Time to break the fast

Enough!

I am declaring the fast over. I'm removing my chastity belt and taking the QUARANTINE sign off the door.

It's spring in Washington, DC.
The sap is running.
It is running out my cunt and down the tender insides of my thighs.
It is filling the cocks of two out of three men
and the clamor for my services is growing.
Two out of three men.
The third is silent.

I informed my sadistic demon muse first.

He owns me, and invests a lot of planning into the scheduling and lesson plans for his visits. Between one thing and another, including our successive bouts with the vicious virus, it has been over 3 weeks since he was last here. We have much to do, and have been trading inspirational e-mails.

Even the Irishman, usually so stingy with his words, has been writing, testing my metaphorical mucous to see if I'm ready to hang out the welcome sign.

As soon as the sadist has been here, I will declare myself available to all comers.

OK, not really. I'm not that much of a slut. But the Irishman may use me whenever he wishes. And he has been wishing for a while now.

Pure, unadulterated fucking.

Yeah, I know, adulterous fucking.
Sorry about that.
I'm done being responsible for other people's decisions.
Late at night, he will sneak out of his house, use me, and be back without being missed.

And there's the question. What happens to mixed marriages when there is no outlet for the one who is the dom, the sadist, for the one who is submissive, or a masochist. What happens when the urges, the needs, are bottled up, when they ferment, when the pressure builds... if there has been no regular release of the need to use, the need to hurt, the need to humiliate and debase, the need to control, is the marriage in greater danger of disintegrating?

This is a real question, about otherwise loving and treasured marriages. I don't know the answer, and I'm not pretending it's my job to save other people's relationships. I've got my own odd relationship, had my first failed, young marriage followed by a really bad marriage, and now am trying to take care of at least some of my needs. Still, I'm curious.

Anyone have a report from the field?

Surfeit

I am so tired.
I am ever so tired.

I think of the men in my life and my pussy starts pulsing and my cunt starts convulsing, and my heart softens and my panties grow soggy and the idea of summoning up the physical energy to actually be with any of them is totally impossible to entertain.

Hell, I'm flooding just from writing the last paragraph. And of course I'm not allowed to masturbate without permission as the sadist owns my orgasms...

hmmm... in addition to having permission - nay, encouragement - from the philosopher to see other people, I have permission from the sadist as well, with the footnote that he doesn't really think the permission is his to give. Still, to my mind it is, so I asked. But. If he owns my orgasms, do I have to ask to be allowed to cum when I'm with the Irishman? not that this has been an issue so far...

I do love the idea that there are these two men who've been wanting me while I've been sick and they just have to wait. Of course, I would much rather have been well and submissive than be able to enjoy this short-lived sense of power.

On top of all this... ah, fantasies... there is this woman who very occasionally turns up at my synagogue... I've had a crush on her since I first saw her... cute, smart, dynamic, artistic, feminist, progressive... she came for Purim services last night, welcomed me to sit next to her, sat close up against me with a lot of unnecessary physical contact which neither of us shied away from... it was nice to be reminded that I really am bi... although the idea of explaining my social life to her... Oy! In any case, I was very bold and added her to my Facebook friends list. For me, that's pretty brave and aggressive.

OK, now I've made myself utterly and completely horny. I sure as hell hope I'm stronger soon. My demon muse wants to pay me a lunchtime visit this week...

Depleted

I want to write for you. I want to write something titillating and salacious, about spanking and canings and being led around by a leash and cocks stuffed down my throat. And especially about anal sex. I think there are more hits on the anal sex label than on all the rest combined.

But of course I still haven't had anal sex. When I do, I promise I'll let you all know, even if I have to stand up as I type.

The thing is, I'm exhausted. Having that wretched virus was far worse than being beaten by the sadist. Oh, the pain from his pinching my nipples is much worse at the moment it is happening - it's not just pinching, it's a horrible twisting, it's awful, I can barely stand it, why is my cunt pulsing, why do I feel my panties getting wet as I talk about it, why am I regretting that I am on permanent orgasm restriction and that I have certain things to do tonight, certain exercises that will have me screaming for release which will be forbidden...

I've written about this before. I actually love orgasm restriction. In a way it is like prolonged foreplay. I love the pain of heightened, extended arousal. I love the feeling of being controlled. I love willingly giving over the control. Still...

This is the only place I can write about what I want. Well, I can elsewhere, but shouldn't really. The sadist is always reminding me that it is in no way about me and my desires. It is all and only about him and his needs and his desires and his urges... especially when the beast emerges. I will not forget that soon. The last time he was here I was seriously punished for daring to suggest otherwise.

There is always more to learn.

What I want doesn't enter into the Irishman's mind, either. But he's nicer about it. And in fact it does enter into his mind, because when he calls he doesn't order me to service him. He is asking me. Such a sweet man. It's only when he arrives that his own beast emerges. It fascinates me, the way I see it come over his face as he comes up the walk. And then it's all about him. I am but a collection of holes.

I wrote him a short poem signaling that I'm getting better.

I can't help letting the philosopher know what I want. But then he knows anyway. And we both know I may never get it. Except that in a way I am getting what I want. There is still that thin chain running up the New Jersey Turnpike, binding me to him. He is no longer pretending it is not there. How long it will survive and what it actually means is a mystery. But as long as it is there I'm ok.

For now, I need sleep. I need another day off, with no trips back and forth to town and no committee meetings.

And then?

I need to be taken by the beast and dragged off to his den.

I need to be spanked.
I need to be caned.
I need to feel a chain
pulled
tight around my neck.
I need to be dragged by my hair
and thrown onto the bed.
I need to have my nipples
twisted
and pinched
until I think it would be
less painful if he
just
sliced
them
off.
I need him to bite my neck.
I need him to bite my lip.
I need him to kiss me
deep and sensuously,
richly and softly,
fiercely and hungrily.
I need to be fucked.
Fiercely and hungrily.
I need to be fucked.
I need to be fucked.
I need to be fucked.

But oh,
most of all,
and here
my eyes fill with tears
so I know it is true,
most of all

i need to be loved.

Dommed by my virus

Being sick sucks. Especially when what you have is a highly contagious virus that could last 2-3 fucking weeks!

I mean, 2-3 non-fucking weeks.

My lovely Irishman called tonight. Obviously, I had to regretfully decline his request to avail himself of that which is rightfully his. It's bad enough giving a guy a cold, but a 3-week virus? Even he couldn't have been that horny.

As an aside... doesn't it strike you as odd that so many doms own me... have rights to me... Seems I ought to be able to design some sort of hierarchy chart. Well, of course you all know what it would be.

The Irishman can call in the middle of the night or the middle of the afternoon and if at all possible I will drop everything and happily present myself for use. I think of him sometimes, and smile at memories of him walking up to my door at a quarter of 1 in the morning. I think of how stern he becomes, how abrupt, how focused, and, underneath, how gentle and considerate. I'm curious to see, as we go on, how far he lets himself go in exploring his urges with me. And I'm happy to have him in my life, even though his appearances are brief and unanticipated.

Serving him pleases me.

My sadistic demon muse owns pretty much every minute of my waking hours and, I suspect, much of my dream world as well. He is always lingering underneath my consciousness, and usually just the act of sitting in front of my computer is enough to bring him to the fore. He values me, he lets me know that he values me, and despite the fact that I drive him crazy, he devotes much time to devising, revising, and then instituting plans that he hopes will train and mold me into what he wants me to be.

I want to be what he wants me to be.

The philosopher sits in a frame on my desk. The philosopher envelopes my butt in pink panties. The philosopher nestles above my cleavage in the guise of his gift of a handmade intarsia Obama logo pin, which I wear almost every day. The philosopher is like a soft and gentle second skin, a whisper of a hug, a tease of sun through the forest leaves... with no promise that there is any more sun to follow but welcome nevertheless.

Love trumps everything else.

Except for a very sadistic virus.
Nothing beats a virus.

Hmmm... I wonder if the sadist could beat it out of me... do you think the endorphins...?

General frustration

i drive him crazy.
i have potential.
i’m sometimes brilliant.
he thinks i’m lazy.
he wants to beat me.
i lack direction,
have no discipline.
he wants to beat me.

he’s absolutely right.

i need his chains
the brutal cane
his lesson plans
his strangling hand
so I can be
exactly
what
he wants.

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

Later...

He asks a lot of me. He thinks I have it in me so he pushes me and expects a lot. He is right to push me, and he's the only one who ever has. He touched a button. He pushed me and hit a button and then knew he had and I was glad he had, I need to be pushed but still he saw things and... he called. And he was kind. Unheard of. It won't happen again. But still...

I would do anything for him.

Thank you, Sir.

snuffle cough moan

mostly cough.

[hack hack]

there goes another one.

too sick to work today.
too sick to write today.

woke up in the middle of the night feeling as if a fat cock were stuffed down my throat. but no, the Irishman hadn't materialized in the middle of the night. it was my damn tonsils, which made themselves scarce when they were due to be removed and saved their lives. damn tonsils.

they settled down today under the influence of continuous doses of assorted hot liquids. but that didn't help with the razor blades in my throat.

at least when my demon muse tortures me, his ministrations are of limited duration. he beats me, he spanks me, he twists my nipples near to coming off, i scream, i cry, he gets turned on and impresses me with whatever lesson was on the syllabus for the day,

and
then
it
stops!

but oh, no, not today. my own body is torturing me, there's nothing arousing about it (except, i must admit, when i write about it in context of what my tormentor wishes he had been doing to me today...), and it doesn't stop.

it was too bad, really. here i was home all day, the house to myself, and the sadist was home because it was too snowy for what he normally would have been doing, and... frustration. i was sick and he was recuperating and while, as he admitted, we are not always all that wise, we were wise enough to know that getting together would have been a very bad idea.

still, there were many e-mails, and a very instructive and arousing and, most important of all, pleasing to him phone call, and then he restored to me the privilege of a form of address which had been denied me since our reunion and i'm feeling wonderfully close to him and highly submissive, and as obedient as someone can be who is always forgetting things...

we have fallen behind schedule due to his own illness, but he has plans to accelerate our progress.

and if i'm very very good, and very very obedient, he just might let me serve him with my (per his own testimonial) hot, tight, wet pussy and my even tighter, never-before-used little butt hole.

enough of this coughing! i've got work to do.

Not really a post on objectification

I meant to write a post today.

A nice long discussion of objectification.

I've been thinking about it lately. The Irishman came back on Friday night. He phoned at 12:45 in the morning, asking if I was (available? willing?) to service him. I had been asleep. I said yes, of course, and he was there in 15 minutes.

There was something so sexy about being woken up like that.

He had that look. His crooked smile was gone, his expression now set and stern. I was wearing the slave shirt I had been sleeping in. We went to the bedroom, he turned off the light, told me to kneel, took out his cock, and fucked my mouth. His cock is fat, I didn't notice last time, I kept gagging, and in the end I was drooling saliva and cum.

He came with a roar. I wonder if my housemate heard.

He stood there for a minute or two, my head leaning against his leg. And then he left.

I was content.

I was smiling.

And I've been thinking of how this nice man needs to reduce me to a trio of orifices, and of how the sadist is training me to be dragged down into degraded depths of objectification, and of how I want it and am happy.

Very odd...

But I'm sick and I'm tired so I will write more on this within the next few days. I've been discussing it with my demon muse and with the philosopher (who to my great relief is not disgusted by my attraction to being used in this way), and welcome any comments on the matter in advance of my full-scale post.

I'm especially interested in anyone's experiences with objectification in service to compartmentalization i.e. a way for the dom(me) to reduce the submissive/slave to a thing so as not to risk an emotional connection that could threaten a primary, possibly vanilla relationship.

Thanks for any comments and now I'm taking my feeble brain to bed. My mother says that I shouldn't go to work tomorrow because my throat is sore. Maybe she can fax over a note?