talked about it. About the struggle. The pain. He was worried. Disturbed. He hadn't had an attack in quite a while. He worried about truly hurting me. About losing control. He spoke again about his concern that maybe he shouldn't see me again - though we both know it's too late for that. Who we are... how far we've come... what we are like together... we have a relationship. Not a very standard one. Not one that many would approve of. But we are mostly definitely we. He won't walk away.
He can't.
Me, I have faith.
I truly believe that his feelings for me are stronger than the beast. There may be times that he'll go a little too far. Every so often. But then he'll look at me in wonder and see both all those things that make the beast want to devour me and all the things that make him retract his claws and hide his fangs and then fold me in his arms and hold me tight, my nakedness close to his.
The curious thing is that what I was picking up all that time was not the beast's hunger. It was the stress underneath. When, later, he was wondering what triggered the return of his compulsion, I brought up the stress. We've seen it before - although he always seems to forget - that stress tends to break the bars of the cage that usually holds back the beast. And I do know he's under a lot of stress, although he has largely refused to talk about it. Not just to me but - it seems - to anyone. He feels he has to be strong. To be in charge of everything and not show how hard it is for him. He has told me that much directly.
Under all that stress, something has to crack.
So it was the distress of the stress I felt.
That concerned me.
That made me want to comfort and soothe him.
I do love him.
I do trust him.
And my heart aches for his suffering.
PS - He has made arrangements to visit someone who can willingly feed the beast's hunger. He hadn't realized until he arrived today that there was any danger. And there's a chance we can spend the night together, away, during one of the weekends in March. A very happy possibility. For us both.
He wants you to know that he suffers.
He wants me to speak of his pain.
The beast was here today. Which surprised me. I had no warning. Though I should have realized something was up when the sadist preceded his visit by a warning against "moony-ness" and an order for strict focus on service to his cock. Now it's quite clear to me that when things become moony and emotional and all, it's not all my fault. He opens the door to that, he goes there, he radiates his feelings for me and his own softness and his joy at being with me along with gratitude that I am his. He can't fool me. Not any more.
[ . . . ]
Hours have passed.
I'm back on the sofa, sitting again between two very soft cats.
I had to stop before.
My mind strayed.
I lost focus.
Became very sleepy.
Delayed reaction.
Because yes.
The beast was here today.
And he took his belt to my ass.
He took his belt to my ass and
hours later
it finally hurt.
At first I didn't realize what was going on. I thought it was a punishment for missing my bedtime the other night by 2 minutes. I e-mail him before turning out the light, so he did know what time it was. But I'd had no inkling that he was pissed off about it so I was surprised and confused and he was bringing the belt down hard on my ass.
Harder even than I realized.
Which happens.
When he's been there for a while.
When I've been kneeling before him and he's been kissing me.
Arousing me.
Sending me into that place.
If he hurts me then, he can hurt me harder and it doesn't fully register.
But he hadn't been there that long.
At least I don't think so...
Certainly I wasn't deeply in that place.
It wasn't till he was on his way out that he let on that he'd swung the belt down quite hard on my ass - very satisfying, he said it was - and that he was surprised it hadn't hurt me more. I did cry when he beat me, but more from confusion, from distress at what I thought was anger, than from severe pain. I've felt pain that was much worse. Delivered by him.
The beast.
I realized the beast was there,
but thought he had arrived in anger.
But that wasn't it.
He was hungry.
He wanted to torture me.
Don't worry.
He didn't.
And except for very brief flashes, he has been absent for a long time.
This time, though...
The beating wasn't a punishment, Daddy said.
It was purely recreational.
He was very upset.
He struggles.
He suffers.
It hurts.
He was this close to the edge, he said. I've always thought of it as an increase by degrees. A little pain, a little more, a lot more, until it crosses a line and becomes more than I can handle.
Though, oh - how I wish I could handle it!
How I wish I could give that to him!
But I can't.
And we both know it.
It's dangerous to play with. Because what he explained today was that it's not like slowly turning up the heat. It's like going along and then suddenly - he's over the cliff. It could be that sudden. And the beast would be in control.
Though he doesn't like using that construct.
Splitting off that part of himself as if it were another man.
A man with his own name.
A man who has tried to seduce me and will do so again.
He has to own that part of himself.
The part that wants to torture me.
The part that wants to do things he will not describe.
The part that wants to hear the full range of what my voice can do
as he does the full range of unspeakable things to my body.
As he makes me suffer.
He wants you to understand.
To understand his suffering.
To know that this is real.
It is not a game.
It is not something he plays at.
It's not some kinky sex game.
It's not role play.
It's not "I'm a sadist - yuck, yuck, yuck..."
It's real.
And while he does get pleasure from inflicting pain,
he does not get pleasure from being battered by his urges.
He did not go too far.
He stopped himself.
He stepped back from the edge
and brought himself down
while saying things with his kisses which showed how he cares.
But he suffered.
Being in that state is a high.
So he was crashing.
Even as he was being gentle and loving
and saying all those things without words,
he was in pain.
Think of it as the pain of withdrawal.
Later, an hour or so later, when he finally came in my mouth - which he doesn't usually do because he likes to see my face - he talked about it. About the struggle. The pain. He was worried. Disturbed. He hadn't had an attack in quite a while. He worried about truly hurting me. About losing control. He spoke again about his concern that maybe he shouldn't see me again - though we both know it's too late for that. Who we are... how far we've come... what we are like together... we have a relationship. Not a very standard one. Not one that many would approve of. But we are mostly definitely we. He won't walk away.
He can't.
Me, I have faith.
I truly believe that his feelings for me are stronger than the beast. There may be times that he'll go a little too far. Every so often. But then he'll look at me in wonder and see both all those things that make the beast want to devour me and all the things that make him retract his claws and hide his fangs and then fold me in his arms and hold me tight, my nakedness close to his.
The curious thing is that what I was picking up all that time was not the beast's hunger. It was the stress underneath. When, later, he was wondering what triggered the return of his compulsion, I brought up the stress. We've seen it before - although he always seems to forget - that stress tends to break the bars of the cage that usually holds back the beast. And I do know he's under a lot of stress, although he has largely refused to talk about it. Not just to me but - it seems - to anyone. He feels he has to be strong. To be in charge of everything and not show how hard it is for him. He has told me that much directly.
Under all that stress, something has to crack.
So it was the distress of the stress I felt.
That concerned me.
That made me want to comfort and soothe him.
I do love him.
I do trust him.
And my heart aches for his suffering.
PS - He has made arrangements to visit someone who can willingly feed the beast's hunger. He hadn't realized until he arrived today that there was any danger. And there's a chance we can spend the night together, away, during one of the weekends in March. A very happy possibility. For us both.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Daddy's nun fetish
The sadist has a thing for nuns.
I've known about it almost as long as I've known him.
Since maybe a day or two after he found me.
Nuns.
I'm a naive thing.
I didn't know people had nun fetishes.
People probably have fetishes about everything.
Anyway.
It fascinated me.
Intrigued me.
To be swathed in a full nun's habit.
To be innocent.
Maybe.
Bent over.
Butt exposed.
Soft white buttocks whipped.
To be despoiled.
Raped.
I absorbed his fantasies into myself.
And I wanted to please him.
I've always wanted to please him.
So pretty early on, I decided I would somehow have to get my hands on a nun's habit. Get my soft white Jewess body into a nun's habit. Note: I hate that word. Jewess. It feels dehumanizing. But it turns the sadist on. And I play to his desires. His fetishes. Which gets us back to the nuns. The habit. Where the hell was I going to get a nun's habit? A real one?
And then I mentioned it to one of you. She used to comment as jcn and now has a profile but I can't remember what name she uses. Anyway, she said she had a friend who was a nun who was trying on the case. And then someone came into where she works and asked if anyone could use a nun's costume. A good one.
That was this summer.
Today, the sadist got to see it.
With me in it.
And then not in it.
I've said that we don't "play." We don't role play either. There are different aspects to our relationship, to how we are with each other, to the needs we serve for each other. Emotional needs. Sexual needs.
This.
Me in the nun's habit.
What he did to me.
It was the closest to role play as we've ever gotten.
But it was more than that. Far more. Oh yes. You could call it a scene. A scenario. But it was also a ritual. A ritual we both needed. I was to make confession. To think, to search, to self-examine. To open. To offer.
Confession.
Penance.
Absolution.
This morning, as I finished compiling the list, it suddenly hit me.
All my failings.
All my faults.
All my weaknesses.
I was devastated.
Distraught.
And later, as I began to read it to him,
swathed in the very convincing
and totally obscuring
nun's habit,
I started to cry.
And sob.
It was a true confession.
From the heart.
When he talked to me about it beforehand, while I was away for Thanksgiving, he reassured me that it was just a fine-tuning. Not an engine replacement. Not preparation to trade me in for a newer model. And he was right. I did need this. Not that I needed reminding of my faults and failings. I haven't forgotten them. I never forgot them. But every so often I need to face them. Especially the ones that involve sins against the sadist. Whom I serve and whom I love. For both reasons, my failings are unacceptable.
To me.
Far more than to him, it turns out.
I confessed and I sobbed.
He comforted me.
Reassured me.
Stroked my back.
Eventually, he did punish me.
I needed that, too.
He almost didn't punish me, he said.
Because I have an interview in a few days.
He didn't want to do anything that might make it too uncomfortable for me.
But he couldn't keep from doing it.
I was too hot in that nun's habit.
And I needed it.
It cleansed me.
The thing is, the sadist is not one of those Doms I sometimes read about who need to tear down their subs. His bigger concern is that he thinks I'm amazing. beautiful. Brilliant. His treasure. And I have a hard time swallowing it. And that makes him more angry than just about anything.
I'd been afraid of the coming punishment. I wanted to do penance, but was afraid he would beat me with that nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane. Which is what he usually uses for punishment. It hurts like hell. And it's a nasty sot of pain. It scares me.
But he didn't.
He didn't cane me.
And he didn't flog me,
which would have been appropriate.
He whipped me
With his belt.
I kind of like being whipped with a belt. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be for my pleasure. And it didn't feel like that. It was supposed to cleanse me of my grief and my guilt. And thus be something I could embrace. It wasn't an angry beating. And... punishment seems like something external. Something imposed. Whereas penance... you offer to do it. It's a cleansing pain, a cleansing suffering. And the belt... the choice of the belt over the cane... it felt loving.
I told him that.
Assuring him that "loving" was not implying that other, related word.
He understood.
And did not protest my characterization.
A loving whipping to cleanse me of my sins and my guilt.
A firm, loving whipping,
his belt landing on my soft, bare, proffered bottom
as I posed on the futon on my hands and knees,
everything but my reddening butt swathed in black
and my head and hair buried beneath the veil.
There was more, of course. It was happy and beautiful and fierce and we had to struggle to keep the beast under control. It was close sometimes. I'd been afraid he'd be there. Because of the nun. And he was there. I saw him in my Daddy's eyes. I felt his hand tight around my neck. And he was dangerously close when later, for his pleasure, Daddy whipped my pussy.
With the belt.
He left the belt with me.
He'll be whipping me with it again.
He'll be buckling it around my neck again.
He'll wrap it around my neck and pull me to him
as he lies back on the futon
while I kneel between his legs
sucking his happy cock.
The nun will be back, too.
I've known about it almost as long as I've known him.
Since maybe a day or two after he found me.
Nuns.
I'm a naive thing.
I didn't know people had nun fetishes.
People probably have fetishes about everything.
Anyway.
It fascinated me.
Intrigued me.
To be swathed in a full nun's habit.
To be innocent.
Maybe.
Bent over.
Butt exposed.
Soft white buttocks whipped.
To be despoiled.
Raped.
I absorbed his fantasies into myself.
And I wanted to please him.
I've always wanted to please him.
So pretty early on, I decided I would somehow have to get my hands on a nun's habit. Get my soft white Jewess body into a nun's habit. Note: I hate that word. Jewess. It feels dehumanizing. But it turns the sadist on. And I play to his desires. His fetishes. Which gets us back to the nuns. The habit. Where the hell was I going to get a nun's habit? A real one?
And then I mentioned it to one of you. She used to comment as jcn and now has a profile but I can't remember what name she uses. Anyway, she said she had a friend who was a nun who was trying on the case. And then someone came into where she works and asked if anyone could use a nun's costume. A good one.
That was this summer.
Today, the sadist got to see it.
With me in it.
And then not in it.
I've said that we don't "play." We don't role play either. There are different aspects to our relationship, to how we are with each other, to the needs we serve for each other. Emotional needs. Sexual needs.
This.
Me in the nun's habit.
What he did to me.
It was the closest to role play as we've ever gotten.
But it was more than that. Far more. Oh yes. You could call it a scene. A scenario. But it was also a ritual. A ritual we both needed. I was to make confession. To think, to search, to self-examine. To open. To offer.
Confession.
Penance.
Absolution.
This morning, as I finished compiling the list, it suddenly hit me.
All my failings.
All my faults.
All my weaknesses.
I was devastated.
Distraught.
And later, as I began to read it to him,
swathed in the very convincing
and totally obscuring
nun's habit,
I started to cry.
And sob.
It was a true confession.
From the heart.
When he talked to me about it beforehand, while I was away for Thanksgiving, he reassured me that it was just a fine-tuning. Not an engine replacement. Not preparation to trade me in for a newer model. And he was right. I did need this. Not that I needed reminding of my faults and failings. I haven't forgotten them. I never forgot them. But every so often I need to face them. Especially the ones that involve sins against the sadist. Whom I serve and whom I love. For both reasons, my failings are unacceptable.
To me.
Far more than to him, it turns out.
I confessed and I sobbed.
He comforted me.
Reassured me.
Stroked my back.
Eventually, he did punish me.
I needed that, too.
He almost didn't punish me, he said.
Because I have an interview in a few days.
He didn't want to do anything that might make it too uncomfortable for me.
But he couldn't keep from doing it.
I was too hot in that nun's habit.
And I needed it.
It cleansed me.
The thing is, the sadist is not one of those Doms I sometimes read about who need to tear down their subs. His bigger concern is that he thinks I'm amazing. beautiful. Brilliant. His treasure. And I have a hard time swallowing it. And that makes him more angry than just about anything.
I'd been afraid of the coming punishment. I wanted to do penance, but was afraid he would beat me with that nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane. Which is what he usually uses for punishment. It hurts like hell. And it's a nasty sot of pain. It scares me.
But he didn't.
He didn't cane me.
And he didn't flog me,
which would have been appropriate.
He whipped me
With his belt.
I kind of like being whipped with a belt. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be for my pleasure. And it didn't feel like that. It was supposed to cleanse me of my grief and my guilt. And thus be something I could embrace. It wasn't an angry beating. And... punishment seems like something external. Something imposed. Whereas penance... you offer to do it. It's a cleansing pain, a cleansing suffering. And the belt... the choice of the belt over the cane... it felt loving.
I told him that.
Assuring him that "loving" was not implying that other, related word.
He understood.
And did not protest my characterization.
A loving whipping to cleanse me of my sins and my guilt.
A firm, loving whipping,
his belt landing on my soft, bare, proffered bottom
as I posed on the futon on my hands and knees,
everything but my reddening butt swathed in black
and my head and hair buried beneath the veil.
There was more, of course. It was happy and beautiful and fierce and we had to struggle to keep the beast under control. It was close sometimes. I'd been afraid he'd be there. Because of the nun. And he was there. I saw him in my Daddy's eyes. I felt his hand tight around my neck. And he was dangerously close when later, for his pleasure, Daddy whipped my pussy.
With the belt.
He left the belt with me.
He'll be whipping me with it again.
He'll be buckling it around my neck again.
He'll wrap it around my neck and pull me to him
as he lies back on the futon
while I kneel between his legs
sucking his happy cock.
The nun will be back, too.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Heading north
Packing.
Making cranberry orange relish.
Spending a little quality time with the cats.
Downloading more tunes he introduced me to.
I have my instructions.
An assignment.
Things to think about.
A musical touchstone.
A theme.
Messages to send.
When and how to send them.
A theme.
A focus.
Service.
And a rich and scary ritual when I return.
When we reunite.
On the Tuesday.
In a week.
Reunion.
Punishment.
Recommitment.
And in between?
630 miles round trip.
And no cats.
What's a house without cats?!
Back home Saturday night.
Happy Thanksgiving, you guys.
Even if this is not your holiday,
it's good to take time to be thankful.
Me?
I am very thankful indeed.
Making cranberry orange relish.
Spending a little quality time with the cats.
Downloading more tunes he introduced me to.
I have my instructions.
An assignment.
Things to think about.
A musical touchstone.
A theme.
Messages to send.
When and how to send them.
A theme.
A focus.
Service.
And a rich and scary ritual when I return.
When we reunite.
On the Tuesday.
In a week.
Reunion.
Punishment.
Recommitment.
And in between?
630 miles round trip.
And no cats.
What's a house without cats?!
Back home Saturday night.
Happy Thanksgiving, you guys.
Even if this is not your holiday,
it's good to take time to be thankful.
Me?
I am very thankful indeed.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Cognitive dissonance and BDSM
It took four and a half days. Finally, someone was brave enough to leave the comment I had been expecting from the moment I finished writing the post I called Ouch. Screwed up again.
This morning, goodgirl wrote:
The full quote, the last two lines of my post, is this:
Here, an admission.
I felt extremely uncomfortable as I wrote it.
And I left it in as a challenge.
A challenge as much to myself as to my readers.
Because that is a horrible thing to say.
As a concept, as a tenet, it is absolutely inexcusable.
And yet.
I thought it.
I felt it.
At that time.
In that context.
As I wrote.
But if I let myself truly think about it, my stomach clenches.
So I tried not to think about it.
An exquisite example of cognitive dissonance.
As I write about it now, I'm suddenly reminded of something very different. Or maybe not so different as a psychological experience.
I was raised an atheist. A third-generation left-wing Jewish atheist. While my parents gave us a strong sense of Jewish identity, they were very clear on the non-existence of God. Religion was something that distracted people from improving the lot of the masses and making the world a better place. (Knowing very little about Judaism, they didn't know that tikkun olam, healing the world, is precisely the job we were given, but that's another discussion entirely.)
Eventually, I was drawn - felt compelled - to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. I talked with a rabbi, I read, I went to services, I found things I could relate to. But largely I preferred services that were mostly in Hebrew. Despite the fact that I didn't know what I was saying.
In fact - precisely because I wouldn't know what I was saying.
Because otherwise the highly rational part of me would push past the part that found meaning and fulfillment in ritual, the part that sensed the existence of something else, and while poking at my stomach would say: "How can you say this stuff?!?"
I rarely ascribe things to "God." Notice that above, when I spoke of tikkun olam, I didn't say it was the job that God gave us. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. And yet, I really have, on a few widely disparate occasions, become disconcertingly aware of something else.
I do not like talking about those occasions.
They make me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet they were very real.
Cognitive dissonance makes us very uncomfortable.
There is another psychological state that walks hand-in-hand with cognitive dissonance. And that is suspension of disbelief. A very deliberate suspension of disbelief.
Yes, I am very happy in my relationship. But I am admittedly uncomfortable enough about a few of its aspects that I don't reveal it to friends who are not part of this world. They would worry about me. And really, rationally, how could I blame them? Aside from everything else, I should be out looking for someone who will commit to looking after me as I grow older. Who could take care of me, financially and otherwise. Instead I have made a commitment to a man who... well, you know. Or some of it at least. You've read it here.
In order to write what I do, not to mention do what I do, I push away my thoughts of real slavery. Of real abuse, sexual and otherwise. Of forced prostitution, of children who are sold, of children whose real daddies do things to them that no child should have to endure. Things that no daddy should even think of doing. These are real horrors in the world - realities we should not close our eyes to, realities we should not close our minds to, realities we must acknowledge even as we do things that some of us, at least - perhaps precisely because our awareness is so keen - feel we must keep from those who care about us.
So I write from another place.
That place from which I can say
a man has the right to beat his slave.
For pleasure or punishment.
But there was no way I could go deeply enough into that place to enable me to write that line without cognitive dissonance standing on my shoulder, like an angel of good intent, whispering into my ear the true horror of the words I left for you to read.
So thank you, goodgirl, for being honest enough to admit what you felt.
Because if we didn't have those feelings,
at least sometimes,
we would have to seriously question our own humanity.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A reassurance, for my new readers and for those who may have forgotten. None of us, in any relationship, can truly say that our safety is assured, whether physical or emotional. The old hit-by-a-bus possibility. But I can say this. This man I write about - this sadist - is aware of the potential dangers and works very hard to protect me. And it is that level of consciousness that feels like the greatest protection of all.
This morning, goodgirl wrote:
Hello
For reasons I can not even explain nor understand myself your last sentence, "a man has the right to beat his slave" prickled me to my very core. To each his/her own; freedom of speech and choice I believe but reading those words felt offensive and is just one of the many reasons why I feel conflict with the exchange of Dominance/submission; Sadism/masochism; Master/slave.
You appear very happy in your relationship and that is truly all that matters for you and the exchange you have.
For me though, this entry just fills me with sadness.
The full quote, the last two lines of my post, is this:
Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.
Here, an admission.
I felt extremely uncomfortable as I wrote it.
And I left it in as a challenge.
A challenge as much to myself as to my readers.
Because that is a horrible thing to say.
As a concept, as a tenet, it is absolutely inexcusable.
And yet.
I thought it.
I felt it.
At that time.
In that context.
As I wrote.
But if I let myself truly think about it, my stomach clenches.
So I tried not to think about it.
An exquisite example of cognitive dissonance.
As I write about it now, I'm suddenly reminded of something very different. Or maybe not so different as a psychological experience.
I was raised an atheist. A third-generation left-wing Jewish atheist. While my parents gave us a strong sense of Jewish identity, they were very clear on the non-existence of God. Religion was something that distracted people from improving the lot of the masses and making the world a better place. (Knowing very little about Judaism, they didn't know that tikkun olam, healing the world, is precisely the job we were given, but that's another discussion entirely.)
Eventually, I was drawn - felt compelled - to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. I talked with a rabbi, I read, I went to services, I found things I could relate to. But largely I preferred services that were mostly in Hebrew. Despite the fact that I didn't know what I was saying.
In fact - precisely because I wouldn't know what I was saying.
Because otherwise the highly rational part of me would push past the part that found meaning and fulfillment in ritual, the part that sensed the existence of something else, and while poking at my stomach would say: "How can you say this stuff?!?"
I rarely ascribe things to "God." Notice that above, when I spoke of tikkun olam, I didn't say it was the job that God gave us. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. And yet, I really have, on a few widely disparate occasions, become disconcertingly aware of something else.
I do not like talking about those occasions.
They make me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet they were very real.
Cognitive dissonance makes us very uncomfortable.
There is another psychological state that walks hand-in-hand with cognitive dissonance. And that is suspension of disbelief. A very deliberate suspension of disbelief.
Yes, I am very happy in my relationship. But I am admittedly uncomfortable enough about a few of its aspects that I don't reveal it to friends who are not part of this world. They would worry about me. And really, rationally, how could I blame them? Aside from everything else, I should be out looking for someone who will commit to looking after me as I grow older. Who could take care of me, financially and otherwise. Instead I have made a commitment to a man who... well, you know. Or some of it at least. You've read it here.
In order to write what I do, not to mention do what I do, I push away my thoughts of real slavery. Of real abuse, sexual and otherwise. Of forced prostitution, of children who are sold, of children whose real daddies do things to them that no child should have to endure. Things that no daddy should even think of doing. These are real horrors in the world - realities we should not close our eyes to, realities we should not close our minds to, realities we must acknowledge even as we do things that some of us, at least - perhaps precisely because our awareness is so keen - feel we must keep from those who care about us.
So I write from another place.
That place from which I can say
a man has the right to beat his slave.
For pleasure or punishment.
But there was no way I could go deeply enough into that place to enable me to write that line without cognitive dissonance standing on my shoulder, like an angel of good intent, whispering into my ear the true horror of the words I left for you to read.
So thank you, goodgirl, for being honest enough to admit what you felt.
Because if we didn't have those feelings,
at least sometimes,
we would have to seriously question our own humanity.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A reassurance, for my new readers and for those who may have forgotten. None of us, in any relationship, can truly say that our safety is assured, whether physical or emotional. The old hit-by-a-bus possibility. But I can say this. This man I write about - this sadist - is aware of the potential dangers and works very hard to protect me. And it is that level of consciousness that feels like the greatest protection of all.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Why I was beaten for smiling
There were 2 comments on my last post, which I had cleverly titled Ouch. Screwed up again. I do hope you all recognize that at times my titles are deliberately selected to lure readers. It certainly worked this time. My stats shot right up. Whether any of those first-time visitors will return is a separate issue. But it sure gives me a sense of power, knowing how easily I can lure them over for an initial peek.
Anyway.
Back to the post.
Back to those 2 comments.
The core of the post was this:
It seems from jcn's comment that maybe I should define my terms more carefully.
It's not that I'm never allowed to smile.
And I do smile at times.
As does he.
At times.
But not when he comes through the door.
It's inappropriate.
One comment he made about the issue was a reminder that
it's not about me.
It's not about how I feel about seeing him.
It's about him.
It's all about him.
I am there to serve him.
I am there to please him.
How I feel at the moment of his arrival is irrelevant.
The second comment said:
I guess I should point out that I don't usually smile on his arrival. Really. I don't. Certainly in the beginning I didn't smile. If you knew this man from a submissive position, you'd know that his presence does not inspire smiles. But as various things developed... well, one day I couldn't help it. He arrived and a smile of joy and love flooded my face.
But that is not what he usually sees.
What he usually sees is
submission
respect
focus
obedience
adoration
and worship.
Behind all this is love.
And I'm sure he sees that, too.
Anyway.
Back to the post.
Back to those 2 comments.
The core of the post was this:
Don't smile when he comes in the door.
It's inappropriate.
It seems from jcn's comment that maybe I should define my terms more carefully.
It's not that I'm never allowed to smile.
And I do smile at times.
As does he.
At times.
But not when he comes through the door.
It's inappropriate.
One comment he made about the issue was a reminder that
it's not about me.
It's not about how I feel about seeing him.
It's about him.
It's all about him.
I am there to serve him.
I am there to please him.
How I feel at the moment of his arrival is irrelevant.
The second comment said:
Won't it be nice for you both when
he's trained you not to smile? I
wonder what your face will show then
when he appears.
I guess I should point out that I don't usually smile on his arrival. Really. I don't. Certainly in the beginning I didn't smile. If you knew this man from a submissive position, you'd know that his presence does not inspire smiles. But as various things developed... well, one day I couldn't help it. He arrived and a smile of joy and love flooded my face.
But that is not what he usually sees.
What he usually sees is
submission
respect
focus
obedience
adoration
and worship.
Behind all this is love.
And I'm sure he sees that, too.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Ouch. Screwed up again.
I do know.
I do!
Sometimes I even think about it.
And remind myself.
Don't smile when he comes in the door.
It's inappropriate.
But every so often I forget.
I can't help it.
I'm so happy to see him!
He came in the door
and a smile spread over my face
and I thought
"Damn."
No smiling.
It's inappropriate.
There are smiles later.
Sometimes.
But not when he arrives.
So I was punished.
Beaten.
With the strip of wood he uses as a cane.
Which hurt.
And I cried.
And afterwards, I was even softer.
And deeper in my slave space.
I learned a lot about my slave space.
But that's another story.
Maybe I'll tell you.
Meanwhile, there's this.
I realized this.
Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.
I do!
Sometimes I even think about it.
And remind myself.
Don't smile when he comes in the door.
It's inappropriate.
But every so often I forget.
I can't help it.
I'm so happy to see him!
He came in the door
and a smile spread over my face
and I thought
"Damn."
No smiling.
It's inappropriate.
There are smiles later.
Sometimes.
But not when he arrives.
So I was punished.
Beaten.
With the strip of wood he uses as a cane.
Which hurt.
And I cried.
And afterwards, I was even softer.
And deeper in my slave space.
I learned a lot about my slave space.
But that's another story.
Maybe I'll tell you.
Meanwhile, there's this.
I realized this.
Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Masturbation mania (8) - Cumming with the Fun Factory LAYAspot
So here it is. Part 2 of my 2-for-the-price-of-1 sex toy review. Yesterday you got the somewhat dispassionate account of my exploration of Fun Factory's LAYAspot, a clitoral vibrator that is the latest donation to my growing collection of sensually stimulating devices courtesy of my [contact? handler? friend?] at EdenFantasys. OK, it wasn't at all dispassionate, nor was it completely positive. Then again, nothing is perfect.
This was a type of toy I specifically wanted to try. As I said yesterday, I'm a clitoral girl when it comes to cumming. So why keep shoving pseudo-dicks up my pussy when it's my clit that wants the lovin'? Especially as this style of clitoral vibrator seems perfectly designed to fit the female shape.
Following are a selection from the in-action e-mails I sent my Master as I masturbated with the LAYAspot. The test and report are my thank-you to EdenFantasys, my part of the deal for the pleasure and fun they are adding to my life. But my orgasms - my body - my brain - my pleasure - all belong to my Master. So I participate in this program with his permission - with the understanding that he will benefit from it.
Enough of the high-minded slave stuff.
It's true, you know.
But when I write it, it can sound kind of stuffy at times.
Here's the juicy stuff.
Straight from the front.
Or from the pussy.
As it were.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am evoking you, my Master.
Seeing you.
Feeling you.
Giving myself to thoughts of you.
Hot Jazz Saturday Night is on the radio.
Not long ago, my Lord, he had on Let's Misbehave.
I feel your body pressing me into the bed.
I feel your fingers.
Touching me.
Fondling me.
Fucking me.
Raping me.
I'm starting to go someplace different, my Master.
To the edge of that slave place I'm starting to explore.
I feel different, my Master.
You opened the door...
I peek through.
I'm not sure what I see.
But I can't stay away.
So as your property, my Master, I will arouse myself.
It will all be for you.
How can it be anything else?
Because I belong to you, my Master.
For real.
I turn down the thermostat.
I have to, my Lord.
You make me hot.
I free my curls from the restraining combs.
My hair tumbles forward onto my cheeks.
I dig in the bag for the device and the AstroGlide.
I come across the spoon.
I strip, feeling your eyes on me.
I stand before the mirrored closet, turning this way and that, peering over my shoulder, trying to see what might be left of the marks from the perfect beating you gave me to bring me back to where I needed to be.
[ . . . ]
Last time, my Lord, I didn't think the vibrator would need lubricating, since this device doesn't go inside me. But perhaps it will feel more gentle with the AstroGlide.
I wish it didn't sound like the dentist's polishing device.
mmm... that's nice, my Master... little noises... do you hear your slave's little noises, my Master?
The "mmm..." came from touching myself with the moistened end of the device, but without turning it on. Now it feels very pleasurable. Gentle. Arousing.
Definitely arousing.
[ . . . ]
Now I will go back to touching myself with the device, and then slowly exploring the vibrations and patterns.
Watch me.
Watch me writhe.
Watch me let myself relax into the pleasure.
Watch me remind myself of your teaching.
Hear my little moans.
My little whimpers.
Watch my tits rise and fall.
Watch my belly shake with longing for you.
Watch my pussy redden and swell with longing for you.
See my legs spread.
I'll remember the flogger landing on my inner thighs.
I'll remember how I yielded to you,
how I didn't protect myself...
just the thought of my obedience is make me drip.
Time to return to the testing lab, my Master.
Wherever you are,
you will feel me.
I know you will.
I'm at the 4th level of vibrations, my Master, taking it slowly, relaxing into my pleasure.
Your pleasure.
Somewhere during my lengthy exploration of the third level, a flash of the dependable fantasy of being whipped kicked in. The vague fantasy that is nothing like the real thing. Until then, I had been doing nothing but giving myself to the sensations.
For the first 3 levels, I was moving it back and forth over my clit and pussy lips as if it were two fingers but vibrating. Then, as the 4th level settled in. I noticed that I had stopped moving the device and instead was rocking my pelvis back and forth on it.
Fucking you, my Master.
I was fucking you.
Do you feel my pussy, my Master?
Now I'm sitting up in bed, the computer on my lap, and the little vibrator tucked under my pussy, which it is designed for. Designed for you to be able to lie on it. Its name is LAYAspot, after all.
I have only 2 complaints.
Although rated the same as my others, it seems rather loud.
And the sound isn't damped by being inside me.
It is for external use only.
The noise impinges on my concentration.
The other negative, my Lord, is that being so small, the vibrations go through the whole thing and thus through my fingers. Which feels kind of weird. When I use that little insertable lavender one [the Meany], I don't think it buzzes my fingers as much.
Still, this is a very enjoyable item.
Time to continue to the next level, my Master.
Listen for my whimpers...
One thing about these lab experiments is that I end up with very long masturbation sessions. Which is good for me, my Master. It's as you have been teaching me - to give myself to the sensations.
The sensations.
I worked my way up through a few more vibration levels and then the first of three patterns kicked in. It's like this:
<
Vroom.
A strong, deliberate build-up.
And after about every other one I'd have this little involuntary...
jump?
Very intense, my Lord.
The second pattern is like that but buzzing faster so in a way it is gentler.
The third one is a series of pulses.
It's the first of the three that really has an effect.
Then I turned it off for a bit, and let my pussy recover some. The problem with keeping a vibrator going externally like that is it tends to numb the area. The little Meany is the only one that hasn't been as much of a problem that way. I think perhaps because the tip is so soft. Remember I showed that to you, my Lord? Squooshy. Like a real penis. Rather cute.
I tried fondling myself with my fingers for a little, but by then I was too desensitized for anything but the device, so I turned it back on at one of the regular vibration settings. And let my mind go back to where it had been about 5 minutes before.
Being watched.
You took me somewhere, my Master.
You took me to someone else's place, where there were a number of men and they were watching me. They were standing over me and watching me touching myself and my face reflected everything that I was feeling but only you could really read it all. And having so many there (maybe 5, my Lord?) took me beyond feeling exhibitionist and made me feel completely objectified. And... I wasn't constructing the scene, my Master. It created itself in my mind.
They made comments.
They threw words at me and around me.
They were demeaning.
They called me bitch.
And then one of them asked you something, my Lord. I'm not sure what. I couldn't really hear. And you replied: "Of course she will. She's my slave."
And then there was another little shift in me - me now, me masturbating now, not in the fantasy - and I was... it did something... it put me in another place... and I was very aroused...
And eventually I came, my Lord.
I definitely came, although my pussy was kind of numb.
And then I cried and cried, my Lord, although it was a very weird cry. Not my usually heavy sobs, although it was certainly intense. It was a rather higher wailing... I've never done that before.
Anyway, my Master, there it is.
For you.
I wonder if you felt any of it?
Even if you didn't read the messages as they came in.
I wish you really had been here watching, my Master...
But you were.
Somehow or other you were.
I felt you.
It all belonged to you.
As do I.
Monday, July 4, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Daddy's back
I was kneeling before him.
He was enthroned in his chair.
It really is his chair now.
I can't bring myself to sit in it any more.
Which is too bad, because it's frightfully comfortable.
I was kneeling before him doing to him those things I do when he's settled into his chair and I'm kneeling before him. I had come up for air, as he likes me to do, so he can see my face and enjoy my mouth and hear those words that get him ever so turned on.
He called me his little girl.
It took a few moment to sink in.
I looked up.
A questioning look.
Yes, he said.
Daddy's back.
Daddy's been away for a couple of months. Since our big conflagration back in April, when in the face of a demonstration of his affection I pulled back. Not deliberately. Something in me can't handle anyone being so taken with me. Thinking I'm so extraordinary. The look in his eyes...
I'm crying now.
Because it will be a very long time,
and maybe forever,
before he lets himself be with me in that way again.
Because it's not safe.
He says I hate weakness. I don't know if it's that. Perhaps it's that I think there must be something wrong with anyone who can feel that way about me. Because even as hard as he has worked to make me value myself, there is obviously a lot of work left for him to do. So at a few moments during that night he rented the motel room, and then a fair amount the following Tuesday when he visited, I pulled back. I slipped out and saw him... differently.
I felt power. The power that comes from knowing someone wants me that much. The power that comes from disinterest. From scorn.
He was giving me so much, and in return I did the equivalent of spitting in his face.
With his x-ray vision, he saw.
He knew.
He could tell.
And that is how I hurt him back in April.
That is is why he beat me that badly.
That is why he beat me more than he wanted to.
And that is why Daddy went away.
Well, that's basically why. I don't know exactly why he wasn't letting me be his little girl any more. I felt it as a punishment. I felt that he didn't think it was wise or safe to have that kind of very special intimacy any more.
It was awful. I found myself addressing him as Daddy in my head, calling out his name as I tested my new vibrators, having his name on the tip of my tongue when I was with him. Last week - I think it was last week - I said how much I missed him. My Daddy.
10 days ago.
I wrote:
But he said it was too early. That he had a plan for that. For now, he wanted me to think of myself only as his slave for a while.
Except I've been having trouble living in in my "slave skin", as he called it. Struggling. I was OK when we were together, and occasionally over e-mail, but there is something about the word itself that makes me uncomfortable. Add that to hormonal issues, low thyroid, unbearable heat, and things were not going well.
My Master - and he is my Master - is used to having to change his plan for me. Poor guy. So he did. He knew exactly what I needed.
First, he - well, this is hard to describe. How do I put this? He... he let me kiss him. Deeply. Needily. Desperately. Usually I present my mouth for him to enjoy. My mouth must be soft and my tongue extended just the right amount. You know how hard it is to keep your mouth soft with your tongue sticking out?
Anyway, on Tuesday he could feel how desperately I needed his warmth. His affection. His arms and his mouth as comfort and refuge because I was feeling such a failure and a bit like I was stranded on a dessert island. So he threw the doors wide open.
"Feed on me," he said.
And of course I cried.
I am such a cry baby.
I cried and he held me and he was sweet and gentle.
And later.
Later.
Daddy came back.
And he told me how much he had missed being with his little girl. How hard it had been for him. And I realized it was true, and how much he denies himself for me. For the good of the relationship. Because while he has a whole stable of other submissives, I give him things that he can't get from anybody else.
I am Daddy's little girl.
There are still sadnesses that linger. I'm still struggling with the slave thing, and I feel I've let him down. He tries to reassure me, saying that I learned plenty and did enhance my service to him. So that's something, I guess. And he was smart enough to realize that I needed a break now. And something to make me feel better.
Having Daddy back makes me feel really, really good.
And having his little girl back...
I could tell how good Daddy felt.
Oh, yes.
That still leaves one more big thing.
For the sadist to feel it's safe to be with me in that special, beautiful way as he was that night we threw common sense into the damp night air and ran off to share amazing hours in a seedy motel.
He was enthroned in his chair.
It really is his chair now.
I can't bring myself to sit in it any more.
Which is too bad, because it's frightfully comfortable.
I was kneeling before him doing to him those things I do when he's settled into his chair and I'm kneeling before him. I had come up for air, as he likes me to do, so he can see my face and enjoy my mouth and hear those words that get him ever so turned on.
He called me his little girl.
It took a few moment to sink in.
I looked up.
A questioning look.
Yes, he said.
Daddy's back.
Daddy's been away for a couple of months. Since our big conflagration back in April, when in the face of a demonstration of his affection I pulled back. Not deliberately. Something in me can't handle anyone being so taken with me. Thinking I'm so extraordinary. The look in his eyes...
I'm crying now.
Because it will be a very long time,
and maybe forever,
before he lets himself be with me in that way again.
Because it's not safe.
He says I hate weakness. I don't know if it's that. Perhaps it's that I think there must be something wrong with anyone who can feel that way about me. Because even as hard as he has worked to make me value myself, there is obviously a lot of work left for him to do. So at a few moments during that night he rented the motel room, and then a fair amount the following Tuesday when he visited, I pulled back. I slipped out and saw him... differently.
I felt power. The power that comes from knowing someone wants me that much. The power that comes from disinterest. From scorn.
He was giving me so much, and in return I did the equivalent of spitting in his face.
With his x-ray vision, he saw.
He knew.
He could tell.
And that is how I hurt him back in April.
That is is why he beat me that badly.
That is why he beat me more than he wanted to.
And that is why Daddy went away.
Well, that's basically why. I don't know exactly why he wasn't letting me be his little girl any more. I felt it as a punishment. I felt that he didn't think it was wise or safe to have that kind of very special intimacy any more.
It was awful. I found myself addressing him as Daddy in my head, calling out his name as I tested my new vibrators, having his name on the tip of my tongue when I was with him. Last week - I think it was last week - I said how much I missed him. My Daddy.
10 days ago.
I wrote:
I miss my Daddy... I so wanted to come bursting in to send you a proud message saying "Look, Daddy! I got my plants in!" But I understand, my Lord. I know you know what's best. Still, I keep having to sweep that name away from my lips...
But he said it was too early. That he had a plan for that. For now, he wanted me to think of myself only as his slave for a while.
Except I've been having trouble living in in my "slave skin", as he called it. Struggling. I was OK when we were together, and occasionally over e-mail, but there is something about the word itself that makes me uncomfortable. Add that to hormonal issues, low thyroid, unbearable heat, and things were not going well.
My Master - and he is my Master - is used to having to change his plan for me. Poor guy. So he did. He knew exactly what I needed.
First, he - well, this is hard to describe. How do I put this? He... he let me kiss him. Deeply. Needily. Desperately. Usually I present my mouth for him to enjoy. My mouth must be soft and my tongue extended just the right amount. You know how hard it is to keep your mouth soft with your tongue sticking out?
Anyway, on Tuesday he could feel how desperately I needed his warmth. His affection. His arms and his mouth as comfort and refuge because I was feeling such a failure and a bit like I was stranded on a dessert island. So he threw the doors wide open.
"Feed on me," he said.
And of course I cried.
I am such a cry baby.
I cried and he held me and he was sweet and gentle.
And later.
Later.
Daddy came back.
And he told me how much he had missed being with his little girl. How hard it had been for him. And I realized it was true, and how much he denies himself for me. For the good of the relationship. Because while he has a whole stable of other submissives, I give him things that he can't get from anybody else.
I am Daddy's little girl.
There are still sadnesses that linger. I'm still struggling with the slave thing, and I feel I've let him down. He tries to reassure me, saying that I learned plenty and did enhance my service to him. So that's something, I guess. And he was smart enough to realize that I needed a break now. And something to make me feel better.
Having Daddy back makes me feel really, really good.
And having his little girl back...
I could tell how good Daddy felt.
Oh, yes.
That still leaves one more big thing.
For the sadist to feel it's safe to be with me in that special, beautiful way as he was that night we threw common sense into the damp night air and ran off to share amazing hours in a seedy motel.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Being a slave: the Gospel according to my Master
Ignore whatever you may read on line, he said.
Forget all that bullshit you may hear in chat rooms.
I did not, of course, interrupt to say I don't hang out in chat rooms.
You are my slave.
You serve.
That is all.
You serve my pleasure.
Please me.
Do not displease me.
Do not not please me.
You understand the difference?
Yes, my Master.
I do understand.
When you displease me, you will be punished.
And indeed, he did punish me, when he ordered me to bring the straight-backed chair he calls the secretary's chair and I did bring it and sat down in it. Except he hadn't yet told me to sit down. So he spanked me, hard, as I stood before him, and it hurt because I wasn't yet aroused. When I'm aroused I don't even realize how hard he is hitting me, because while I'm aware of the impact I feel no pain. He is training me. I know. He is training me to connect pleasure and pain so that I will beg him to torture me. To really torture me.
When you please me, you will be rewarded.
And indeed, he did reward me, early on in the visit, when I remembered to do those special things that he expects and which give him pleasure. He kissed me in the most tender, sensuous, affectionate way. so that our mouths melted together and his mouth told my mouth how very special I am to him.
Concentrate on being my slave.
I want you to become comfortable with it.
Actually, don't become comfortable.
And then I served him his lunch, and we talked like two people who are accustomed to spending time together. Two people who are comfortable with each other, who share thoughts about everything from gender issues to how you know that an avocado is ripe.
And then I served his pleasure, kneeling at his feet as he sat enthroned in the Eames chair which I almost never sit in any more because it feels like sacrilege. I knelt at his feet and sucked his cock, sometimes changing position, raising my butt so he could see it all round and white except pink now from having been spanked - for punishment but also, shortly after he arrived, purely to redden it and later, after I was aroused, for his pleasure and as part of my training to connect pleasure and pain. And, of course, to make it pink. He loves to look on the blush of my butt after he has hurt me.
I sucked his cock in all those ways that I know to make him groan with pleasure and at one point, when I gave him a little break so he wouldn't cum before extracting as much pleasure from his slave as his schedule allowed, he said that as I was serving his cock he looked down on me, at my soft, beautiful hair flowing down my channeled back, and down to my delicious pink butt, and he thought - it's as if I'm being served by a work of art. And then he corrected himself and said - I am being served by a work of art. And you can tell them that, he added. Meaning you all.
When it was over, he called me his angel, and also called me angel towards the end of my service to his cock. Which is a very special name. It carries warmth, and tenderness, and shows how pleased he is with me. He said - I am very proud of you today, my angel.
And then we discussed a couple of small tasks, and he said I could masturbate if I wished. (I did wish, and I did masturbate, and it was quite lovely, so between that and serving him I am fairly floaty as I'm writing this.) He also told me to take the chain to my bed tonight - which is a great gift on the rare occasions he grants it.
As he left, I reminded him that it's only two and a half weeks until we return to the hotel we stayed in last year. Until we again spend the night - together - in a room with white linens. But even if everything is the same, it won't be the same at all.
In so many ways, it won't be the same.
It will be...
a gift.
For us both.
And it will be beautiful.
Forget all that bullshit you may hear in chat rooms.
I did not, of course, interrupt to say I don't hang out in chat rooms.
You are my slave.
You serve.
That is all.
You serve my pleasure.
Please me.
Do not displease me.
Do not not please me.
You understand the difference?
Yes, my Master.
I do understand.
When you displease me, you will be punished.
And indeed, he did punish me, when he ordered me to bring the straight-backed chair he calls the secretary's chair and I did bring it and sat down in it. Except he hadn't yet told me to sit down. So he spanked me, hard, as I stood before him, and it hurt because I wasn't yet aroused. When I'm aroused I don't even realize how hard he is hitting me, because while I'm aware of the impact I feel no pain. He is training me. I know. He is training me to connect pleasure and pain so that I will beg him to torture me. To really torture me.
When you please me, you will be rewarded.
And indeed, he did reward me, early on in the visit, when I remembered to do those special things that he expects and which give him pleasure. He kissed me in the most tender, sensuous, affectionate way. so that our mouths melted together and his mouth told my mouth how very special I am to him.
Concentrate on being my slave.
I want you to become comfortable with it.
Actually, don't become comfortable.
And then I served him his lunch, and we talked like two people who are accustomed to spending time together. Two people who are comfortable with each other, who share thoughts about everything from gender issues to how you know that an avocado is ripe.
And then I served his pleasure, kneeling at his feet as he sat enthroned in the Eames chair which I almost never sit in any more because it feels like sacrilege. I knelt at his feet and sucked his cock, sometimes changing position, raising my butt so he could see it all round and white except pink now from having been spanked - for punishment but also, shortly after he arrived, purely to redden it and later, after I was aroused, for his pleasure and as part of my training to connect pleasure and pain. And, of course, to make it pink. He loves to look on the blush of my butt after he has hurt me.
I sucked his cock in all those ways that I know to make him groan with pleasure and at one point, when I gave him a little break so he wouldn't cum before extracting as much pleasure from his slave as his schedule allowed, he said that as I was serving his cock he looked down on me, at my soft, beautiful hair flowing down my channeled back, and down to my delicious pink butt, and he thought - it's as if I'm being served by a work of art. And then he corrected himself and said - I am being served by a work of art. And you can tell them that, he added. Meaning you all.
When it was over, he called me his angel, and also called me angel towards the end of my service to his cock. Which is a very special name. It carries warmth, and tenderness, and shows how pleased he is with me. He said - I am very proud of you today, my angel.
And then we discussed a couple of small tasks, and he said I could masturbate if I wished. (I did wish, and I did masturbate, and it was quite lovely, so between that and serving him I am fairly floaty as I'm writing this.) He also told me to take the chain to my bed tonight - which is a great gift on the rare occasions he grants it.
As he left, I reminded him that it's only two and a half weeks until we return to the hotel we stayed in last year. Until we again spend the night - together - in a room with white linens. But even if everything is the same, it won't be the same at all.
In so many ways, it won't be the same.
It will be...
a gift.
For us both.
And it will be beautiful.
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