The sadist speaks on my=his orgasms

I don't get to quote my Master much, and he doesn't write specifically for these electronic pages. He also no longer reads here. But I do sometimes show him what I've posted, and occasionally pass on your comments - either per his request or because I think they'll amuse him.

It is always wise, when dealing with a sadist, to keep him amused.

So yes, I showed him yesterday's piece on my sympathetic orgasms. I will blushingly admit that his praise for the post was over the top, which is why I didn't even ask if I could quote him here. However, I also told him of the comments by two of my devoted readers which betrayed either concern about possible disapproval of my unauthorized orgasms or, perhaps, a secret hope that the appearance of my post would result in a painful punishment for my disobedience and a subsequent description here of my suffering.

My Master offered these words:

You may tell your readers I do not mind your sympathetic orgasms as they are my possessions also, and serve as a pilot light to keep my furnace ever ready.

I'm not the only one in this relationship who deals in metaphors.

Meanwhile, speaking of orgasms...

It's been weeks since I've seen my Master.
Weeks since I've served my Master.
And weeks since I've cum.
The sadist hasn't been here since the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.
Since the day before my aunt died.
And I honestly can't remember if I came that week or not.

It's not that he hasn't wanted me. But the time... the season... our schedules... plans were made and plans dissolved.

So how is this relevant?

He doesn't like me to have cum within 48 hours before a visit - or after he announces a visit if I get less than 2 days' notice. And since he kept thinking he was going to be here, he kept not allowing himself the pleasure of one of my orgasms.

Which hasn't stopped him from arousing me.
Or me from arousing myself.

Whenever we are in contact, I am aroused. And an important part of my job as his pet is feeding his libido. If I can't do it with my body parts, I do it with my words. And those words make me crazy.

Instead of the hoped-for meeting tomorrow, we had an almost painful post-dinner IM session of masturbating each other's minds. I was writhing in my chair. Moaning, bent over my belly battered by contractions, my pussy pulsing with desire and fear at the scenario he presented. Eventually, it will become a story. Right then, it was a puddle in my panties.

I didn't ask.
I rarely ask.
But he read my need.

"I know this exchange excited you," he wrote.
"You still may not cum."

"Oh, really? I never expected it, my Master."

"You may tell your fan club that."

"I exult at the chains of orgasm restriction. Thank you, my Master."

And those last words of mine are the truth. Not being allowed to cum... it makes me feel closer to him. It increases my sense of being owned. And when he does allow me to cum, when he pulls out of the strongbox one of those orgasms I freely handed over to him, I accept it as a gift and rejoice in how closely to himself he clutches the chains of my life.

What's the big deal about giving him my orgasms when it is only with his permission that I am even allowed to breathe?

PS - watch this space for more words from my sadistic Master. Coming very soon.

Why I Have Sex

In her contribution to lg's orgasm extravaganza, meg gives a link to an article called Ask an Academic: Why Women Have Sex. Which of course immediately caused me to ask the same question on a more personal level.

Why do I have sex?

It wasn't a very challenging question.
I have known the answer for a long time.

It's for the intimacy. The actual web of psychological reasons doesn't really matter. It's the need that counts. An almost desperate need for closeness, for connection, for intimacy.

Back in the 60s, as we fought the sexual revolution in our uniforms of bare skin, many of my contemporaries were after pleasure pure and simple. And certainly there was pleasure to be had, though being young and naive and leery of the efficacy of condoms in barring a baby from taking up residence in my 18-year old womb, I refrained from intercourse until I got my hands on The Pill.

mmm... I'm remembering... damn but the pleasure is intense when you're 18 and finally away from home. I'd happily take my clothes off for anyone. But it wasn't really the search for pleasure that drove my minor adventures in what could hardly be termed promiscuity. It wasn't really my rioting hormones. It was that need to touch. To be close. To achieve some illusory semblance of intimacy.

Cut to 40 years later. (You cannot imagine how scary it is to write that... 40 years later... can it really be that long? can I really be that old? Nope. Burn the birth certificate. If people who see me think I'm 40 then so be it. Let my young doms think that they're the ones with a sweet young thing. They certainly manage to make me feel very small and submissive - I've learned never to argue with a dom. Especially when he's a sadist.)

So here I am now. I've learned some things over the years. 10 years ago, S-- taught me about sex as a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon. An evening. A full 23 hours with almost no sleep. He taught me how very pleasant it could be, and in how many ways. And now there is Evan, who fucked me with energy and delight and control and enthusiasm and many many orgasms, and whom I do think I will be seeing again when next we get our schedules to mesh. He's a sweet man, is Evan, if a thoroughgoing workaholic and more than a little cautious. But he makes me feel safe and comfortable and satisfied and happy, and I do look forward to having sex with him again for the pleasure.

And the intimacy.
A relaxed intimacy.

And then
and always
there is my demon muse.
My Master.
My Lord.
My owner.
My life.

As far as sex goes, the sadist has one goal, and one goal only.
His own pleasure.
If I derive pleasure from our time together,
it is purely a side effect.
He's in this for his needs alone.
Or so he says.
If I get to cum, it is for the pleasure he will derive.
If I get high on serving him,
I must never let that interfere with my focus on the job at hand.
Or mouth.
Etc.

If I had read about this a year and a half ago, I would have been enraged. But now...

I'm getting what I need.
I always get what I need.
I get the intimacy,
which is
deeper,
closer,
fiercer,
sweeter,
and infinitely more naked
than anything I have ever known
and anything that you can imagine.

Even with all the rules, the walls, the regulations, the compartmentalization, the limitations, I have never in my entire life felt closer to, more bound to, more intimate with anyone I have every known or talked to or touched or kissed or fucked.

Never.

No one.

Ever.

And I will do anything for such a union.

How can a mere orgasm compare to that?

Sympathetic orgasms

There is a certain irony to writing about orgasms when I have ceded control over mine to the sadist and am allowed very few indeed. Even then, they are still his, elicited for the pleasure he derives from observing my responses and relishing the sounds of my moans and whimpers and indescribable noises followed by a rising sequence of squeezed squeals and then soul-shaking sobs.

Oh, he does enjoy the sounds I create for him.

But I'm not writing about those orgasms. And some might not even think to grant the noble name of Orgasm to what I am about to describe. But there is no question that this is what they are. There is the pleasurable stimulation, the rising tension, and then a physical manifestation of release. Sometimes there is even an unguarded escape of noises at the moment of climax. However, there is nothing obviously sexual in the activity. There is no cock deep inside me, no hand caressing my clit, no fingers pinching my nipples, no mouth melding into mine.

You can't see the lover who forces such a response from my body.

My molester is music.

Now here I'm afraid I have to be a little evasive. For the reaction I'm revealing is caused by a specific family of instruments. My friends, who are totally oblivious to my kinky alter ego, are well aware of my love for these magical arrays of strings. Some have heard me describe how the music strikes me in the womb, and my very best friend has been with me as the tremors flash through my helpless body. I'd hate to have one of our crowd Google the instrument and come across this post.

I will say that they are multi-stringed folk instruments. Lots and lots and lots of strings. Requiring lots and lots of tuning. And when everything is in harmony, the whole world vibrates. If you really want to discuss it further, please e-mail me privately.

What I said about the effect on my womb is not metaphor. It really happens. As the sounds and the joy and the exuberance and the lushness of the tunes and harmonies and ornaments swirl around me, they set off these little contractions in my womb.

And I always use that term.
Womb.
It seems much more primal than the other one.
Uterus.
Nope.
Not uterus.
Womb.

So the contractions start and the tension spreads through my body and I am high on the ecstasy of the music and I'm grinning ear to ear except then suddenly I'm not grinning and I get that look - you know that look - not exactly a grimace here in the middle of a concert but my eyes change and the texture of my face changes and my lips part and my breathing... I'm not sure what my breathing does, by that point I'm not observing very well and then all of a sudden it happens.

A sharp shiver shakes my body from top to bottom.

If you were sitting next to me, you couldn't miss it.
You might pass it off for a sudden chill.
But it was quite the opposite.
Things became much too hot.

Among the world's stringed instruments, there are those equipped with what are known as sympathetic strings. These are not played directly. They are neither bowed nor plucked. They just hum along. When properly tuned, they respond to the song of the stimulated strings, forming a heavenly backup chorus. An example in Western music is the viola d'amore; folk instruments range from the sitar to the gudulka and the hardingfele.

My womb contains a set of sympathetic strings.
And when I hear my favorite music played, I have no choice.
I cum.


Written by invitation for little girl's project orgasm. You can read about lg's own orgasmic experiences here: parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6. Then check out today's post for links to the many courses in a big, potluck project orgasm holiday party. See you there!

Sacrificing pelvic curls on the altar of submission

So there we were, my Master and I, around mid-day, engaged in instructive and very arousing conversation courtesy of Yahoo Messenger. I was embroidering on a scenario that was rapidly growing out of a handful of words he had tossed at me, expanding, elaborating, enriching, when my mind and my body were drawn back to compelling physical memories of the slash of his flogger on my cunt.

I spoke of that a little, of its power over me, the particular type of pain. It's real pain, and I don't crave the pain itself, but there's something about it...

I don't hunger to be caned.
I do hunger to be flogged.

And then there it was. Out of the blue.

"I may have you shave."

I froze.

I had been wriggling and squirming like mad, aroused and submissive and adoring and barely able to contain myself. But at those six words, I froze.

Silence.
Then -

"oh."

I described my frozen state.
I begged to be allowed to trim very close instead.
I get all these irritated bumples just from shaving up at the top of my thighs.
And my hair is so light, you'd think a close trim would do it.

"shave"

And I felt incredibly, exquisitely owned.

Of course, now that he's seen what a strong effect the possibility had on me, there's no way I'll get out of it.

I'm squirming as I write.

The philosopher and I used to talk about the possibility. We mulled over his taking me down to the place in Dupont Circle where, right before his inaugural visit, I had my eyebrows waxed for the first and only time. I liked it there. It felt professional and safe. And I thought they could handle his bringing me in to have my cunt stripped bare. Making it clear that he was in charge, that my pussy belonged to him. He would stand there and watch and enjoy my yelps of pain and enjoy the little puddle of arousal that would form on the sheet just below me. I wrestled with the idea - I didn't like the idea of going bare. We don't do that in my circle. And yes, I do know what the others do because when we all spend a week together at music camp there's a bathroom with 2 toilets and 3 showers for the 15 of us. So even though not everyone is as much of an exhibitionist as I am, there are glimpses...

I'm still squirming.

I worry what people will think of me. I worry what my gynecologist will think of me. I imagine her calling my psychiatrist, who referred me to her, and asking if she knows why I suddenly shaved my pretty little curls. And since I'm not really in therapy, and have scrupulously avoided discussing my submission, there will be no ready answer.

I am feeling very small.

I think of that bare area between my legs. How it will look so childlike, even with my large, floppy, aging pussy lips hanging down and inviting torture. And I think of how it will feel...

The philosopher finally accepted my explanation about irritation, and allowed me to trim very close instead of getting waxed. And even that felt incredibly naked. I'm rocking back and forth madly on the chair as I remember how I felt everything rubbing against the tender skin. Against my labia. Against my clit.

So here I am.
Feeling very small.
Feeling very submissive.
Dreading what's to come.
Yearning for what's to come.
Anticipating the humiliation of presenting myself unprotected by my little curls.

I swim in his power and willingly give myself up to the rapids that pull me towards the waterfall and the rocks below.

Uninvited image OR When similes go bad

Her nipples hard as glass, she
ran the right one down his naked calf.
A thin trail of blood sprang up behind.

He reached for the cane.

"Good girl"

They're better than a gold star,
these two sweet words presented
as a sign of satisfaction
mixed with quite a bit of pride.
I am his creation,
so performance that is pleasing
signifies his own success
at least as much as mine.

These two sweet words he gives me
gently outshine any other gift,
except perhaps those three dear words
that I will never hear.
But there are many kinds of iron
chains and silken ropes that bind
two people in a complex web
with beauty all its own.

And so I take those words of praise,
that say how much he treasures me,
and press them to my lips and breasts
when I lay down to sleep.
A year ago we parted,
but we couldn't stay apart. So now
I am his precious poet whore
curled naked at his feet.

a piece of ass

holes.
i'm sensing my holes.
i am my holes.
open spaces.
tender places.
voids to be filled.

they beg for pain.
i'm needing pain.
i need it sharp.
relentless.
cutting.
thrashing.
spurring tears
i cry at your feet.

tear me down.
push me down.
make me drown
in submission,
in debasement
as you use me
as you share me
as you teach me
that i'm nothing

but yours.

i am yours.

and that's enough.