Friday, October 29, 2010
But this process, this intense immersion into the scene, the smells, the sensations, the thoughts, the feelings... It makes me lose myself. I take on the personalities of my characters. I need to be careful. It can get out of control. I must take time to step away, to open my eyes and look around, to remember who I really am.
And I must avoid writing about characters too angry, too crazy, too violent... their thinking leaks in, contaminates my own. When I wrote about Skitty, I started to think about how one would go about hiding bodies.
For the last week, I have been profoundly sad, slow, tired, dull... I started to blame the mythical "sub drop" because the first hints of this malaise crept up over me immediately after some intense play with Master. (Though I have never had any kind of "drop" before.) I wanted to blame work, or the weather or anything but in reality, on Saturday morning I had forced myself to pick up an old story, a sweet story about recovery from deep depression brought on by past traumas... my publisher had sent it back, wanted me to explore this recovery, give it a more realistic time frame.
So I have been there with this character. Dragging her out of the darkness, but in order to do it, I had to go there too. It has been a struggle, voluntarily stepping out of the light, facing her monsters with her and dragging her (and myself as well) back toward the world of the living. And as I do this, I have been sooooo fucking tired, weak... I find myself giving up on things too easily, work, chores, focus on writing. I come home... all plans to set the timer for an hour and get some work done, forgotten, discarded, and just sit and stare at the television.
We are almost back, the door is about to open for her, but for now, I find my eyes filling with tears, my smiles lost somewhere deep inside. After this I think I need to go back to Junie, a cute little obsessive house cleaner and eager masochist. This place could use a little more Junie.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I think it is a mix of cynicism, the fatalistic belief that any effort on my part would be futile, would not be listened to. And part, not wanting to take on the weight of being right. And part... a big part... the fact I am changed. He has changed me. I am not so invested in being right. Less convinced that there is even a right or wrong way to do things.
It has spread through my thinking. It distorts my perspectives... I watch my peers do things totally against policy, things potentially dangerous and counter to all my beliefs and training and when I ask... "why are you doing it that way"... and they make rationalizations that carry no weight with me. And then I just blink and shrug and say, "Okay." And walk away.
Sometimes I do a reality check. I will ask someone nominally in charge, "Has this policy changed?" And when they tell me "no", I nod, blink and shrug and walk away. It is just slightly disorienting to have the rules changed or have them disregarded around me. I know that I, on some very basic level, am compromising my values. And by my passive acceptance, am made culpable by my very awareness that others are not following policy and my inability to confront them leaves me standing there doing nothing.
I wonder about this. Is it just the sense of leaderlessness that seems to have taken over the whole school? Is it really that Master has finally, finally softened me, found and exploited my submissiveness to the point that I am uncomfortable with assertion? Is it just the resurgence of dark and rainy weather? Is it the story I am working on, the girl so depressed she cannot think or talk or even notice the passage of time that has taken up residence in my head? Or is it just getting old?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
I must confess that I like the idea of you guys staying in the shadows. It makes you all that more mysterious, vaguely scary... luminous eyes reflecting the light of my creative fires. Yes, stay out there, just out of reach, made all the more magical by your mystery.
But if you must approach the flames... come, sit down, warm your hands. Tell me what attracts you to my little circle of light...
Is it the humor?
Is it the sex?
Is it the fiction?
Is it my wisdom and insight... snort, cough, gag...
So thank you for lurking. Thank you for making my little hit counter tick up higher and higher numbers. Isn't that a strange little thing, ultimately meaningless, but I peek at it from time to time.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
I think one of the best things about Master’s rigid adherence to routine is when he does make a left turn, changes it up; everything is suddenly filled with sweet surprise. Suddenly I don’t know what to expect.
As I write this I have this thought that the routine, the predictability breeds expectation and on some very basic level the illusion of control. If I know what to expect, I know what to do and if I know what I am supposed to do, I am getting ready for the next expected step in the dance. When I am bent over in the shower, not only am I focused on what I am supposed to be doing at that moment, I am also getting ready for the inevitable tap, the signal to switch position, to spin around and open my mouth.
So when Master steps off the path, the treadmill, and heads off in some unexpected direction, it takes me by surprise, leaves me breathless with uncertainty. I can’t know what to do, can’t know what he expects; I have to pay infinitely close attention to him. All sense of certainty and control magically evaporates.
I know we have been flirting with various ideas of bondage. I have been sanding and painting and attaching various pieces of hardware to my spreader bar. He has been demanding that I wear my collar, wrist and ankle cuffs during everyday activities. He took me to the hardware store and bought a number of snap hooks and dug out some rope and figured out an ingenious way to just hook them to a loop.
But Master is not one to show his hand. And definitely not one to change his ways, and I know better than to even hope for change or have a wish or indulge in expectation. And our day started exactly like every weekend day does. Quiet and coffee, computers and parallel play… him killing monsters… me writing about them. Then the quick, sharp directive comes to change gears, to put on exercise clothing and to come for a cycle ride. All normal… all expected… all safe and predictable.
We get home and I know without needing to think that I will be in the shower soon, bent over or on my knees, waiting the signal to turn and present the other orifice for his pleasure. And there is a certain masochistic pleasure there, the knowledge that he likes it this way and that his likes take precedent, that my need for kink, need for novelty, need for pain and helplessness and humiliation take fourth or fifth or last place in his world. I don’t know if selfishness is the right word… because it rings negatively in my head. He definitely puts himself first but so do I.
All the rituals were there, the stripping of clothing, a brief interlude in the bedroom when he questions why I have two towels… somehow this offends his sensibilities. I guess a person in this house should have only one towel hanging on their hook. This is normal, a constant observation and constant correction… it is the core of control. It is familiar; it is the real rope that binds me to him.
We move to the bathroom, all the same preparations, micromanaged tooth brushing, shaving under his sharp eagle eyes, waiting to enter into the shower after him, careful to stay in my tiny corner while I shampoo, soap and finish shaving. Waiting his touch to let me know when I have permission to move into the water to rinse. I remember I got soap in my eye and stood there all squinched up, waiting. It did not occur to me to tell him that I had soap in my eye. He noticed my face and said in an impatient voice that I could have asked to rinse my face if I had soap in my eye. But that is not part of the dance, me asking for things. I think I would rather stand there with soap in my eye than to step off the path. I am not allowed to step off the path, break tradition or ritual.
His first touch is familiar, the sudden demanding shove down on my shoulders and after a token resistance, a sparkle of mock “make me” in my eyes, I am down on my knees, fluffing him for the next step in the dance, the tap that means stand up and bend over.
But the tap does not come.
He says… SAYS… (you need to know that Master rarely verbalizes during sex) He says, “Stand up.”
I boggle. I stop sucking and my eyes lift up and up and meet his, staring at him in confusion with his cock still in my mouth, not sure if I heard him correctly.
He turns off the water. Now I really don’t know what is going on.
We get out and dry off. He is talking about mundane shit, politics or maybe social issues? For the life of me… I can’t remember. I don’t think I was listening all that closely. I am still trying to figure out what is happening. Trying to guess what is coming next so I will know what I am supposed to do. I have lost my sense of control and I am more than a little uncomfortable.
He does not head downstairs. He wraps the towel around himself and wanders into my room and begins to gather up things… rope… leather collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, spreader bar. He does not speak when he walks down stairs and I follow with wide eyes.
He wordlessly hands me the cuffs and I begin to put them on, fumbling with buckles, distracted because he is taking the rope and tying it to the bed. He puts snaps on it. My hands are up and no longer under my control. He grabs my ankles and snaps the spreader bar between them and with a strong grip and lift, two more clicks and my feet are up attached at the same point as my hands. I am spread wide with my feet fastened down somewhere up over my head. I am rewarded by the sight of my shaved pussy about six inches from my wondering eyes.
Every time I move, there is the rattle and click of stainless steel snaps, I tentatively stretch and struggle but I am well restrained. I could get away if I needed. I can just reach one or two of the snaps with my finger tips, I could just unsnap myself, but the possibility does not occur to me. I have the ability but not the freedom. Master comments that I well and truly fucked.
I can see him, see him peruse the selection of implements of ass destruction, touching, hefting, lifting, swinging. His eyes meet mine and seem alight with sadistic anticipation. He grabs the strap and hits me with it. Crack! It sizzles across my ass. Crack! Crack! I buck and squall. The snaps rattle. He moves up my thighs. It is so close I can feel the wind on my face, my eyelids reflexively blink. He picks up the old cane, the first one we bought and greets it… “Hello, old friend.”
I can see the welts raise up, the white lines that slowly grow pink and then red. Master comments how he likes to strike exactly “There…” as he repeated slashed into the tender crease where thigh meets ass. I blink and blink. I know he won’t hit my face but it is so close. None of the blows are beyond bearing, the intensity manageable and I find myself savoring each new wave of pain, of burn, sting, ache, itch… like a gourmet, tasting, analyzing, luxuriating.
He keeps changing weapons. And I watch… I see… I know what is coming. He picks up the squid and I blurt out a fearful warning, as if he did not already know… “That thing breaks pussies.”
And he grins and drags it between my legs and then taps me threateningly with it a few times and then moves on to floggers and focuses his cruel intentions upon my pussy only inches from my face. I can tell he is moderating his blows but I am spread, open and vulnerable. I can feel the hits right on my clitoris. It sends electric shocks of sharp pain through me and rather than subside, the burn builds and I can feel my clit swell.
He frees my hands and hands me my vibrator. No words, no verbal command, but his expectation is obvious. It always is intense, that first rush of contact with the buzzing end of that little machine. It always makes me shudder and whimper. I think he likes that. His eyes light up with approval. He digs around in the toy bag and returns with the largest dildo… a silly great big pink thing that vibrates and soon I am filled to bursting, new waves of sensation rising up from inside. He tips it sharply up, deliberately searching for my g-spot. I think my eyes must be crossed, unfocused, my whole body tense and trembling with the immense orgasm I can feel building within me.
Right as I come, I open my eyes and meet his gaze. Right before I come, there is that precious moment of clear, pure, intense pleasure, that sudden exponential build of indescribable sensation, and I stare deep into his eyes, suddenly still, perfectly still, a deep gasp of wonder as I exhale and relax. All the struggle is over, I know I don’t have to focus anymore, try anymore… I could not stop it now if I tried. In that briefest of eternities I am calm, euphoric, infinitely in love. I am there, standing in the path of raging flood, fully aware that I am going to become engulfed.
And then it is here. It crashes into me, sweeps over me, through me, picks me up and shakes me. I am no longer in control of my body, my voice. I cry out and convulse. The sounds of the metal clips are loud in my ears. I fight my bonds. But I know he wants more, demands more, will not accept anything less than all I can give. I do not drop the vibrator. It comes in waves… crashing peaks that only seem to build and build. And the valleys between the peaks are filled with all the clarity and pure pleasure that is that perfect moment immediately before I come. Over and over I pause and sigh, meet his eyes and connect and before it takes me away again.
He only relents when I drop the vibrator, finally spent, drained, used up. My legs are starting to ache from being bound over my head and I tense and pull against the rope and snaps holding them to the spreader bar, forcing blood to flow. He reaches up and unsnaps the bar of wood holding my legs apart and presses down on the backs of my thighs, pushing my legs down and up even further as he enters me.
My mind is clear and I watch him as shadows of pleasure chase across his face, his lips tighten and pull back. His brows are furrowed in a frown of intense concentration. His hands are hard, gripping, his fingertips digging into my skin. I watch with awestruck, fascinated eyes. He moves slowly, deliberately. I can see how each movement, each thrust, each slow slide out and back in, sends waves of pleasure through him. I reach down, touch him where our bodies join, slide my fingers around the hot, wet, slickness, and am rewarded by a soft groan. His whole body shudders and flexes, little trembling spasms shake through him as he comes.
Master unsnaps the last of the hooks holding me down and I finally can straighten my legs, turn and curl up on my side. I lay there for many minutes, empty of thought, floating, warm, soft… savoring the surprise… the sweetness of stepping off the path.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Warning, this new story deals with topics of abduction and nonconsensual slavery. There are scenes of very violent rape. If you find these topics offensive don't read them. (Go read my stuff on Literotica... that website would not let me put up anything this violent.) If you do like reading this kind of stuff... well, you are evidently almost as sick as I am. So go for it.
If you were looking for Demon Child, the entire story is posted now on Literotica along with a lot of my other stuff.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
My oldest son and Livie were here to get some more punkins when I got home and we had a nice long talk. There has been some infighting among the other branch of the family and son #1 wanted to talk about it. It seemed pretty trivial to me, the issues are ones that frequently raise their heads among family, religion, sensitivity, tolerance... someone got a little vociferous with opinions, someone else got a little butt hurt. I am sure that there probably was some alcohol to lubricate and fuel the whole thing. None of it had anything to do with me. Thank gawd (not God... chill out... jebus... not Jesus... oh heck... NOT HELL... for Christ's sake can't you peoples just calm down?)
Anyway son #1 was asking me about what to do. I just shrugged and said I would not take any of it very seriously. Act like it was a joke... apologize even if you don't think you did anything wrong... love people for what you can... try to tolerate those parts of them that are not so nice. Move on... be nice... stop sweating the small shit. Bottom line no one can control how others think, feel or act... the only person you can do that for is yourself.
But there was this thing, this message on my machine... (yes, I am sort of retro like that... no cell... no voice mail... just an old dusty machine)... anyway... the message was from son #2 saying that he and wife wanted to come over for dinner on Saturday to chat about something. DIL is a dear girl, I love her to death, but jebus... she can be oversensitive, can create a mountain out of the smallest of molehills, and lubs the drama.
When Master got home I played the message... his first response was "no tea party"... now this requires some explanation. A group of submissive types had been planning an outing to the local Japanese garden and were going to learn about formal Japanese Tea service. I had wrangled permission from Master to be gone... gone on a Saturday afternoon. That was huge. I could tell that he had been chewing on that bone for a few days, trying to find someway to retract that decision and this was the perfect excuse. No company for dinner AND getting to run off for tea parties.
I squalled a bit, did a small stompy dance on the floor right in front of son #1 which made him laugh. I tried a little "but... but... but..." but all that got me was an "AH! AH! AH!" from Master. He was having none of it.
So no tea party...
Saturday dawned clear, bright blue sky, a snap of fall chill in the morning air. Master gave me the option of choosing going for a walk or cycling... I chose a walk. We walked for a long ways..l through neighborhoods we have not gone through before. We talked about this "coming over for dinner and a chat"... talked about what the fuck this is about. Are they in financial trouble again.. need money? Heaven forbid... need a place to live again. Are they going to try and drag us into the little family drama? ...or most horrible to contemplate... are they pregnant?
Not that I don't like grandchildren... I just hope that when people make babies they have a strong family, strong economically and emotionally.
But anyway... Master and I have no idea what this is and our imaginations have been running on overdrive all day.
I got lots of yard work done... chasing the lawn mower around... cleaning out the garden and mulching for next year. Made a nice enchilada dinner with rice, refried beans, salad and cantaloupe. Took a shower and was getting dressed when Master walked and informed me he wanted me to dress intimidating. I had a a cute little sweater dress and he made me put on a pair of black tall boots and other black "intimidating" stuff. So I was all doom and gloom, power suit.
..... cut to two hours later.
Dinner finished, and I am more than a little drunk. They weren't pregnant... so there is a gawd. They wanted "advice" as to how to handle the "other people's" insensitive remarks. I said the same things, that you can't control what other people think, feel or say. That you need to take responsibility for your own feelings and accept people for what they are and not try to change them... about half way through the speech, DIL got her panties in a bunch and walked out.
She threw a comment over her shoulder about how "his family" never liked her, never wanted her around. I threw back that that was a thinking error and crazy fucking bullshit.
So much for my diplomatic skills.
But I am not too upset about it. Master who watched the whole thing said I did not do anything wrong. I drank three glasses of wine with dinner. Four plates... but just Master and I sitting at the table. Master said it was a good dinner.
And you know I am not too worried about the whole thing. I told son #2 that the door is always open but I am not going to mince words or pretend that I don't think she is just a little crazy, but owned the fact that we all gots our own kind of crazy to deal with... welcome to the monkey house. He was pretty sad and worried that we are not accepting her. I told him we accepted her, we just weren't going to change how we act because she don't like what we got to say.
I looked at Master, thinking about how having him there made all the difference for me. He gave me confidence and just the knowledge that I have him... or maybe I ought to say... he has me... makes all the difference in the world. It does not matter if DIL thinks I am the bitch mother-in-law... all I need is his approval. I leaned over and said, "You know what is the most important thing?"
He shook his head.
I said, "I love you very much."
He said, "That is good."
I think I will change into something a little more comfortable and ask for him to put my collar on.
You guys have a good night. Family... jebus.
Friday, October 15, 2010
It isn't always easy... sometimes I interpret it as "you are doing that wrong", as criticism. I do not take criticism gracefully. I have to stop myself and blink, to look at it again, to see if for something different...
I had to learn to change the word 'criticism' in my head to the the word 'correction'. I can accept correction gracefully, gratefully.
I have also learned to say to myself, "There is not right way. There is no wrong way. There is only Master's way." I say it over and over some days. It is not about if I was doing it wrong, or if one of us is right... it is about who ultimately in control.
But today, I realized how much I have internalized Master's way. I was talking to someone about a little thing, and I realized how much I was reflecting Master's wishes, rules and ways in my comments to her. I realized how much they had become my own. I have not said the right way, wrong way mantra in months and months.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Counting the one Livie already took home eleven total. Some orange, some green, most a little of both. It was a pretty cool summer. But I kinda like the blochy looking ones. Definitely going to plant punkins again next summer.
Last night I was so tempted to put in 45 minutes or even just 30. I was dragging ass... I had spent a couple hours kid wrastling. We have this cuuuuute new little guy, as uncivilized a child found raised by wolves. He won't sit still, he is up and moving every ten seconds, he has no sense of boundaries, getting into all the cupboards and cabinets, he grabs stuff, he runs out the classroom door and zips down down the hallway at top speed... and if you block him, say no, say wait, say "first lunch, then..." his beautiful brown eyes widen, he opens his mouth wide and shrieks and ATTACKS. He pinches, he bites, he hits, he kicks... he is little but SQUIRMY and his family has left us with a directive that they do not want us restraining him. Yeah, right, just let the little darling bite the fuck out of me... NOT! I was dripping with sweat by the time I got someone else to take a turn with him.
Anyway I was one tired kid wrangler when I got home. But I was good, I put on 60 minutes. And I got lots of stuff done, ran the dishwasher, folded three loads of laundry, dusted, swept, put a couple coats of finish on my new spreader bar, set some mouse traps... (the big hole in the wall, the one Master made when he was working on the insect damage, seems to have let in some squatters... lots of little mouse poopies showing up in that room).
I was still working when Master got home. He is learning, he looks at the timer. After throwing myself down onto my knees, my forehead respectfully on the floor the minute he came in (no delays today) and I got some happy greeting spanks and then a big hug. He sat and watched me putter around the house for the last ten minutes and then told me to go sit down.
I asked him if he was happy with my new resolution, and he said yes, but he did not require it every day. He said he knows what it is like to come home tired from work. Erk... I wish he had said that it was a rule, an expectation, a DO IT, BITCH... it is so much easier to be externally disciplined rather than internally. Pout...
I need to check my trap line before I go to work.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
...turned into this...
And if you peer between the leaves you will find...
Livie already picked it and took it home. It was a great experience for all of us. There are about six other big pumpkins that will be ready to pick in another week. Dunno exactly what I will do with all of them... but I might put to test my father's theory, that if you leave something in the teacher's lounge it will get eaten.
I spent all afternoon doing battle with a nasty excel program. I finally think I have the bugs all worked out... but I do remember that near the end I sent an email to my boss telling him that if he finds me unconscious from beating my head on the desk... DO NOT RESUSCITATE.
I have started a new resolution. Everyday when I get home, I set the oven timer for one hour. I do NOT sit down for one hour. I do house slave crap... laundry, cleaning, cooking... work, work, work. Master found me making a nice big pot of clam chowder for dinner. I was so absorbed in my busy bee mind set that I did not promptly kneel down... mannn when I finally got round to it... the spanks were not happy spanks. Yike, yike, yike. The soup was nummy though.
Hopefully this new resolve to get something done around this dump will result in a neater nest. (Lucky for me that controlling bastard does not automatically equal neatnick or clean freak... Master seems just fine with the clutter and cobwebs).
I am slowly but surely making a spreader bar. Master has uncharacteristically been hands off with my little project. When I get done with it... I will post a pic.
I posted the last two chapters of Demon Child on Lierotica, I will put up the more intense alien abduction thing I have been writing lately on the "what is she writing now" page pretty soon.
I found this thing on youtube. I really don't know who this Osho guy is... or if I even really agree with everything he says, but somehow this thing sort of tickled me, his accent, the way his hands move... warning it is kinda long but I enjoyed listening the whole time.
And love making is sort of magical at times... as long as there isn't too many vegetables involved.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
I am sitting in my usual place finishing up some editing on the final chapter of Demon Child. Master is in the next room, sitting where I can see him in profile as he plays computer games. The muted sounds of barbarian yells and dying monsters coming from his computer. I am very focused... so close to the end... the light at the end of the tunnel.
The sounds of swords and screams stops and not long after the distinctive sounds of moans, groans and the compelling slap of hands against bare skin. Ohhhhh serious distraction.
"What are you looking at?"
"What kind of porn?" (Master tends to like to look at women, naked women, close ups of women... really close close ups... like I said studying for an online gynecological degree. That kind of porn does nothing for me.)
Ohhhh, distraction factor multiplied exponentially. (I like ropes, humiliation, violence... yummm) I glance at the last half dozen paragraphs. So close to being done. "What are they doing."
"Lesbians..." He hesitates. He is so much more reserved than I, reluctant to say the nasty words. "...doin' stuff." More smacks, more moans and screams. He asks, "Want to come watch with me?"
Heck those paragraphs will be there when I get back. I am up and beside him almost instantly.
He is in charge of it, choosing what clips we watch. Lots of bondage... lots of rough face fucking, nothing like the "glerk, glerk, glerk" sounds of girls choking on big cocks in the morning. I refill our coffee cups. He browses and I lean against him, pressing my face against him, inhaling his pheromones. He finds something especially demeaning, a guy forcing a girl to hold an onion in her mouth while he forces a cucumber up her ass. I am riveted.
She is tied down on a big orange ottoman. I stare at the scene as the man replaces the cucumber with his cock. Something about it, simple, rough fast ass fucking, the tears running down the girls face (probably from having a large raw onion in her mouth)... the ottoman, something... pushes all the right buttons for me and as I stare at the way her body shakes with the force of it all, I murmur... "Always wanted an ottoman like that." (and it is true, something for him to bend me over, to spank, to fuck, to just display... ottomans have played a big role in my fantasies.)
We end up in the shower, the usual shower sex... linear... all about his pleasure. (I do remember having the fleeting thought that when Master starts poking stuff into my ass that it makes me sound just like a pirate. Arrrrr!) Master came quickly and I was miles away from the finish line as usual.
I walk down stairs and crawl into bed and grab my vibrator, commenting to Master that I will be fine, I will just close my eyes and think about ottomans, that this should not take long.
He crawls in with me, wraps his arms around me and holds me and murmurs in my ear.
"I will be the ottoman umpire."
I laughed so hard it took twice as long to come than I thought it would... and all the day after that he has been yelling, "You're out!!!" and laughing and laughing.
But I do really need to get me an ottoman.
Friday, October 8, 2010
But yesterday I was splashing around in the stuff. Yesterday I wrote 13,694 words on Demon Child. And I am pretty much finished. I kind of have a post script floating around in my head. A kind of look back decades later but that is not necessary for the story and might just be left for a later date.
There are few things I would change and add... the "court" of the Aga Khan will become the "Citadel" of the Aga Khan. When I originally visualized it, I sort of saw a tent, a movable seat of government. I saw the male side of the Bak culture as transient, movable, that they only returned to the city of women during the rainy season... but that changed and when Aylanna was taken and imprisoned there, my vision changed from an elaborate tent city to an endless maze of stone hallways and rooms. The word 'citadel' carries the weight of stones in it.
Some names would change (they got a little ridiculous and many of the sounded far to much alike). I would expand upon the society a bit more, make reference to civil wars and the frequency of dueling as an accepted manner of solving differences.
IT IS FINISHED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
172,031 words long... (give or take a thousand or so when the editing gets done) a book roughly 680 pages long. Or maybe two 300 plus page novels.
I will let it sit for a while. Let it age and then return to it. I find that a few weeks or months gives me enough distance to really take a look at it and be tough enough to make the necessary changes.
So the never ending story is finally, finally done. FINALLY! And I am so stoked that I have not had a chance to experience that let down that comes after, the realization that I am not going to be channeling Aylanna any more, that she is not going to be speaking inside my head so much anymore. Yes, she will pipe up, all the old characters do. I have that... what would Junie do? What would Bob say? But I also go through a bit of a mourning period when a story finally finishes.
Interesting word, finally... finally... it has a kind of all or nothing quality... it smacks of finality... fatality... mortality. It is the cliffs edge. The line in the sand, the not one more step, not one more word, not another day sort of flavor. Finally.
Oh god, here it comes... the pensive period, the savoring of the bittersweet feelings. It is like when I repeatedly reach down and slowly sensually rub at the bruises to feel the pain, to remember they are there. I analyze, I review, I massage and pick at the painful places, both physical and spiritual. Master says I think too much, and it is true I live inside my busy brain.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
I was supposed to make enchiladas for dinner last night and I forced myself to get up off the couch and go to the store but when I got home it was everything I could do to just put the stuff in the fridge. I was sound sound asleep when Master came home and rather than chastise me he decided it looked so good he sat down and went to sleep too.
He finally woke up around 8:00 pm and called to me. When I woke I was in a panic. I couldn't figure out what day it was, what time it was and when I realized it was so late I was freaked out. It was way to late to start the enchiladas. I was still half zonked, my body felt all weird and wooden with strange hot and cold tingles that come when I am woken from a deep deep sleep.
I sort of was babbling in broken curses and apologies and he told me to stop and come crawl into his lap and snuggle while I woke up. He held me and rubbed my back and told me to stop worrying about the food. And I fell back asleep.
He had to keep nudging me back awake. Finally, all in very good humor, he put on a very "mock" mean Master voice and shoved me off his lap and tried applying a cane (very very lightly) to my ass. It sort of worked. We went into the kitchen and found a little steak in the back of the freezer and I made rice and a salad to go with it.
But I was sleep walking and I was back asleep by 10:00 and this morning I slept through his alarm clock. I NEVER sleep through an alarm clock.
Dunno what it is. Maybe the shorter days. And we have not been getting much exercise. I really am resolved to not waste all this day, but that I had begun yesterday with the same resolution and it was the worst ever.
Well speaking of cheese...
I went to a small gathering of erotica writers on Tuesday. The leader talked about writing goals. And I once again put into voice the wish to finish my projects in a more timely manner.
I really want to finish Demon Child. But the more I write, the closer I get to the end the more things seem to demand to be said. And it has become the "never ending" story, which makes me discouraged about ever finishing. Upside. I have been enjoying the writing... Aylanna has really been coming into her own...
But.... full speed ahead... going a million miles an hour... and SCREEEECH!!!!! take an abrupt left turn and this thing, this thing that had been lurking about in my head involving nonconsent, extreme rape and the risk of death and torture kept surfacing at the oddest times, as I drove, as I sat at work between crises, as I lay underneath Master. It was becoming more and more intrusive and I had this idea, this image of an empty porch swing, swinging back and forth, back and forth, on a still night like a person had just been there, a pink flip flop left on the decking like it had fallen off and no other clues. Just vanished.
This is what I wrote:
The porch swing was still moving back and forth, swinging in the still night air. One pink flip flop lay on the decking. The front door stood half open, her car keys were in her purse sitting on the kitchen counter. A television droned unwatched in the front room. The police report did not say a lot about possible reasons for her disappearance, too many women had vanished that night, over a hundred in this town alone, a hundred in a city of just over 100,000, almost 1000 total across the state of Washington. All of them gone without witnesses, without any signs of a struggle, gone in a single night. All of them young, ranging from teens to mid-twenties.
The government had no answers. The news services were filled with wild speculations ranging from terrorists, to cults, to government conspiracies to aliens abductions but no one had any evidence. In one city, there was even a riot when a number of family members were prevented from searching a local army base. For years afterward there were annual observances across the country, the names and pictures displayed, night long candle light vigils held at sites. Generations later, the August night was still remembered, a night of fear and mystery. The incident became known as “The Vanishing”.
And like a projectile shot from a cannon I was off. I wrote 6000 words in just a few hours and I am still furiously typing away. Demon Child sits languishing. Master shakes his head and gives me "are you fucking serious" looks when I guiltily confess starting something new, a dark and horror filled alien abduction story.
I get so fucking turned on that I am masturbating a couple times a day. (mayyyybe that is why I am so fucking sleepy. snicker... double snicker... usually masturbation orgasms do not make me sleepy. I grab the vibrator and bust one out in a just a few minutes and hop right up and get back to what ever I am doing. Master has never set any limit to that little self indulgence... bless his heart.)
So I am obsessively writing... on something new... rather than finishing all the other things I am supposed to be working on. As usual.
At the writing group I readily admitted that never have trouble writing. I just have trouble writing on the things I am supposed to.
Arghhhh... Master just walked into the room with "a new idea of a story"... the story of a rock star who pre-celebrity was a bit of a loser, could not get laid, then over indulged as he became more popular and then as he became a superstar felt pressured by the sheer numbers of women who threw themselves at him. He grew cynical and jaded, started becoming increasingly misogynistic and abusive.
Meh... I wonder where that came from. I sure as hell don't need any more story ideas and I sure as hell have not been "throwing myself at him" lately. Actually I have had to work at not rolling my eyes and acting bored during the weekly formulaic fucks, but that is a different post and this one has gotten pretty long.
So today's resolution. To be awake when Master gets home. To write at least a thousand words on Demon Child before going back to the alien rape scenes... and get dinner made. Not too hard you think? Well I failed miserably yesterday.
Friday, October 1, 2010
I did not go in with him, I am pure dee smarter than that. I sat in the waiting room with my computer and wrote about a thousand words and eventually a nice lady in blue hospital greens came and got me. She said everything went fine but now he would not wake up and I was supposed to go in and talk to him and try and get him to open his eyes. I looked at her like she was nucking futz. "DO YOU KNOW HOW DANGEROUS THAT IS????" She laughed.
I kissed his forehead and he opened his eyes and then closed them. I touched his hand and told him, "They say you need to wake up now." (See... shoving the blame and responsibility off onto the great and guilty "they".) He blinked and frowned and stubbornly closed his eyes again. I tried again and got the peremptory grunt and hand gesture that unquestionably means, "Shut the fuck up, bitch." Eke... I sit back and shut the fuck up. So well trained.
The nurse came in and started a line of chatter. He opened his eyes more. She offered a drink of something and he shook his head. Finally he mumbled, "Am I supposed to put my clothes on?" He was still all IV's and other stuff and I laughed and said, "You are supposed to wake up first, then we will worry about getting dressed."
He kept drifting off and every time I touched him, talked to him he would open his eyes and say the same thing, "Am I supposed to put my clothes on?"
I took a while, Master does love to sleep. But eventually he did accept the drink and then the lady took out his IV and all the other stuffs and I helped him put on his clothes. I remember one moment with him sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a little out of it still and I just wrapped my arms around him and held him close to my chest, just held him close to my heart.
He had to ride in the wheelchair and protested. I giggled and said he had to follow the rules just like all the other peoples and when would the next time I get to push him around like an old fart come along.
He did insist on getting out of the chair as soon as we were in the parking garage and walking in sort of a drunken zigzag off out to the side walk and smoking. I glared at him with impotent rage, fucking nicotine addiction... but he had in that "don't you dare talk back voice" ordered me to "take the chair back" and then wait in the car until he came back. Grrrrrrr....
He was so sleepy that there was zero, zilch, nada back seat driving when I took him home. That was huge. We had a nice quiet afternoon. I made chicken noodles... soup with so many homemade noodles that they soak up all the stock and it turns into this big pot of chicken, noodles and vegetables. Yum... just as well, Master said he was not in the mood to eat anything soupy. (too many bad memories from the bowel clean out experience... poor baby... (super quiet snicker))
We have been walking again, which is just as well. My pants have been getting a little tight, the muffin top has been getting bigger. When he ordered me to "put on the walking shoes, bitch" I gave him the cow eyes and got a vicious pinch to some that flabby middle stuff. Motivation and explanation all in one efficient youch!
Well time to get ready for work. Got to love the Fridays... especially a Friday before a week off. I do love my work schedule.