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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ ~ ~ ~

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

You beat me to the heat and depth and pain

My ass can bear when offered to your belt

And then beyond to what you know I need.

You torture me with twists and bites and slaps

On tender tits and taunting nipple ends

While feeding on my frightened helpless screams

And holding fast my wrists with brutal grip.

You show no mercy towards those tender parts

That cower there between my beaten thighs

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

And drink capitulation from my eyes

And know that I will love you all the same.

~ ~ ~

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

You beat me to the heat and depth and pain

Your belt upon my ass can fast attain

And then beyond until my wild eyes glaze.

You torture me with slaps and bites and twists

On tender tits and taunting nipples red

While feeding on my frightened cries of dread

And making clear the purpose of our trysts.

You show no mercy to poor Pussy’s cave 

That cowers wet between my beaten thighs

And blushing, swells with want and pain and shame.

With hungry thrusts you fuck your someday slave

And drink capitulation from my eyes -

And know that I will love you all the same.

Now it's you spanking my pussy

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

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

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

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

pussy
spanked pussy
caned pussy
flogged pussy

Daddy spanked his little girl's pussy.

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

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

I'm going to hurt you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like that?

I give you that as a gift.

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

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

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

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

Begging

Please.
Please!
Please, Daddy...

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

Please what?

Pause.
Breathe.

Focus.
Accept.

Absorb.

Yield.

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

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

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

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

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

He protects me.

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


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

Nipple clamps...

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

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

Please, Daddy?
Please let me cum on Saturday?

Saved by the masochist slave

He gets these urges sometimes.
Seriously sadistic urges.
You know.
I've written about them before.

He wants to torture me.
Seriously torture me.

It keeps him up at night when he gets in that mood. He sees it. He tastes it. He hears my screams and sees my body writhing, my back rising and arching, hears me moaning, begging - and then screaming... His description sounds as if it could as easily refer to passion, orgasm...

Certainly his words catapult me into an agony of arousal.

But that's not the kind of pain he has in mind.
And the only guaranteed orgasm would be his.

He doesn't dare do to me what he wants to do.
He knows I couldn't handle that much pain.
He's afraid he'll go too far.
He's afraid it would destroy us.
And more than anything,
he doesn't want to lose me.

But the thought of it.
It's so seductive.
To me it's so seductive.
And he knows that, too.

He won't tell me what he wants to do to me. He won't tell me the horrible things he does do to his masochist slave. He has, in the past, mentioned some things that he knows I'll eventually accede to. As if I had a choice. Not that he would force it on me. He's more like a snake. Hypnotizing me. Knowing that I will never make him stop. The only thing I react against is when he slaps my face in a way that makes me worry about bruises. In a way that lets me know he's out of control. That scares me. And now scares him, because he doesn't realize things are going bad until the the next day. Until he reads my account of it the next day. He worries about that now. Because he... because of what he feels for me.

I wish I could give him what he needs.
I wish it were safe for him to torture me.
Whatever that means.
He has talked about electro-torture in the past.
Serious electro-torture.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
In a way, it scares him too, I think.
The thought of doing it to me.
Because, again, he's afraid of losing control.
Of going too far.

So he protects me.
He continues to protect me.
Because he has these feelings for me.
Feelings he says in every way he can
without saying those dangerous words.

He protects me.
And tortures his masochist slave instead.

He had been torturing the slave before.  Before he found me. That's the point of owning a masochist, isn't it? And each of them has a need filled. Not just the giving and receiving of pain, but also being served and providing service. Relieving pain while receiving pain. For the sadist does suffer during these times. He suffers from the unbearable need to inflict pain, the overwhelming need to hear the screams, and the awful desire to have me be the one writhing and screaming and sobbing as he demonstrates his desire and feelings for me by making my suffering surpass his own.

It doesn't happen that often.
He doesn't have such attacks that often.
But he did last weekend.
And he found relief today.

He wants to figure out why the attack came on when it did. and why it was so severe. I have my own theories. One of those perfect storm things, part of which was being deprived of my body on Saturday because I was sick. Part of which was knowing that I was with S-- on Wednesday night. He's always very aroused at the thought of others enjoying his mistress. His treasure. So first there was his awareness of another man touching and kissing and fucking me, an awareness that filled him all through that night. And then he read the account of the night that I was required to send him the following day. Add to that a different sort of event on Friday - not a sexual activity but related to his activities. And here we return to his doing without me on Saturday, followed by an electronic conversation Saturday night that was frightening in its intimacy and new revelations.

He can't help himself.
Sometimes he tells me things...

So of course by Sunday the bars on the beast's cage had been bent apart and the hungry monster was prowling the halls.

Luckily, my Master had already arranged to use his slave today.
For some people, today was a holiday.
So the slave was home.

And the slave's ass saved mine.
Knowing it was for my protection.
Being told how grateful I was.

While I waited.

The fiend e-mailed me his ETA.
I was at work.
"You'll share the experience with me," he wrote.
My breath stopped.
I had been feeling tense all day.
Feeling his presence, his hands on my body,
slashes of the cane and of the single tail whip burning my butt.
Finally, lunchtime, I left the building.
A message arrived.
There was screaming.
He had almost called me.
I don't know that I could have tolerated the sounds of such pain.

I tried to walk, but instead sat outside on a low concrete ledge and waited. The screams had eased his desperation. All that was left was to cum.

Was for him to cum.

I was there with him.
Not physically.
But there with him nevertheless.
Waiting.
Not breathing.
He gave me a 4-minute warning of when he would cum.

The time passed.
My body let go.
I took a deep breath.
He was OK.
I knew he was OK now.
And I knew he had felt me there with him.

I had to be with him.
Because it all had to do with me.

He wrote me from the car.
He was feeling much better.
His slave was fine.
I was grateful for the reassurance.
I always feel guilty.
And especially now.

I think this was the first time the slave was explicitly told that it was all because of me. Another pain my Master inflicted. I felt bad. Bad and guilty and very, very grateful.

Grateful that my body was saved from horrors I can only imagine.
And grateful that this sadist I love was saved from the torments he visits on himself.

Love can hurt.
In so many ways.

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?

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.

Pussy on stilts

I bought heels today.
2 pairs of 3 inch heels.
This is a big deal for me.
I don't wear heels.

Well, I do have one pair I wear occasionally.
But they're Dansko's.
The people who also make my clogs.
They're not very high and they're pretty cute.

But he said I have to wear heels.
For a special occasion.
And that won't be the last time I wear them.
Though maybe the last time I wear them with anything else, he said.

Luckily, I was already at the thrift store when the order came down, and within 20 minutes of receiving the message I had found 2 pairs that looked as if they've only been worn once. The tops are all thin straps, so my toes don't suffer the usual feeling of confinement. Except for my occasional foray in clogs, I almost always wear Birkenstocks, either sandals or closed shoes, so my toes are used to spreading out. My toes are used to being happy. Which makes it hard to find shoes that have enough room for them. An array of skinny straps solves that problem.

They do NOT solve for a lack of cork in the sole. The heels on both pairs are relatively solid, so I should manage to walk without immediately falling over, but the soles are very thin and merely trying them on as I stood there in the thrift store made my feet hurt.

The man is truly a sadist.
Though I doubt he has any idea how uncomfortable they are.
Not that he cares, of course.
And neither should I.
If it turns him on,
if it amuses him,
if it arouses him
to see his little pussy in heels,
then so be it.

But I'll have to walk very slowly.
Carefully.
As if my ankles were shackled.

Makes my pussy twitch just to think of it.

Another way to be chained...

I will love suffering for him.

He needs to hurt me a little

He will hurt me tomorrow.
He needs to hurt me tomorrow.

A little.
He needs to hurt me a little.

I don't think "a little" refers to the extent of his need.

I'm... uneasy.

He says it will be "different."
I have no idea what that means.
I scare myself in speculation.

He understands my uneasiness, he says.
He'll try to be careful, he says.
I am his treasure.
I do not doubt that.
He will try to protect me.
But whatever he's going to do, it needs to be done.

It's all my fault, of course.
I knew this would happen.
Because I sent him a picture.

He had given me an assignment on Sunday. When I finished the task, I lay there naked on the bed, deep in that place. The laptop was open on the nightstand next to me, in case he e-mailed while I was working for him, but by the end the screen was black. Empty, except for my reflection as I lay there before it, posed like one of my beloved odalisque paintings. I wished he could see me. Right at that moment.

So I took a picture.
A lot of pictures, actually.
And sent him the best of the lot.
Ignoring the way the position made my neck folds sag.
Knowing what that view of me would do to him.

I know what he likes.
I know what gets to him.
This is part of my job.
As his pet.
As his slave.
To serve him.
To please him.
So I gave him what I know he likes.

And I knew he would want to hurt me.

So I have no one to blame but myself.

On top of which...

Well, you know.
He's going to hurt me.
In a different way than he has till now.
Which scares me.
And arouses me.
And that embarrasses me.

I won't like it while it's happening.
And I'm nervous about it now.
But I... I admit that I want it.
I want him to have that pleasure.
I want him to do to me what needs to be done.

I will offer myself without hesitation.
I will accept whatever he needs to do.
I will trust him to protect me.
I will scream and cry and tell him he's hurting me.

And after?
There will be that special intimacy that comes from his hurting me.
And I will be disgustingly, embarrassingly aroused by the memory.

Written while sitting on my sore, hot butt

He needed to spank me today.

My Daddy has been dealing with a lot of aggravation lately, and he needed to spank his little girl. So he did. A lot. And hard. Though not as hard as I'm sure he wanted to.

He wanted to see his little girl's butt turn pink and then red. He wanted to feel it hot beneath him as he lay on top of her and pushed his Daddy cock against her tight little puckered butt hole until it hurt and she cried out "Ow! Daddy! It hurts!"

He loves when she tells him that he's hurting her.

So he spanked her as she was lying flat on the futon, with her panties pulled down below her knees and her Daddy straddling her legs so both those things made her feel restrained. And then he spanked her as she knelt before him sucking his cock, and as she rose up on her knees and he pulled her close to him while he sat on the chair that is his throne, and then as she lay on the futon facing in the other direction. He spanked her extra hard then, facing in the other direction, so her butt went from pink to red and grew very hot and was especially red on her right side because that's the side that shines in the light from the window when she kneels before him and sucks his cock.

He spanked me a lot.
He spanked me hard.
And I kept crying out that he was hurting me.

And later he spoke of how he had beaten me. which seemed rather a strong word to use for a hand spanking, except that the phrase arouses me, and it arouses him, and it makes me want him to beat me even though I probably - I know - I know I couldn't handle what he really wants to do.

When he hurts me, it makes me softer.
My mouth.
My tits.
My belly.
Everything softer.
Every time.

He spoke of how he wants to torture me.
Not of exactly what he wants to do.
He never tells me that.
But of part of why he wants to torture me.
Not for my screams.
But for my breath.
For the sharp intake of breath that would precede a scream.

He protects me.
He prevents himself from torturing me.
He denies himself.
He suffers to protect me.
Because to give in to the beast would be to destroy us.
And what we have, what we are, is too precious.
He wouldn't risk that.

But he does let himself spank me.
And now my bottom is still pink.
My bottom is still warm.
My bottom still hurts.

My Daddy spanked me.
And I'm so glad he did.

Remove your panties

Remove your panties.

An unexpected message from his cell phone.

I am home alone.
There is no bar to immediate obedience.
He knows I will obey immediately.

I feel so open
So accessible.
So vulnerable.
My shorts are loose.
Fingers could easily slip up a leg hole.
Fingers could easily slip into my pleasing pussy.

Get the chain.
Keep it with you all night.

I'm in the bedroom.
A few steps and the chain is off the hook in the closet.
A few more moves and it is looped around my neck.
I throw it back over my shoulders like a soft silk scarf.
But no river of watery blues and green and purples
wraps around my throat and flows down my back.
My scarf is hard and cold and unyielding.
Steel links of silver grey, squeezing my windpipe
and reminding me who I am.

I am aroused.
It hurts.
I tell him.
My pussy hurts from wanting him so.
I feel his fingers inside me,
fucking me hard, hungry and merciless.

You may touch it lightly with the chain.
That is all.

The chain is cold and hard and unyielding,
yet kisses my pussy tenderly, like a precious pet.
My pussy opens and weeps with desire,
yet wants nothing more.

He wants to do things to me.
His thoughts would probably scare me.

It's a constant, delicate dance with no set choreography.
What he wants to do to me.
What I want to give him.
What he tries to protect me from.
What I can't handle.
What he can't stop from happening.
What I can't stop from happening.

Neither of us wants the music to end.

He is training me.
Teaching me.
Teaching me to take the pain
to want the pain
to submit to more before I feel the pain.

To beg for it.

I learn very fast.
I wish I could learn faster.

I wish I could learn faster so very soon he could do all those awful things to me that he thinks about - and I won't come apart. There will be nothing but his pleasure and his pride and my gratitude that I can give him so much and - especially - that exquisite intimacy that comes as, giving and suffering, we share the pain.

Relationships are like cocksucking - Part 1 of 2

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

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

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

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

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

But only for him.

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

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

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

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

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

There.
Got that out of the way.

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

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

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

And now, the comments.

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

She then went on:

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wrote:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who was the real self-centered sadist?

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

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

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

"I'll beat the shit out of you until you learn"

He hurt me.
A lot.
But then I hurt him.
So I suppose that's fair.

If only we all had such a direct, physical way to respond to those who hurt us emotionally.

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

And that, aside from a few jotted notes, was as much as I wrote on Tuesday about the sadist's visit.

And sadistic it was.
Sadistic and cruel and painful and deserved.

He did beat the shit out of me.
Well, maybe some of you wouldn't have felt it as such.
But for me?
Definitely.
And I'm still in pain.

He beat me again and again with the strip of cherry wood he uses as a cane. There are impressive bruises forming on both butt cheeks, with noticeable swelling on the right one. He scratched his initial into the soft, pale skin of my belly with the tines of the fork from the delicious and healthy salad lunch I prepared for him. He went over and over on the same spot, scraping, digging, marking. There are bruises there, too, as well as remaining marks from the fork.

He beat my pussy.
I lay on my back with my head hanging over the end of the bed
and he beat my pussy.
My head hung over the end of the bed
and I sucked his cock
and he beat my pussy.
Hard.
Repeatedly.
Not with my lovely flogger.
But with the wooden spoon.
The back of the wooden spoon
smashing down again and again
so that bruises have formed there, too.
He beat the shit out of my pussy
and it hurt like hell
and after a while I could not keep my legs open
and he kept beating me
and I was told "No frozen peas."

He abused me emotionally.
He said so himself.
He deliberately said things to hurt me
and he did hurt me
and I deserved it
because of how I hurt him.

And now?
We're talking.
He's trying to help me.
He's being cautious,
convinced that if he is too nice to me
I'll see him as weak
and lose respect.
I don't think it's that.
Or maybe mostly not that.
I don't know any more.
I'm not liking myself all that much.
Yesterday I hated myself.
I'm seeing things...

But we are talking.
I'm trying to understand.
Trying to learn.
Not because he beat the shit out of me.
But because I belong to him.
And because I love him.
And because the only way I want to live is on the end of his chain.

Torture Porn

The sadist decided on the title.
Torture porn.
Because that is what he was watching as I sucked his cock today.

Well, not the whole time. But we are still wrestling with hurt and pain. He more than me. And when he wrestles with his emotions, the beast pushes his way in. Another wrestling match.

The beast was responsible for part of the original agenda for today. The flogger and chain to be left on the bed. And a position for me to practice: lying on my back, head hanging over the foot of the bed, legs spread as wide as I could, arms straight out on either side and clutching the bedspread and sides of the bed while I thrust my tits toward the ceiling.

You get the picture.
You get what was planned.

But as the sadist was on his way in the company of the beast, I heard my neighbors outside the house. Outside the bedroom. Very clearly. Another reason to replace my windows if I ever get the money. Because the thing about these neighbors is that they care about me. Keep an eye on me. Would be concerned if they heard me screaming bloody murder while the beast broke loose and flogged my tits and pussy in a far more violent way than I normally must suffer.

So the sadist took control.
The attack was moderated.
Although my nipples ended up like raspberries.
And my pussy hurts.
Especially as the seam of my jeans presses into it.

And tomorrow I have another 6 hour drive back up to my parents. At least by the time I get there my mouth won't be as intensely red as it is now. He was here for 2 hours today. A very long visit. And much of that time, when I wasn't being beaten, involved kissing and cock sucking.

So OK.
I admit it.
I wasn't really tortured.
Or not physically, at least.
Not that he didn't want to.
So the torture porn?

He watched it. During the early stages of the cock sucking. He'd never done that before. I wasn't even sure why he had brought his little notebook computer. To play a song from the CDs he had made for me? I didn't get to watch the video, and at the first sounds I wondered whether it was one of the film clips he had made of me. Not that I was paying that much attention. His cock is very demanding.

Still, he watched for a little while. And then, as my efforts combined with the extra stimulation seemed to overcome his doubts about me and... well, let's leave it at that. The issues. The issues and hurt we've been struggling with over the last few weeks.

The visit ended well.
Although there is still a lot of work to be done.
And vigilance.

Plus he said some things, one observation in particular, that both hurt and left me thinking very hard. I don't think he is completely right but I do think there is some validity to what he has observed.

In the end, though, what it comes back to again and again, is that we neither of us can walk away.

Note: Just so you know, and because I'm so proud of myself, and because the sadist said I was "magnificent", I was quite successful at keeping my arms and legs spread while my tits and pussy were being flogged. I never let go of the sides of the bed to protect myself (a first for me) and although my legs did sometimes close automatically, I opened them right back up again. Yes, he could have whipped me a lot harder than he did. And later he told me about the really nasty little rubber flogger he had wanted to use. On every inch of my body. But the flogging did hurt. And I submitted. I offered my body to the torture. To please him. And he was pleased.

Another note: I'm heading up north again. More chauffeuring duty. If all continues as planned I should be back Thursday night. I hope to get in at least one post while I'm gone. Thanks for your patience. ~o.g.

Impact

He will visit tomorrow.
He has his plans.
I have my instructions.
Put on the bed the flogger and chain.
All other implements go down to the dungeon.
The strip of wood her uses as a cane.
The large wooden spoon.
These will be laid out on the table in the dungeon.

He has his plans.
I have my homework.
A position.
I must practice a position.
It may be purely for his pleasure.
But I fear not.
Although
of course
everything is for his pleasure.

I was flipping through the Style magazine section of last Sunday's NY Times before tossing it out. My eyes froze at an ad. An ad for men's belts. Very expensive belts, braided belts, displayed in a column, coiled and leather and beautiful.

All I saw were instruments of pain.

On pain and submission

The pain is subsiding.
Or perhaps settling in.
Or maybe it's just that I've found a more comfortable sitting position.

My mood has been mutating since the sadist's hour and a half visit yesterday. Sorting it out now, I suspect he spent about a third of that time beating me. I'm not really sure. After the first segment, during which he used various implements on my butt as I screamed and wriggled while keeping to my position facing the wall, the torture was interspersed with his enjoyment of my mouth and my attending to the needs of his cock using my hand and the aforementioned oral cavity.

Plus some other stuff.

Much of the last half hour was a period of re-emerging for both of us. We talked about the beast, and about how tempted I am by the beast, and about a new project he wanted to collaborate on. Plus he gave me a copy of a CD with one song he particularly wanted me to hear. Music he shares is always a very special gift. There were instructions on things he wanted me to write about, permission to write here about his visit and the torture, permission to masturbate if I wished (and I did), to be followed immediately by a report, and the gift of an order to sleep with the chain for the next few nights. I don't wear the chain in those cases. I sleep with it in the bed, held close to my body with love and respect. But he did order me to keep the chain around my neck for as long as I was alone in the house after he left.

I loved that.

You might classify all that as a form of aftercare. I think it did us both good, as the time had been very intense for him as well. And there was a short period after he came when I rested my head against his belly and felt owned and safe and drained.

But once he was gone, my mood kept mutating. The high subsided, the pain drowned out most everything else, the sobs that normally follow my masturbatory orgasm were cut short by a phlegm-producing cough, and I became downright crabby. I hurt and I was exhausted, even as I felt transformed and drawn very near to the one who had beaten me.

I thought my various moods made it into last night's post. But reading it over today, I can see they didn't. So I'm sorry for being so grumpy to the people who commented both publicly and privately, offering congratulations and the like for my having had such a satisfactory beating. I thought I had made it clear that I don't like pain!!! Or rather I like a little bit of pain. I love the way he squeezes my nipple and takes me to this special place where we are joined in a way that is more intimate than any sexual union. I like a mild spanking. I like the sensation of being flogged when it hurts a little bit. I like being hurt a little. I don't like being tortured. I found it very hard to tolerate, even though it obviously aroused me. I am not a masochist. I don't need pain.

There was nothing about this that was meant to serve my needs.
It was all about his needs.
A very intense need.
And surrounding it all was the fear that the beast would break loose and take over the action, which could spell disaster for both me and the sadist.

On the other hand, what I did love - what gave me a beautiful pleasure - was knowing that I had given myself willingly to something that is very hard for me. In fact, I wanted him to torture me, because I knew how badly he wanted to and needed to. And because I know how hard he struggles against the evil suggestions that the beast whispers in his ear to let go of his scruples and do to me all those really awful things he holds back from.

Anyway... since most of my readers don't look at the comments, I am posting below much of what I wrote in response to comments on yesterday's post. And please accept my apology for sounding so grumpy. It was my fault. I was in pain and I assumed I had probably only told the sadist. Thank you to those of you who did comment - and for you real masochists out there, I'm sure the level of pain I suffered would have been most inadequate for you.

I'm such a wimp!

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

The Comments:

_sub_girl called me lucky and said "How I miss the torment and pain a strong Sadist is capable of so lovingly applying." She then asked about the unknown implement with which I was whipped.

KellyRed said "Was it worth it? That is the question. Were you able to watch his face? or were you too absorbed in the pain? I would love to be able to watch his face..."

My reply, edited at my whim (mainly for typos), and presented with apologies as needed.

_sub_girl - I am lucky in general to have such a rich and challenging relationship. I don't know that I would think to call myself lucky to have been beaten. None of it was for me, and I wouldn't call anything about it loving. What does reflect the way he treasures me is how he fights off the urge to hurt me VERY badly. In fact, he doesn't usually allow himself to use me in this way, for fear the beast will take over and inflict such severe harm that it would destroy us both.

Here, too, I am lucky in that he has others whom he can torture most severely, including his masochist slave. I am NOT a masochist, but I am happy when he allows himself to beat me because of the pleasure it gives him and the relief from the pressure of his desires.

I did ask him what he whipped me with. It was nothing more than a pair of speaker cables for his computer. He specifically said I should point out that they were not coaxial cables, and then proceeded to discuss the efficacy of electric wire as an implement. He likes to use everyday objects, although he did have his slave make the flogger for using on me. Through trial and error, it was designed especially to suit my low level of pain tolerance.

Kelly - was it worth it? Oh yes. Except that between the pain and the wind and the cats being restless (probably due to the very high wind), I can't sleep tonight and thus am up replying to your comments.

It was worth it because I gave him what he needed. It was worth it because of the connection it creates. It was worth it because it was another way to show how fully I have given myself to him. And yes, although it hurt a lot (and I do NOT enjoy the pain) it results in an intensity that nothing else can achieve.

I cannot see his face. When he beats me I am standing facing the wall, or down on the ground on knees and forearms, or torso on the futon. Even when he flogged my breasts while I was bound to the chair, he was on standing to the side of me and I was looking straight forward.

I do get to see his face as he hurts me, though. Regularly. I kneel before him, my eyes linked with his, as he squeezes and twists my left nipple with his right thumb and forefinger. This happens every time we are together. He is looking deep inside me, to see how the pain is taking me to that place, and I see how he is seeing into me and how by hurting me he is pulling me to him, joining me with him... oh yes, I just remembered, it happened in another way this time. The chain was clipped tight around my neck the entire length of his visit and long after he left. I was kneeling before him, attending to his cock. He pulled the chain down my back, lodged it in the valley between my ass cheeks and settled it into my pussy, and then pulled up. Hard. This was the one pain I did like and it had an extraordinary effect on me. I had this intense sense of how he possesses me... the words don't do it justice... and it took me to an even deeper place than usual... he saw it in my eyes, and I saw the fierceness and satisfaction in his.

So yes, if for that alone, it was worth it. And it relates to what he has been teaching me since the first time he hurt me in the smallest way. The incredible intimacy between predator and prey.

Except that I am a willing victim, and therefore not a victim at all. I lay myself down on the altar and offer my throat to the knife. (Metaphor. That's a metaphor. The knife is no longer allowed in the house. For my safety.)

Beaten

He wanted to hurt me.
Oh my, how he wanted to hurt me.
He was nearly distraught with needing to hurt me.
He wanted to torture me.
He likes that word.
And it seems appropriate.

He enjoys inflicting pain.
He gets pleasure from inflicting pain.
And he gets special pleasure from inflicting it on me.
He enjoys making me suffer.
He gorges himself on my screams and squirms.

I screamed and squirmed a lot.
I don't know how many times he struck me.
Counting is not a task I've ever been assigned.
There is nothing to distract me from the pain.

He started right in.
No warm up.
He never eases into it.
This isn't a sex game.
There is no point in making it easier for me.
I take my position facing the wall, offering my butt, and he beats me.

The strip of cherry wood he uses as a cane.
The large wooden spoon.
The beautiful bi-color flogger that hurts like hell
when he swings it hard against already sore flesh.
His hand, large and hard and merciless.
And something else.
Something he took out of his bag.
I had no idea what it was.
He whipped me with it.
And it hurt.
It really hurt.

Everything hurt.
Everything still hurts.
A lot.

There are all sorts of marks on my butt. He examined it by the light from the window and noted the bruises and welts and who knows what else. Now I'm in my pyjamas, sitting up in bed, and the pain is even worse than it was earlier.

Plus my nipples are sore.
Sore and red.
He bound me to a straight-back chair and flogged my tits and torso.
Scared the shit out of me.
It actually didn't hurt that much.
But having my tits flogged is so scary that the only way he can really do it is by restraining me, and this was the first time he'd done it. He's actually not into bondage - more important to him is a willing offering, willing suffering no matter what he does.

There is so much more I could say.
About the chain.
About my fear.
About his fierceness.
About the special union that comes from the dance of torture and suffering.

But I'm going to stop now.
I'm not sure that I can go over it again.
Not tonight.
And I'm in a lot of pain.

Perhaps I'll feel better lying on my side...

Some things are not for sharing

I wrote him a new poem today.
A new, little poem.
And you can't have it.

Some poems I write especially to recite to him, as I kneel between his legs, naked and adoring, my eyes embracing his, my hand on his cock, my love kissing his face. Sometimes, after, I ask if I may publish them here. If I may share them with you.

Usually, permission is granted.

Sometimes I don't ask.
Sometimes I don't want to share them.
These poems are a special gift of love,
from deep inside me to deep inside him.

Today, I had no time to ask or not.
You may not give it to them, he said.

I didn't want to anyway.

It's a small poem. Nothing fancy. Nothing deep. Nothing complex. It's very open. And it comes from Daddy's baby. I don't think he's ever had a poem from his baby before. And he wanted to keep it to himself.

He did have a message for you all. He wanted me to say that if you like the words you read here, in simple black letters on a white background, just think how much more impactful it is when delivered directly by the artist. (He didn't add - in a private performance by the naked artist, but he easily could have. He feels very possessive about his little poet, and likes to flaunt his ownership.)

We've been talking lately. Writing. There has been nakedness. Nakedness inside. Everything stripped away. Bleeding pain exposed. I am feeling very close to him. I won't presume to say what he feels. But I know how he touched me.

He sent me down to lie on the opened futon, my pale body on the dark, blood-red sheets. Spread you arms and legs wide, he said. I'm going to hurt your nipples.

Oh, I thought. I hadn't expected the nipple clamps to be ready yet. I thought he would talk about them more, build up my fear and my desire. Yet now...

I went downstairs.
I lay down on the dark sheets,
my limbs spread until I was a giant X.
I lay down and waited.

And yet, surprisingly, I wasn't trembling.
I wasn't afraid.
I was just...
there.
Soft.
Open.
Offered.

He came down.
He sat down beside me on the bed.
He stroked my breasts.
He leaned over and softly,
sweetly,
one by one
took each nipple between his lips.

I kept thinking that he was preparing them for the clamps. But no. He was caressing them. No more than that.

Eventually, he did pinch and twist them. Most of the time, he was more gentle than usual, and even the worst of the assaults, which made me squirm and cry out, had a sweetness and gentleness to them.

He kissed me.
There is no way to convey the beauty of his kisses.
These were utterly without aggression
and...

words are reducing what was transcendent.

My body began to undulate.
He held me to him,
and kissed me
and stroked me.

And then he spanked my pussy.
Over and over, he brought his fingers down on my pussy.
Maybe 2 fingers.
Maybe 3.
Just the right number to fit between my legs.

I gave little cries, and then...
and then I cried out Yes.
A cry,
a statement,
it caught me by surprise and he saw that.
I knew then.
I knew,
and he knew,
that I was saying
This is good.
I want this.
I like this.

He mentioned it later, and said this was today's lesson.
That I liked it.
That I wanted it.
Not just to please him.
To please me.

He gave me that.
He brought me there.

All this time he has been trying to teach me that I don't want it, that I am meant for other things. He would hurt me fiercely, beat me harshly - not that others more used to pain would consider it harsh, but I felt it as that. He was teaching me, warning me, letting me see his darkness, his hunger, warning me against the beast by giving me a glimpse. And sometimes the beast would break through and give me a taste of his true, unmoderated hunger, leaving me with visions of what could be if the beast weren't holding back as part of his plan of seduction.

And now?
Perhaps my Daddy was saying - here.
This is what it can be.
Now that I've cleared away your romantic vision of pain,
here.
Taste this.
A dish with just a little hot pepper. And next time there will be a little more. And the next time after that, a little more yet, though never too much, and I will open my mouth and put out my tongue and reach my head towards him and beg to be fed.

And maybe he thinks that this way we will both be safe.
Maybe he thinks that this way the beast will leave us alone.

I don't know.
I'm speculating.

But that's for the future.
For now...
I am soft and floating and happy and beautiful.

What a lovely way to start the year.