touch me
stretch your arm past
limits of space
reach beyond time
run your hand gently
through tangles of hair
that I grew for your use
as a leash for my head.
eradicate distance
ignore the limits of
practical and possible
touch my wet cheeks
reach out your hand
stroke my hair
whisper those words
of comfort and –
what?
a feeling I dare not
risk with a name.
touch me.
soothe me.
kiss it and make it better.
and i will make you tea.
Showing posts with label tea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tea. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
a scrapbook of memories
this is our journal.
this is our memory book.
all those moments, fleeting and lingering.
dashing up to the bus station, right behind your bus.
your pleasure at seeing me with the pink dog collar around my neck - and the leash in the car. you hooked it into the O-ring and held on to your pet as i drove you home.
that first dinner i fed you, the cup of tea that pleased you, and all the dinners we planned together and the cups of tea i served you. every meal felt like a joint project, even with me doing all the work.
that first spanking. i so needed that first spanking.
dragging myself away from you on Friday morning, dragging myself away for a half day's work while you lounged among the disastrous sheets. how i would reassemble the bed, my bed, our bed, every day at least once, and how you would leave it looking like it was waiting for the chambermaid to gather up the crumbled sheets and haul them off to the laundry.
doing your laundry. washing your dishes. feeling it as a gift, an offering, a pleasure, rather than an onerous chore. (though i must admit i have doubts as to how long i would remain amused at the master's socks and underwear dropped on the bedroom floor exactly where he removed them...)
Friday afternoon at the regional park. at the butterfly exhibit. were you wondering if it would be worth it? we gloried in it, handing the camera back and forth, snapping dozens of amazing photos. walking down the paths, among the geese, peering at labels for plants and trees, sharing benches, planning a return visit with pinhole cameras. feeling peaceful, feeling together, our ritual comments of dominance and submission woven among happy companionship that was too comfortable to be called "merely" vanilla. even without the spicy teasing flecks of other flavours, it was vanilla made from precious natural beans, its richness dissolving in our mouths and flowing through our bodies. there is, in truth, nothing necessarily boring about vanilla.
the plans, the hints, the insinuations about the punishments to come on Saturday night.
all those little times my almost-ex housemate nearly caught us at very inopportune moments. the worst being when the toys and implements of pain were all laid out in the basement family room cum dungeon and she came trotting into the house looking for a lost debit card. she was not expected back for the rest of the night. even if one is not planning some perhaps shocking activities, how explicit does one have to be in reiterating again and again that she really doesn't want to be around that night - especially when she had told us she'd be gone until the following day. (luckily, the implements had been laid out on a bandanna and were easily gathered up and obscured.)
it was all pretty funny, really. and she would have deserved the site of me draped over the ottoman, my naked ass being soundly beaten by your belt.
the delight you got in my little eruptions-on-command. your goal, of course, is orgasms on command. isn't that what every dom wants? three-two-one-CUM, KITTEN! well, not quite... but something for sure. like a little seizure, almost, and eventually you couldn't even make it past "three" before i would give this little involuntary full-body shiver, the sort i used to get only from certain kinds of music. you kept making me perform - loving to see how dependable my reaction was.
doing crossword puzzles together, my intuition supplementing your logic, after which you would figure out why my answer was correct. experiencing it as a shared activity rather than competition. (another reason for you to send those thank you flowers to ex-hubby #2...)
i learned that it definitely helps to breathe when giving a blow job.
this is becoming too long. but we had 4 nights together! i'm trying to save them, pinning them down on the page like captured butterflies when they are so much more beautiful flying around our heads.
you wish you could post the face shots that show me deep in subspace. not quite completely gone, but definitely not all there. i sink so fast now... in these four and a half months apart, you have continued to train me with threats and scenarios, till a few words about branding leave me without the ability to speak.
i wish i could post pictures of you after i cut your hair. poor you, enduring my constant little corrective snips for almost 2 days afterwards, as i attempted to make it perfect. you have beautiful hair, thick and wavy like mine, a red slightly browner than mine, cutting off the overgrown locks brings your face out, brings your good looks out, makes me worry a bit that now you are too handsome and young-looking to want someone as old as me.
i exercised today. we both have bellies. i will demolish mine.
the caning.
you stopped at 4 strokes.
they seemed to be enough.
they were.
4 strokes.
splat across my ass.
horribly painful parallel lines.
i wasn't bound, just down on my knees,
ass in air, face to the carpet,
you said i rose up under the pain as if
trying to escape it.
i couldn't escape it.
and after the fourth, you got your wish.
i sobbed. i shook.
and my face was
wet with tears.
just 4 strokes of the cane.
the worst i'd ever had.
you beat me till i cried tears.
(oddly enough, there are no horrible bruises, although it does still hurt, and yesterday we could feel the line of the welt under my skin. one bruise is forming at the site of the worst stroke. swift application of that big bag of peas that clutters up my freezer did its magic. frozen peas. perfect for sprained ankles and caned asses.)
i'll write another time about the beautiful little purple butt plug you bought me. the magic power of that little purple butt plug.
Sunday night.
the last night.
i showed you Marianne's post about what i call hormone storms. i wanted you to see that it's not just me. i wanted you to see the comment i left. you make me feel that it's safe to show you these things.
Sunday night. how gentle you were. i needed to be touched. i needed you to be my lover. you make me feel safe. you make me feel it's safe to ask for what i need. which isn't something i could do with other men. or women. which isn't something i do easily. i did it with you. i let you know what i needed. and you gave it to me.
i admit it. i was sad all morning. i didn't quite cry. you had told me not to. "don't cry, kitten..." you said as i left you at the bus station. "don't, cry..." in that inflection you always use, almost mocking yourself and me. so i didn't. and i'm ok now, sitting up naked in the bed, the sheets returned to their orderly state, tucked in at the bottom, your underwear in the dryer with my missing black shirt that had been skulking among my exercise clothes.
i won't cry, master.
i won't cry.
i think about the weekend and smile.
i remember, and smile, and pet purring marko, who has resumed his place on the bed now that you are gone.
this is our memory book.
all those moments, fleeting and lingering.
dashing up to the bus station, right behind your bus.
your pleasure at seeing me with the pink dog collar around my neck - and the leash in the car. you hooked it into the O-ring and held on to your pet as i drove you home.
that first dinner i fed you, the cup of tea that pleased you, and all the dinners we planned together and the cups of tea i served you. every meal felt like a joint project, even with me doing all the work.
that first spanking. i so needed that first spanking.
dragging myself away from you on Friday morning, dragging myself away for a half day's work while you lounged among the disastrous sheets. how i would reassemble the bed, my bed, our bed, every day at least once, and how you would leave it looking like it was waiting for the chambermaid to gather up the crumbled sheets and haul them off to the laundry.
doing your laundry. washing your dishes. feeling it as a gift, an offering, a pleasure, rather than an onerous chore. (though i must admit i have doubts as to how long i would remain amused at the master's socks and underwear dropped on the bedroom floor exactly where he removed them...)
Friday afternoon at the regional park. at the butterfly exhibit. were you wondering if it would be worth it? we gloried in it, handing the camera back and forth, snapping dozens of amazing photos. walking down the paths, among the geese, peering at labels for plants and trees, sharing benches, planning a return visit with pinhole cameras. feeling peaceful, feeling together, our ritual comments of dominance and submission woven among happy companionship that was too comfortable to be called "merely" vanilla. even without the spicy teasing flecks of other flavours, it was vanilla made from precious natural beans, its richness dissolving in our mouths and flowing through our bodies. there is, in truth, nothing necessarily boring about vanilla.
the plans, the hints, the insinuations about the punishments to come on Saturday night.
all those little times my almost-ex housemate nearly caught us at very inopportune moments. the worst being when the toys and implements of pain were all laid out in the basement family room cum dungeon and she came trotting into the house looking for a lost debit card. she was not expected back for the rest of the night. even if one is not planning some perhaps shocking activities, how explicit does one have to be in reiterating again and again that she really doesn't want to be around that night - especially when she had told us she'd be gone until the following day. (luckily, the implements had been laid out on a bandanna and were easily gathered up and obscured.)
it was all pretty funny, really. and she would have deserved the site of me draped over the ottoman, my naked ass being soundly beaten by your belt.
the delight you got in my little eruptions-on-command. your goal, of course, is orgasms on command. isn't that what every dom wants? three-two-one-CUM, KITTEN! well, not quite... but something for sure. like a little seizure, almost, and eventually you couldn't even make it past "three" before i would give this little involuntary full-body shiver, the sort i used to get only from certain kinds of music. you kept making me perform - loving to see how dependable my reaction was.
doing crossword puzzles together, my intuition supplementing your logic, after which you would figure out why my answer was correct. experiencing it as a shared activity rather than competition. (another reason for you to send those thank you flowers to ex-hubby #2...)
i learned that it definitely helps to breathe when giving a blow job.
this is becoming too long. but we had 4 nights together! i'm trying to save them, pinning them down on the page like captured butterflies when they are so much more beautiful flying around our heads.
you wish you could post the face shots that show me deep in subspace. not quite completely gone, but definitely not all there. i sink so fast now... in these four and a half months apart, you have continued to train me with threats and scenarios, till a few words about branding leave me without the ability to speak.
i wish i could post pictures of you after i cut your hair. poor you, enduring my constant little corrective snips for almost 2 days afterwards, as i attempted to make it perfect. you have beautiful hair, thick and wavy like mine, a red slightly browner than mine, cutting off the overgrown locks brings your face out, brings your good looks out, makes me worry a bit that now you are too handsome and young-looking to want someone as old as me.
i exercised today. we both have bellies. i will demolish mine.
the caning.
you stopped at 4 strokes.
they seemed to be enough.
they were.
4 strokes.
splat across my ass.
horribly painful parallel lines.
i wasn't bound, just down on my knees,
ass in air, face to the carpet,
you said i rose up under the pain as if
trying to escape it.
i couldn't escape it.
and after the fourth, you got your wish.
i sobbed. i shook.
and my face was
wet with tears.
just 4 strokes of the cane.
the worst i'd ever had.
you beat me till i cried tears.
(oddly enough, there are no horrible bruises, although it does still hurt, and yesterday we could feel the line of the welt under my skin. one bruise is forming at the site of the worst stroke. swift application of that big bag of peas that clutters up my freezer did its magic. frozen peas. perfect for sprained ankles and caned asses.)
i'll write another time about the beautiful little purple butt plug you bought me. the magic power of that little purple butt plug.
Sunday night.
the last night.
i showed you Marianne's post about what i call hormone storms. i wanted you to see that it's not just me. i wanted you to see the comment i left. you make me feel that it's safe to show you these things.
Sunday night. how gentle you were. i needed to be touched. i needed you to be my lover. you make me feel safe. you make me feel it's safe to ask for what i need. which isn't something i could do with other men. or women. which isn't something i do easily. i did it with you. i let you know what i needed. and you gave it to me.
i admit it. i was sad all morning. i didn't quite cry. you had told me not to. "don't cry, kitten..." you said as i left you at the bus station. "don't, cry..." in that inflection you always use, almost mocking yourself and me. so i didn't. and i'm ok now, sitting up naked in the bed, the sheets returned to their orderly state, tucked in at the bottom, your underwear in the dryer with my missing black shirt that had been skulking among my exercise clothes.
i won't cry, master.
i won't cry.
i think about the weekend and smile.
i remember, and smile, and pet purring marko, who has resumed his place on the bed now that you are gone.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Reunion
Tomorrow.
He’s coming home tomorrow.
OK, I use that term loosely. Home. I have no right to use that term. Still. When we are together, home is here. Or perhaps more accurately, when we have been together, it has been here. Mostly. Anyway, he hasn’t protested to my using the term. So far.
Right.
I’m nervous.
I didn’t even really have to say that, right?
I’m stammering and babbling and nervous.
It’s been 4-1/2 months. And except for when he was having that hard time in February, we’ve been talking to each other twice a day on weekdays. Usually. Mostly. So far.
We haven’t seen each other for almost 4-1/2 months. And then we were at a friend’s house, with only a late afternoon and evening alone. And he was already slipping into winter mode. Although we do have a nice picture or two of me giving head to a cucumber…
I’m feeling nervous.
And shy.
We are so close.
So comfortable.
And yet…
When he came down here for the first time, when we met face to face for the first time, I was feeling shy, even though I had been baring my perverted soul to him for months. And yet, within fifteen minutes or so everything was fine. So this time everything will be fine. Really. O f course it will.I’ll pick him up at the bus station, in my man’s white dress shirt. My slave shirt. I’ll be wearing my slave shirt and nothing else.
Well… not quite. He doesn’t want me getting arrested. So we’re compromising on the shirt and very short shorts. No underwear. Although who knows, he could change the order at the last minute. He likes to keep me off kilter.
There’s a box coming in the mail. It probably won’t arrive until after he does, but if it were to beat him here, I am not to open it. He’s done that before. The first box had the cane. The second box had my beautiful Go Blue vibrator. And this time? I can guess. But you never know…
He has brought me presents, too. The best of presents. The slave shirt, that first visit. Brand new and beautiful, glowing white, still in its package with the cardboard and the pins. He brought beautiful hemp ropes. And a tea set, he bought me the most perfect little tea set, and an assortment of teas, and lectured me on the proper way to brew them. And I bought a pretty little white half-apron, and nipple bells with a chain running between them. We amuse each other.
And in some ways the best gift of all? On that very first trip, two little sachets of catnip. One for each beast, so they wouldn’t be jealous. You see why he is more than just a perverted playmate?
I know it will be fine. I’ll bury my shy face in his chest, he’ll twine his fingers in my growing unruly hair, he’ll take me over his knee and spank me for how messy the house is, we’ll snuggle on the couch, we’ll snuggle in the bed…
I’ll draw the curtain on the rest. Even in BDSM, even for a sex blogger, there must occasionally be some privacy.
We’ll be fine.
But still.
I’m feeling very shy…
He’s coming home tomorrow.
OK, I use that term loosely. Home. I have no right to use that term. Still. When we are together, home is here. Or perhaps more accurately, when we have been together, it has been here. Mostly. Anyway, he hasn’t protested to my using the term. So far.
Right.
I’m nervous.
I didn’t even really have to say that, right?
I’m stammering and babbling and nervous.
It’s been 4-1/2 months. And except for when he was having that hard time in February, we’ve been talking to each other twice a day on weekdays. Usually. Mostly. So far.
We haven’t seen each other for almost 4-1/2 months. And then we were at a friend’s house, with only a late afternoon and evening alone. And he was already slipping into winter mode. Although we do have a nice picture or two of me giving head to a cucumber…
I’m feeling nervous.
And shy.
We are so close.
So comfortable.
And yet…
When he came down here for the first time, when we met face to face for the first time, I was feeling shy, even though I had been baring my perverted soul to him for months. And yet, within fifteen minutes or so everything was fine. So this time everything will be fine. Really. O f course it will.I’ll pick him up at the bus station, in my man’s white dress shirt. My slave shirt. I’ll be wearing my slave shirt and nothing else.
Well… not quite. He doesn’t want me getting arrested. So we’re compromising on the shirt and very short shorts. No underwear. Although who knows, he could change the order at the last minute. He likes to keep me off kilter.
There’s a box coming in the mail. It probably won’t arrive until after he does, but if it were to beat him here, I am not to open it. He’s done that before. The first box had the cane. The second box had my beautiful Go Blue vibrator. And this time? I can guess. But you never know…
He has brought me presents, too. The best of presents. The slave shirt, that first visit. Brand new and beautiful, glowing white, still in its package with the cardboard and the pins. He brought beautiful hemp ropes. And a tea set, he bought me the most perfect little tea set, and an assortment of teas, and lectured me on the proper way to brew them. And I bought a pretty little white half-apron, and nipple bells with a chain running between them. We amuse each other.
And in some ways the best gift of all? On that very first trip, two little sachets of catnip. One for each beast, so they wouldn’t be jealous. You see why he is more than just a perverted playmate?
I know it will be fine. I’ll bury my shy face in his chest, he’ll twine his fingers in my growing unruly hair, he’ll take me over his knee and spank me for how messy the house is, we’ll snuggle on the couch, we’ll snuggle in the bed…
I’ll draw the curtain on the rest. Even in BDSM, even for a sex blogger, there must occasionally be some privacy.
We’ll be fine.
But still.
I’m feeling very shy…
Monday, February 25, 2008
If food be the music of love
if food be the music of love
then i am dining on a symphony.
a pretentious name for simple pleasures.
but can you deny that the melodies in a cup of Ceylon tea
could perfectly grace the program of any philharmonic?
and the memories, images both
sweet and sharp, flooding my mind and
my cunt as i wander the farm women's
cooperative market, stopping here and
there to share the triumphant glow
of two more primary wins
and hopes for the future.
hope for the future.
yes, we can.
we
can.
Ceylon tea
long leaf
organic
floral
tea bought to please you,
my owner
my lover
my master, my friend,
now warms my throat with comfort and submission.
a stop to chat with the spice man,
recovered from his Reagan ways
speaking now of change and peppercorns,
a future redolent of vanilla and thyme.
last stop the Turks.
spinach borek, spirited stuffed peppers,
and ever more talk of hope and of change.
immigrants, they are cautious with hope,
but repeat the stories of a young generation,
inspired to vote for the very first time.
and when i served these delights
for the very first time,
eyes on your face for signs of pleasure,
had i already kneeled before you for
the very first time? had you twined
your fingers in my inadequate hair
and pulled my head towards you
for the very first time? had you
placed the cold, heavy chain around
my neck, the chain that beckoned
from the pet supply aisle, the
chain that dwelled
deep in your pocket,
fantasy corporeal,
had you already choked me
for the very first time?
and my shirt.
was i wearing my
shirt as you tasted the
borek and saw it was good?
a man's white shirt, perfect
and blinding, that nightly
embraces your kitten,
embraces your slave,
a most treasured gift among
so many others - was i wearing it then?
had i already crawled for you, sir?
you commanded my nakedness,
kneeling and vulnerable,
cunt gaping wide at your feet.
with focused intent, you pulled
leather from belt loops,
freeing its cruelty along with your own.
you tossed and i crawled,
scuttling obedience,
the tool of my punishment clenched in my teeth.
"again, kitten."
and again i crawled,
frightened and dripping,
sinking with gratitude
in submission's sweet swamp.
had you already orderd me over the ottoman, master?
fully unrestrained, had i offered up my virgin ass
to your belt's leather lashes? had you swelled
with the pride of liberated sadism, had you
forced your cock into my greedy mouth, had you
claimed your right to my remarkable nipples.
had you twisted them till the pain stained my face,
had you proven it, master, my lover, my friend,
had you proven to us both that we weren't just playing,
had we accepted the evidence of an internet miracle,
had we bowed to the truth, master and slave,
lovers and friends, that hemp couldn't bind us
as tightly as our words had, that this wasn't
fantasy, that all this was real.
and then did i feed you, sir?
kneeling beside you,
borek and peppers
and eggplant and tea.
and i lay my head upon your lap
and you stroked my short hair
and i purred with contentment
and we sighed and knew peace.
we did.
we can.
yes.
we
can.
then i am dining on a symphony.
a pretentious name for simple pleasures.
but can you deny that the melodies in a cup of Ceylon tea
could perfectly grace the program of any philharmonic?
and the memories, images both
sweet and sharp, flooding my mind and
my cunt as i wander the farm women's
cooperative market, stopping here and
there to share the triumphant glow
of two more primary wins
and hopes for the future.
hope for the future.
yes, we can.
we
can.
Ceylon tea
long leaf
organic
floral
tea bought to please you,
my owner
my lover
my master, my friend,
now warms my throat with comfort and submission.
a stop to chat with the spice man,
recovered from his Reagan ways
speaking now of change and peppercorns,
a future redolent of vanilla and thyme.
last stop the Turks.
spinach borek, spirited stuffed peppers,
and ever more talk of hope and of change.
immigrants, they are cautious with hope,
but repeat the stories of a young generation,
inspired to vote for the very first time.
and when i served these delights
for the very first time,
eyes on your face for signs of pleasure,
had i already kneeled before you for
the very first time? had you twined
your fingers in my inadequate hair
and pulled my head towards you
for the very first time? had you
placed the cold, heavy chain around
my neck, the chain that beckoned
from the pet supply aisle, the
chain that dwelled
deep in your pocket,
fantasy corporeal,
had you already choked me
for the very first time?
and my shirt.
was i wearing my
shirt as you tasted the
borek and saw it was good?
a man's white shirt, perfect
and blinding, that nightly
embraces your kitten,
embraces your slave,
a most treasured gift among
so many others - was i wearing it then?
had i already crawled for you, sir?
you commanded my nakedness,
kneeling and vulnerable,
cunt gaping wide at your feet.
with focused intent, you pulled
leather from belt loops,
freeing its cruelty along with your own.
you tossed and i crawled,
scuttling obedience,
the tool of my punishment clenched in my teeth.
"again, kitten."
and again i crawled,
frightened and dripping,
sinking with gratitude
in submission's sweet swamp.
had you already orderd me over the ottoman, master?
fully unrestrained, had i offered up my virgin ass
to your belt's leather lashes? had you swelled
with the pride of liberated sadism, had you
forced your cock into my greedy mouth, had you
claimed your right to my remarkable nipples.
had you twisted them till the pain stained my face,
had you proven it, master, my lover, my friend,
had you proven to us both that we weren't just playing,
had we accepted the evidence of an internet miracle,
had we bowed to the truth, master and slave,
lovers and friends, that hemp couldn't bind us
as tightly as our words had, that this wasn't
fantasy, that all this was real.
and then did i feed you, sir?
kneeling beside you,
borek and peppers
and eggplant and tea.
and i lay my head upon your lap
and you stroked my short hair
and i purred with contentment
and we sighed and knew peace.
we did.
we can.
yes.
we
can.
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