I am what I write.

I think I channel the characters I write about in my stories. For me, writing is visualization and then description. I see it all in my head, with amazing detail, dust motes sparkling in the beams of sunlight, leaves being stirred into restless circles by fitful wind... I put myself inside the head of my characters and think about how they would feel, how they would react, what they would do or say... and they sort of take over the story.

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.

Passiveness

At work, there is this position, a one rung up the ladder step up in authority. I could have had it. I could have been the "lead". But you know I did not want it... at all. I know that there was a time that I could have done it, perhaps better than any of the others that are eligible for the job. But now, more and more, I am becoming uncomfortable with confronting people. Even when I am totally convinced I am right and they are wrong... even dangerously wrong... I would rather not say anything.

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?

Fifth Annual Blog Lurkers Day...

So I guess it is the day when us bloggers say thank you to all you lurker types... and ask you to come out of the shadows and say hi.

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.

Stepping off the Path

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.

What's she writing now?

I put the beginnings of a new story on the "What Is She Writing Now?" page.

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.

Jebus....

Friday was like many of the Fridays we have been having... a low key day of recovery.

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.

Master's Way

If you have been reading my blog for long, you would have gathered that my Master is a bit of a control freak. He is always watching me, getting all up in my grill, telling how to do even the most simple and mundane of tasks... loading the dishwasher, sweeping, brushing my teeth... whatever I am busy with, pretty soon he is there, watching and perfecting.

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 have so see the faces instead of the vases...

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.