It is not a game

 “There is this little universe where a few people offer their freedom and renounce their will and give it to another. One goes into what we call ‘the bubble,’ where what’s outside no longer exists and inside one person is possessed by another. It is not a game; it is a spiritual experience.”

Beverly Charpentier, as quoted in The Thin End of the Whip, an article about Catherine Robbe-Grillet in the January 2014 issue of Vanity Fair.
 
http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2014/02/catherine-robbe-grillet-french-dominatrix

I remember reading La Jalousie, but Catherine's late husband Alain Robbe-Grillet. French class. I don't remember the details of the book (common for me) but I remember that the tone impressed me greatly. Who knew back then that there would be this connection?

And yes. 
I'm fine. 
Just nothing much to say. 
Life goes on. 
We go on. 
How fortunate we are! 

Fuck me, damn it!

We spent the day in mutual masturbation.
Not with our fingers, though,
except for the action of fingers on keyboards.

It started with a scenario that, last night, inserted itself into his brain, playing over and over as he expanded and refined. It gripped him and, as he knew it would, gripped me as hard as his hand can close around my throat till I can hardly breathe.

This was a very large seed my Master planted in my brain. It germinated, rooted fast, and threw up shoots that envenomed like poison ivy. They touched him, infected him, and he tossed his visions back to me.

I was in pain for hours.
The pain of unrelieved arousal.
It was glorious.

He quite enjoyed my agony.
As did I.

We've been elsewhere mostly, this last month. Daddy's health issues, my SAD, assorted other problems in our lives, these have made for very different sorts of interactions. We are many things to each other, with each other, and we grew closer together in those other areas. What we were dealing with was hard, but how we interacted was beautiful and intimate, if not the kind of intimacy that involves the communing of body parts.

Underneath it all,
firmly underneath it all,
lay the foundation of his ownership.
We both know that without that
there would be
no "we."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At this point, I was interrupted. There was supposed to be more to this post. About how he told me to leave a message on his voice mail while he went out to scrape the ice of his car. A message from Daddy's baby girl. A message apologizing for asking for something - because it's true, she's never supposed to just phone, and she certainly is never supposed to ask for anything for herself but this time he ordered me to phone and ask, to beg, please, please Daddy, please stick your cock in my little butt hole and fuck me! Which I do in fact badly want, he knows I want it, need it, that it has been an obsession for years, to be taken in the ass, raped in the ass, sodomized, debased, with nothing erotic about it. A butt-fucking that can only be humiliating, that accentuates the extent to which I am owned property, that sends me further down into that place, not a pretty floaty place despite the endorphins that will flow through me instead of blood. A dark, dark, perfect place - a perfect place, don't you see it's a perfect place? It's a safe place even though it's a dangerous place because of the chance the beast will break past the spell cast around him to keep me safe.

It's a safe place.
Because I don't have to pretend.
I can yield to everything.
Leave everything else behind.
Because with
every
stab
of pain
in my ass
his cock
declares
over
and over:
This
is what
you are.

And what
you are
is Mine.

So now we are talking about his taking me off to a rustic cabin in the woods. For a week of training and torture and transformation. He used to go to the perfect place as a child. I've been pulling up pictures of cabin interiors to set the scene.

A shared fantasy and nothing more?
Perhaps.
If so, the psychological effects will be real.
Then again,
with Daddy my Master,
you never do know...

[That subject line? Never in the world, never never never, would I ever say such a thing to my Master. But oh... It's been weeks since he fucked me. And I've so badly needed to cum all damn day. I wouldn't even have to cum. I could merely pass my finger tip over my very swollen clit. Though no. Do you hear my sigh? All it would take would be that one little touch and you would hear my orgasmic cries from here to London and California. So no. No touching. No cumming. Poor Baby...]

The carrot & the stick. Mainly, the stick.

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The Ultimate Guide to Kink (1)

What's even better than being offered a book to review?
Being offered a book you've already decided to buy.

I really wanted a copy of The Ultimate Guide to Kink: BDSM, Role Play and the Erotic Edge, edited by Tristan Taormino. My order was placed on Amazon, but hadn't shipped yet as there was a delay on some of the other items. (Yes. I feel guilty about ordering on Amazon. I'd really rather buy directly from the author or publisher, or from that rare creature, the local independent bookstore. But I'm so disgustingly broke from my happily-ended second extended bout of unemployment that any money savings counter that other guilt from buying anything at all. Ah, yes. Hypocrisy.)

I'd heard about the book from Laura Antoniou, whom I met with her wife in a non-BDSM setting. She is smart and funny and incisive, and has a chapter in the book, which seemed a good enough reason to add to my hopeless accumulation of debt.

That's one of the big attractions of The Ultimate Guide to Kink. No, not my debt. The chapters. Each chapter has a different author, and the sections are meditations on the topic at hand (or on the hand smacking your butt) as well as directions, hints, suggestions, and warnings. For a further peek inside the experience, personal observations from additional people are scattered throughout the pages.

Up to now, I've only skimmed, but already there are little colored flags marking notable quotes and sections I want to contemplate further. For example, consider this, from Madison Young's chapter "Submissive: A Personal Manifesto": an internal stillness that exists only in absolute surrender. I've known that stillness, the perfection of it, the purity that is almost holy in nature. This is far more than saying: "Hey folks, this is hot, you should try it to spice up your sex life!" Not to say the latter isn't a valid approach. But there's more than that. There can be more than that. So much of what BDSM has to offer is mental. Emotional. I would never claim it's for everyone. But Tristan and her team of authors are doing a service by letting readers know what they might find if they let themselves explore.

Now remember.
All I've done is skimmed.
This little essay, the first in a series, can't stand as a proper review.
But I'm looking forward to reading further.
With focus.
Particularly because of this little phrase in Tristan's introduction.
On the very first page.

She's talking about the people for whom the book is meant. And tucked in among talk of erotic horizons and power and pain and the like is this:

For the people who . . . cultivate consciousness in sex and relationships.

Exactly.
I think that is what gives BDSM its power to be extraordinary.
The consciousness.
Of each other.
Of yourself.
Of who you are and how you relate and what you can discover.

I think it's that need for a special consciousness that leads to the deep, exquisite, piercing intimacy that can come from the pure vulnerability of an honest BDSM relationship.

Whew.
See what just skimming inspired?

Two final notes for now.

The first is that I know that my own experiences have given me what some might see as a rarefied perspective on BDSM. I don't go out in the community. I don't play in public. In fact, I've been known to say more than once "I don't play." I can be horribly serious about who I am and what we do and all that stuff. I'm sure it can be pretty annoying at times. But at least I'm fierce about insisting there is no One Right Way. No One True Religion of BDSM. So I'm vowing to remember that as I read and discuss The Ultimate Guide to Kink. (Do you think I should refer to it as TUG Kink?) I promise I will try not to act superior to people who are into any of the variations on BDSM just for the hot sex. There is nothing wrong with hot sex. It was S-- who taught me about sex as a recreational activity. S--, who is a skilled, gentle, and considerate lover. He's not at all into inflicting pain. (Not of the physical kind, anyway, and he has apologized a number of times for how he hurt my emotions in the past. Bruised feelings don't heal as fast as the welts from a cane. Oops. Sorry for the detour.)

The second is that there was a little slip-up. About a week after my copy of TUG Kink arrived, just in time for me to take it with on my trip north to see my parents, a second copy arrived. Now I could have offered to my faithful readers in some sort of contest, in thanks to those of you who have stuck around during these relatively silent months. But instead, I decided to maximize the benefit.

I offered the extra copy to my Master.

So, as time permits, he will be reading it as well and offering comments, which I hope he'll allow me to share. He'll take a special look at passages I direct him to. (Me! Directing my Daddy! What a concept!) I'm particularly looking forward to what he has to say about the chapter on sadism.

And you?
Consider buying the book.

The Ultimate Guide to Kink: BDSM, Role Play and the Erotic Edge

Yeah.
That book.
And join the discussion here.
Even if you haven't read the book.
You can still weigh in on the issues.

Remember that my comments so far are based only on samples. But if I had seen those samples as I browsed in a book store (remember book stores?), I would have snatched up a copy and slapped my worn-out Visa card on the counter. Especially after stumbling on a passage such as this one, which brings us back to Laura Antoniou and my belief that there is no One True Religion of BDSM. It comes from her chapter on "How to Train Your Sex Slave":

Training, like the rest of our kinky relationship styles, is above all personal. Never try to use someone else's training program! What do they know about your preferences, your style, your relationship, your lovers? Nada, zilch, zip. using their training would be like using their underwear; it might look like it fits, but wouldn't you rather have your own?

So consider getting your own.
Copy of the book, I meant.
Not underwear.
Though underwear's ok, too.
If you're allowed to wear it.
And then - let's talk.

Tended, tenderly, with caresses and pain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While today, he knew I needed the pain.

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

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

Gift exchange

It was a special occasion.
I wrote him a poem.
He allowed me to take photos.
Obviously, I can't share the photos.
But you can see the following,
which pleased my Master
and kept the beast at bay.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

And what if you had not been born?
Or I had never heard your name,
or seen your face's dear terrain,
or felt your body hard and warm,
so soft and fierce and tender cruel?
No swift slots win or flash of fame
could salve the mystery and pain
of losses reeled off fortune's spool.

But luck or fate gave me a shove
To put this prey in hunter's way
And what began as sassy play
Made me a slave to you and love.

Thus here, a gift unwrapped upon your knee
I'm wholly yours, as I was born to be.

Inner child, inner slave

He calls them out.
He lures.
He beckons.
He demands their presence.

Not parts I play.
But parts of me.
Parts he has nourished.
Soothed.
Made welcome.
Until they felt safe.
Felt wanted.
Approved of.

And then he knows the magic words, the special touch, that will make this one or that one rise to the surface, open her eyes, and speak.

He hears.

He knows.

He lays his body
down on mine,
sees what is his,
and takes
what he needs.

We were slaves...

It's here again.
Passover.

A celebration of liberation.
A holiday that tells a story.
We were slaves and now we are free.

We sit around a table with family and friends and symbolic foods, reading new versions of the traditional text, performing small rituals in ways that have become rituals of our own.

Sometimes we charge right through it.
Sometimes we stop.
And think.
And discuss.

Sometimes the words swirl around us as we search for ways to make them meaningful in our own lives.

What if being a slave is something we embrace?
What if it is something we struggle to embrace?
What if we struggle to free ourselves from the fear of freedom?

"Freedom is a chain", my high school teacher said to illustrate the concept of the oxymoron. Yes, we said, nodding sagely, understanding only some of the implications of the responsibilities that come with freedom. Because of course there is the flip side.

If
freedom = a chain
then
a chain = freedom.

At least in our world.
Our alternative, chosen world.
A world where the chain is worn willingly,
is accepted with pride,
is borne with humility
and with the understanding that it, too,
brings with it responsibility.

A world in which I feel an unexpected safety in belonging to a sadist. A world in which his torturous desire to hurt me speaks of his feelings for me, feelings that doom him to wrestling with himself to protect that which he treasures.

I was lucky enough to get to know Laura Antoniou and her wife during the short period of time they were in this area and belonged to my synagogue. A while back they wrote a haggaddah for a leather seder, which includes some commentary connecting power relationships as lived and explored in the BDSM community with the themes and stories we address at this time. You can find a pdf of the book here.

As for me, tomorrow night, as I sit at the table of dear friends who are both leather men and long time AIDS survivors, every time I read the word "slave" my mind will ricochet back and forth between the story of the Exodus from Egypt and my own story of finding freedom in submission to the will of another.

And then I'll remember this.
In the story of the Exodus,
the Jews flee their slavery in Egypt,
and then,
of their own free will,
enter in a new covenant of obedience,
accepting the Ten Commandments at the foot of Mount Sinai.


Yes, they say to God.
Yes.
We accept.
We are your people,
and we will obey.

Yes, I say to he who is the anchor of my life.
Yes.
I accept.
I belong to you.
The struggle will never end.
But I belong to you.
And I will try,
again and again,
to obey.

The limits of Google when arranging an illicit tryst

I have an assignment.
A research assignment.
A multi-part project, researching possibilities.
For next weekend.

For a clandestine getaway.

Hotels.
Bars.
Restaurants.

But for the town we'll be visiting, I'm not coming up with what we need. At least, not when I try to search for it according to our true parameters.

Google does not recognize the word "tryst."
Nor does it want to consider "illicit."
The closest Google gets is "illegal."
And "trust."
Not quite what I was after.

"Clandestine"?
Nothing.

What I really want is a restaurant with small private rooms... red velvet drapes... a fainting couch... privacy and discretion. A place thick with atmosphere for a man whose cock is thick with desire in which he can enjoy an assortment of sensual pleasures.

Where we could count on not being disturbed if he decided to drink his champagne from the trough formed by his pet's back. And if by chance he were disturbed, he could count on the offender stealing silently away and making no comment to anyone.

If he were disturbed.

For I, of course, will be expected to maintain my focus on serving his pleasure no matter where we are or who might join us or what might happen. I will be merely one of the objects assembled to assure him a pleasurable weekend of self-indulgence.

Sometimes it is hard to really believe that. But then, when he wraps his belt around my neck, this man who isn't really into leather but likes it on me takes me to a place, to a time, to a condition... more Roman than antebellum, really, where owning another person was... I'm slipping away now as I write this... slipping back to where I was a mere 4 hours ago, as I knelt naked before him, the belt wrapped round and round my neck... my pussy is convulsing now... I can't think... can't focus... we had been apart for three weeks due to this and that... and then... I'm not supposed to use that word now... the "s" word... but I was there.

The belt around my neck, the leather, it took me there.

Tomorrow, I will be with S--.
Daddy wants me to be.
I'm to fuck him.
Please him.
Make him feel good.
And all the time see the man who owns me standing there.
Watching.
Listening.
Enjoying.

And should S-- comment on the welts left by Daddy's belt on my pale, round ass... I am to say "He whips me."

Leather and heels; feminism and sucking cock

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A challenge

This song came up on the bluegrass station.
A gospel song.
I'm not a Christian.
I can't say for sure whether I believe in God.
But I do like religious music of various sorts.
Stained glass bluegrass.
Black gospel for sure.
Early music masses.
My tastes are most definitely eclectic.

And then there's the sadist.
And me.
And his ownership.
And my struggles.
Can I really yield as completely as he wishes me to.

This song came up.
The words...

I wanted to send the lyrics to him
but wasn't sure I could swear I was ready to mean them.
To promise that full a commitment.

I want to.
I try.
But it scares me.

To cede everything...
that does scare me.

Here is the song, by the artists I heard on the radio.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TkBywnSwd6Q

And here are the first verse and the chorus.

The Lowest Valley, by Pearl Mullins

Lord I don't want to do one thing on my own
Put me where you want me Lord where I belong
Give me the strength Lord to do thy perfect will
And when I'm in the lowest valley I can climb the highest hill

   Lord I want to be what you want me to be
   Lord I want to do the things you want me to do
   Lord I want to stay in the center of thy will
   When I'm in the lowest valley I can climb the highest hill

Floating beyond the pain

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Trapped

I learn this lesson again and again.
Each time there's a struggle.
A chasm.
A blow-out.
Each time he scares me by what is required.
Each time I scare him that I don't really mean it.

It truly is not a game.
It is very much for real.
I do belong to him.

There is no escaping it.
For either of us.

Ever.

Prioritizing

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

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

How I do love you, Daddy!

A few hours later...

He got what he needed from me.

Though not in the way he had led me to believe.

The rest
is for him and me alone.

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:

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.

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.

Songs for a cocksucking slave

'No Language Like Song' is an interesting article in the New York Times comparing songs of American slaves and Russian serfs. Both scholarly and readable, it includes a link to Paul Robeson's versions of 3 of the referenced songs. Given that Robeson was veneered as something of a saint in my atheist, left-wing Jewish home, this made the article particularly enjoyable. Add to that grandparents that all fled Russia/Ukraine/Poland, whose borders were prone to wandering, and you can see why I was attracted to it.

Then there's this quote from Frederick Douglass:

the heart has no language like song

Poetry is song without music.
Or rather, the music is inherent in the words.

Anyway.

Obviously, the article is dealing with a far different flavor of slavery than mine. For one thing, the songs deal, often only slightly covertly, with either escape (among American slaves) or rebellion (the Russian serfs). There's an interesting explanation for the difference. I, of course, have no interest in escape, and outright rebellion would trigger the end of the relationship.

But my errant imagination can't help but think that the world - our world, at least - could use some songs for slaves such as we. Songs to sing as we work, sings "to regulate the movement" of our mouths and our hands as we strive to please the ones who own us.

Songs to be sung with a cock in one's mouth.

Suggestions, anyone?

Assignments commandments taboos

They're like the Ten Commandments.
Sometimes thou shalt.
Or else thou shalt not.
This for his pleasure.
That for my safety.
Laws and rituals
designed and decreed.
This to learn.
Recite it on Tuesday.
That do not mention
ever again.
I make a note.
I schedule reminders.
I take no chances.
This is how I worship.
For him,
I am orthodox.

Your wish is my command

You need a blow job, my Master?
Today?
At noon?
With my house commandeered by workmen?

Of course, Sir.
No problem.
No arguments.
No sputtering as to how this could be potentially embarrassing.

Our motto:
You swell.
We suck.

I admit, that makes me sound much more blasé about the matter than I really was. Here are these 2 guys, with whom of course I've become friendly (no, you nasty people, not that friendly!), who've been spending hours and days in my house, re-doing the basement bathroom along with related projects, and I have to tell them... well, I said that for an hour or so I'd be home but not available to answer questions or anything. Of course 5 minutes before the sadist is due, one of the guys is out front asking if the electric outlet in my non-functioning outdoor light gets power. Quickly, I answer and remind him that I won't be available for the next hour or so and then disappear back inside.

I text my Master a warning that one of the guys is out front.
The sadist doesn't care.
Not one bit.

By the time he arrives, both guys are out there in the disgustingly thick hot air, hanging out, drinking water, eating lunch, and (one of them, cutting back) smoking half a cigarette. My Master strides up the walk as if he owns the place. Which, in a manner of speaking, he does, since he owns me and I own the house.

I am very grateful that he gave me permission to greet him clothed. With plain white bra and panties under my little jumper over a pale green t-shirt. Flat Mary Jane shoes.

He said I looked around nine.

Sometimes, you just have to do your job.
Not matter what the working conditions.

Anyway, when you're a slave, there's no negotiating.
You do as you're told.
Which I did.

He left here feeling a whole lot better.
And that's all that matters.