Love in the frame

We made love today.

This is not our usual habit.
Not that we don't love each other.
We each love the other.
I say it often.
He has said it rarely,
which makes the words
more precious. They still
hang there
in the air,
in my ears
barely heard,
never gone.

So yes.
We love.
But we don't usually make love.

Oh, we have sex.
Lots of sex.
Every week.
Occasionally,
very occasionally,
when possible,
twice a week.

But we don't usually make love.

We are together in many other ways. All the other ways that we are, all the other people that we are, to and for each other. Not pretending, not role-playing, not "How about I be the older married writer and you be the younger married waitress and I follow you home and fuck you in the outdoor shower." (If you haven't been watching The Affair on Showtime you really should. Really. Rich. Intense. Painful. Real.)

So no.
It's not a game.
I've said that before.
We've said that from the start.
Everything -
all the ways we are together -
this is our reality.
And we risk everything if we lose sight of that.

Besides.
He's a sadist.
And my submission is in the core of me.

But today...

Ah, today.
We sat together and talked as friends.
Which we are, you know.
Friends.
But that's probably even more
dangerous to admit
than our being in love.
We mustn't become confused.
Do you understand?

Still.
Today.
We sat on the bed and talked.
As friends.

I looked very beautiful today. White bra and white panties were his requirement for when I let him into the house, and I sat there on the bed in my white bra and white panties, looking overweight, yes, but beautiful, my still naturally red hair tumbling down my back and - for the first time - a white artificial gardenia pinned in the waves on the left side of my head. He smiled when he saw it, which was my intention, as he hadn't felt well and hadn't slept and I wanted to make him smile. He wanted me as his mistress today, and I wanted to make him smile.

So we sat on the bed and talked - mostly he talked - about his health and his night and the restaurant he'd be going to and a movie he saw. He was reclining slightly against a pile of pillows - his pasha throne - his shirt still on but eventually his jeans and underpants off and I sat there in my white cotton bra and white cotton panties with my right hand fondly fondling his cock and his scrotum and we were like the long-time lovers that we are but not necessarily the kind that are limited to once-a-week visits so there was no urgency, there was just happiness, until finally he figured fucking could be a good idea or else later he'd be desperate and his cock would scream at him and it would be too late, I wouldn't be there.

He must have flicked a switch in his brain, unleashed his cock, because suddenly it responded. It lengthened and swelled in my hand and even then there wasn't the urgency, the sadist was completely absent today, we were, dare I say it, a couple today, and as he eased me onto my back and lowered himself into me and brought his face to mine and his lips melted into my lips melted... have I ever said that his kisses are... but a description wouldn't do, how can you describe a perfectly ripe peach to someone who has eaten only apples?

And there were his eyes.
The sadist had stayed home.
My Daddy,
my Owner,
my Master,
they had all stayed home.

There was just love.
Soft comfortable love.

And when he came,
and after he came,
the smile in his eyes...

Beautiful, he said.
It was beautiful.
And this time, he wasn't just talking about me.

I suppose all this is my attempt to capture the moment. Keep it. Save it. So I won't forget because I do forget things, except this I don't think I will ever forget. There are moments together I have never forgotten and this must, surely, be one of them.

I want to pull it out of the crowd. I want to take this stone out of the little black velvet bag of so many precious stones, and lay it out on a cloth, and hold it up to the light, and set it in a ring so it can stand on its own and not get lost or diminished in all the memories of the past 6 years and the anticipated memories of the years to come. We worked hard to get to this point, we suffered a lot to get to this point, and today, I think today as our bodies joined in love and friendship, he showed that he trusted me with his vulnerability. And I trusted his trust so much that I allowed myself to mention it. And his carapace was so completely discarded, at least for the day, that all he did was softly smile.

Later, he sent me this song.

Red hot bottom

He took up the cane
not for my pain
but for color, for
heat, the rain of blows
restrained, traveling the
lane from the mounds
of my butt
down wincing thighs,
back to the blush of
white turned to pink
burnt to red.
"It hurts,"
I cried. "Daddy,
you're hurting me!"
I whined, as the
flow down my thighs
betrayed to his fingers
the truth of my need.

The story I wrote that was too dark for ME

Look!

billierosie reprinted my story The Branding here. Seems she's been haunted by it for years. It haunted me after I wrote it. When the sadist loved it, which is testimony to its darkness.

Enjoy.

Synonyms

I miss you, Daddy.
I know, my pet.

I love you, Daddy.
I know.

My Master has his own thesaurus.
When he says I know,
He really means
I do, too.

This I do know.

Sadism

Outlander. Jack Randall musing on his sadism, fondling his memory of flogging Jamie, reveling in the performance art they created together, torturer and sufferer...

I remember the time the sadist arrived at my house, horribly distraught from his thoughts, his dreams, of what he wanted to do to me. He was terrified that he might harm me. To protect me, in his undeclared love, he considered never seeing me again.

Speaking of search words...

"fun factory bootie on bike"?

Now it's you spanking my pussy

Don't kid yourself, Sir. Or do. It's all the same to me. Doesn't change the facts. You fancy yourself in control. Of your sub. Of your mind. Of your cock. Of your life. Even, perhaps, of me. You go looking for me. For someone like me. So you can insert yourself within the moist folds of my life, of the glimpses I give you of my life.

But, my horny reader. You're just the fish. And this time I'm the angler, dangling words and images on the end of my invisible line, casting them out into the waters of your search engine, until Google tosses you up on my shore.

I lick you. Those magic words are the tip of my tongue running up and down your pleading cock, barely touching at first, only teasing, only hinting, until I suck you in, take you all the way down, shove you between my cheek and my teeth, twirl my tongue around your swelling desperation, humming as I work, whispering the words you want, the words you need, the words you embroider into a dubious reality that you wish could be true, as you embellish my vignettes with visions of faces and tits and tight little pussies and even tighter little butt holes.

The words.
Like hand-tied flies,
never quite concealing the sharpened hook.

pussy
spanked pussy
caned pussy
flogged pussy

Daddy spanked his little girl's pussy.

You spanked her pussy, you spanked her cunt, you spanked her ass, you thrust your fingers inside her tortured orifice and found her hot and wet and tight and so red you could believe her pussy itself was blushing because she knows that the pain turns her on, not even a lot of pain, not even the action, just the words... like you it can be just the words... she can almost think herself into cumming... you can do it yourself, you know... just by whispering the words in her ear...

I need to hurt you, Baby.
I'm going to hurt you.
Bring me my belt, sweetheart.
Bring me the flogger.
Have the cane on the bed when I arrive.

I'm going to hurt you.

Or just the shift of your body.
I feel you raise your arm
as I'm bent over your cock,
serving your cock,
delighting your cock,
my ass up near your head,
I feel you raise your arm
and I know it's coming.
Your palm on my ass.

And by now I'm so deep into that place where you put me when you put your hand around my neck and push against my windpipe, just enough, not to stop my breathing but as a reminder, your hand as leather collar, reminding me I'm yours, reminding me of joy, flicking that little switch that always needs a little pain, a little force to take me to that place in which my face changes, my eyes change, and then I'm home.

I suck your cock.
I'm in that place.
You spank my ass.
You spank my pussy.
I'm so deep
I'm so high
I can tell you're hitting me hard
Yet barely register pain.

Please spank me, Daddy.
Please beat me.
Please whip me.
Please spank my pussy.
Please take your belt to my ass.
Please make me
moan
and whimper
and cry
and wriggle,
make me writhe and wriggle,
while you pinch my nipple
and your cock
jerks
at my gasp.

Well, that sure made me hot. How about you, Sir? Not the "You" who in reality got to spank me. You, dear reader, you don't get to spank me. Sorry, buster. You can pretend, though. No one can stop you from pretending. And I know this is what you want because you leave a trail of search words behind you. Pretty much the same ones all the time. So I sing the siren song of spanked pussies and draw you closer until you wreck on my shores.

At least I hope it helps you cum.
I do like to make men cum.
I like to see them lost in their pleasure.
And I like to feel them spurt.
To feel the action within their organs of which they are so proud.

Look how big I am.
Do you like a big cock?
I'm going to shove my big cock inside your little butt hole.
I'm going to make you scream.
You're going to suffer for me.

Is that what you'd like to be saying to me as you shove your swollen cock inside my pussy which is so damn hot because of how you tortured me first?

Think about.
That's your assignment.
Think about hurting me
spanking me
spanking my pussy
spanking my cunt
spanking my clit
whipping my ass with your belt
covering my ass with welts from your cane.
Then fucking me.
Hard.
Sodomizing me.
Using me.
Filling me.
Seizing my long red curls in your fist
And then cumming with a roar.

Like that?

I give you that as a gift.

And then I think of the man who loves me.
Who treasures me.
Who teaches me to treasure myself.

The man who didn't even try to look stern and domly when he came through my door yesterday because he was so damn happy to see me that his face was beautiful with smiles, that his eyes could hide nothing so discipline be damned, he was with his mistress, with his pet, with his slave and precious little girl and in two weeks we will have two whole days together - and nights, he says. Two whole nights.

And as of tomorrow, Labor Day in the U.S. where workers are denied May Day as their holiday, as of tomorrow September 1st it will be 6 years since I begged to be taken into my Master's service and he accepted me.

And in enslaving me, he freed me to be who I really am.