Censored

I had written a long post... a long post about my struggles with trusting my Master. But I had to write about real things that cause me to doubt... real flaws that are part of my Master... things neither of us are very good at dealing with and things that I am not allowed to "nag" him about.

He read it... well he had me read it to him. I didn't want to... it was hard enough to put those doubts down onto paper, to voice them was difficult beyond words. But he made me do it. He listened. But then he forbade me to post it... and he is right. (LOL... Masters are always right... even when they are wrong.) It is his business and if he does not want it spewed forth into the great anonymous interwebs, he can say 'No'. In fact he can say 'No' to any fucking thing he wants.

And it is true, that even in a Master/slave or Owner/propery or Pyl/pyl (pick your label) type relationship it is unrealistic to expect people to be miraculously somehow more perfect, to come without baggage and history and scars and flaws... He is far from perfect... and neither am I. But we fit. We meet a need in one another.

But at times one of our respective shortcomings comes to a head and our respective issues clash and grind against each other and our world shakes and quakes for a time, and I cannot quite find my balance. And all my issues of distrust rise up making me reflexively reach out and grab hold of all the little things in my world and try to control them... try to control him. And of course he will not allow that... ever. And if he did... that would scare the fuck right out of me.

I know all I need to do is let go. Trust that eventually the bumps will be ground down and we will find a new fit. A tighter closure, a knitting of the boundary between us. And I will have that sense of calm safe stability I so crave. All I have to do is trust.

Famished

She looked at him and ached. He was so beautiful and so strong. She ached with that incessant primal ache that she had almost forgotten existed.

She watched as the boy reached out and casually picked up the empty fifty five gallon steel barrels, handing them up over his head to the men on the supply boat. The sea tossed both the skiff he was standing in and the taller ship making the work difficult. She knew that the barrels were never truly empty and weighed more than most men could lift easily on dry land.

He would take hold of a barrel and casually hold it out at arm’s length, ignoring its weight and the surging sea. He made the work appear effortless as he laughed and joked with the men on the tender reaching take the drums from his hands. It took two of them to take each steel drum from him.

She sat holding the skiff, keeping it from banging too hard against the larger boat, using her strength to try and buffer the worst of the waves. The men were giving him a hard time, slow to take the barrels from his hands. He smiled an easy smile and joked back, giving as good as he got. As he lifted the last barrel, he laughed and called a warning, and literally tossed it up to them. She had almost orgasmed at that moment.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

She was working the summer fishing season in a remote Alaska fishing camp. Her uncle owned the beach fishing site. It was a family operation. The boy was a remote second half cousin; someone that she had not even known existed. He was one of those distant relatives that her large disorganized family sometimes referred to as 'half assed relatives'. Her family had a lot of odd sayings and odder ideas. Sometimes she told people that she was raised by wolves.

He had been hired more for his brawn than his experience. That he was smart and good natured was unexpected. And so young, only nineteen, he was as innocent of his beauty, as of his strength. Fresh and clean, he had soft, long blond hair and eyes the same indefinable color of the sea that surrounded them.

She had no clear memory of when she had last felt this ache, this yearning. It intoxicated and terrified her. Ten years married, with two small children, she was thirteen years older than this boy.

The terror was the discovery that she could even have these feelings. For years she had felt nothing, not the tiniest spark of lust, want or need. It had seemed like everything female about her had withered and died so long ago that the memories were dim and hazy. Memories so tenuous, that she wondered if she had ever really felt them or if it had been a dream.

Her husband had tried to be her lover, but it seemed the more he pushed for her response the more conscious she was of the deadness inside her. If she allowed herself to look inward, she could almost see the dried husk of something, a decaying, shriveled, mummified remnant of the woman she once was. She had learned not to be introspective; the horror was too much to bear.

She hated this part of herself, this dead thing inside her that her husband demanded she share with him, that the world seemed to celebrate and define her by.

Her husband’s touch made her shudder, clench her eyes, turn her face away. One of the most frightening things was that she would orgasm, odd little electric convulsive jerks that she could hardly feel. They never involved more than the few square inches of flesh that was her vagina. She did not enjoy them, beyond the happy knowledge that it was over. He would get off of her and she could turn away, taking some solace in the knowledge that she could put him off for another week or perhaps longer.

She struggled to convince herself that this was all there was and to resign herself to it. For the last few years, she thought she had succeeded. She had owned her failure, taking full personal responsibility, resolved to the bleakness that filled her.

Now the thing inside her had roared back to life, reaching up from her gut and taking hold of her throat, squeezing so it was hard to even take a breath. No longer shriveled, dry and cold, it was a dazzling thing. There was nothing dark about it, it was a thing of heat and brilliant light, surging and pulsing through her veins, prowling the infinite space inside her. It had a voice of its own. It murmured and moaned, almost taking possession of her lips. She found herself humming softly to herself, trying to sooth it.

The fishing site was thousands of miles from home and her husband. She wondered if the distance had woken this thing within her. For the first time she entertained the idea. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with her husband. She did not spend much time thinking of her husband, the thing inside her did not let her think very much at all.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

She watched the boy, pregnant with lust, intoxicated with need. She fantasized about what it would be like to touch him. Could she do it? Cheat? She never would have thought she could ever do that. But there was no way to deny this feeling, this madness rising up inside her. Her mind was in turmoil. The only true thought was that she did not want to ever feel dead inside again.

They worked as a team of two, running the skiff out to the nets, pulling the shining silver salmon up and out of the water. It was hard work; cold, wet and physically challenging. It was hugely fun. They would come back to the cabin, the skiff full of their catch, so tired that it hurt. Yet in the morning they rushed back, breathless in anticipation of what they would find waiting.




Life and death permeated the place. Nothing ever seemed to be still. The wind was constant and relentless, pushing, teasing, and stroking her skin. The sea surged and fought with them, lifting and tossing the small skiff, its constant motion echoing and enhancing the tides that pulsed within her. The scent of the sea filled her nose and mouth with the of salty rich protein tang that was the very essence life, death, decay and rebirth.

She watched the boy, at first covertly following him with her eyes when she thought he wasn't watching, and finally openly, boldly drinking him in with her eyes, unable to deny the thing inside her that snarled and tore at her sanity.

She found herself reaching to touch him with any excuse; bumping him as they worked together, a quick grip on his arm to catch her balance, or a friendly gentle wipe of a salmon scale from his face. Each contact was electric, echoing through her, waking the thing inside her, forcing it to lurch and batter against her, wanting more, demanding more. She was drunk with it.

The words were banal and somehow cheap. She had no experience at this. “What would you say if an older married lady tried to seduce you?”

His eyes went thoughtful and then dark. He smiled an easy happy smile. “I would say yes.”

Almost instantly regretting and fearful, she muttered, “I have never done anything like this before.”

He did not answer. With a confidence surprising in one so young, he pulled her to his chest and took her mouth with his.

She felt like her knees would buckle. She could not remember the last time she kissed anyone with an open mouth. She had refused this intimacy to her husband. She would have rather sucked his cock, than let his tongue into her mouth.

Now she was transported. It felt like her heart would burst. She would have climbed into this boy's mouth if she could have. A soft whining sound crept up from her chest, a sound new and alien to her.

They were wearing many layers of clothing; long underwear, wool sweaters, heavy rubber rain gear, and hip boots. They stood in a rocking skiff, knee deep in dead salmon. They had a lot of net to pick and they were expected back soon. There was no way to do this now.

It was agony, but she tore her face from his, her breath coming in short gasps, still clutching at him to hold herself upright. “We can't... Not now.” He nodded, smiling that same easy smile.

Once they finished pulling the last salmon from the net, he turned and pulled her to his chest again. His icy cold fingers touched her face and then tried to penetrate the layers of her clothing, seeking to find the warmth of her skin, to touch her breasts. His mouth was hungry and demanding on hers, pushing her head back with his urgency.

The need rose up and crashed over her, screaming and raging. “Oh god, yes. Tonight, tonight after everyone else has gone to bed. Meet me.” She babbled into his mouth.

The night was dark, cold and wet, but she did not care. They did not talk. His hands were tense and urgent on her as they walked away from the dark cabins. It was almost perfectly black; the only light a dimly luminous patch in the clouds where the moon hid its face.

They did not walk far. She turned to him and he took control of her. He took off his coat and lay it on the wet sand of the beach and pushed her down on it.

At first her fears and doubts kept her frozen, unsure, but he was oblivious to her uncertainty. He reached up under her shirt and pressed his hands to her heated flesh. His mouth stifled any words of reluctance that rose up in her.

He pulled her pants off in one strong jerk and was on top of her, covering her, sheltering her from the rain and the wind. His cock was hot, almost burning. He did not wait, just pressed against and into her.

Her mouth against his let out a deep moaning exhalation of delight. Never before had it felt this perfect, the flaming thing inside her expanded to fill her completely.

She could feel his trembling urgency, yet he lay still, buried deep in her, tenderly kissing her. She rocked and tipped under him, like the waves could reach her, lift and toss her like a leaf on their surface. Impatient she pulled at his hips, that same whining moan keening up from her center.

Slowly he met her movements, a calm gentle strength, soothing her frantic lunges against him. She could not pull enough air into her lungs. Each movement of his body against her sent sparkles of light through her mind. Her whole body felt simultaneously icy and flaming. She felt her legs lift as she began to open and expand, waves of heat and blinding light lifting her, shaking her, turning her inside out.

He was still moving against her, thrusting slow and easy when she became aware of herself, clutching him, sobbing softly. As she held him tightly, the moon slowly slid through a tear in the clouds, turning the blacks to grays and silvers. His face was a silhouette surrounded by a nimbus of light.

She lay beneath him, undulating, for the first time truly loving the sensation of flesh sliding in and out of her. She was intensely aware of his ejaculation, his body tensing and trembling, his breath sharply gasping, each spasming jerk of his cock deep inside her. He made no sound and did not linger inside.

Quickly he stood and helped her to feet. The wind was icy. She could feel deep shivers shaking her. As she pulled on her pants and boots, he wrapped his coat around her. His voice was soft, “Next time, I hope it won't be so cold.” It was the first time he had spoken.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

The next morning broke clear and warm. Bright blue sky arched over the rolling green hills. The bright sun turned the sea into an infinity of diamonds.

She no longer followed him with her eyes. It seemed all her regard was turned inward. She was absorbed in an internal dialog with the thing inside her. There was no question that she would once again, feed this yearning. She just struggled to find some definition for what she was doing that could fit inside her mind. Was she betraying or was she fulfilling herself? Was it the same thing? All she knew was that she felt happy for the first time in many years.

Working the nets was easy in the calm sunshine. They frequently stopped, turning to each other, playing simple games. A pink salmon was no kisses, a silver or chum one kiss, the prized red salmon was rewarded with deep long kisses and cold fingers reaching to caress warm skin. The warmer day meant less clothing in the way of exploring hands and lips.

He was curious about her body, repeatedly opening her shirt, exposing her breasts to the wind and the sun. He would suck at her nipples as she stood braced in the rocking boat looking out across the sparkling water, her hands cradling his head, sharp tremors shaking her whole body.

Finally she could not deny the thing inside her any longer. “Please make love to me.” His eyes were serious and, to her, infinitely wise. Again his smile was easy. He ran the boat to the beach and led her up into the grass.

They slowly undressed, layering their waterproof gear on the grass and then layering their clothing on top, making a soft bed surrounded with a wall of green, the bright blue sky overhead. They stood in their little bower, looking at each other's bodies for the first time.

He was massive, wide thick shoulders, arms bulging with muscle. His skin was startlingly white and almost hairless. His cock stood hard against his belly, nestled in golden curls. A fleeting thought flickered through her mind and was gone; he couldn't look any more different from her husband.

She stepped close to him and pressed the length of her body against him. Again she heard the whining moan. She was learning to recognize that sound, the soft cry of need, the echo of the screaming, hungry thing inside her.

His skin against hers obsessed her with the need to be filled, to feed that famished thing inside her. Her whole body felt like an echoing void, a perfect vacuum.

She pulled impatiently at him, urging him to lie down, but he stood rock steady. “No, we don't need to hurry. Let me see you.” He pushed her back and stood looking at her. His eyes slid from her breasts to the dark curls covering her sex and then back up to her face infused with raw hunger. A lazy happy smile curved his lips.

He stepped closer and slid to his knees. When she tried to kneel with him, he held up his hand and shook his head. “No, let me look at you.” He put his hands on her hips and turned her so the sun shone in her face and warmed her breasts and belly. He gazed raptly at her cleft, his face only inches from her. Time stood still, deep in their grass shelter there was not even a whisper of wind. She could not even hear the waves above the beating of her heart.

She softly touched his hair, looking down at him. She was suddenly calm and filled with tenderness. How could he be both so innocent and wise? With infinite gentleness, almost worship, he leaned in and chastely pressed his lips against her, scattering soft kisses across her mound and thighs, using his chin and nose to nudge her legs apart. His tongue was feather light as he pushed her labia apart, opening, unfolding her. At his first touch to her center, she softly cried out and her legs gave way.

He caught her and lowered her, his shoulders spreading her legs wide. His mouth refused to leave her, softly pulling and sucking at her. When she felt his fingers slip deep into her, she arched and cried out wordlessly.

Only then did he move over her, sliding his hardness into her in one smooth thrust. His entry only pushed her higher, her cries almost anguished and frantic. He lunged against her strong and fast, riding her bucking surges.

Even as she was tossed on the waves of ecstasy she looked up at his face, watching the waves of pleasure make his eyes narrow and his smile quiver and twist. His eyes closed and he softly grunted as he came.

They lay side by side on the soft mound of their clothes, looking up at the blue sky. She raised herself on her elbow and looked down at him. He gazed at the sky, with his soft smile still lighting his face. His smile widened and he put his hand on her head, pushing her down, guiding her head to his cock.

She sent a startled look up to him, but he lay back and closed his eyes. She took his cock into her mouth, briefly analyzing the taste of his semen and her juices. A ripple of pleasure shook his whole body and he made a soft humming sound.

An electric flash of excitement infused her; intense throbbing waves of heat erupted from her very core. The same whining groan shook her again.

She took him deep in her mouth and sucked like she was trying to fill her empty soul. Even as he hardened, she lunged and suckled, her soft greedy moans muffled against his belly.

His hands were forceful as he pulled her away. She fought him briefly, mindlessly struggling to return to the object of her obsession. He refused to let her and brought her up to his face, taking her needy mouth in his, kissing her frustrated lips into calmness.

When she was once more limp and pliant, he lifted her to sit astride him, penetrating her from below. She lifted his hands from her hips to her breasts. A sobbing groan shook her whole being. As she lifted and lowered herself on him, he arched and lunged up to meet her, forcing cries from her lips.

She listened to the sounds coming from deep within her. Never before had she vocalized her pleasure. It seemed like it was the voice of the thing inside her, taking control of her lips and chest. There was no sharp beginning or ending to her orgasm. It seemed to surge within her like the swell and fall of the sea, endless and eternal.

She lost all sense of time. She felt like she had ridden on this sea of pleasure throughout time and all other things were just an illusion. She did not want to come back to herself when he shook her and told her that they had to go back, gently kissing the tears from her face.

She moved slowly throughout the day and he tried to spare her the heaviest of the work. It was clear to both of them, that part of her was still back there in that grassy shelter, reluctant to leave.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

It seemed that she spoke less and looked about at the world they worked in more. Her love affair was with herself and the place as much as with the boy. They hardly spoke during their unions, on many levels more aware of the act than the person.

It was not that she did not love him. She did. In many ways she had never felt a more powerful emotion, but it was for the place, the time, the act, the yearning as much as it was for him. He was the embodiment of all those things.

One late evening as they were running back, their skiff filled with nets and salmon, a pod of orca surrounded them. Neither she nor the boy said a word, he just turned off the outboard and they floated silent on the sea, watching and listening to the splashes and deep breaths of the whales. She tried somehow to internalize and understand this miracle and permanently etch it into her memory. At least a hundred of the black and white killer whales surfaced and cavorted around them and then moved on, disappearing back into the sea as magically as they had appeared.

On the beach another crew member questioned idly whether they had been afraid. They looked at each other wordlessly and while she did not know the boy's answer, she wished she could have died at the moment, with that image in her mind.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

The bluff at the head of the point stood at least a hundred feet above the water. She sat astride the boy, filled with his heat and her endless ecstasy, close enough to the edge of the cliff to feel like she was flying.

The wind was blowing hard, too hard to go out in the skiff. It swept across the sea, churning up white caps, and came against the bluff. Unstoppable, it would swirl and then lift up the face of the cliff, pushing at her, chilling her skin and feeding the fires consuming her.

Huge waves crashed against the rocks below, the wind catching the spray and tossing it up and over them, a billion tiny drops that dried almost the instant they touched her skin. There was no boundary between the wild sea and the swirling tempest within her.

She spread her arms and arched her back, opening herself to the wind and the sea. He steadied her with his hands, lifting her and lowering her with the same deep surging rhythm of the waves.

There was no beginning or end to their union, no sharp spikes of pleasure, and no loss of awareness. She had no sense of where she ended and where he began. She was the wind and the sea. He was the rocky point she battered against. Her calls of joy blended with the haunting cries of the gulls, soaring and circling, ascending on the wind.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

The final night they were together, he made a bed under the upturned skiffs that had been put away for the winter. He had found some old foam pads that smelled of diesel oil and some sleeping bags that smelled of years of dust, bodies and mildew. It was a warm dark nest, a den, a lair soon rich with the smell of their sex.

They knew it would be their last time. The fishing season was over. The nets were put away. Tomorrow the plane would come to take her home. Finally they spoke. Between frenzied frantic couplings, they tried to put into words the magic of this summer they had spent together.

Both knew it was not a personal love or commitment. No promises had been made, neither had expectations of the other. They each knew they would part without regrets, agony yes, but no regrets.

She writhed in mind numbing terror of losing this feeling of perfect primal connectedness, terrified of once again becoming the empty hollow host for a dead thing. She wondered if it would die suddenly, like having a knife plunged into her womb or if it would once again gradually fade and wither, imperceptively trickling away as she struggled to keep it prisoner inside her.

She could not let go of him. They fucked endlessly, almost mechanically, fucked until it hurt and still they could not stop. Only the cold light of morning forced them apart.



She pressed her face to the weathered Plexiglas window of the sea plane that came to take her away, looking down at the endless green and blue that was Alaska, leaving behind the wind and the waves.

It was exactly like a knife, turning in her gut. The thing, inside her, screamed like a wounded animal. It would not die an easy death. She nurtured it, fed it, and kept it alive with memories, savoring the pain like she had the pleasure.

Her husband sensed the difference in her. She was still cold and remote, that was unchanged, but he could sense the life and the pain that filled her. He could almost hear the wind and the sea as he strained against her tense and hate filled body. She hated him now, hated him for what he wasn't.

It was a year later that she heard that the boy had died. Alaska was a jealous lover. He had drowned on the trip around to the fishing site. All they found was an empty boat. For her it did not seem like death, an ending. He had joined the wind and the waves, become one with the sea. If it had not been for her children she would have joined him.

For the rest of her life, the smell of boats; diesel oil, mold, salt and fish would wake the wounded thing in her soul. It became a ritual to walk the plank boardwalks of boat harbors. She would stand and inhale deeply, pulling the smell of boats deep into her, feeding the wounded beast.

It never died. She refused let it die. She fed it with the scent of boats, memories of his smile, and the torment of the wind. Sometimes when she could almost feel the world toss and surge, she could hear the echo of that whining moan in her ears.

Our Song?

Lately Master has been playing this song for me on his computer. It seems to fit the way things have been going lately. This morning as we were about to walk out the door for work he put it on and grabbed me and began to jump up and down around the kitchen like a crazy pogo stick.

Surrender

I stand on the far side of the chasm,
Finally ready to take the leap,
To cross to the other side,
And leave everything behind.

Ready to embrace oblivion,
To give myself completely,
To extinguish the whispers of doubt,
And finally silence my fears.

How can the renunciation of free will,
Feel so much like emancipation?
Yet I am ready to fly, weightless,
Carefree and magically transformed.

I crave to relinquish myself,
No longer the owner of my mind,
My heart or my body,
I give them all to him.

If I am enslaved,
I have never felt so empowered,
I vibrate with energy,
And potential.

To give myself totally over to his will,
To exist on my knees at his feet,
My cheek pressed against his knee,
A vessel for his use.

It is silent and peaceful there,
Sheltered in his strength,
Serving him, worshiping him,
Drowning in his dominion.

I slowly sink below the waves,
Submerging, submitting,
Disintegrating in the crucible of his vision,
Dissolving in the tide of his passions.

Sweet annihilation,
The inexorable grinding away of what once was,
Leaving behind perfection,
Beauty and surrender.

I no longer fear the chasm,
I no longer fear falling,
In fact I want to fall.
And I step out into oblivion.

Trust

If devotion is the why,
Trust is the how.
I have devotion, I live and breathe devotion.
And I crave surrender, the sweet oblivion of surrender,
And Trust is the path between the two.

Trust is a precarious path, fraught with terror.
What is it I fear?
Do I fear him failing me?
There is no questioning his devotion to me.
He has no expectations, how can I fail him?
Perhaps I fear failing to meet my own expectations?
I have so many, too many.
They laugh and mock me.
Failure is inevitable, as inevitable as life.

Perhaps I have grown too comfortable with my fears,
Taking shelter and comfort in the walls of my own creation.
Who would I become without my fears?
Yet I hunger for surrender, and trust is the pathway to my goal.

Trust is a pathway,
And I must take my heart in my hands and take that first step out,
Out, out, out onto that unknown thing,
Believing he will be there with me,
Guiding me,
Supporting me,
Pushing me,
Always there to catch me if I fall.

And if I should fall,
He will throw himself after me,
And together we will spread our wings,
And fly.

Devotion

As he holds me tight, twisted, bent to whims of his passion,
Bending me back, arching me sharply up, offering myself to him
I say it, panting, grating out the words between clenched teeth,
“Anything you want,
Everything you want,
It is all yours,
Take it,
Use it.”

I kneel at his feet and I must resist the urge to press my lips to his cherished flesh,
Awaiting his permission to touch, to worship, to engulf him with my devotion,
My mouth, hot and wet, flooded with hunger, trembles with anticipation,
I think it, the words sing in my heart,
“Anything you want,
Everything you want,
It is all yours,
Take it,
Use it.”

I bend and contort to the demands of the ropes, stretched and vulnerable to his will,
Blind and helpless, awaiting the scorching, abrading pain,
And finally, as the agony washes me clean and pure again,
I scream it, the words tearing at my throat,
“Anything you want,
Everything you want,
It is all yours,
Take it,
Use it.”

His body crashes into mine, shaking me, jarring me, his hands selfish and demanding,
I am crushed, thrown about by the winds of his passion, pierced to the heart by his lust,
Feverishly I grasp at his body, struggling to meet and match him
I cry out the words, each one a groan of effort,
“Anything you want,
Everything you want,
It is all yours,
Take it,
Use it.”

Spent and weak, empty of everything but the sweet knowledge of my devotion,
I lay in his arms, safe and sheltered, recreated, reborn, fresh and new,
I cling, yearning for his strength and look into his eyes,
And sob out the words,
“Anything you want,
Everything you want,
It is all yours,
Take it,
Use it.”

Just not the right size

Wish they had these in my size. Or perhaps I should say I wonder what it would be like if I was the right size for these. Not only my feet, but my body, my generation, my place on this earth... basically I am just not really the sort to wear these anywhere... I am sure they are beyond expensive... they are well into the 'if you have to ask you can't afford them' category. The sane practical voice in the back of my head tells me I could not take two steps without falling on my face... And if I could walk in them I don't have anyplace in the whole world to go where they would work on any level, but still...

...just look at them... they are beautiful... bizarrely, sickly, beautiful... they are made from solid stainless steel... they probably weigh a ton and those straps that are hanging in back have padlocks on them. And I cannot help but wonder, what if... what if I did fit into those shoes, did have the life, the coordination and the body for them, really had a place to wear them??? What would that be like... what would I be like?

Master took one look and pronounce them stripper shoes, but I don't think he realized they are solid steel... or that they are designed to lock on... or that they probably hurt like all holy hell the whole time you wear them.

Oh-Fucking-Bedient

Well, I don't have a lot to say today, but I found this picture on teh interwebz and had to share. Master had made an offhand comment about having me make some bondage furniture. I was doing research on "bondage" and "furniture" and all kinds of things deviant and kinky. One is nothing but obedient... or as I yelled at Master this afternoon... Oh-Fucking-bedient!

Crazy lady

Last night was Friday night. Friday was the last day alone before I go back to work. Yes, I have the weekend to go, but I have a lot planned and these last two days will fly by… and add in the fact that Master is home and lately has been all up in my grill, teasing, tormenting and mind fucking me relentlessly.

Add to that this bit a strange mood place I have found myself in recently. And if I stand way back and take a serious objective view of things… it is my usual restless, nothing feels quite right, I want something but can’t quite figure out what that something is. It is an uncomfortable place that characterizes my mild brief bouts of depression. They don’t usually last long, never more than a few days but during these times I can get a little lost. I thrash around mentally and emotionally, reaching out for things and then snatching my hand back. I don’t eat healthy because nothing appeals to me until I am too hungry to think rationally and then make poor choices. I find it hard to become sexually aroused, over analyzing the situations and sensations, too busy thinking about what feels wrong rather than what feels right.

That characterizes it completely… the focus on what is wrong rather than focusing on what feels right.

And yesterday afternoon I did another kind of awkward desperate thing. I had been indulging that ‘afraid’ feeling all week, afraid to trust Master to know exactly what is right for me because I cannot figure out that for myself. But, I wanted… wanted… something? Anyway I did this silly thing. I got dressed up in a very silly costume before Master got home. I showered and put on this all pink outfit, baby pink tights, a matching pink skin tight little tank top, and a cute tiny little pink sequined micro-mini skirt. I put my hair in two little pony tails and tied matching pink ribbons on each. I looked very silly. I knew that Master would either laugh himself crazy or get pissed… pissed because he would feel like I was trying to “make something happen”… and I told myself that even if nothing happened, I could handle it… that just dressing up was the goal… not expecting Master to do anything. (Yeah… right… like I was in any way really in control of my emotions.)

Well, when Master got home, he did laugh. And asked me “…what the hell?” He grabbed my pony tails and forced me to arch back as he grabbed and pinched my nipples through my tank top.

I gasped and giggled. “I don’t know. I’ve been in a kind of a weird mood. I just felt like it. I figured I was either going to have a lot fun or get in a lot of trouble… one or the other.”

He gave me a vicious pinch and twist, making me convulse and agreed.

But then he did not really do anything. He sat in his big chair and fell asleep. And as I watched his eyes drooping lower and lower, I asked respectfully if he would like me to wake him up at any particular time and he mumbled, “’bout an hour.”

I was up, in a lacy white apron, putting together the last few things for dinner, when he woke up. He came out and gave me the usual appreciative swat for finding me doing his favorite thing, cooking for him. And as the last few things were just finishing up, he sat down at his computer and logged onto a game. I took a deep patient breath, reminding myself that when I am in a better, more confident place that this action, this casual disregard for the fact that I am working for him, the selfish indulgence in gaming while I worked tended to tickle my slave persona. But lately I have been hating that game, hating at the way it seems to interrupt his plans to do something, anything, and it takes him away from me. That game has begun to symbolize the procrastination that plagues both of us. But I sucked it up, finished dinner and arranged the serving dishes.

I announced that dinner was ready and asked Master if he would like me to dish up a plate for him, but he stayed sitting at the computer. He said, still staring at the screen, “No, I will get my own.” And that made sense because we were having homemade turkey and black bean chili and Master prefers to put his own condiments on, the diced onion and he always adds more chili powder.

I stand in the kitchen for a few minutes staring at the food and at him still playing the game. Finally I ask, “Would it be okay if I go ahead and dish myself up?”

He did not look up from the computer, “Sure, go ahead.”

I am almost finished eating before he gets up. His first reaction after looking at the food, carefully laid out waiting for him, is to snarl, a deep low growl of dissatisfaction, a sound that always makes my heart sink… something is wrong. His voice carries from the kitchen, “Next time don’t cut the cornbread in such small squares.”

Shit. “Yes, Master. I will be more careful next time. Sorry.” Shit, nothing is ever perfect. And normally this would not grate quite so unbearably, but today …today it just sickens me. The food in my mouth turns to dust and I blink back tears. Nothing is ever quite good enough.

He brings his plate out and sits down. He tells me that the chili is very good and he clearly enjoys his dinner but it is too late, his praise does little to sooth me. I sit, wooden, numb, struggling with the growing sense of dissatisfaction, with him, with myself, with everything. Once again, nothing feels right and yet… I want… I want something but I can’t figure out what.

When he finishes eating, he grabs my empty dishes and carries them to the kitchen with his. And I retreat into my computer. I mindlessly play game after game of solitaire… blank, bland, dull, sad, angry, black… And we don’t speak. He could tell I was “in a bad mood”. God I hate that phrase, that bland, empty phrase that comes nowhere near to describe the place I am at. And he is not magic, he is not a mind reader and I think he is hesitant to push at me at those times. He does not quite trust this thing, this commitment to obey and when he senses me straying emotionally, rather than react quickly, I think he hesitates.

I sit there, with my computer in my lap… a wall between me and the world. And I know that this retreat is not helping. I know I need to put down the fucking computer, to stand up… I know if I just move around he will respond, he will stand up too. But what if he didn’t, what if he just didn’t? I am too caught up in it to trust. And I sit there.

He just sits there, flicking through channels, but I am not looking at the television.

And the tension builds inside me… growing and growing. Master and I have a name for when I get angry, just get irrational and start blaming him for my internal states… we call it the “crazy lady”. She is part of me. There is never a time when she completely goes away, but most of the time… months at a time… she is carefully locked up in a little cage in the back of my mind. I am very, very careful not to talk with her. She never has anything good to say. She is all about what is wrong with me, wrong with him, wrong with everything. She delights in misery. And she has managed to gnaw through the bars and was completely running rampant through my distorted thinking.

Bedtime rolls around and I decide to take my anger and go away with it, to finally go downstairs and try to sleep. But I do not do it right… I do not do it according to ritual. I go into my room and strip off the pink ribbons, strip off the pink clothing… deciding to present myself to him nude to kneel and ask permission to go to sleep. Normally I am always fully dressed as I kneel, and this nakedness is a taunt… or perhaps a cry for help. But I never even get back to where he is sitting. He is up. He follows me into my room and reaches for me. But I cannot bear his touch, and I shrink away, when his lips touch mine, I twist my head away.

He demands to know what is the matter. And the crazy lady mutters, “You do this, you follow me, start something but then you stop, you never finish, It is never enough. It is okay. You are tired. Don’t bother.” Master’s eyes darken and narrow. He pushes me down on the bed and I fight him, protesting, telling him that he does not have to do this. He holds me down, his hands hard and strong, and I lay there panting with rage, glaring at him. And because the crazy lady is in control of my body and mind, because I am a prisoner of my own fears… and because she is the very embodiment of fear and can’t trust, she hates this, hates him and especially hates me. She mutters up at him, “You are boring.” It isn’t true. They are just words that had provoked him in the past, a remembered taunt calculated to stab at his ego, to hurt.

Master has had enough. He lunges up, grabs at my legs to lift them up into the same stringent position that he had beaten me in a week ago. And the memory of that pain flooded through me, and I stiffen and twist in panic. And I am nude and on my bed, he can’t keep me from turning. He pins me down on my belly, trapping one foot between his legs and holding the other in his iron hard hand. He starts to spank me with his one free hand. Hard, punishing blows, that make me gasp and clench my teeth. I squirm and try to crawl away, but I don’t really want to escape… not really. Enough of me wants this, wants to feel this, wants to be forced that I can’t really kick and really use all my strength against him. He spanks me until I stop squirming. I don’t really scream or cry… and I certainly don’t laugh. I have no joy in me. All I can feel is a dull simmering resentment and a profound sense of sadness.

He stops and lets me go… and I lay there with my ass on fire but my body is still tense, my eyes wet with held in tears, my fists still clenched in the sheets. His next words do not thrill me. He orders me to go to bed, to go down stairs and get out my vibrator and masturbate. He is probably right, an orgasm would most likely take the edge off my anger, help me calm down… but the very idea of trying to relax enough to become aroused… to let go of my fears and turn off the hiss and cackle of the doubts that fill my head feels impossible. But there is no disobeying and I get up and scurry down the stairs to his bed.

He stands over me, watching and I feel the weight of his eyes, his anger. It takes a long time for it to even start feeling good and I am very conscious of his impatience. After maybe ten, fifteen minutes he growls at me, “Come, damn it, or do you want another spanking?”

And I cry out, panting with effort, “It just doesn’t work like that.” My whole body is tense, rigid, quivering with effort. I am coated with sweat. I am practically savaging my poor numb clit with that vibrator. I pant, sucking deep lungfuls of air in, hyperventilating and once my body is full of oxygen and then hold it, curling up and straining. I count inside my head, telling myself I can do this, I will do this… count backwards from ten. I try over and over, desperate to do this… to come. And finally my mind stops its struggle against my body, finally my nerve endings cannot resist and I feel the deep warm rush of my orgasm starting and I groan out to him, “Coming, coming now…” and as it crashes over me, the sudden rush of pleasure, I buck and cry out. It is harsh and long, it consumes the last dregs of my energy. I barely have the strength to put the vibrator over up on the shelf over my head and I curl up on my side, my back to him… panting like I have run a marathon, soaked with sweat.

I think he has some thought of continuing, to hurt me again, or to push at me, to interrogate me to see if I am still filled with rage and rebellion, to see if I am still going to fight him. He asks me if I am satisfied… and instead of answering properly, I fire back, “Are you?” My voice is still dark with rage. He moves toward me suddenly, and I huddle up into a smaller ball and whimper. He stands over me and then says in a soft voice, “You are worn out.” And he walks away, leaving me alone in the dark. And he is right, I am exhausted. The weight of my mood and the fatigue from my exertions combine with the endorphins of my orgasm. It is a potent cocktail. I fall asleep quickly.

As usual, Master comes to bed long after I am asleep. I have no memory of that. The reassuring warmth of his body is next to me when I awake, and I instinctively move closer to him, sliding closer until I touch, a hip, a foot. Just the small contact that lets me know he is there and I lay there for a long time, thinking about the night before.

I know that it is me, me and this mood I have sunk into. I know that as much as I wish he had the power to save me from this, he cannot do that. No one has the strength to do that. In fact it is not about strength, if he pushed or pulled, it would only push or pull me deeper into it. The only one that can help me out of this entanglement, this maze, this swamp is me. I know this and the first step out is to own that fact.

I come upstairs. And when he wakes up and sits down in his big chair with his first cup of coffee, I beg permission to crawl into his lap. It is how we heal these hurts. I crawl into his lap and press my face into the corner of his neck and we talk.

He says that the crazy lady was in charge “all night” last night. And I protest; I own that I have been in a strange mood, restless… a little depressed… but it was not the crazy lady that put on the pink clothing. Putting on the pink clothing was a futile attempt to try and keep the crazy lady away. I say that the crazy lady did not completely take over until after dinner, when I was sitting there with my computer.

“She was deliberately trying to make me angry.”

I sit, snuggled close and safe in his arms. I think and I think. I pull back and look at him, frowning with concentration. He laughs, “You know it is true.”

And I slowly nod. “Yeah, you know, when I went into my room, I was telling myself that I was just getting ready for bed, that I just needed to take my grumpy, unsatisfied, bitchy self downstairs far away from you before I got worse… but you know… taking off my clothing… I was going to come out like that, kneel and ask to go to bed naked… and that was deliberate. So yes, you are right, I was going to do that to piss you off. If you had not followed me into my room, I would have come out looking for trouble.”

And we had a better day. We made love and I was able to relax and it is amazing how much easier it is when my mind is not at war with my body. And it is amazing how that kind of physical connection can enhance our emotional connection. We are talking. I am working very hard at being aware and functioning with intent, and not listening to my doubts so much.

I am still assailed by waves of dissatisfaction. I tend to keep analyzing what he is and is not doing, the crazy lady growls and mutters from her cage in the back of my mind. But I am doing my best to own that it is my issue and not blame him for being himself. I tell myself that the while the “crazy lady” is part of me, she is not the only part. She is not even a very big part, and if I keep calm, keep rational, don’t feed her… she will become smaller and smaller.

I find myself fearful...

Since Master beat me last Friday, beat me with the Gom Jabbar, leaving those evil black welts along the sides of both my thighs, the bruises grew and grew, black, red, purple... the original black welts changing to deep red stripes surrounded with a sickening yellow. The bruises are like flowers, deep black and purple hibiscus with strange yellow hearts and red stamens. And they still hurt to sit upon... six days later.

And it is a disturbing fact that when Master gives me those random swats, those unexpected smacks as I walk by, lean over to get laundry from the dryer, or make the bed... when my ass is within reach... he aims for my flanks, for those twin islands of pain that linger there. He hits me there deliberately, I think to remind me that they are there as much as for the fact that he likes that it hurts me there more.

And I find myself fearful. I have not been seeking him out, not been deliberately placing myself within reach, not flaunting, flashing, swinging the target provocatively in his face. I have not been waving the red cape in the bull's face... In fact I have been retiring, avoidant, and when he does reach for me... terrified. My mouth goes dry, my heart pounds in my throat... and he senses that fear and seems to like having it there.

And it is not a small part of me that trembles in anticipation for when he does take me down to his lair, does decide to really beat me again with intent... how will it be different? ...will I still laugh? ...or will he indulge in this new appetite of his, his hunger for my fear. And if he does, will I be strong enough to give him what he hungers for...

So far, there have been no beatings beyond those random swats, the daily endless "love taps" that punctuated my days. He seems to be focusing on the plundering of my mind, pursuing the endless and varied mindfucks that keep me off balance, unsure of myself... little things like asking if I am feeling better when I had never said I felt bad. And when I respond, "But Master, I've been feeling just fine." He attacks, grabbing a nip, pinching and twisting so cruelly that I cannot speak, his voice cruel and amused, "But, my pet, that is not what I asked." Yet there is no way to answer that question... If I had said yes, that would not have been true... I have not been feeling bad so if I had said "yes"... that would infer that I had... and if I said "no" while that would be the literal correct answer, because if there had been no actual change in my well being... it still would have inferred that I was in some way feeling "bad"... meh... he just wanted me to be confused and wanted to pinch my titties... bastard... It wouldn't be so bad if there weren't a dozen other similar things a day. Thank god he has to go to work. His dick has been in my ear all week... it is starting to chafe.

Last night, deep in the dark, hours after I was sawing logs... he grabbed me, rolled me over and just shoved it in. He was going at it top speed by the time I woke up enough to realize this was the real thing and not a dream. It was all him, I was just a warm wet hole to masturbate in. No words were ever spoken. It was awesome to be used like that... like a fuck hole... an object, a tool to use to make it easier to fall asleep. I think he enjoys the sensation of fucking me when I am not aroused more, I am dryer, there is more friction... he calls it traction. He comes faster... and pulls away without words or cuddles... and is soon asleep.

I found myself walking around in the night, doing those prophylactic measures to keep the UTI's away... peeing and taking my antibiotics. Happily I went right back to sleep. Normally when he uses me like that it frequently means I am up for a couple hours... thinking, analyzing, savoring... I got to leave that for this morning.

Empty Nest again

Another time of change… My son and his wife found an apartment and moved out. Our nest is empty again. Master is jazzed but for some reason I feel a little sad. I think I will be a little lonely. I won’t miss having to figure out a time when we can have sex or play. I won’t miss having my carefully planned menu all fucked up because the “night people” ate everything in the refrigerator. But I think I will miss having them around. I am more social than Master and just the knowledge that someone else is here, even if they are upstairs in their room is somehow comforting.

But anyway, Master is happy to finally have our house to ourselves, he crowed, he jumped around… but then he saw that little bit of sadness on my face and he asked me if I was sad, if I was going to miss them. I answered that I was a little sad, that maybe I was going to be a little bit lonely and then teasingly said that maybe he had been a little bit boring lately.

One should know better than poke at the sleeping bear.

I was sitting on the couch, in my usual place and he lunged up and grabbed my ankles and lifted them up over my head and proceeded to spank me soundly. I twisted around and squealed but on some level I don’t think that was quite enough for him and he went off and found a belt in my room and once again my legs were lifted straight up. More whacks, more squeals… yelps…

There is something about that position, sitting on the couch with your feet lifted up, it stretches the muscles, tightens the skin… and my ass is mostly on the couch so he is hitting on the tender sweet spot, that crease where the thighs meet the ass and on the backs of my thighs clear to my knees. It hurts so much worse there… so much worse. I cannot sit all that still, cannot absorb the pain, and just cannot cooperate. No matter how hard I try, eventually I struggle and twist around, fighting to find a position where I can bear it.

You know there are days when no matter how much you love something, you just cannot enjoy it right at that moment? It was one of those moments where I could not find a place of acceptance, and the pain just tore at me, abraded me, it ripped my mind apart. And strangely this fed his sadism, and I could tell he wanted this, this total lack of enjoyment, this horror and panic. Master clearly enjoys hurting me more when I did not want it, a lot more… and then he was gone, downstairs to his lair, to his arsenal… and he was back bearing in his hands the two most stringent, most frightening and most dangerous tools he owns.

Again my legs were lifted up. I was so terrified that I was stiff as a board, I could not soften, could not relax. I was sobbing with panic and as he hit me with the heavy strap I squalled and began to fight. I bucked. I twisted. I begged. It was beyond bearing. He let go of my legs and just began to strike at me, swinging and hitting me with the little fiber glass stick that I call “my gom jabbar”… and in his new found sadistic joy he was swinging hard. Each blow planting a seed of agony that did nothing but swell and grow. If anything five seconds later, it hurt twice as bad as when he first struck and it did nothing but continue to grow. It was as if something was burrowing under my skin. And he was hitting me over and over, fast unrelenting blows that left a scattering of glowing coals along my thighs.

I think eventually he realized how close I was to totally losing it, to pissing myself or throwing up… I think he could see me trying to figure out how tell him where I was at. I remember yelling at him that that strap and that little stick were too dangerous and he HAD TO BE CAREFUL!

He stood over me. I could tell he was all lit up. He practically glowed with energy. And he would brandish those weapons and grin with complete evil, diabolical delight as I shuddered and cowered in terror. He would touch me with them, gentle, threatening taps just to watch me flinch and whimper in abject terror. He commented that “tonight I was extra sensitive”… not quite yet aware that he had been hitting me harder and in many ways I agreed with him… that the primary cause of my pain was my mental state.

But that night when I stripped for bed my legs still felt like they were on fire. And as I tenderly ran my fingers along them there were sharp swollen welts, welts as wide and high as a pencil, raised up sharply from the plane of my skin. And they were not red. They were black. I went upstairs and showed him. I think he was surprised and because he is still exploring his sadism, a little daunted.

All night they hurt, deep singing pain of blood continuing to leak out under my skin. This morning instead of distinct black lines they have blossomed and joined together, the bruises spreading and merging. I lay over his lap as he examined me and we talked about it. Master does not like bruises and especially does not like accidental bruises. Hitting me when I am not being still is risky, not knowing exactly where the blow will land. Using two implements so very different in weight and application can lead to misjudgments of how much force. And the fact I was not nude, that I was wearing thin black cotton tights that did nothing to mitigate the damage but hid the results from his eyes. It was a learning moment… how to tell if he is injuring me, so that he will have that knowledge to use or not to use depending upon his wish, his will, his whim.

I do not mind that I am bruised. And on some very deep level, I love the marks of his ownership upon my flesh. I love the fact that right this minute as I write this just sitting hurts. And while I did not find any sensual enjoyment of the pain he inflicted upon me last night, I love the fact that I did not like it. It is hard to explain, but the idea that he would do that, enjoy doing that, doing something to me that I don’t like… that idea, that very knowledge is incredibly powerful for me. It makes me feel an awe for him, a deep and profound awe… it is like it makes him godlike for me… the source of pain, pleasure, joy, fear. And it makes me so hyper aware of him. Each movement, each shift in position, each time he stands or says a word triggers in me a rush of awareness, a little twinge of fear and anticipation.

And I love the fact that we are alone with this feeling… this knowledge that hangs in the air between us… that he can do that… that he can do anything he wants… anytime he wants… any place he wants and there are no other people here that may interrupt us… inhibit us. We are alone again and it looks like we are going to be learning more.

Twenty Years

Master and I were married twenty years ago today. Twenty year anniversary... why does it sound so anticlimactic? I did nothing to observe it, in fact... I did not feel very well and when I got home I fell asleep. I am fighting a UTI... I totally forgot my darned PRN antibiotics this weekend.

Anyway... after looking for an excuse for totally slacking off... Master came home and found me out... sound asleep and decided to let me sleep. But when I woke I found a lovely arrangement of roses and pussy willows on the dining room table with a card that plays the song "So Happy Together" and this beautiful long length of freshwater pearls. This is the second string of fresh water pearls Master has gotten me. It is much the same thing he did last year. Once Master finds something that works he tends to stick with it. But it was sweet. Now I feel twice as guilty for falling asleep.

Naturally Messy Hair

Today at work a kid had an emotional meltdown. His lunch did not look exactly like he had imagined and he totally freaked out. (I do work with emotionally disturbed children after all.) Anyway the little freak out monster threw his chocolate milk all over my head... into my hair. Arghh... you have no idea how much work it takes to get my hair just right.

All the rest of the day I would touch my head, feel the dried in chocolate milk, the curls stiff and sticky instead of soft and silky... shudder... I was in the shower within seconds of getting home.


More than once someone has asked me if my hair is naturally curly. It always amazes me that someone would think that I actually paid someone to make my hair do this. Or maybe they are sympathetic and are hoping this is just temporary... maybe this was just a bad home permanent disaster and will eventually grow out and go away.

I shake my head and ruefully answer, "No, I have naturally messy hair."

It is fine, soft, fly-away, slippery, frizzy, unmanageable. Master calls it squirrely hair. I asked him, "Squirrely like the fooffy end of the squirrel's tail? Or, squirrely, like how a squirrel can be all still, and then leaps up and squirms around, wiggling, jumping, tumbling around like a wild, crazy squirrel epileptic fit? Of course he meant the latter. You just never know what my hair is going to do one minute to the next.

And yet is it deceptively beautiful, shining, ripping blond ringlets. And oh so soft to touch, like silk, softer than silk... baby soft. Master cannot resist, and all it takes is one touch, one hand gripping pulling twisting, fingers tangling and poof... shining water fall is transformed into a tangle of cotton fluff. But he likes it messy, loves it squirrely. I swear he messes it up on purpose. He will have me kneel at his feet and endlessly run his fingers through it. And I find it ultimately sensual when he does that.



Master requires I keep it long and I dye it a soft buttery strawberry blond... the color he selected. If I let it go natural it would be white and I am not ready for old lady hair quite yet. (Darn family genetics). I use three kinds of conditioners and carefully comb it out and arrange it carefully with my fingers... as fine as it is I don't often use heat to dry it... It breaks off so easily now. (I know... dye... it's a bit fried... vanity... sigh).




Early this morning, before my chocolate milk adventure, I woke up and slid closer to the warmth of his body and he turned lifting his arm to urge me closer, to lay my head on his chest. And as I did, my wild squirrely night hair must have floated up and settled down over his face because he smoothed it down and back. And being full of piss and vinegar, I waved my hand, stirring it up like a pile of eider down, causing it fly up and away and over his face once again. He called me a poop... one of my favorite nick names.

Rain, rain and more rain

I am finally letting the weather around here get to me. Damn it, I want shorts and sandals and sundresses... I want to let my pretty painted toenails out to breath some warm spring sunshine.

My practical pragmatic... freakin' power of positive thought perky squirrelly personality scolds me, reminds me that there are millions of people who have it worse, live where the snow has not melted, or actually have to work outside... there was a miserable landscaper outside yesterday morning pushing around a lawnmower in the driving rain... I mean it was RAINING... cow pissing on a flat rock kind'a raining. I could have her job... instead of a cushy stay inside where it is warm and dry and look out at her kind'a job. But DAMN IT... I WANT SOME FUCKING SUNSHINE!!!

Thank you for listening.

On other news... I had a wonderful weekend. Got laid, TWICE! Hung out with the grand daughter. Watched a couple movies... wrote about a thousand words... went to a party (family, vanilla... yeah boring but Master does not let me go to those other kind of parties)... went to a Yoga class at a local dungeon... fun to do the "down dog" with a whipping cross peeking in the corner of your eye. And now my glutes and triceps are talking to me about how I ought to be doing that a hell of a lot more often. Cooked some good food... ate some good food.

I did cave in and totally jump the ship diet wise on Sunday... after the yoga class before heading over to son #1's house for D&D... (yeah, I know... geeky) I succumbed to a massive caving and bought and totally wooooofed down a huge bacon cheese burger... with fries... yeah... well when you jump ship you have to really leap out to keep from being killed by the propellers... at least that is what I hear.

And now it is back to work... so far no serious bruises or dramas... three more days with kids... then a training day... and then a WEEK OFF... hell yes!

Surprise!

Master just totally pushed me down and fucked my brains out... second time in two days. It is awesome... almost like being forty again!

What the hell is up with that. I am so used to the once a week routine, I could not believe it until he was actually pulling off his pants. Maybe the planets are aligned or something?

I should learn not to question good fortune.

Three weeks

I got to thinking… it has been nearly three weeks… three weeks since I have really made love with Master.

Oh sure… he has been getting his… his “shower sex”…He loves shower sex. It is easy, fast, hygienic… selfish. It starts with a nonverbal shove, pushing me to my knees, a casual gesture toward his cock. He might grunt “suck it” but anymore, I know what he wants and I quickly take him in my mouth. He holds my wet hair in his fists and controls the pace. I think he likes the sensation and sounds of my struggle when he slides deep into my throat. He paces it, savoring the experience, taking his time, growling with pleasure and when he finally cannot contain it any longer or the hot water starts to fade, he will roughly grab me, lift me, turn me around and sharply shove my head down as he slams it deep into my cunt.

There rarely is any foreplay and I am usually dry. But he likes that, likes the added friction. He calls it traction and, because he already is so close, he comes quickly. He pulls out, turns, washes off the sticky and goes on about his day. It’s all good for him.

There is no expectation that I orgasm or even that I become significantly aroused. It does turn me on, the very dynamic, the selfishness, the knowledge that he can do it like that, can take without any consideration for me is exciting. And I like to suck cock. I love the sensation, the taste, the smell, even the sensation of gagging is erotic for me. And the sensation of him in me, fucking me, the tissues stretching and burning with his come… it is very good. But it is not enough, not long enough, and the position of standing bent over with shower water running up my nose, I just can’t quite come that way and he knows that. It all just leaves me wanting more.

I am not under any masturbation prohibition. It is perfectly okay with him if I masturbate a dozen times a day. Though he does love to sneak up on me and scare the shit out of me at that moment when the eyes drift shut and the imagination is a thousand miles away. He loves to poke me then and laughs maniacally as I shriek and sob in shocked, embarrassed terror. But that is another story, the thing is masturbation does not meet the need inside me. It just makes me want him more, want the orgasm from him more. It is like food without calories, it does not feed me. The more I cram into my empty belly, the more my body starves. I think he is very aware of this and finds my suffering amusing as well.

Now Master can be a wonderful lover and frequently is but lately… lately the world has conspired to sabotage any slow paced, uninterrupted, love making. And I feel the empty place inside me growing. I am beginning to count the days and I find I am not masturbating as much. It just makes me feel sad and hopeless to even try to meet this need on my own. It just makes things worse.

Last night was the worst. He came home and when I greeted him, hugging him, asking him about his day, asking him what time he would like his dinner served, he grabbed me and took me downstairs and pushed me down upon the bed. But rather than subjecting my body to pain, he lay down with me kissing me… kissing and kissing and kissing me, his warm strong hands roaming, caressing, torturing me with pleasure. And as I sighed and arched and moaned he laughed, his eyes dark with passion and power. He whispered to me that there was not going to be relief, that he was just teasing me and I wrapped my hands in my hair and pulled, that long low kind of hard pull that sends pain all the way down my spine.

He ordered me to stop hurting myself, to stop pulling at my own hair. He rolled me over and began to beat me with that new strap, and the cane but eventually he yanked my pants down, baring my ass and just spanked me with his bare hands. O all the things in his arsenal, nothing can compare to his bare hands. He spanked me until I was breathless and then rolling me over onto my back to look down into my face, he smiled and finally told me to go ahead and cook his dinner.

And now this morning… this morning I am so acutely aware of how much I need him to fuck me, to hold me down, to pound me, to be able to come at his command, to be held in his arms as the waves of pleasure and surrender shake me to my soul and I do not know when we will find the time to be together. It is going to be a busy weekend and finding even an hour of time for ourselves, to get horizontal, is going to be a challenge.

(I wrote this in my journal yesterday. I am quite delighted to say that today we did find that hour. And we did get horizontal… well as horizontal as you can call having your knees tucked up around your ears. I am still tingling and all is well with the world.)