They can always sniff fresh prey

The funeral was Sunday.

I drove up to Philadelphia Saturday afternoon. Or, rather, to a suburb of Philly. My sister and I and a cousin of my late aunt's (and thus of my mother's) were all staying at a hotel along a road of shopping malls, chain stores, and local favorites, just off the Pennsylvania Turnpike. To avoid the illegal U-turn needed to reach the hotel from the direction I was traveling, I had to cut through the parking lot of a local tavern/bar.

Suddenly, in the pit of my stomach and the folds of my cunt, I sensed a vibe akin to that of the biker/thug bar, which I haven't yet visited but in which I will one day be raped and abused and utterly objectified.

I wanted to go in.
In the worst way, I wanted to go in.
I wanted to go in
and go up to the bar
and...

I didn't.
My cousin was waiting.
My sister was on her way.

Later, as we discussed where to go for dinner, I said "Hey! How about the tavern next door?" Which my sister thought was a reasonable idea. Until one of my late aunt's kids said it was a Hooters wannabe. Idea vetoed.

I was feeling wild.
I was feeling sexy.
I joked about going,
having a wild night out.

The 72-year old cousin seemed to think that was a reasonable idea. She said after all, I had turned 60 this year, and should be able to celebrate.

I was impressed.
My sister deemed it not worthy of response.

(Side bar: the cousin asked how many years older than me my sister is. I'm the older one. By 3 years. And my sister has had a bit of face lift. I'm sorry. Can you blame me for gloating? You take your pleasures where you can get them when you're in mourning. And shameless.)

So we didn't go. But in my mind...

I came to town a day ahead.
I needed time alone.

I arrived late, tired and hungry and moody. Too tired to go looking for good food and a peaceful place to eat. I unpacked my few things, took off my bra and panties, and walked back to the Stone House Tavern next door.

The place was crowded and noisy. In the old days it would have been smokey as well. Instead, there was the smell of sweat, lust, and spilled beer. The waitresses were young, nearly jail bait, in scanty jeans skirts and tops so tight you could see the tiny holes at the ends of their nipples that would one day yield milk.

I went up to the bar.
I went up to the bar and spoiled the mood by ordering a Coke.
No rum.

Heads swiveled. Many turned back to their more appropriate drinks. A few kept their attention on me. I felt their eyes nibbling at my tits after running through my swirling mane of hair. I felt my cunt swell, and knew there was a growing wet spot in the crotch of my jeans. The jeans were tight, cutting into my clit, courtesy of my usual winter weight gain.

My face grew hot.
I was scared and bold.
I tossed my head and stared at my drink.
Waiting.

It didn't take long.

I felt him come behind me even before his body heat bounced off my back. I could tell he was large. I knew he was dominant. There was no way he hadn't sniffed out submissive prey. He was a predator like my Master, a predatory sadistic dom, looking to feed.

He came up behind me and stood just behind me, barely touching, thoroughly threatening. I stopped breathing. He didn't mess around with gradual measures. He reached both arms around me, put his large hands between my thighs, pushed them apart, and ran 2 fingers of his right hand up and down my cunt.

He smelled my want.
He smelled my fear.

"I'm going to have you tonight."

I noticed his choice of words.
He wasn't just going to fuck me.
He was going to have me.

"I'm owned. You'll have to ask my Master."

"Call him."

Now I was truly scared. I only call my Master when he orders me to. But it seemed I had no choice.

I left a voice mail.
The sadist called back 5 minutes later.
I handed the phone to my new admirer.

The phone was put on speaker, so I could hear them discussing my fate. My date for the night had implements of pain stashed in his truck, just in case he happened on an available victim. My Master instructed me to offer myself for whatever the new guy had in mind. The guest dom was to call back afterwards and describe what he had done to me and how well I had served him. I was to e-mail a report as soon as I was alone again. And just before my borrower began whatever activity would hurt me most of all, he was to call my Master and leave him a voice mail of my pain.

I think I was in shock.
I floated in my submission.
And despite my stunned fear,
I knew I had no choice.
Not now.
The choice had been made long ago.

We walked next door and entered the hotel through the side door, avoiding the lobby. I took him up to my room. He locked the door and put on the safety latch. Safety for him. I stood there and trembled while he took his time inspecting me. I could easily have been naked for all the protection I felt.

He gestured with his head.

I took off my clothes.

He took off his belt.

He left just before dawn.
I had to remain standing as I typed up my report.

My Master would be pleased.

Tortured, teased, and denied

You chain me to the wall.
Naked.
Spread.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
You torture my pussy
with pain and with pleasure.
You use the flogger
to beat and caress.
You gently tickle
my swollen clit
and then walk away
leaving me moaning,
leaving me begging,
leaving me writhing,
leaving me yours
as you lick from your fingers my honey.


Written for my Master after he said he wouldn't let me cum for a while, and posted here at his suggestion.

Grief and gratitude

Thanksgiving usually means a lot of traveling to be with family - whom I don't see very often as much by my own choice as anything else. For the last couple of years it has meant a long drive north on the Thursday and a return trip on Saturday, back to the friends who are my family of choice.

My aunt died this morning.
I loved her.
We've canceled Thanksgiving.

Instead there will be a shorter drive, a Sunday funeral, and a different sort of family gathering.

I think of the people who are dear to me. I think of my Master, with whom I will have minimal e-mail contact over the next few days, if any. I am very grateful for all those who know me and love me for who I am. And for the one who has seen into me deeper than has any other, and has taken who and what I already was and freed me to fly and to yield, I am grateful most of all.

Wordless comfort

He said not a word.
And yet he said everything.

He came for his needs
and yet he met mine.
He nearly was tender,
he nearly was gentle,
he nearly caressed me
and said not a word.

I cried.
He came through the door
and I cried.
He eyed me and touched me
and sent me downstairs -
with a nod of his head
he sent me downstairs,
and I knew I was safe
and I knew I was treasured
and only with him
could I cry.

And as for the rest,
it went on as always,
and yet it was different,
it all tasted different,
the torture was lighter,
the kisses were sweeter,
I knelt to his cock
and my mouth and tongue loved him,
I gave him my eyes
and he drank that I loved him,
I served his desire
and he honored my grief,
he said not a word
but accepted my grief,
as I sucked on his cock
and fondled his balls
and offered up scenes
igniting his fantasies,
yielding my mouth
to the cock that belongs there
and glowed at the sounds
of pleasure and need.

And then I spoke of how I loved him
and he roared.

And he came.

And after he was gone, I held my usual position down on the ground. His last action, before heading upstairs, was to drape his chain across my naked back like a cold, hard, warm embrace of ownership. And I sobbed and sobbed and knew he was there for me.

Even though he never said a word.


Written for this blog at the suggestion of my Master.

Frustration

I am staked to the ground, a naked female Gulliver surrounded by over-excited Lilliputians. Small energetic people of many sexes and gender identities crawl all over me, poking and prodding, exploring and stimulating. Two of them lasso my nipples with thin ropes and pull them tight, so the slip knots cut into the tender flesh and threaten to sever the little nobs from the mounds beneath. Teams march systematically across my body, scourging my flesh with small whips as if beating the English countryside for hiding foxes.

A line forms on my left thigh. The thigh that is numb. The accumulated weight presses down into my muscles below the scarred flesh. The line ends at my pussy. The prize is a chance at sucking my clitoris as if it were a penis. My vestigial cock fills their minuscule mouths as they prod my already painful arousal with lips and tongues and teeth, struggling to maintain their balance as the flood of honey accelerates and sends a slippery stream out between my labia and around the feet of the queue along my thigh. Each cunnilinguist gets one minute. I squirm and pull against my bonds, but am restrained too tightly to move much.

My moans of frustration threaten to render deaf their delicate little ears.

You stand over the scene, smiling with satisfaction.
You swim in my suffering.

You hand small, metal-tipped floggers to those arrayed along my leg, urging them to whip the tender inner flesh of my thigh as they wait. The creature attending to my clitoris is provided with a tiny vibrator, with which he/she/it is instructed to increase my torment before yielding it and the place at my pussy to the next in line.

Tears form at the corners of my eyes, as they meld with yours.

"Please..." I form with my lips.

"Your begging is most delicious, my pet," you say. "But I don't believe I will permit you to come for a long while."

My clitoris as red and swollen as it can possibly be, you pick up a full-size flogger. The little creatures scatter in a surge of self-preservation. You raise the scourge and bring it down hard on my pussy.

Your scrotum contracts in a most delicious manner as I shriek with pain. The wet spot on the carpet below me doubles in size. You pull down your pants and stuff your erection in my mouth.


Written for my Master and posted with permission.

"I don't believe I will permit you to cum for a while"

Saturday.

Still floating from my Master's visit on Friday, the 2nd in 3 days. I was tired and happy and painfully aroused. But my pleasure belongs to him. I don't even touch without permission, let alone cum. So I suffered. I wrote him and I suffered and I squirmed and I twitched, and my suffering was compounded by watching Ohio State destroy the University of Michigan (how can anyone doubt that I am a true masochist?!) and my messages became more rich and creative and really -

that was my mistake.

Because that's when he said it.

I don't believe I will permit you to cum for a while

Now being a poet and all, I noticed something very sinister about this statement. Look carefully.

There is no period at the end.
There is no end.
It goes on and on...

And the prohibition had exactly the effect my Master was hoping for. The effect he was expecting. Because, of course, by now he knows my responses. He knows that if he twists this, bites that, spanks with a finely calibrated degree of force, he will elicit from his malleable pet precisely the sounds and colors and words and welts he is after.

My Master is very pleased.

And the prohibition continues.

I talked him into cumming

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