Memories of your cock

What is it about a computer in my lap that makes me start to twitch? And not just in my lap. When I turn on my computer at work, I feel the pressure build, running back and forth from my still virgin butt hole through the sodden valley of my cunt and up to my clit, where it twirls around a few times and heads back the way it came.

My face grimaces, and the contractions begin. They seem to begin in my anus, then travel over the land bridge to my labia and the drooling pussy within. Finally, I feel them in my womb, and then, with a moan of inevitability, I start to write.

I used to write for the philosopher. I couldn’t stop writing for the philosopher, even at work, despite his scoldings and interdictions. I wanted to be connected to him every minute of the day. We inspired interactive creativity and urgent desire, before our ever having met. We spent hours writing, and then hours talking, and had a hell of a time getting anything else done.

We don’t write like that any more. He needs to be able to get everything else done. He no longer denies that there is “something between us” but except for some occasional mild teasing and flirting, our correspondence stays away from the passion. We stay away from BDSM. We stay away from sex.

I’ve stuffed it into a strong box, bound it with chains, and secured it with a padlock. A trunk with a chastity belt. Sometimes fumes sneak out through wee holes in the wood, but I hold my nose or leave the house.

Sometimes they catch me unawares and I have memories… I push them away. They come less often now. The memories of being draped over the ottoman… they come less often now… the memories of those four final cane strokes… of huddling over on the floor, draped in an afghan, shuddering in collapse as he ran upstairs for a bag of frozen peas for my battered butt… of his calling me his good kitten… they come less often now.

Sometimes I think they are gone for good. Sometimes I think they are purely a matter of habit or buried genes, a kitten who occasionally remembers her leonine ancestry.

Thoughts of the philosopher inspire feelings of love, which in fact are probably more dangerous and unwise than urges towards submission. And now my demon muse is back, who acts as a safety valve for the rest of it. He siphons off my urge towards submission, keeps me from sucking random cocks, and inspires an onslaught of poetry both erotic and deferential. And there are other feelings he raises. Different ones… my submission to him is different. There is a true sense of worship, of adoration, and now even deeper trust than there was before The Rupture. I know this probably doesn’t make sense to some of you but yes, I trust him more now. And I truly believe that his plans for me, however much they may be based in his own perverted and sadistic needs, are basically good for me. I suppose he’ll sneer at this, and make some snide comment, but I am his creation. I don’t know what his goal is but I think it is something he will take pride in as well as enjoy.

So except for passing teases, I try not to push the philosopher to react to me erotically. Oh we had such a dispassionate discussion of a kinky horror movie he suggested I’d like. It’s hard enough dealing with how I just want to curl up and cuddle with him, let alone want to be spanked by him. And even those warm creamy vanilla desires get buried, since I mostly try not to think about them. The desires of all kinds come back when we talk, and even when we e-mail back and forth, but the interchanges happens so rarely now (by mutual agreement to shield him from implied demands) that desire is enjoying a long hibernation.

Except sometimes it will be surprised by an anarchic rooster. Like this:

I dreamt about your cock last night. We bathed together and you allowed me to trim your hair and then you threaded your hands through the hair on my head as I knelt before you on the bathroom floor, and by my hair you pulled my head to your stiffening cock, “suck me, Leigh,” you commanded.

I got this far on Elspeth’s blog and started to cry. Not even this far. I got to where she talks about trimming his hair and I started to cry. And oh, I wanted so much to send you the link – or better yet, to paste the piece right into a message so I could edit the bit where he refers to “daddy’s cock” because you would never refer to it as that… you’d say hoarsely “suck me, kitten” and then push my head down on your cock as the look came over your face that betrayed how the veneer of civilization had been driven away by need and dominance.

I wanted to send it to you.
I wanted to let you know that it made me cry.
I wanted to let you know that I hadn't forgotten.
I wanted to let you know that I still thought of you.
I wanted to let you know that everything is still there.
It's just asleep.

And when the time comes
if it ever comes
we'll claw our way through the thick, prickly vines
we'll cut away the brush and the briars
and we'll kiss it awake.

And then we'll see what happens.

But meanwhile,
for now
there are the memories.

Submission Submersion

breathe it.
not like air.
like water.
lower yourself
as into some hypnotic
mikveh.
cleanse yourself of
pretensions at autonomy.

lower yourself.
abase yourself.
sink to the bottom.
feel the chains of
green seaweed
seek your ankles and
drag you down.
give yourself to it.

lower yourself.
open yourself.
fill your lungs.
sink to the bottom
as you float away.
drown in it.
embrace it.
welcome it.

embrace it.
now you are nothing.
now you are everything.
now you're a captive.
now you are his.

now you know.

What does it feel like...

A male friend, a fine writer, was speaking of his curiosity. I am poorly paraphrasing, I am protecting his privacy, I am protecting my privilege of access.

What? he wonders.
What appeals?
What doesn't?
What does it feel like?

What does it feel like, he wonders, these sensations that you experience that physically I can never know?

I know these questions.
I've had them myself.
Especially when in bed with the woman I thought I was in love with.

My clitoris wanted to be a cock.
My clitoris thought it was a cock.
My clitoris wanted to fuck her.

It was very very frustrating.

As some of you may remember, we were both involved with the same man. We were both involved with S--. And it was all at a distance. I was with her, and she would be with him the following weekend, and I couldn't help thinking that he would be able to do with her, to her, what I couldn't.

He could fuck her.
He could take his thoroughly lovely cock and move it inside her.

I knew what it would feel like for her.
I knew exactly what it would feel like for her.
What would it feel like for him?

Like my friend, I'm always wanting to know what it's like for the other side. It obsesses me. I was always asking the philosopher, I was always asking blogging doms, what does it feel like?

I posted this to craigslist as well as here, both as a lure and as an honest attempt at exploration - and received a very special response.

But I want more.

What does it feel like to have a cock?
What does it feel like to be a cock?
What does it feel like to swell at the thought of me?
What does it feel like to swell when you read my words?
What does it feel like to swell at the sound of my moans in your phone?
What does it feel like to slide inside me?
What does it feel like to push inside me?
What does it feel like to cum inside me?

What does it feel like to want me?

I know what it feels like to want you.

Cast of characters

My life is complicated, my feelings intense. My story's confusing, to me as much as to anyone else. But I, at least, have the advantage of minute-by-minute updates. So for the benefit of those of you who have wandered over here for the first time, here is a short cheat sheet.

First, there's me.

OK, I take that back. When you're a submissive, you don't come first. You come last, you live at the bottom, you live at his pleasure. You live where he lets you. You cum last - or whenever he lets you. If at all. Right now, I'm waiting for permission.

Still, it's my blog.

So first, there's me.

On paper, I'm old. I'm a baby boomer. I went to college in the 60's, during those liberating days of the Sexual Revolution. I protested the Vietnam War. I went door-to-door raising money for the Mississippi Freedom Summer. It was a heady time, and a scary one.

So yeah, I'm old. I have this really big birthday coming up. There's no point in my being coy about the number, as I've already mentioned it on this blog, but give me a break, I don't feel like saying it again right now, and the big day will be here in just 2 weeks.

I'm old, but I look really young. 15-20 years younger than I should. I have red hair, and it's still red, and it's still all mine. Red pubic hair, too. Trimmed, not shaved. And red. We won't talk about the white highlights, ok?

Thanks. You can stay.

I'm Jewish. A 3rd generation Jewish atheist, Communist on one side and Socialist on the other. A mixed marriage. Don't laugh, that's not a joke. "Jewish atheist" isn't a joke, either. And now? I'm not sure. My rabbi says I'm a pantheist, with not a trace of disapproval. I suspect he's a bit of one as well.

I love ritual. So does the philosopher.

The philosopher. He's the second character. He's my . . . I'm not quite sure what he is. I told you my life is complicated. He . . . he's the man I can't give up on. He found me through a craigslist ad very nearly 2 years ago. He keeps trying to break up with me. It doesn't work. He was my first dom. He's a philosophy grad student. He's only 38. His hair is red like mine. I haven't seen him since last May. He . . . I love him. He wants me to see other people. He cares for me. It's complicated. The future is misty. And he is always there for me when I need him.

I love him.

And then there's number three. I call him my demon muse. Sometimes I call him the fiend but these days I don't feel like calling him that any more. He is my muse and my teacher and my mentor. He's my dom and my collector and my tormentor and none of these words or even all of them together quite describe what he is to me. Ours is not an ordinary BDSM relationship.

I have never called him by his real name.

He found me on FetLife. He found me and set his trap and I was his within a week. He wanted me for my writing, and he pushes me to make my writing better. And now it is better.

He is a sadist, is my demon muse, and he pushes me. He teaches me and pushes me and shows me who I am. He teaches me about pain, and he teaches me how to please him. He teaches me about my submission and about how much I want to give. He opens me up and leaves my soul bleeding on the ground and I moan and sigh and thank him and when it all flows back together I am stronger than I was before.

He is a sadist, my demon muse. He torments minds as well as bodies. And a month and a half ago, something went badly wrong. And that was it. It was over. I fumed for a week and then enjoyed the sense of freedom and tried to move on.

Except I could barely write poetry any more. The inspiration was gone. The fire from how he caned my brain was gone. I started to panic.

I couldn't write. And that wasn't all. I missed him.

And then suddenly he returned. You don't need the details, just that he returned. He contacted me, you don't have to know why, but he contacted me and the poems started bursting out as if they had been piling up behind a steel blockade.

So there we are.

I serve the philosopher by largely leaving him alone, except for occasional e-mails to which I don't expect a response. I leave him alone and he knows I love him and will do anything he tells me to. Except give up. I won't give up. Maybe eventually, but not now. Not yet. Not until the damn dissertation is done and we can think about what comes next.

I serve my demon muse by doing whatever he tells me to.

There are two more characters, who dominate me more than anyone else in this story. They dominate me with love and need and needle-sharp nails in my thigh. When the others let me down, these two are always there.

I love them.

Their names are Marko and Ketzel.

And now you know it all.

Everything else is commentary.

Training Exercise

And now, he said.
Sit, he said.
Like this.
Wearing that, he said.
Doing this, he said.
Wear that, do this,
Obey.

Touch, he said.
With this, he said.
Gently.
And then, he said.
Press this, he said.
Say this, he said.
Press this, say this,
Don’t cum.

Tell me, he said.
Your thoughts, he said.
They’re mine.
I cried, I said.
I touched, I said.
I cried, I touched,
I pressed, I spoke,
I felt, I thought,
I smiled, I moaned,
It pleased, it hurt,
I learned, I gave.

I submitted.

I did not cum.

Good girl, he said.
Good girl.

Forgive me for bragging

I'm a little embarrassed to be doing this, but I've already told the philosopher and my demon muse and I obviously can't tell my parents although oh my, my mother would be so proud of me! And since there's no one left, I'll just have to tell you guys.

Today I received the following review from JanesGuide.

submission & metaphor

This blog managed to move me today, and not just intellectually. It was so full of passion, pain, longing, love, and loss that I cried. It is written by Oatmeal Girl who describes herself as a submissive Jewish bisexual feminist baby boomer. A lot of the writing is in the form of poetry, and perhaps that is how it slipped into my heart and ravaged my emotions. She has a very well developed and intensely emotional style. It never seems overly fancy, and instead feels very raw and honest (like the talk of a good friend). She often speaks of love, but it isn't an easy love. It is the sort that rips through you, but that you couldn't and wouldn't want to live without. Here is an example of her writing, "I'm high on a cocktail of drugs, and they're each addictive on their own. Just imagine the potency of the alternate reality of subspace combined with the exhilaration of creative inspiration on top of that dependable stimulant, praise." On the flip-side of this ecstasy you'll find solemn and heartfelt poems that include moments like this, "I'm doing well now, master./ My moods don't bounce around/ the room. I held up my end, John./ Perhaps you'd love me now." I think that was the line that tore it for me. I fell in love with her myself. Great stuff! - Vamp

A Song of Service

The chain is pulling
tight around my neck and yet
inspiration blooms.

Poems spring up like flowers
in a sacred rain.
Metaphors mass in my mind,
AWOL no longer.
Words break from their prison and
dance upon the page.

I moan, and cum creation.
My demon muse has returned.