Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Properly Submissive?

I am home from work today. Master has some medical tests and he requires my chauffeuring skillz.

I wonder if it is properly submissive to have the urge to giggle sadistically at the thought of Master facing the "scope". Well, not exactly facing it... if you get my drift.

But I am lying low... very low... A Master that has not eaten in 24 hours and has been shitting his brains out is not safe to giggle at. One is working on her sympathetic facial expressions and fighting the urge to grin sadistically.

When I was browsing my "tags" for this post the only one that stood out was "implements of ass destruction"... Oh I am sooo bad.

Saturday, September 25, 2010


I've been a little under the weather and I am sure that you guys don't want to read about runny noses and chores piling up so here is a little thing a wrote a long time ago.

DEVASTATED: by xantu

This is a fantasy. All characters are fictional. But fun to fantasize.

I am nervously pacing back and forth on the busy sidewalk, waiting, when I first see him. I had never seen him before, but the moment my eyes landed on his face I knew it was him. He is massive and his presence surges over me. I stop and stand very still. He walks directly up to me and puts his hand on my arm. The whole world stands still, and somehow fades and blurs, until it is just the two of us.

Slowly his grip tightens, pressing down, squeezing tighter and tighter, crushing my flesh, but the pain is good, welcome. It seems to tear the shroud from my soul, stripping it naked and bare.

My legs weaken and buckle, but as I start to sink to my knees he hisses at me to stand and walk. The busy, crowded world comes back into focus briefly, swirling around us. Yet it is distant and tenuous. His eyes and his strength seem to be the only things that are real.

A tiny voice in my mind that says that I do not know him, wants to ask where we are going, whimpers, and then is lost. It does not even occur to me to doubt or question. His word is beyond law or truth, it is my only will, my existence.

I cannot even feel my feet on the pavement as he guides me to his car. The brief glimpse of reality has faded completely away. I am walking almost blind, my feet stumble and wobble on my too-high heels. His touch, his energy flowing through that touch, fills my mind, blanking out all thought and all perception beyond the heat slowly filling my body.

His grip on my arm is a link, a conduit for pure heat and light. It is almost like he is transmuting the dull sluggish blood in my veins to pure energy. It is beyond my capacity to perceive anything more than the single electrifying truth that he has found me. He is the one.

I do not remember getting into the car, but, oddly, I am sharply aware of clear details of the interior: the slick sensation of the leather seat against the bare back of my legs, the smell of tobacco and him, the sound and sensation of the seat belt as he fastens it around me, the refection of his dark blue eyes in the rear view mirror watching me.

He is not touching me now and, frighteningly, the energy seems to be ebbing away, a slow steady hemorrhage, my life inexorably bleeding away. I painfully inhale a soft intake of air preparing to scream in terror, not of him, or of the death that seems so imminent. No, it is the terror of somehow coming to my senses, awakening and feeling dull and empty again. This is a one way trip; I cannot survive even one step backward; there can be no retreat from… what?

He makes a sharp peremptory grunt and gives his head a single, sharp, negative shake.

He speaks, but it is a whisper, hoarse and ominous, “Put down your purse.” His words send sharp lances through me.

I notice that I still have my bag clutched in my hand and I shakily, clumsily, set it down on the floor of the car.

“Now, pull up that skirt, all the way up around your waist.”

My fingers slowly crumple up the fabric, gathering it, inching it up my legs. My heart is pounding so intensely, roaring in my ears, that I have difficulty hearing his next words, “Out from under your ass too.”

It is like each throb of my heart makes my whole being expand and contract. It is like my heart is about to tear loose inside my chest. I become aware that I am breathing in short gasping pants through my open lips, my ears buzzing; waves of dizziness making me blink and sway.

I sit staring down at my bare legs, my knees are pressed together and my small, red, satin panties disappear into the concealment of my quivering thighs.

“Take off the panties.”

It is nearly beyond my strength to lift my hips and slowly slide down that tiny scrap of satin, to bare my most tender and vulnerable of places to his hot and greedy eyes. But it is as if someone else controls my hands. I watch as if someone else is doing this thing to me.

“Give them to me.”

My hand is spastic, palsied; the panties quiver and shake as I pass them to him. For an instant our fingers touch and I gasp at the intensity of that fleeting contact. The smallest of soft, gulping whimpers leaks from my lips.

Again he shakes his head. He hisses, “Be silent.”

I can feel him staring down at me, the sensation of his gaze a burning brand on my flesh. Again, it is almost as if someone else is in control of my muscles and my legs slowly part; spreading to reveal my sex to him. As I feel the heat of his eyes on me, I feel a trickle of hot moisture leak out and spill out onto the leather seat.

There is a dull, pounding roar in my ears. I sit motionless, my eyes trapped, staring at my drooling cunt. I don’t know how long I sit like that as we drive. All I know is the terror has eased. No longer do I feel the fear of losing the feeling. His energy fills me. His eyes light me up.

I don’t notice the car stopping or the engine being turned off. I only notice the cessation of movement when I hear him open his door. I look up in panic as he gets out and then look out the windows. All I can see is trees.

A flood of words rise up in me, “Where? What?” My voice vibrates with fear.

My door opens and again he hisses the words, “Be silent.”

He does not immediately unfasten my seat belt and it does not even occur to me to touch the latch. His face is almost touching mine. For the first time he speaks in a normal voice, deep and resonant, “You must not speak. You must remain quiet. It is not much further.”

He reaches across and unfastens my belt and then grips my shoulder and the back of my neck. He pulls me out to stand. I stand swaying. Almost immediately my knees sag and he has to haul me back up to stand and leans me up against the car. His body presses against me, trapping me, sheltering me. He says my name for the first time, “Xantu, stand up and close your eyes.”

I gulp and lock my knees. I grab hold of the car and let my eyelids fall shut. Somehow the darkness is soothing and it is easier to keep myself upright. I feel him unbutton and slip the skirt down my legs. His hands touch my ankles and I almost reflexively lift my feet one at a time, stepping out of the garment. He pulls my blouse off over my head without unbuttoning it. I am not wearing a brassiere and I stand there nude, wearing only my shoes. I feel him tie my blouse around my eyes.

He pulls my hands behind my back and holds them in one large hand. Again his other hand is warm and strong as it grips the back of my neck, supporting, guiding me. We walk, my heels sinking into the soft ground. I can smell the trees and soil. The air is cool, but there are moments when the light filters bright through the blindfold of my blouse, and I can feel the warmth as the sun touches my skin. The only sound is the soft sounds of the woods; the air is still; far away I hear the call of a bird, a soft repetitive single chirp that could be coming from any direction. Slowly I become aware of a soft gurgling of water and I realize that I can smell the moisture in the air.

He pulls me to stop and speaks softly, “Step up, there are three steps up.”

I reach out and feel the steps with my toe and take each step one at a time. I sense the light cutting off sharply like I am moving into an area of deeper shadow, and I step onto a wooden surface, my heels knocking hollowly on the floor.

“Almost there.” He lets go of my wrists, but I keep them pinned to the small of my back like they are bound there. I hear the rattle and jingle of keys and then a door creaking open. Once more his hands are on me, urging me forward. My heel catches on something, the doorsill perhaps, and I stumble and start to fall. His hands catch me, supporting, guiding me as I fall to my knees. My arms fly forward to catch myself and I find myself on my hand and knees. I feel a smooth wooden floor under my hands.

There is a note of humor in his voice, “Well, I was about to tell you to kneel.” He pulls me up to kneel in a more formal, vertical position, a touch here, and a nudge there cuing me to arch my back and spread my knees. He is silent, but I can feel his breath on me as he leans over. Each touch from his hands make me shiver and jump; the air in the room is cool and his hands feel burning hot on my skin.

His hands leave me and a strange chill makes me shiver. I try to hold my posture and fight the urge to tremble uncontrollably. I feel my nipples shrink into knots and they are so hard they ache. I wonder if it is the cool air or my exhilarated fear.

I hear the door close and again I hear the rattle of keys and the snap of a lock. I listen as he moves about the room. His step is light as he moves across the wooden floor and I hear the scrape of something being dragged across the floor toward me. There is the creak of wood and the scratch and flare up sound of a match. I smell the sulfur smell of the match and then the rich mellow scent of pipe smoke.

“Take off the blindfold.”

I reach up and push the improvised covering off my eyes and blink. The room is lit with the natural light coming in from the windows. He is sitting in a large, wooden, rocking chair looking down at me, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Welcome home, xantu.” He looks around the room, a silent invitation for me to inspect my surroundings. The room is not large, a large stone fireplace on one side and a small efficient kitchen and table on the other. The walls are logs; soft golden varnished wood seems to dominate the whole room, making it almost glow in the filtered light. A closed door leads off the back of the room to what I guess is the bedrooms and bathroom. There are two large picture windows without curtains and I can see a covered porch and tall evergreens beyond. Between the windows is the front door, conspicuously locked with a heavy padlock.

I look back at him, curiously. He is a big man, well over six feet, with broad massive shoulders and a barrel chest over a large stomach. He has a neatly trimmed short black beard and I can see thick hair on the backs of his hands. I can tell he must be covered with hair. His face is weathered and tanned, and heavy brows over his bright blue eyes. I can see the shadow where it looks as if they have been waxed or trimmed. He has long, thick, black hair pulled back in a pony tail. He is wearing heavy khaki pants and a plaid shirt. A memory, from my childhood, surfaces and I think to myself, ‘Paul Bunyan’.

I know he is deliberately letting me have a minute to look around and to look at him, and when I am finished I sit back on my heels and look at him expectantly. His smile widens, “What do you think?”

A wave of uncertainty makes my skin prickle. Talk, he wants me to talk. I look down at my knees on the floor and try to modulate my voice, “Sir, I have a lot of thoughts. Your home seems small, simple but that appeals to me. The trees outside are lovely.” I glance up at him shyly, “I… I find you… devastating.”

His eyes widen and then he roars with laughter. “Devastating, that is a good word. They said you were quite the woman of words.” His laughter is as big as he is and seems to fill the room. “But this is not my home. It is just a cabin where we will be able to spend some time getting to know each other.”

A soft smile warms my face at the thought that I had amused him, made him happy. Looking back down at my knees, I suppress my smile. His voice is soft, “You have a pretty smile; you don’t need to hide it from me.” My eyes flicker back up to his and then slide away nervously. I try to smile again, but my lips start to tremble and I bite my lip and look down again.

His voice was a deep rumble that filled the room, “Do I scare you?”

A long, shuddering tremble shakes through me, and I have to swallow to speak, “I am scared. I don’t know if I am scared of you or just struggling with doubt.”


“It is a big decision. The stakes are so big.”

“So much to lose and yet so much to gain.”

I feel my heart racing again, my voice quivers as I whisper, “I want it so bad. It is my only hope. What I fear… I fear… never finding that, losing that.”

His voice seems to vibrate through me, “I won’t allow you to lose.”

I try to talk again, but all I can do is breathe through my open mouth. Finally I choke out the words, “Help me. Tell me what to do.”

He whispers softly, “To begin with, do not ever tell me what to do, like that. You will always term your requests in the form of a question, and you will always refer to me as Sir.” His voice resumes its normal rumbling tones, “There will be rules and expectations, but we will go over those later. I have been very much looking forward to your arrival.” The rocking chair creaks as he leans forward. “Take off the shoes, put them by the door. While in the house you will wear nothing, no shoes, nothing.”

I slip my heels off and turn without standing and carefully place them side by side by the door. I see a pair of huge rather worn fleece lined slippers sitting there.

“Now crawl over here to me.”

As I approach him, he seems to loom over me. He stretches out one of his long legs and nudges me with the toe of his boot. I stare at it in fascination at the immense size of his feet as he slowly runs the worn leather from my shoulder down my arm to my hand. “Take off my boots.”

My fingers shake as I untie the double knot on the laces and loosen them. I put my hand behind the boot heel and slip it off. He is wearing thick grey socks and the scent of the sweat of his feet is pungent and compelling. I inhale the smell deep into my lungs. After the second boot is off, I sit back on my heels and look up at him. His voice is neutral, “All shoes are placed by the door.”

I nod and turn, and place the boots neatly next to my shoes.

“Get my slippers.”

I slip the slippers on, careful to not touch his feet. I don’t know if I am afraid of contact or just unsure if he would permit that familiarity.

He stands and reaches down a hand toward me. I look up, a wordless question in my eyes, and then hesitantly put my hand in his. His hand dwarfs mine, but to my surprise it is not particularly rough or callused. He pulls me to stand. I am not particularly short, but I feel tiny next to him. I can feel my hand tremble in his. I stand still, staring at my hand engulfed in his, staring at his long thick fingers with hair growing on the backs. His nails are neat and clean. I think they look manicured. His voice lances through me, “You will obey me won’t you, xantu?”

Instantly the words leave my lips, there was no question or hesitation, “Yes, Sir, always.”

Abruptly he jerks me close to his chest and then picks me up in his arms, cradling me like a child. I am intensely aware of his strength, it is overwhelming. He does not even grunt as he lifts me up. While I am not particularly fat, I know I am a big girl, broad shouldered and with generous curves. I can’t remember the last time anyone had attempted to hold me like that, standing. I lay back in his arms, my body soft and pliant, looking up at him. Again I feel small, overwhelmed. He meets my eyes and grins, his mouth is wide and I find myself staring at his perfect white teeth, and full sensuous lips.

He carries me across the room and kicks open the door to the next room. I do not take my eyes off his face, mesmerized by how close he is. I let out a tiny squeak as he suddenly drops me and I find myself bouncing on a huge four poster bed. I look at the heavy log head board and then down at the matching foot, the logs match the ones in the walls, thick and golden, and the posts reach up almost to the ceiling. The mattress is surprisingly hard, and vast, bigger than any bed I have lain on before. My eyes are drawn back to him; he stands over me looking down at me, “Lie back, I want to look at you.”

I follow his instruction and lay back on the bed, looking up at him, thinking that he has been looking at me almost continually, those intense blue eyes almost obsessively gazing at me since he first found me on the sidewalk outside the airport.

The bed hardly sags under his mass as he sits down beside me. He reaches out and grabs my ankle and pulls my foot into his lap. I watch in bemusement as he closely examines my foot, almost counting my toes, looking at my toenails. They are clean and trimmed close. I had meticulously removed all trace of polish as per the instructions I had received before coming to him. They had been clear; no jewelry, no make-up, no fingernail polish, no perfume. I had come without any luggage and only my ID and the one-way plane ticket, not even any money.

He questions me about my feet, asking me if I had ever had any problems with them. I murmur, “No, Sir; they are flat, but that is hereditary and I have never had any pain or difficulty walking.”

The inspection continues up my legs. He even questions me on how I remove the hair from my legs, then tells me that he wants me to continue shaving daily, that there are some safety razors in the bathroom for me to use. He pauses at a scar and questions me closely, listening to an old story of falling off a bike in my childhood. It seems like he wants to know everything about my body. He twists and turns me on the bed like a doll, looking, touching, manipulating. He tests how wide I can spread my legs, and then lifts my knees up almost around my ears. Then he tells me to hold them there with my own hands.

I lie there, flinching and trying to be still as he almost clinically examines my ass. He grabs my ass cheeks and spreads them wide, stretching me open to his gaze. He asks me in detail about my regularity and bowel habits. I find myself closing my eyes and answering mechanically as the embarrassment begins to flow over me. This does not feel sexual at all. It feels like I have stepped into a demented physical. He asks me in detail about my experiences with anal intercourse and I answer truthfully that I have only done it a couple of times, but I enjoyed it.

When his fingers move up and spread out the folds of my cunt, I feel the first twinges of excitement. His touch is firm but gentle and he seems to be deliberately testing to see what my responses are. “Tell me about your orgasms.” His large fingers slowly slide into me and I can feel how slippery wet I am.

I swallow and murmur, my voice soft and strangled, “Sir, I can, but sometimes it is difficult. I try, I want to, I almost can, I get so excited but then I get nervous… or something sometimes.”

He nodded, “They mentioned that in your profile. Your trainer was of the opinion that you would improve as you became more attached to your owner. He said you are very much ruled by your emotions. He said it was both a strength and a weakness.” His fingers move and twist inside me, but his eyes are fixed on my face.

I thought back to the four-week evaluation and training that was required for voluntary submission. My trainer had spoken little about what was put into my report, telling me to focus on putting forth my best effort. Saying that he was sure they would find the correct placement for me and that I must trust them to find a Master for me that would be compatible. I wondered what else they had said about me. They had told me nothing beyond the fact that they had found a Master for me and the name of the airport I was to fly into.

His fingers continue to explore and probe at me, and I can feel my body tensing with building excitement. I keep my hand gripped around my knees, holding my exposed position. A soft, almost inaudible moan rises up from me as I feel my body responding. It feels good, really good. My hips begin to rock and surge against his hand.

His voice is even deeper, rumbling through me. I can almost feel the vibrations through his hand into my very gut. “You like this don’t you?”

My voice is hoarse in my ears, hoarse and breathless, “Yes, Sir.”

His hand suddenly is still and I freeze with it. My hips are inches off the mattress, still deeply impaled on his hand, my ass suspended on the hook of his thick fingers deep inside me. He is looking intently at my face, and I blink under the intensity of that regard. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he pulls his fingers out of me and I sag to the bed. I don’t know to be disappointed or relieved; it is all so new and unfamiliar.

He continues his examination of my body, again questioning me about my medical history, my general health, how it feels when he touches me, even about my hygiene habits. He seems unhurried, almost casual, as he repeatedly pinches and pulls at my nipples, watching closely as they harden into aching pebbled peaks. I answer as best I can, but again the word ‘devastated’ echoes through my mind. He is so big and strong, and… irresistible. It was not like I even contemplated disobedience, but the process seemed to be stripping away any volition. I am plastic in his hands, my voice trembling and eager, answering all his questions, giving him my words as well as my body.

His exploration reaches my neck, and as his fingers close around that pillar, I find myself sinking even deeper into his eyes. He presses down slightly with those massive muscular fingers, not so much choking, but holding, pressing. I can feel my blood pulsing against his fingers. I lay limp under his grasp, letting waves of fear and weakness flow over me. The tiny voice, far in the back of my mind, weakly protests; whimpering, worrying that they may have made a mistake, that he could kill me. But it is faint and I ignore it. I think to myself that this is the true meaning of surrender, the complete abdication of will. The tacit knowledge that he held my life in his hands only adds to my certainty, and ultimately my surrender.

I feel every muscle in my body softening, loosening, freeing. I am entranced by his eyes; they are vast and fathomless.

Softly he whispers to me, the words more sensation than sound, “You are mine.”

Without thought I silently mouth the word, “Yes.”

“Totally and completely mine.”

Each word seems to push me deeper into my fascinated trance, “Yes.”

He releases his hold around my neck, one hand moving around to the back of my neck, gripping tightly, squeezing. The heat and pressure send waves of weakness spreading through me. Remotely, I sense him fumbling at his pants and he roughly knees my legs apart.

I feel the hot tip of his cock, nudging, pressing against me. I instinctively spread open for him, tipping my pelvis. A soft eager whine rises up in me.

But he stops there, barely touching me, the only places he touches me are the hand on the back of my neck and the burning brand grazing the lips of my opening. His eyes are intently watching me. Again I am still again, my ass is hovering inches off the sheets, and again the tension builds in my body, long shivers quake through me as the tension builds once more in my body.

Finally I cannot contain it any longer and I move, the smallest of trembling advances, wanting, needing more.

His hips move away, denying me the contact I seek. I force myself to still, to soften, to wait. I don’t even realize I have stopped breathing.

“You want this, don’t you?”

I can hardly speak, my eyes lose focus and I finally gasp and moan out the words, “Yes, oh yes.” And then I draw in a long shuddering breath, “Please.”

His hand on the back of my neck tightens and lifts my face to his, and as he takes my mouth with his he plunges into me, stretching me, filling me. My mind screams as I let out a low shriek into his open lips. My eyes widen and I look up at him in shock. He is big, bigger than anything I ever have had in me before.

Again he stops, now buried deeply, painfully in my depths, but his mouth still ravages mine, kissing me violently, endlessly. My lips feel bruised and my jaw is stretched wide. His other hand slips under my ass and he presses me up as he lunges against me, forcing himself even deeper into me. I cannot help the soft grunt of pain and clench my eyes shut as I feel him bottom out, the head of his cock pressing hard against my womb. His belly is hard and forces me to curl around it. It is hard to breathe and his weight crushes me.

I feel completely enveloped, crushed both from his mass pressing down on me and the sensation of the huge cock filling me to bursting. And he continues to kiss me, his mouth carnivorous, feeding on me, plundering my mouth. I can almost feel him sucking my spirit from my lips. My hands flutter helplessly, touching him timidly, tentatively, not sure to pull him closer or to push at him.

The fact that he is fully dressed is unfamiliar, confusing. I can feel the cloth and buttons of his fly pressed painfully at the lips of my cunt. Yet he hardly moves beyond his lips and tongue. His hands press me even more firmly to him, molding me to him.

Finally his lips break from mine and he growls hoarsely, “You are mine, every fucking piece of you, mine.” With each word he seems to press even harder against me. Only then does he begin to move against me, at first he is slow and methodical, pulling out almost completely and then pushing back in a deliberate, powerful but unhurried, thrust. Each time I feel overwhelmed with his sheer size, everything about this man seems too large, too strong, and I feel diminished, for the first time since childhood I feel small. I feel like I could easily come apart under him. Soft grunting groans are forced from me with each plunge into my depths. It is too much to encompass, and while I feel completely possessed, I am dazed, disoriented.

There is definitely a strong sexual rush, it feels right. Beneath the sense of being crushed and battered is a dizzying, staggering excitement. I am electrified. My hands are urgent on him, pulling at him. I am drowning in sensation, but I want nothing more than to be pushed deeper, used harder, to be annihilated, obliterated. Again I think to myself, ‘devastated’.

I can tell he is holding himself back, prolonging it. His body is tense, rigid, his rhythm breaking, becoming erratic and jerky. I can feel my tissues, hot and swollen, burning with the friction of his cock in me. When he comes, he shudders and groans. The flood of hot semen stings a little. I lay under him panting, and I realize my face is wet with my own tears. My cunt is throbbing, aching with need and I take a deep shuddering breath. My eyelids flutter open and look up at him in confusion.

He pulls out and I blink as I contend with a sense of abandonment that the sudden emptiness evokes in me. I lie on the bed, flattened, boneless, and depleted. Again I feel his touch, his fingers are surprisingly gentle as he turns my head and softly runs a fingertip across my bruised and throbbing lips. Then he wipes the tears from my face and smoothes my hair back from my face. I stare at him, fighting tears, and I take another deep shuddering breath.

A wry smile crosses his face and he murmurs, “Devastated?”

A tiny drunken giggle rises up, and I nod and whisper, “A little.”

“Did I hurt you?”

This time I don’t feel like laughing, “A little.”

“You did not orgasm.” It is not a question, yet there is no censure or disappointment in his tone. It is an observation.

“It is hard sometimes, and this was um… a lot to deal with.” I flinch as I realize I am just talking with him, not using respectful terms, forgetting my role. I add, “Sir.”

He chuckles and lightly pats my cheek in the softest of mock slaps, “Good remembering.” Then to my surprise he winks, “You are not the only one new to this, but it is what we both wanted. We will work out our own rules eventually, but until then it is important for both us to follow this structure.”

I nod and carefully ask, “Sir, you said I should refer to you with the honorific, ‘Sir’. My trainer had me refer to myself in the third person, and to call myself ‘this trainee’. When I speak with you, how do you want me to refer to myself?”

He looked at me thoughtfully, “For now use ‘slave’, I will change it as I get to know you better. I am sure I will find lots of nicknames for you. It is a habit of mine.” He looked at me again, “Tell me about the name, xantu.”

Xantu was not my name. Part of the voluntary submission contract was the requirement to keep our identities private from one another. After the first thirty days, if both of us chose, we had the option of extending the contract or making the relationship permanent. There was also an option of leaving, the matching service had a guarantee; they would find me a Master or refund my sizable payment. If we mutually chose to make the relationship permanent, I could tell him my real name. If I violated any of the terms of the contract and the matching service found out, they would not refund my payment and would not find me the Master I needed so badly.

I shrug, “It is a pseudonym that I used for my writing. I think of it as my creative side, Sir.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“I just made it up, Sir, but later I found that there is a species of hummingbird in South America called a Xantus. I kind of liked that.”

He chuckled, “You sometimes vibrate under my hands like a hummingbird.”

“I have been pretty tense. I am sorry, Sir.”

“And I have been excited as a boy waiting for his twenty-first birthday, Christmas, and his wedding night all wrapped up into one.” He slid from the bed and stood up. He began to casually strip off his clothing, “Sorry about the clothes, I had intended to wait a little longer, but patience has never been my strong suit. When I felt your neck in my hands and you looked up at me with those big eyes of yours, terrified and yet trusting, I just had to have you at that moment.”

I watch from my position on the bed, I still have not moved beyond the turning of my head with his hands. My arms and hands lay limp upon the bed, my thighs akimbo, and my sex feeling a little raw and itchy, exposed and cooling in the air. He is so big, and thick black hair covers his chest, belly, and shoulders. It even runs down his arms and legs. His penis is half erect and looks bigger than most I have seen even in its semi-awake state. He is fat, but it seems to be mostly a firm, rounded stomach that somehow just makes him look larger, more imposing.

A trickle of fluid starts to ooze from my open cunt and I instinctively reach down to catch it before it can spill onto the quilt. “Sir, may this slave please use the bathroom?”

He nods towards a door off the bedroom, “It’s in there.”

I awkwardly crawl of the bed, holding the lips of my cunt closed.

His voice is curious, “Why are you doing that?”

“This slave is starting to leak, Sir. This slave does not want to make a bigger mess than is there all ready.” I pause at the bathroom door, and turn uncertainly, “Sir, is it your preference that this slave shuts the door or leaves it open?”

He frowned, “I don’t care, um… go ahead and leave it open.” He followed me and stood in the doorway as I sat down on the toilet and peed. “You are full of questions.”

I look up from wiping at myself, “This slave is sorry, this slave craves structure.” I duck and smile, “This slave respectfully requests to know what to expect and begs to learn the rules in order to relax and stop vibrating so much.”

He smiles at my little attempt at humor, “What was the rule for the bathroom door during your training?”

“Sir, this slave’s trainer said that a slave must never shut a door between her body and her Master’s eyes unless directed to. But also this slave’s trainer said that this slave should learn what her Master’s wishes are in this and many other matters in order to be more pleasing. This slave’s trainer said not all Masters find it pleasing to regard a slave as she performs certain personal hygiene tasks…” I look up at him shyly, “…like um… bowel movements or menstrual stuff.” I feel myself blushing, “This slave’s trainer said it is appropriate to ask questions respectfully if my goal is to become a better servant and slave to my Master. He said a good slave must actively pursue her role, must continually seek out how to be more pleasing.”

When I finish wiping, I flush and then drop to my knees before him, assuming the same position he had arranged me in when we first came into cabin. Carefully keeping my eyes lowered, I stare at his feet and murmur, “This slave awaits your command.”

I look at his feet and, while they are huge, they are well shaped and it looks like his toenails have been neatly trimmed. I wonder that he looks and dresses so rough, so much like a woodsman, but little things betray him, the pedicure and manicure, the way his beard and eyebrows look like they have been groomed professionally. And his manner of speech seems polished, educated. I feel my curiosity rising about the huge enigma of a man. His words about his anticipation of my arrival, his excitement and impatience speaks somehow of a newness to this experience and he does look somewhat younger than I had anticipated, perhaps even younger than me, and I wonder how old he really is, how experienced he is. I tell myself that the matching service knew what it was doing, and his charisma is almost palpable. I am enthralled.

I remain kneeling for perhaps only minutes but it seems an eternity, waiting. I can feel him watching me, and more than once I have to stop myself from looking up. Again and again I counsel myself to wait, to wait all night if that is what he wished of me. The tiles under my knees are cool and once again I feel a chill and a shiver makes me tremble again.

“My little hummingbird is starting to vibrate again.” His voice is soft and husky, “You have no idea how much I like that, watching you kneel before me and ask for my commands, watching you tremble in anticipation yet remain still. Your shivers speak of the battles being fought within. You vibrate, yet you do not waver. That pleases me.”

I cannot resist, my eyes flash up to his face. I cannot help but smile at his words of praise. Then I press my lips together and look down once more. He steps closer and his fingers tip up my face towards his, his voice is soft but there is a determined tone behind it, “Do not ever hide your smiles from me. Why do you hide your smiles from me?”

I stare up at him, he is so close, he looms over me, a mountain of muscle and hair. His cock is so close it almost is touching my face and I can smell him, rich, male. I open my mouth and try to find the words, “Um… Sir… sorry…” Then I blink and force my eyes up higher, seeking out his eyes, tipping my head back sharply, I swallow and force myself to focus on the question, “This slave’s trainer taught that this slave must be careful about her smiles, Sir. He… um… said this slave needed to focus on calming her expressions.” I try to smile again but my lips are tense and trembling, “This slave thinks he was trying to help her learn to control her nervousness, but this slave thinks all he accomplished was to make her a little more self conscious.” His hand strokes my face and I lean into his hand, letting the forced smile fade.

Gently he pulls my face against him, letting me lean my cheek against his thigh, and strokes my hair. His cock grazes my cheek and my eyes are locked on the heavy column of flesh so near. I can smell my own scent on him, as well as his own musky aroma, and I find my mouth flood with saliva. I swallow and unconsciously lick my lips. I resist the urge to lean closer to it, to press my face against it. I wonder what it would be like to try to hold it in my mouth, eyeing it, measuring it, trying to decide how much I could get in between my lips. Could I take that thing into my throat? I am a little concerned how I could accomplish this without hurting him with my teeth. My trainer had been very strict about teeth.

Again I find myself trembling under his hands. Somehow this feels right, I am learning he likes my vulnerability, my nervous uncertainty, and I do not fight the quivering in my muscles. I close my eyes and wait.

His voice is soft and musing, “So much to do, and I want so much from you, little hummingbird. I want it all, I want to take you, use you. Part of me wants to just go fucking crazy, but at the same time I find myself wanting to protect you. I do not want to overwhelm you and I know I have that effect on people, women especially.” His words send waves of exhilarated fear through me. He pulls me to my feet and I stand, swaying a little, his hands holding both my upper arms, holding me in front of him. “Do not doubt I will take it all, but I want to take my time, to savor every second of this time.” He paused and then spoke again, “You remember your safe words?”

“Yes, Sir, they said to use the usual ones, red for stop, yellow for when things are getting too much and I need moderation or to communicate.”

“Good, I want you to use them if things get to be too much. I know I am big, and I know that I am very strong. I very much try to be careful, but I also know I could hurt you accidentally and that is not my wish. I never want to hurt you accidentally.” His voice drops to a sharp growl, “And there will be times of pain, intentional pain, welcome pain. You will give that to me, won’t you, slave?”

Long shuddering shivers are running through my whole body, and I am completely focused on his lips as he says the words that seem to bore through me. I breathe the words, “Oh yes, Sir, yes.” The world seems to fade and blur again and I feel waves of weakness as I surrender to his words. My legs begin to cave in under me and I dangle limp in his hands, hardly able to hold my head up.

His grip tightens holding me up, and he hisses, “Stand up.” I blink and nod reflexively as my legs straighten up under me, taking my weight once more.

I stand still trapped in his grasp and while I can support my weight, the world is distant and swirling, I need his support to keep my balance. I blurt out, “Sorry, kind of dizzy,” and then I give a little hiccup of a giggle, “Sir.”

He sweeps me up in his arms and carries me out of the bathroom and puts me down on the bed. He looks at me closely and asks, “When is the last time you ate or drank?”

His question takes me by surprise. I blink and try to think. I drank water on the airplane, but the little package of pretzels had held no appeal. It had been a long flight, with a long layover connection. I had caught the plane the day before, in the evening. The day before I had been too nervous to eat, but I did have a diet coke. My eyes widened when I realized that it had been almost forty-eight hours since I have eaten. “Sir, this slave drank water on the plane, but it has been a couple of days since she ate something. She has been pretty excited and nervous about coming to you, and just did not feel hungry.” I wonder that I still do not feel the slightest bit hungry, but my mouth and lips feel a little dry.

He shakes his head, “Well you need to eat something.” He looks thoughtful and then picks up his pants and pulls out a cell phone and looks at the face, checking the time. He shrugs and begins to pull on his clothes again, “Xantu, I want you to stay here in this bed. I am going to be back in just a short time. I do not want you to even get up and explore the cabin.” He pulls back the blankets and pushes me under them and then tucks them under the mattress, pulling them tight over my body. He arches a brow and raises an admonishing finger, “I know you are a curious little bird, but obey me in this. I will know if you get up. I would caution you to not even move about too much. I want this bed to be exactly like I left it.”

He turns off the light as he leaves the room and closes the door. I can hear him talking to someone on his phone and then the front door of the cabin opens and shuts. I hear him walk down the front steps, his step surprisingly light and then there is silence. I lay listening intently to the world around me. I know it must be late afternoon. There is a window in the bedroom, but there is a heavy curtain over it and a door that must lead outside. A dim light filters in through the open bathroom door. I realize that there is no television in the room. The furnishings are Spartan and rustic. A heavy dresser sits against one wall, and a large painting of a landscape hangs over it. The exterior walls are the same golden varnished logs of the front room and as I scan them, I tense to see several inconspicuous hooks along one of them. Perhaps they are for hanging clothing, but they are a little too high and spread widely. I recognize that their placement is more suited for bondage.

I think back to my choice. The matching service had approached me, a discrete email praising my erotic stories and enquiring about my experiences regarding the lifestyle. I had written back my usual, “thank you, but I really have little experience… this is all just my fantasies,” response. They had written back carefully talking about what it would be like to have my fantasies come true, not even stating the existence of their service until they had determined that I was a likely candidate. I had recently ended a long term relationship and it had seemed that an impossible dream could come true.

It had taken almost a year of careful communication for me to decide, to make the decision to give up my job and give them the money. It had been all my savings plus the money from selling my car to get the payment. The evaluation and training had been rigorous, but they said if I was unable to complete it I would only be refunded half my money. They had been especially careful to screen me for any health problems. They had tested my responses to sexual stimulation, pain, and put me through dozens of hours of psychological testing and counseling. There had been much less sex than I had expected. The trainer had only had direct sexual contact with me a few times in the four weeks, but he had been thorough in testing me with toys, bondage, and pain.

All this was in preparation to me voluntarily giving up my old life, my freedom, to give myself totally to the care and management of a Master, to finally live the life I had always just written about, dreamed about. The service had been very clear that they had screened and evaluated all the people they worked with just as carefully. They were very open about the fact that poor matches meant possible retraining and another attempt at finding the correct Master, which would cut into their profit margin. They were very confident that the man they found for me matched me both in temperament and needs.

I had lived at the training center for two weeks after the actual training was completed. I had been given one day’s notice that they had found the right one for me. So far they were right. There was something about this huge man that held me riveted, fascinated. Even my habitual nervousness felt muted in the face of his power.

I was a little anxious by his statements about pain. For me pain was a puzzle. I loved the idea, the mere thought of being spanked, whipped, or caned was incredibly erotic, but the actual experience sometimes was too intense. But it had never been erotic while it happened during my training period. I struggled with waves of panic, fear that I would not be able to take as much as was expected of me. But I liked the emotional state afterward, the feeling of almost worshipful awe I felt toward the person who had done this thing to me. I told myself that the service would have put something about that into my profile, to trust he would understand.

I hear his steps coming onto the front deck. He moves around the front room for a while and then the door to the bedroom is kicked open. He fills the doorway, blocking out the brighter light of the other room briefly as he comes in. He elbows the light switch and I look at him curiously. I lie motionless, still in the exact same position he left me in. He stands over me and looks carefully at the blankets and then nods and smiles. “Good girl, go ahead and get up now. Come on out to the front room to eat.”

I push myself up, pulling the tight blankets loose, and stand up. As I cautiously follow him back into the other room, I can smell the rich smell of meat and onions and to my surprise my mouth waters. I look curiously at the food on the table. On it are a couple of large covered stainless steel bowls, a basket with a cloth napkin covering some kind of bread, and a pitcher of what looked looks like iced tea. I wonder where he had gone to get the food. Obviously there is some kitchen or restaurant nearby. He had not been gone that long.

There is only one plate and only one chair at the table, and I stand uncertainly. He points at the floor near the chair and grunts the words, “Kneel there.”

A wave of comfort rolls over me with the command and I sink to my knees. I realize I do not want to make the smallest of decisions; I desperately need his direction in all things. I once again assume the posture, back arched, knees spread. He sits and begins to serve himself a generous helping of what looks like stew and then from the other bowl, rice. He stirs them up together on the plate and, using a large tablespoon, takes a bite. He frowns and gets up and comes back with salt and pepper. He seasons the food and then takes several large bites. I find myself almost drooling as I watch the spoon go from the plate to his mouth. He catches me watching and grins around a mouthful of food, “So are you feeling hungry now?”

I swallow down the mouthful of spit and nod eagerly, “Yes, Sir.”

“Open wide,” and as I open my mouth he scoops up a big spoonful of the food and pushes it into my mouth. It is a lot, all at once and I find my mouth stuffed full of rich, delicious meat, vegetables, and rice. I have trouble closing my mouth around it all and self-consciously cover my mouth with my hand as I maneuver the food around, chew, and swallow. As I work my way around the food, he takes another large bite and then looks at me curiously, “Too much?”

“A little bit too much, Sir.”

The next bite is a little smaller and for the rest of the meal he alternates bites, one for him, one for me. He cleans the plate and scoops some more food onto the plate. I start to feel full and finally hold my hand up nervously, tentatively blocking the spoon coming toward my mouth, “Please, Sir, this slave wishes to communicate to you that she has had enough. Please, Sir, this slave wishes to say that she is afraid if she eats too much she may become nauseous.” He pauses and looks at me and the spoon, his expression a little perplexed. He looks a little frustrated with what looks like refusal, but I can tell he has heard my concern. In many ways things hang in a balance here with this small thing. It is the first time I have communicated a need to refuse him anything. I drop my hand back to my side and obediently open my mouth for the next bite, but he shrugs and eats the bite of food. He quickly shovels the rest of the food into his mouth. He pulls back the napkin and grabs a large golden biscuit and takes a bite without butter. He breaks off a bite sized crumb and feeds it to me with his fingers. It is soft and warm and honey sweet, but he does not offer me a second bite.

I look longingly at the pitcher, and finally whisper, “Sir, this slave would respectfully beg for a drink.” The sound of the tea being poured into the glass is like heaven, and as he holds the lip of the glass to my lips I suck down almost two thirds of the glass before I stop to breathe. I whisper again, “Thank you, Sir.”

He holds the glass and looks down at me, “More?” I nod eagerly and he lets me drink the rest.

As he slides back in his chair and stands up, he comments, “I guess I should realize that you are not going to eat as much as me. Go ahead and put the leftovers away, I will build a fire. As I stand, he heads out the door and leaves it open. I gather the bowls of food and see that there is not so much left, I replace the covers and open the small half-sized refrigerator. I notice it is completely empty, not even any condiments or ice cubes. I rinse the plate, glass and spoon. I am tempted to explore the rest of the cupboards, but hear him coming up the stairs and he comes in with a large armload of wood. He drops it on the hearth with a crash and somehow the sudden noise makes me jump, even though I had anticipated it.

I realize I am standing staring at him and I cast my eyes around, wanting to kneel but unsure exactly where. I choose a halfway point in the center of the room, facing him. He quickly builds a fire, and I can tell he has done this so often that it is automatic and natural. He picks up his pipe from the mantle and moves to sit in the single large wooden rocker and begins to fill it with tobacco. As he lights it the aromatic smell fills the room. He rocks looking into the fire, but I am looking at him. He holds far more fascination than the flickering flames.

He looks over at me and snaps his fingers, “Boots, slave.”

I crawl over to him and once more remove his boots and put on his slippers. I remain kneeling and look at the fire as the kindling is slowly consumed and the larger logs begin to catch, but all my awareness is focused on him. Somehow I know that soon I will be drowning in sensations again and I wonder what he will do to me now. The thought is electrifying. I can feel my heart start to beat faster and a throb of excitement begins in my cunt.

Finally he stands and taps the bowl of the pipe against the inside wall of the fireplace, I watch as a cascade of sparks showers out with the ashes and then he takes a poker and rearranges the logs and pulls the screen closed. He turns to me and snaps his fingers and points at the bedroom. A wave of delicious terror rolls over me as I realize he plans to use me again. I am standing nervously by the bed when he comes in. Again he snaps his fingers and points at the bed. I scramble up and lie down on my back, automatically spreading my arms and legs.

He laughs at my prompt and apparently eager obedience and again pulls off his clothes. He grabs one of my legs and pulls me around to the edge of the bed, pushing my knees up and wide. He drops to his knees and looks up at me with a predatory look in his eyes before he bends to take my whole cleft in his mouth. I convulse in sudden intense sensation, I am reminded of his ravenous kisses, too fast, too rough, insatiable. Every fiber of my being wants to shrink away, to push his face from between my legs. I squirm in his grasp, panicked squeaks and yelps leaking from my lips.

I can hear words in my cries, soft protests, pleas, “Oh god, ouch, oh fuck, Oh Sir...” Horrified at what sounds like disobedience, I choke off the words and retreat into wordless squalls. I force myself to relax and spread my legs wider. I clench my eyes closed and focus on the waves of sensation, trying to sort out the cacophony of different feelings, trying to find the pleasure among the intensity. Instinctively I know if I can just find my passion I can survive this.

His beard is surprisingly soft against my thighs, and I can feel his breath coming fast and deep, both hot and cool. He is pulling at my folds, sucking them into his mouth, and I can feel his tongue strong, stroking. He is relentless, heedless of my cries. I force myself to still and breathe through my open mouth, trying to quell the noises coming from my lips. Slowly I find myself adjusting, accommodating, my cries turning to moans, a deep heat and tingling building inside me. I feel the muscles of my inner thighs tensing, rigid, while the sensations of heat began to crawl along my legs.

Right before I come, a feel a tiny wave of panic. My trainer’s voice echoing in my head, ‘Always beg permission to take your pleasure’. But I don’t know how to make it stop. I choke out the words, “Oh god, coming Sir.” And I explode under his mouth, a low strangled wail rising up and up. He does not even slow down, and my wail turns to a scream as my orgasm extends and builds.

Just as I crest, he pulls away and flips me over, up onto my knees with my ass up. I feel his cock, hard and ready, pushing me open from behind and he enters me. I let out a low grunting groan as I feel him start to fill me. He slowly works his way deeper, entering part way and pulling out and then pushing in again further. Each thrust seems to find its way deeper, until I feel him pushing forcefully against the very end of my cunt. Again the sensation of him so deep inside me is so intense as to be overwhelming. But now each thrust sends a new wave of orgasmic pleasure through me, making me cry out with my passion. I call to him, “Yes, oh god yes. Fuck me, please Sir.” And as he begins to really pound into me, the waves blend and build into a second crest, I groan out to him, “Oh god, Sir, it is so good.”

His hands grip my hips, and he slams deep into me and groans. I feel his cock flexing and pulsing deep inside me as he pumps his come deep inside me. He continues to move inside me, sliding back and forth, his hardness slowly waning, and I find myself spasming with the aftershocks of my orgasm. The thought that I had come, that I had had an orgasm, one of the first I have had during intercourse in years, crossed my mind and I give a little triumphant giggle. Sure it was a second one, but I am still pretty excited.

He slid from me and lies down pulling me to spoon with my back up against his belly. He holds me close, curling up around me, and reaches to pull a blanket up over my sweaty body. His big warm hand cups my breast and his voice rumbles through me. “What is so funny, little hummingbird?”

“This slave just feels a little giddy. This slave is happy that she could come for you.” My voice sobers, “This slave did not wait for permission before coming.”

He chuckles, the vibrations shake through me. “And you sure did come for me. I liked that. For now, do like you did, do not try to stop it, but tell me when you are coming. I like to know.” He paused and then wrapped his arm around me, “I want you to change how you talk to me a little. You have been saying ‘this slave’. I want you to start saying ‘your slave’. I want your words to remind you who owns you.”

A soft wave of happiness at this small thing lights up my face and I turn around in his arms to show him my happy smile. I murmur, “Your slave very much likes that change. It feels so right to be owned by you.”

He looks down at me and asks me a question that surprises me, “So you are a writer?”

“Yes, Sir, your slave has been writing stories for a few years.”


“Yes, Sir, your slave writes mostly bondage, domination erotica, but she also writes some fantasy and science fiction. Your slave could tell you the websites on the internet so that you may read them.”

He chuckles, “Silly little humming bird, I have read all those stories. The matching service gave me the links to them. I am very impressed. They are a big reason why I wanted you.” I look up at him in surprise. He gives me a squeeze, “A woman of words indeed.” His next question surprised me even more, “Have you done any editing?”

“Sir, your slave has done some editing for friends and fans, but she is by no means an editor. She tends to get caught up in the story and forget about the words. Your slave cannot edit her own writing at all.” I snuggle my face against his furry chest and close my eyes, my voice soft and sleepy, “Your slave’s eyes read the words, but her brain fixes them as she reads them. She has a huge blind spot for her errors. And she sucks at punctuation.”

His hand strokes my back as I speak, pressing me closer. His voice seems to vibrate through his body into mine, soft and deep and infinitely soothing, “I know what you mean, it is like the story in your head trumps the one on the page. I have the same problems.”

The revelation that he is a writer is electrifying. Part of me wants to jerk away and ask him a thousand questions. But another part of me is falling asleep so rapidly that I feel like I am rapidly sinking into a soft warm sea. All I can do is yawn against his chest and murmur in a blurry voice, “So sleepy…”

A sharp swat on my ass jerks me back awake. His voice is stern, “Are you listening to me?”

I gasp and blurt out, “Sorry, Sir, your slave was falling asleep. She is awake now.”

“Did you sleep on the plane?”

“No, Sir, your slave tried, but she was…”

He interrupts me and finishes my sentence, “…too nervous?”

My voice is chastened, “Yes, Sir.”

He abruptly pushes me away, “It is still too early to go to sleep. Get up and go take a shower. There is a small travel kit under the sink in the bathroom. In it, you will find what you need.”

I climb down from the bed and as I stand up small trickle of fluids runs down my thigh and I reach down to catch it. His massive hand is lightning fast, catching my wrist before I can stop it. He hisses, “Stop.”

I freeze and look at him, a wave of nervous uncertainty rising up in me. I wonder what I have done wrong. I start to ask, “Sir?”

“Don’t talk, just stand there.” I nod and stand motionless, looking up at him. He releases my wrist, but I leave it in the exact same position, standing manikin still, my eyes on him, full of questions. He reaches down to my thigh and rubs his fingers around in the slippery fluids escaping from my cunt. He brings his fingers up to his nose and sniffs curiously and then to my surprise licks them off, a curious expression on his face. He murmurs, “Interesting.” And his fingers return to my thigh and then run up to my gooey vagina, picking up more fluids. This time he holds his sticky fingers to my nose and then he whispers, “Lick them off, taste it.” I open my lips and he pushes the fingers into my mouth.

The flavor is rich and salty, a mixture of his come and my fluids. I suck eagerly on his fingers, swallowing down the flood of saliva that fills my mouth. I close my eyes and hum a soft, “Mmm.” He pulls his fingers from my mouth and reaches down again, once more collecting the fluids of our union and pressing them to my mouth. My mouth and nose are filled with the pungent sent and flavor, and this time as he pulls his fingers from my mouth he kisses me, deeply, his tongue delving deep, sharing the flavor with me.

When his lips release me, he growls soft and deep, “You taste fucking amazing. I am going to eat you up, pretty little hummingbird.” He chuckles, “Okay, go on then. Take that shower and then come out to the front room.”

I find the travel case where he said it would be and quickly shower and shave my legs and armpits. I shave the area around the lower lips of my cunt but leave the hair above. There is no hair dryer so I just comb out my wet hair. There is no deodorant and I wonder about that. I brush and floss my teeth carefully and then head out to the front room. He is sitting in the big rocking chair, still nude, smoking his pipe. There are no lights on in the room beyond the flickering light of the flames. As I move to kneel at his feet, I see that there is a large cloth covered pillow on the floor next to the fireplace, and as I look more closely at it I realize it is a dog bed for a very large breed dog. There is a light blanket folded neatly next to it. He points at the bed, “You will be sleeping there.”

I nod, and murmur, “Your slave hears and obeys.” I crawl into the bed and curl up. It is surprisingly comfortable as long as I do not try to straighten out my legs. It is soft and smells like cedar. I rest my head on the raised edge and look calmly at the flames in the fireplace. My new Master sits beside me, smoking his pipe. I am drifting slowly off to sleep when he leans over and puts the blanket over me. Again he whispers, “Welcome home, xantu.” I am too sleepy to respond and it was not a question after all.

I awake in the night, disoriented and needing to urinate. I can hear him in the other room, snoring loudly, a constant rasping rumble. I slip silently from my bed, noting that the fire has died down to a few glowing coals. I tiptoe into the bathroom and sit down on the toilet in the dark. I do not flush, fearful of waking him. After I am back in my bed, I lay there thinking to myself. He is a writer. Once more I am very curious to learn about his stories. Did the matching service find him through his writing, like they had found me? Did that mean he wrote erotica too? I wondered if he was published. He had questioned me about editing and I wondered if he was going to ask me to do that for him. One of the things I had feared most about giving up my life was the thought that perhaps I would not be able to write like I had before. That perhaps my new Master would not allow this. The matching service had assured me that they would not match me with anyone that did not understand my needs. I lay in the dark listening to his snoring, a soft smile warming my face. He is a writer. He will understand. As I drifted back asleep, I could not help but giggle a little; the dog bed is not so bad. I am sure I would not have been able to sleep at all with him sawing logs like that in the same bed.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010


I would like to thank Kelly for sending me a link to this poem... it fits perfectly with my thoughts about not letting stress get to me, with my assertion that I am a duck.

By FW Harvey

(To E.M., Who drew them in Holzminden Prison)


From troubles of the world I turn to ducks,
Beautiful comical things
Sleeping or curled
Their heads beneath white wings
By water cool,
Or finding curious things
To eat in various mucks
Beneath the pool,
Tails uppermost, or waddling
Sailor-like on the shores
Of ponds, or paddling
- Left! Right! - with fanlike feet
Which are for steady oars
When they (white galleys) float
Each bird a boat
Rippling at will the sweet
Wide waterway ...
When night is fallen you creep
Upstairs, but drakes and dillies
Nest with pale water-stars.
Moonbeams and shadow bars,
And water-lilies:
Fearful too much to sleep
Since they've no locks
To click against the teeth
Of weasel and fox.
And warm beneath
Are eggs of cloudy green
Whence hungry rats and lean
Would stealthily suck
New life, but for the mien
The hold ferocious mien
Of the mother-duck.


Yes, ducks are valiant things
On nests of twigs and straws,
And ducks are soothy things
And lovely on the lake
When that the sunlight draws
Thereon their pictures dim
In colours cool.
And when beneath the pool
They dabble, and when they swim
And make their rippling rings,
0 ducks are beautiful things!
But ducks are comical things:-
As comical as you.
They waddle round, they do.
They eat all sorts of things,
And then they quack.
By barn and stable and stack
They wander at their will,
But if you go too near
They look at you through black
Small topaz-tinted eyes
And wish you ill.
Triangular and clear
They leave their curious track
In mud at the water's edge,
And there amid the sedge
And slime they gobble and peer
Saying 'Quack! quack!'


When God had finished the stars and whirl of coloured suns
He turned His mind from big things to fashion little ones;
Beautiful tiny things (like daisies) He made, and then
He made the comical ones in case the minds of men
Should stiffen and become
Dull, humourless and glum,
And so forgetful of their Maker be
As to take even themselves - quite seriously.
Caterpillars and cats are lively and excellent puns:
All God's jokes are good - even the practical ones!
And as for the duck, 1 think God must have smiled a bit
Seeing those bright eyes blink on the day He fashioned it.
And he's probably laughing still at the sound that came out of its bill!

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Attitude Adjustment

“Get downstairs!”

“What for?” My question was information seeking, not challenging. As I got up and headed for the basement, I was genuinely puzzled. Not sixty seconds before he had said we were going out, just running errands; bank, grocery store, and maybe hardware store. And I was doing it. I really thought he had thought of some last minute chore that needed doing before we got into the car.

“Don’t ask me why!”

He shoved me hard face down onto the bed. Ohhhh, oh, okay. I get it. I had been pouting a bit. I've been better, a lot better, but still fragile, still not quite as sure of myself. And he had been pretty gruff all morning, and with each growl, each heavy handed correction I had gotten quieter, more distant, shrunken up deeper inside myself. A little attitude adjustment seemed to be in order.

I was already wearing my cuffs and collar and he wrenched my hands behind my back, tried to thread some rope through the rings and growled in frustration when the rope was too thick to fit through. I giggled and commented that I had not had ropes in mind when I designed these cuffs and crawled over to the side of the bed and reached for the toy bag and handed him a couple snap hooks. And then on impulse I slipped on a blind fold.

My heart was racing, it has been months and months since he has done any kind of bondage. I still wasn’t sure exactly what he had in mind. The last few times it was just goofy. Tie her up and see if she could get loose. Nothing rough or even sexual, just experiments to see what knot would hold.

He ignored the snaps for a while, still fussing with the rope and then picked up a snap and clipped my hands behind my back. Then he proceeded to tug at my arms and lift up on the waistband of my pants and I lay there trying to figure out what the hell he was trying to accomplish, not fighting but not particularly cooperating either, mostly because I just couldn’t bend that direction. After a while he snarled at me to get my ass up in the air and unsnapped my wrists and refastened them behind my knees. Another Ohhhhh moment.

He laid into me with a cane, hitting me exactly on the crease between my thighs and ass. It hurt a LOT. I didn’t know if he was hitting me harder than usual (though looking at my ass now… I know now that was exactly what he was doing.) but at the time I wondered if I was just feeling as physically sensitive as I had been emotionally. I howled and squirmed like crazy, tipping over from my knees to my side and as he continued to hit me, striking that same place over and over I continued to struggle and eventually rolled over onto my back and tried to hide my ass.

He dropped the cane and began to tug on my pants, forcing then slowly down over my hips exposing my ass inch by inch. Oh fuck, I knew if it hurt that bad over my clothing I was in deep shit if he got access to my bare ass. I was babbling, pleading, “You don’t want to do that. You don’t want to pull my pants down. It will hurt too bad. Please, don’t.” My pleas only seemed to spur him on. He took his time, selecting various implements of ass destruction from his armory. The strap was crazy, then that new narrow paddle, then the cane again, various floggers. I was squirming, gasping, screaming, yelling, giggling… more than once getting my fingers caught when I would reach down to somehow protect myself. And nothing hurts worse than taking a hit on the back of the fingers. Then, bang! Something crashed into my pussy, my bare tender exposed pussy. I think I got airborne with that one. As I thrashed on the bed, screaming louder and louder as the pain swelled and grew, blanking out my mind, he casually trailed the legs of the homemade flogger I have named ‘the squid’ over my tenderized ass.

I was breathless, “You did NOT hit my pussy with that????!!!!!”

He chuckled evilly. And I protested, “You will break my pussy!!!”

He did not say anything but when I felt a soft cloth dabbing at my labia, I asked incredulously, “I’m bleeding?”

“Just a little.” And then he chuckled, again!

“Oh you evil bastard, you broke my pussy. I just know it. You broke it.”

I had both hands clamped over my pussy. I did not care if he broke my fingers. I was not allowing him access to my pink parts again, EVAR!!! He grabbed my ankles and tied them up over my head. I think my squirming had made him accidentally hit my pussy and he wanted to hold me down a little better. I did not resist but I had not let go of my pussy either.

Once he had me tied down a little better, he was back at it, making sure that no part of my ass went unpunished, no tool or toy left off the agenda, from heavy leather flogger to nasty narrow gom jabbar. I remember him commenting once that he loved the strap best of all, because I had bought it for him. I do know he kept returning to it. He would stop and tease me, walking around the bed, touching my face, poking at my pussy and anus with the sharp tips of various things while I squealed and screamed and twisted and begged. I was raw, bruised and just a little bloody by the time he finished.

Then he walked away, leaving me blindfolded, bound, contorted, my legs up over my head, my hands still clutching between my legs, protecting my sore pussy. I lay still, puffing, listening, wondering what he had in mind now, what item he needed that he did not have at hand here in his room. I slowly, gently, tentatively ran my fingertips over my sore ass and pussy, as far as I could reach with my wrists still bound.

I had never really mellowed under that rain of sensations, he had made sure that nothing lasted long enough, predictably enough, changing up the pain too quickly for me to start to fly too high. But now, now finally left alone to feel the echoes of sensation, the afterburn? As it were? I could feel my body finally relax and the rush of my blood through my veins.

He made no effort to hide the sound of his feet on the stairs as he came back down. His voice was a little surprised, “You have not moved.”

“Was I supposed to?” My voice sounded a little foggy, distant.

He laughed and began to untie me, working his way from bound ankles and clipped wrists, ending with pulling the blind fold off. “Come on, we need to get going if you are going to get to the bank before it closes.”

Oh god, he expected me to just jump up and run those errands. Okay… okay… He is driving so I can do this… can do this… can do this. It was funny how everything seemed blurry around the edges, echoed in my head. I had to hold onto the stair railing tight as I wobbled up the stairs. When my vision cleared enough I peeked at my ass.

I am tattooed, marked, striped, and speckled. Black marks, blue marks, red, pink, and purple, my ass looks like an impressionist (snort... pun intended) painting. I bent over and check out my girl parts… was it broken???? The bite of the squid was unmistakable. A cluster of purple red contusions, sort of raw bruises the size of about two silver dollars reaches from my inner thigh up and across my labia. I am so impressed I run a fascinated finger across the sore and uneven surface, each mark raised up and tender. I hiss and cannot help but touch it again.

Even now, hours later, I can feel the sting, the ache and I remember those moments taken out before running errands. He has been an amusing mixture of pride and embarrassment. Attitude adjusted, both mine and his.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Crazy lady

Wednesday was like many before and likely the same as many to follow. But all the day long, I felt different inside. I was not comfortable in my submission. I have the urge to resist, to kick his ass into next week. It was not the same as the resistance that comes with wanting to make sure the limits are there, that he is strong enough to contain me. It was the genuine impulse to take him on and prove to him that he was not strong enough.

It scared me. I fought the impulse, but he could the flames leap up in my eyes, the tightening of my muscles. He saw me start to lift my hands and push them down again as I mastered the impulse. I wonder if somewhere deep inside his fight or flight reflexes were triggered. I wonder if he knew what kind of danger he was treading so close to. I wonder if he experienced the same little rushes of fear.

I don’t want the freedom… not really. But lately I am the crazy lady gnawing at the bars of my cage.

I don’t know if it was the series of ‘no’s’ that have emphasized my sense of isolation. Or the stress I have been swallowing down by the gallon at work. I know that the shock of terror I experienced when he did that sneak attack that night knocked down a lot of my carefully constructed internal walls. The crazy lady was loose, prowling through my psyche, clouding my perceptions.

I bit him that night. To give myself credit, it was not the savage, primitive, go for the throat and drink down his blood chomp that my gut was hungering for. It was just a nip, a kind of ‘look out, she has sharp teeth’ kind of a warning… playful like… but he was not having any of it.

And he is strong enough to physically dominate me. I am submissive enough to pull my punches, to not quite bite hard, to grudgingly comply even when I am sneering and baring my teeth, I will turn and submit to his punishments. But I don’t feel it. I don’t feel sorry. I don’t regret my actions. I send looks over my shoulder, clear, unequivocal looks of ‘go ahead, do your worst, you can’t really touch this, really make me give a flying fuck’.

Yet there is this other part of me, panicked, fearful, needy, weak and profoundly ashamed… I don’t want this rebellion, not really; but I can’t seem to relax, trust, enjoy. There is the irrational wish that he could do something to fix this, some external application to fix this internal disorganization. But the more he exerts his dominion, the more I resist. And I am not at all confident that in this battle anyone can win. I think everyone will lose.

Last night I choked on the word ‘Master’. He did the usual, kicked my chair and gave me the expectant look. I know I am supposed to say, ‘Yes, Master, is there anything I can do for you?” It is our first and oldest ritual. He kicked and I choked. He was shocked and hurt.

“You deliberately did that. You did that on purpose!”

But, you know I inhaled, I formed the words in my mind, I tried to say them and they got stuck in my throat. I was as shocked as he was. I tried to explain, to cry out my sadness but the words were confused and the tears would not come. I don’t know why I am feeling this way.

He ordered me to come and sit in his lap, to talk to him about this but I don’t have a clue as to what is going on for me. He asked a hundred questions, about food, about sleep, about work, about sex… he even asked if this was hormonal, some ten year late echo of menopause. And all he got was sad, defeated, ‘I don’t know’s. He asked if I needed more hugs, more mushy snuggles and attention or harsher, crueler, longer punishments and I said, “Yes”. He laughed and held me close for a long time.

And when I finished my bedtime routines and knelt at his feet, he delayed releasing me to go down to his bed, telling me to wait, looking down at me thoughtfully. Finally he reached down and tenderly gathered my hair into his fist and twisted my head back, forcing me to arch my back. The only thing that kept me from falling was my desperate grip on the front of his shirt. He leaned down and began to bite and kiss my neck, not hard, not painful and for some totally inexplicable reason it tickled. It tickled like crazy and I could not help but squirm and giggle.

He tightened his grip of my hair, pulled me even further out of balance and pushed it further, growling, scrubbing his whisker stubble against my neck, ears and chest, making motor boats, biting, tickling until I was screaming with uncontrollable laughter. He kept me like that until I was weak, my belly aching from laughing, my face wet with tears. And you know, even though I could not cry, could not find my tears… the laughter loosened some of the tension in my gut, freed some of my fears and doubts.

This morning he is extra attentive, extra watchful… his eyes sharp and gauging. He is taking my measure and I sense he is making his plans.

And today is a new day. Work has gradually been getting better, getting less stressful. Being a duck has been helpful. Now I need to focus on what I am here at home, while I am his.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010



I have been tired when I get home. I am totally zonked. I have not really been working all that hard, I just have been so stressed. When things start to go wrong, things put away in the wrong place, other people not doing their job right... things left undone... I start to stress. I way over react. I try to fix everything. I want predictability... I want CONTROL. I get biiiiiiitchy. I irritate people. I don't even like me at times like that. So I have decided that I am a duck.

I am not in control. I am not the queen of the whole fucking school. I can't fix things. I sure as hell can't control things. I am a duck. Stress is the water that rolls off my back. I can keep busy, do my job the best I can, help and support people when they ask... and not BEFORE they ask.

I can be a busy duck...

See the busy feet... yet serene... all blue water and happy feet. Yes I am a duck. In fact just about any time during the school day, you will see me going "quack" quietly, serenely or even frantically. Quack.

So speaking of cheese... You regular readers may remember me commenting once about poisoning the ants that have been eating my house.

Look what those little fuckers did to my house... MY HOUSE!!!!

Now Master has to fix it.

I know, not the most flattering of angles, but I am a little mad at him... well, a LOT mad at him.

I was in the kitchen, making cornbread to go along with the delicious left over vegetable beef soup we were having for dinner. He was walking back and forth, up and down the stairs. I was not paying a whole lot of attention to him. MISTAKE!!! BIG MISTAKE... BANG!!!

He hit me with this.

It was like a bomb going off in the kitchen. It lifted me right up off the ground. I peed my pants. It scared the holy living fuck out of me. It hurt, but it was not the pain, it was the complete, total, absolute shock and subsequent terror. I cried. He laughed. I cried some more, blubbering in incoherent outrage. He laughed and laughed and laughed. I got MAD. There is nothing that shakes my resolve to be good than being scared and then mocked.

I was shooting daggers at him. I lifted my hand to hit him. And he lifted a brow, shut the front door and bent me over and caned my pissy ass. If I was allowed gratuitous ass pictures I could put up the rosy red result. And I am still mad and if I don't watch out... goose will be cooked.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Hard day at work... can make for a hard night at home.

What a bitch of day... work just sucked. And to make matters worse, I took a bitch of day and managed to have to eat a plate full of shit at the last part of it.

Now you need to remember that I work with disabled kids... all kinds of disabled kids, developmentally disabled kids, autistic kids, crazy kids, angry kids, violent kids. I get name called, kicked, hit, spit on on an almost daily basis... and you know that does not bother me, because I have this thing called rational detachment. I remember that these kids are what they are... pick your label... and it is not me. It is them. But when I get pissed on... even just metaphorically by my coworkers I just get livid. No fucking rational detachment there... I fucking expect them to act professionally... to be nice... to fucking understand we all want the best for these little fragments of protoplasm that are other people's children.

Take today... I had a kid... a singularly crazy kid (crazy in the clinical sense). He kept running away from his classroom. I think because he did not want to do work... but I never got a clear sense of what work or why. Anyway, he was running away... but not from school... just from class. He would run all the way to the play ground and then climb to the top of the tallest monkey bars and sit there. Okay... fine by me... let him sit. He knows that eventually he will have to come down... I know he will eventually come down and when he does he will be calmer, we can sit down and figure out why running away and climbing up on the monkey bars might not be the best solution to his problem. And I am cool with waiting until that time.

But my problem is the other staff person that is not cool with waiting. This staff person was circling the monkey bars and demanding that the kid come down... amusingly the kid did not even say "no", he just sat there and ignored. Other staff person continued to demand, threaten with dire consequences (many of which weren't entirely legal... like "you won't get lunch" or "you will get suspended" or "we will come up and get you") Let me tell you, that kid was not presenting imminent harm to himself or anybody else. We do NOT just grab and wrestle kids because we are pissed at them because they ignore us, especially when they are high up on a set of monkey bars. And face it, if an obviously angry adult was at the bottom of your tree snarling and barking at you, would you come down? I know I wouldn't. I tried to get the dumb ass to please stop talking, that I had things well in hand, that he could just go in and deal with less frustrating pupils. But you know... that staff member was so involved in winning this power struggle that he was as about as responsive to my directions as the little lump on the top of the monkey bars.

Anyway, this crazy kid managed to get talked down off his perch no less than four times, coming in and then running away again FOUR FUCKING TIMES. As you can probably guess the angry staff person was starting to foam at the mouth. And I can sympathize. The kid was a royal fucking pain in the ass. But nobody seemed to be asking the question, "why is this kid doing this?"

Anyway, I got called away to deal with other issues... and other than hearing chatter on the walkie talkies I was out of the loop for the last two runaways.

When I got off lunch, I wandered up to that end of the school, to the "room" that is reserved for dealing with kids that need to sit and contemplate their transgressions. It is called a calm room. You go there to calm down. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it just makes things worse. Anyway, I need something from there, a label maker and when I walk in, there is this scene, the principal has said "crazy kid" sitting on the floor beside him, holding his hand. Said kid is writhing, complaining and trying to hit or kick but the principal is calm and cool, and has good reflexes so he just deflects the blows and keeps trying to calm the kid down. But the angry staff person is still there, still stalking around, still making demands and threats. Then he stands close, only a three or four feet from the two people on the floor and begins to do this thing, he swings his hands, clapping them behind his back and then swings them forward and claps them in front of his body. He is a tall man, his arms are long, the tips of his finger tips are just inches from the kid's nose.

Kaboom, kid stops squirming and making small swings and kicks, he explodes. Um... duh... talk about poking a frantic person with a sharp stick. He ends up locked in a seclusion room. Last resort... but I cannot help but think that it could have been avoided. I ended up being the one dealing with this, putting that kid back together again in time to catch his cab to go home. (Yes, he is that crazy, we cannot put him on a school bus.)

It took that kid a long time to calm down. He hurt himself trying to beat the door down, nothing serious but I am sure he will have bruises on his feet and knees. I barely got him coherent. I did not try to do the "what happened/what could we have done different" conversation. I just soothed and distracted. And then when the cab came, I called down to the classroom... "Bring up this guys personal stuff, please so he can walk directly to his cab."

And when the person came with his things, just a back pack and the kid's shoes, they were still wanting to win, to somehow make this kid regret what they had done. They held the shoes just out of this kids reach and demanded to know if this kid knew he had to do homework... the very school work that started this whole fiasco... I reached for the shoes, just wanting to get the kid out to his cab without another explosion. And they pulled the shoes just out of my reach.

And you know, I just snatched those shoes from them. I was tired of the way they were just making things get worse and worse and worse. I did not care if that kid ever "got" what a dumb, crazy pain in the ass he had been all day long. I just wanted him out of there.

Long story short, that staff person transferred every ounce of frustration from the kid right onto me. I guess I should have realized. Snatching those shoes was not the smartest thing, but I was just done with the torment the kid game. He was crazy enough without their help.

Long story short, I ended up saying to the person that I was sorry that I had "disrespected" them. And they were right, I should have tried to get the shoes in a more professional way. I ate the shit warm with a big spoon rather than have a coworker all pissy with me for the rest of the school year.

And longer story short, I was so engrossed in getting this whole thing spewed out, regurgitated, that when Master walked in, I hardly noticed he was in the house until he was standing in front of me. I tried to stand up, to cower at his feet and he just knocked me down, hard back down onto the couch. I did a serious face plant onto the couch, twisting and compressing my neck. Something actually made a crunching sound. I was experimentally turning my head to see if I was really broken as he was laying into my ass with the cane. I grumbled that he was not being fair... that he had not stopped at his normal stop and unload his pockets place and I would have gotten up... I really would have... though I don't know if I would have... this day was seriously crappy, and I was not in my right mind.

And to make matters worse when I told Master about my day, he told me that I was too nice to my coworkers, that I should have gotten up into their faces. He was angry with me that I had not been more assertive. He says things like, "You should have said, "okay you dumb son of a bitch, get the fuck out of here and let me do my job."... yeah like I can talk like that at work and like people ever listen to anybody that talks like that.

Okay... I know I listen to him when he talks like that... in fact it sort of turns me on... but at work... pullleasssse.

But speaking of cheese... Master's big TV was not working. And I just suggested to him... "Have you tried whacking it on the side?" And you want to know something fucking cool... he did... and IT STARTED WORKING AGAIN. I am awesome!!!!

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Damn it...

After yesterdays fucking, not only was I irritable and tired... I was forgetful. I forgot to take my PRN antibiotic and now I have a UTI. Damn... damn... damn... at least my PRN will double as a remedy. I will double dose myself today and then make a serious effort to suck down an extra gallon or two of liquids.

Right now, it is in that almost pleasurable agony stage. I need to pee allllllllll the time but when I sit only a few drops dribble out. Then a wave of not quite pain... not quite pleasure... a whole body shiver of almost orgasmic sensation sweeps over me. A wave of goose bumps chases across my skin, I can feel all the hair on my head stand up... I literally shudder all over. If that was all there is I could become as addicted to this as I am to scratching my.... oh... um... never mind. But experience tells me that eventually it will soon become all pain... unbearable pain... with aches, fever and fatigue. And I have had enough lectures from doctors about kidney disease to reflexively reach for the drugs.

And already it is sapping my energy... all I want to do is sit and stare at the TV. Master has me on light duty but he did give me the "do I need to remind you to take your medicine lecture"... and I ducked and mumbled "yes, probably would be a good idea".

Luckily the D&D game is canceled (mannn I am revealing all my geeky kinky secrets aren't I)... all I have to do now is cook the dinner later on and I still have tomorrow to get caught up.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Shower sex and headaches don't mix.

He wanted to go for a cycle ride first. He usually does, claiming in that 'know for sure' voice that it makes the fucking better after some exercise. But his bike had a flat tire. I suggested going for a walk. I kinda miss going for walks sometimes but he ordered me directly to the shower.

I had been dealing with a nagging headache, well not exactly a headache, more a painful place on the back of my head, like a little man had had hit me with a hammer. It sometimes feels like that, a pop and zing, then if I reach back and touch, the very scalp and skull underneath hurts. It is most likely a tiny muscle spasm. And just when you get used to it, the pain starts to ease, the little fucker nails me again. POP... Zing.... I had hoped that the ride and rush of oxygen would chase it away but now I quickly popped some "Aleve" and stripped down telling myself that the drugs would work.

He was all up in my grill, watching me critically as I brushed my teeth, once again upping the expectations. He had me use one of his new electric toothbrushes... a sonic one again. I hate sonic toothbrushes, they make my nose itch. But there is no fighting it when he decides something. I met his narrow, gauging eyes with mine and tried my best to hold the brush at the exact angles he was dictating.

In the shower he hurried me through my washing and shaving, soaping my ass as I bent over to shave my legs. For years I was so humiliated by his "making sure my ass was clean" I was incapable of the simplest of hygiene, but then again, apparently I can't even brush my teeth without his guidance. I have learned since, that the act of washing my ass carries some very strong sexual trigger for him. And it worked just like it always does... in fact he got impatient and started to bend me over before I finished shaving... I think I have a 50/50 shaved pussy. (starting a whole new style). I got one side all smooth and nice, the other half still sports a 'stache.

He fucked me for a while and then the sharp tap on the shoulder to signal me to turn around quickly and make my mouth available. We proceeded like this, fuck, suck, fuck some more. Finally one of the peremptory taps turned into a grab and I was disoriented, hesitating, this wordless yank and push was not familiar. I sent a questioning look up to his face and he shoved me down on my back, flat on the floor of the shower, his words were short. "Play with your pussy." He knelt between my legs, looking down, lazily jerking off as he watched me. Then he began to stick his fingers into me, into my ass and pussy both, growling under his breath as I tensed and trembled, building closer to orgasm.

I came hard, crying out and thrashing around on hook of his fingers. But there is no rest for the weary, and he had me up and his cock deep into my throat before I even stopped spasming. By the time he tapped me with the "get up and bend over" nudge and slammed into me, coming what seemed like a gallon into my pussy. I remember still being bent over after he pulled out, watching the stream of come ooze out and run down my leg. He helped me to stand up and I leaned up against the side of the shower. The water had gotten cold, and I watched him lather up and scrub any possible contamination, any smear of nasty fluid from his skin with tired eyes.

The headache had gotten worse. I don't know if it was the orgasm or the being bent over sharply, or the straining that comes with tightening up my cunt muscles on his cock, or the repeated violent gagging that comes with the rough face fucking... but I was trashed. Normally we start in the shower and finish in bed and afterward I can curl up under warm blankets rather than shiver under a cold shower. Normally I feel giddy and happy after a good fuck... but today I was sad and unusually irritable. My head hurt, I was tired... when Master touched me I froze and shrank into myself.

"You really don't feel good." It wasn't a question, but I wordlessly shook my head. I could feel that my forehead was crimped into a perpetual frown. After I made his breakfast he interrogated me as to my food consumption in the last 24 hours, pronounced that I should eat more protein. He sent me to bed with orders to take a nap... I think I lay there half asleep, half awake for a couple of hours.

I am still irritable. I miss that happy, warm, relaxed feeling I usually have after Master soundly fucks my brains out.