Coming soon: Oatmeal Girl in a book!

I am returning from my week-long exclusive assignment with some major news.

First, I should say that my Master was very pleased with my work, and has rewarded me with (among other sweet gifts) a long delayed and always delicious orgasm. Tonight. I am going to take my time with this one, caressing my - no, HIS pussy as I fondle sweet memories of service and pleasure and pain. After nearly 2 years, there are many memories to fondle.

Now.
The news.

I wrote a story well over a year ago that I ended up submitting (I am always submitting, aren't I...) to my very kind and supportive friend M. Christian. For those who aren't familiar with Chris, he is a prolific writer and anthologizer of sex and sci-fi stories. In this case, he flattered me by asking me to send him a story for the third volume in the series Best S/M Erotica. The subtitle is Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex. Now honestly, I don't think my story is all that extreme as S and M goes. In fact, to my mind it is rather poetic (no surprise), sweet and beautiful and intimate and affectionate.

It is called "You awake ahead of the alarm", and I am very proud of it.

Just before writing the previous sentence, I went back to read over my precious piece. A writer should be allowed to say when something is good. And honestly, I do think it's good. But "good" is a matter of judgment, and that can vary from one to the next. What I can offer is that it is one of my favorites among everything I have written.

And soon you will be able to read it.

To start, it will be an e-book, published by Logical-Lust. We still don't have a hard release date, but it should be out very soon. Chris says they are "very happy with the book and plans all kinds of promos and stuff." Now of course I would like lots of people to read my story and then tell me how great I am. (Like many submissives, I am so badly in need of reassuring praise!) But what I am really after is to be able to hold the book in my hand. A real book. You know, some of you old folks might remember back when books came out on paper? With a cover? Something you could hold in one hand while you masturbate with the other? Well, if they sell enough copies as an e-book they just might bring it out in paper. Given that I have volume 2 in paper stashed away in my bedside table, this is not an unreasonable fantasy.

Now I know I don't have a huge readership here, but if even a quarter of my regulars could buy the e-book, it would certainly help nudge things along.

I'm a submissive.
I have no pride.
I will do what is required of me.
And as my Master knows
I am very good at begging.
Not to mention cock-sucking.

Begging is kind of the verbal equivalent of cock-sucking.

Obviously, I will let you all know as soon as the book containing my little masterpiece is available for purchase. Meanwhile, you can read Chris' pitch for the book (ignoring the over-ambitious projection of a street date) and start thinking about how you will pass up one or 2 lattes so you can buy a copy of the book - which does, of course, have stories by other people as well.

And yes.
I'm getting paid.

Now tell me what a good girl I am for getting published.
I do so love being called a good girl...

Leda and the Swan

Afterglow. The painting is by François Boucher, who is also responsible for my signature odalisque. Both parties appear to be in a state of happy satiety, although that swan, greedy god that he is, can't help eying her proffered pussy. He is a bit of a sadist, as well as a god, and wants to feed on her screams as he clamps his beak on her labia.

She is swimming in a haze of sex and endorphins. It's not every day one is fucked by a god. Seduced, claimed, raped, there are many names you can put to it. Vocabulary is irrelevant. She is his now. Swan, Zeus, a bird, a god, whoever, whatever, he owns her now.

She can want nothing more.

The Odalisque and the Swan

Note the girl's dreamy look.
See the swan's hunger
as he eyes her tender nipple.
Cornered and captured,
she has no thought of escape
and desires nothing more
than to rest in his wings.

On assignment

The fiend has me on exclusive assignment, lasting about a week, during which I am to write for no one but him. I have special dispensation to go to my writers group as usual, but other than that he will be the beneficiary of all my creative efforts during that period.

I will be back after the assignment is finished. Meanwhile, you may amuse yourselves in the archives. Just don't spill coffee on any of the old manuscripts.

Tested

It was to be a test.
He told me as much.
Warned me.
Instructed me to concentrate.
Advised me to choose my words carefully.

But beyond that, except for how I should present myself, there were no instructions. No way I could study. No review, no practice exams, no Submission for Dummies from which I could cram. All I could give him was everything, and hope for the best.

And now?
12 hours later?

My ass is striped and sore.
A bruise is preparing to blossom below my navel.
And both cheeks are stinging still as my head pounds.

I am very happy.
I passed.
And the reward, long dangled, will be sweet.

Rejoyce

-- Mkgnao!

-- O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.

The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writing-table. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.

Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.

-- Milk for the pussens, he said.

-- Mrkgnao! the cat cried.

They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.

-- Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.

Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.

-- Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.

-- Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.


(Happy Bloomsday.)

He makes me keep my glasses on

Lunchtime.

15 minutes between when I leave the office and when my Master arrives at the house. I rush home from work and take everything 0ff. Shoes, shirt, slacks, underpants, bra, socks, support knee-hi's for the surgery and medication-instigated swelling in my legs... I take the combs from my hair, the silver from my ears, watch and ring from my arm and hand...

And I leave the glasses
I greet my Master in my glasses.
I offer him my mouth while wearing my glasses.
I suck on his cock, glasses pressed against his belly.

The world grows a little vague.

I fight not to lose focus as I swim in the joy of his presence and his body and his sweetness and his cruelty and the amazing, complex bond between us. I fight not to lose focus and at that I am more or less successful. At least it is something I have a chance at controlling.

Keeping my glasses clean is a lost cause.

Occasionally, recently, he has removed them. Perhaps twice. I see reasonably well without them as long as I don't have to read. And without them the world is not obscured by the fog of passion and the smudges of sweat.

Actually, except for their inconvenient interference with certain angles of kisses, my glasses don't bother me. My eyes are not one of my better features. One is bigger than the other, and not very big even then, one doesn't move properly, both have short, thin lashes... surrounding them with thin purple frames can only help, I think.

But that's not why he makes me keep them on. Men have obsessions. They all have their own obsessions. And lately, it seems, I have been blessed or cursed with men who have a thing for glasses.

Perhaps it goes with an attraction to intelligence.
In which case I'm in good shape.

In any case, what I think is irrelevant.
Bra, glasses, panties - on or off -
Whatever he wants,
he gets

Which makes us both very happy.

(And yes, his visit on Wednesday made us both very happy.)