Degustation is a culinary term meaning "a careful, appreciative tasting of various foods" and focusing on the gustatory system, the senses, high culinary art and good company. (with thanks to wiki, full definition here)
The phone rings. It is Sir. He is here. They are here.
I race downstairs and walk up through the garage, peeking around the corner. He is standing at the car and beside him is her. We are not permitted to see each other so I step back waiting. She has on a pair of black stilettos, stockings, I think a long coat and has gorgeous bright red curly hair. I do not see her face and do not try. I hear him stride towards me. He smiles and all at once all of my 'what the fuck am I doings' are gone, swept up in his cool, calm and collected wake. I hand him the keys and give him the room number.
I go back to the elevator and up to the room, waiting in the master bedroom. I hear the door. I call out to Sir. He comes in and bids me kneel on the edge of the bed. He is gone again to the other room. I can scarcely breathe. He is back again, speaking. He smacks my arse hard with his hand. The sound ricochets around the walls like gunfire. His hand finds its mark over and over. 'Stay'. He is gone again. I hear the same sound coming from the other room. I can not describe how much it turns me on. The familiar sound - thwack, thwack, thwack. I feel myself brimming with lust. I am trembling. He is back. I am undressed. I hear him speak to her. She is in the room. I lift my head and for a second I see her standing, face against the wall, her sweet, fair skin sheathed in thigh high stockings and a black thong, then she is gone - blacked out by the blindfold.
As commanded, we lay on the bed beside each other, face down. As if an afterthought he pulls our hands together. I am clasping her hand. He is wielding the whip. Now comes the nervy part.
I know she can take a hiding - 200 cane strokes in fact. Sir tells me this partly I think as an inspirational story, a "this too can be you" and I am sure in part because he is proud of her and his training. I hear the immense joy in his voice when he speaks of her - almost awe - and it is beautiful.
I am in my head trying to have a rational conversation with myself - who, I might add at this point, is not a very rational person. I think: I haven't been caned in a while and I kind of miss it. I don't like it particularly but I love the marks. I remember the ones I had after our very first session - across the top of my back and arse...sigh...I do prefer the feel of the whip but...anyway this is the hardly the time for contemplating cane vs whip discussions with Sir. I don't know that I get much of a choice anyway. No that isn't true. I do. Fuck. I am lying naked on a bed next to someone I don't know, I can't see and Sir is about to whip me. Because she is here, will he push me? I hope not. Fuck. Back comes 'what the fuck am I doing'. I am not sure where this is going. Why the hell do I keep doing this? All of this inundates my head in about 3.2 seconds.
I feel the leather bite into my skin and it is delicious. All thinking is done for the day. One, two, three, four, five. I am fairly still and quiet, (considering I apparently whine). I hear them raining down on her. I note they sound harder. I have gotten to know the different sounds the whip makes. She does not move, I do not hear her breathe. Her hand does not twitch. She is perfectly still. He is right to be impressed. I am amazed. He moves between us, according lashings as he sees fit. He is kind. They are none too hard to endure though one or two make me twist and complain. Perhaps I do whinge - just a bit.
"Kiss her." We blindly find each other and she is there and soft and warm, her tongue firm and searching. I have not been directed to but I take a chance and reach my hands up around the back of her neck, kissing her mouth with more fervor. Her lips are soft. Her tongue slips in and out of my mouth. I suck her lip. I want very much to pull her to me, to lie her back, to drink her in, slowly and with abandon. Sir is there. I am waiting for him to speak. I am waiting desperately for his direction. My hands start to explore her body, touch the shape of her breasts, slip between her thighs.
I am waiting direction but I will not wait long - nor as it turns out do I have to.
Monday
Oh. My. God.
So folks, I am struggling at the moment to paint an adequate picture of my weekend dalliances. My head is filled with fragments of time all rolling together then I get stuck in a moment.
Right now the kids are here. They got here early Sunday afternoon. My lovely little two bed unit instantly filled with the sounds of Scooby-Doo and squabbling. I went to have a shower last night, walked into my ensuite and stood on wet, salty, sandy jeans and t-shirts from their sand-castle building exercise. I felt a huge amount of joy watching my youngest career around the grass on his bike for the first time without training wheels. We checked out the cool toys in the garage, the two Ducattis, the jet-skis, the Porsche and a vintage Holden (my boys - sigh!). There is Sponge-Bob Monopoly layed out for hours of play on my dining table (I might add it is looking like my token - Squidward - is going to cop a beating). We had roast chicken by candle light on the balcony, drank water from wine glasses and got gelatos eating them out the front of the shop. We walked up the hill to the look-out and danced on the tables well after 'normal' bed-time in the crisp salty air and bright moonlight. I felt and feel truly present.
There are of course moments where my presence is compromised by a wistful smiling gaze into the distance. Fortunately my children just think I am mad and my husband just shakes his head.
I drove down to the beach with husband Friday night. We bought a pizza and sat looking out over the ocean. The moon sat full and low, the air still and cool. It was lovely and relaxing. We stretched out in bed and had slow, deliberate sex, taking our time. It is so nice to be removed from our usual mess and busyness for a time.
He left on Saturday morning at around 11 to collect the children and look after them for the night.
I went back to the unit to wait. I hadn't been feeling well. I had a migraine the day before. I read and slept intermittently, every noise roused me instantly. I paced. I drank copious amounts of water and had a couple of panadol. I was nervous and squeemish and excited. I salt scrubbed my freshly waxed legs which always relaxes me and then showered and bathed, brought myself to cumming twice (also relaxing) and showered again. I had a small "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I had a cigarette. I cleaned my teeth. I had a big "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I checked my phone. I cleaned my teeth again. I dressed and repositioned the pillows on the bed. At about three-thirty my phone rang. SHIT. What the fuck am I doing?
*****
I got up Sunday morning at 7. The total silence of no-one else around was bliss. I went straight in to have a shower. I had thought about showering before I went to bed but I wanted to keep the smell and the taste of the night with me as long as I could. My muscles ached. My thighs burned. My cunt still throbbed. The warm water made all of the juicy fucking from the night before turn into a slick film on my skin. I felt it over my face and chest, my shoulders, my legs, my stomach. I reveled in it. The water ran through my hair. It is long, thick and dark brown. It takes all day to dry (best case scenario) so washing it is a task best left for mornings. I was running my fingers through pulling any stray whisps when I found a thin tendril, a curly cherry-red strand tangled in amongst my hair. My heart skipped a beat. My chest felt like it would burst. I dissolved into giggles and deep sighs. Then I leaned in against the wall and came.
The night before. Oh. My. God. She was like some sort of divine being.
Oh.
My.
God.
Right now the kids are here. They got here early Sunday afternoon. My lovely little two bed unit instantly filled with the sounds of Scooby-Doo and squabbling. I went to have a shower last night, walked into my ensuite and stood on wet, salty, sandy jeans and t-shirts from their sand-castle building exercise. I felt a huge amount of joy watching my youngest career around the grass on his bike for the first time without training wheels. We checked out the cool toys in the garage, the two Ducattis, the jet-skis, the Porsche and a vintage Holden (my boys - sigh!). There is Sponge-Bob Monopoly layed out for hours of play on my dining table (I might add it is looking like my token - Squidward - is going to cop a beating). We had roast chicken by candle light on the balcony, drank water from wine glasses and got gelatos eating them out the front of the shop. We walked up the hill to the look-out and danced on the tables well after 'normal' bed-time in the crisp salty air and bright moonlight. I felt and feel truly present.
There are of course moments where my presence is compromised by a wistful smiling gaze into the distance. Fortunately my children just think I am mad and my husband just shakes his head.
I drove down to the beach with husband Friday night. We bought a pizza and sat looking out over the ocean. The moon sat full and low, the air still and cool. It was lovely and relaxing. We stretched out in bed and had slow, deliberate sex, taking our time. It is so nice to be removed from our usual mess and busyness for a time.
He left on Saturday morning at around 11 to collect the children and look after them for the night.
I went back to the unit to wait. I hadn't been feeling well. I had a migraine the day before. I read and slept intermittently, every noise roused me instantly. I paced. I drank copious amounts of water and had a couple of panadol. I was nervous and squeemish and excited. I salt scrubbed my freshly waxed legs which always relaxes me and then showered and bathed, brought myself to cumming twice (also relaxing) and showered again. I had a small "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I had a cigarette. I cleaned my teeth. I had a big "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I checked my phone. I cleaned my teeth again. I dressed and repositioned the pillows on the bed. At about three-thirty my phone rang. SHIT. What the fuck am I doing?
*****
I got up Sunday morning at 7. The total silence of no-one else around was bliss. I went straight in to have a shower. I had thought about showering before I went to bed but I wanted to keep the smell and the taste of the night with me as long as I could. My muscles ached. My thighs burned. My cunt still throbbed. The warm water made all of the juicy fucking from the night before turn into a slick film on my skin. I felt it over my face and chest, my shoulders, my legs, my stomach. I reveled in it. The water ran through my hair. It is long, thick and dark brown. It takes all day to dry (best case scenario) so washing it is a task best left for mornings. I was running my fingers through pulling any stray whisps when I found a thin tendril, a curly cherry-red strand tangled in amongst my hair. My heart skipped a beat. My chest felt like it would burst. I dissolved into giggles and deep sighs. Then I leaned in against the wall and came.
The night before. Oh. My. God. She was like some sort of divine being.
Oh.
My.
God.
Sunday
We Are Not Real
We are not real.
My husband, my children, school runs, making dinner, laughing with friends, holidays, paying bills, running late, rainy-PJ-days, swimming-at-the-beach-weekends, grocery shopping, bathing the dog - that is real.
We are not real.
When my nails rake down your back, you borrow the lines for a time and then they are gone. When I speak with you on the phone - moments of time snatched away from my life, my real life. When you respond "Yes, Mistress" in desperate, strangled whispers. When you beg for more, for less, for something, for everything. I know your wife is in the other room - your wife is real.
We are not real.
When you pull me to you and I am on my knees, your hand wound in my hair, sweat and cum dripping. When I lay splayed across the floor, my back burning feeling the whip bite into my skin. When you are there with your cock inside me, driving me home, pulsing in my mouth. When my eyes roll and I shudder and grab at you with my cunt and we are lost, I am lost, that is a fantasy - a longing. When your eyes lock with mine and we move in sync, we touch the core of each other and do not have to look away because we are there only for that moment. It does not exist before or after, only then and once you have touched it, it is gone
We are not real.
When you are with her and you think of me, tracing the lines of her face remembering mine. When you feel yourself slide into her and you can almost taste my scent. When I am with someone else I close my eyes and see you staring into me. When I feel that I am with you with them in that moment and that moment is gone - they are just imaginings.
We are not real.
When I see you stretched out above me, the curve of your breasts, your hair falling softly over your shoulders, my mouth over yours. When I watch you sleep and kiss your belly. When I wake I see your shadow has not etched into my wall by candle light, your arching back, your gorgeous thrusting hips, your lips calling my name. When I smell you on my sheets but you are gone I smile softly - a midnight apparition.
We are not real.
I will carve myself into your soul, burn my touch onto your skin, leave my taste on your tongue and you will cherish it, wrap it inside your mind and keep it safe. We hold our imagined-together-dreams and they sustain us. While you touch yourself you are there in those moments.
Then they are gone because we are not real.
My husband, my children, school runs, making dinner, laughing with friends, holidays, paying bills, running late, rainy-PJ-days, swimming-at-the-beach-weekends, grocery shopping, bathing the dog - that is real.
We are not real.
When my nails rake down your back, you borrow the lines for a time and then they are gone. When I speak with you on the phone - moments of time snatched away from my life, my real life. When you respond "Yes, Mistress" in desperate, strangled whispers. When you beg for more, for less, for something, for everything. I know your wife is in the other room - your wife is real.
We are not real.
When you pull me to you and I am on my knees, your hand wound in my hair, sweat and cum dripping. When I lay splayed across the floor, my back burning feeling the whip bite into my skin. When you are there with your cock inside me, driving me home, pulsing in my mouth. When my eyes roll and I shudder and grab at you with my cunt and we are lost, I am lost, that is a fantasy - a longing. When your eyes lock with mine and we move in sync, we touch the core of each other and do not have to look away because we are there only for that moment. It does not exist before or after, only then and once you have touched it, it is gone
We are not real.
When you are with her and you think of me, tracing the lines of her face remembering mine. When you feel yourself slide into her and you can almost taste my scent. When I am with someone else I close my eyes and see you staring into me. When I feel that I am with you with them in that moment and that moment is gone - they are just imaginings.
We are not real.
When I see you stretched out above me, the curve of your breasts, your hair falling softly over your shoulders, my mouth over yours. When I watch you sleep and kiss your belly. When I wake I see your shadow has not etched into my wall by candle light, your arching back, your gorgeous thrusting hips, your lips calling my name. When I smell you on my sheets but you are gone I smile softly - a midnight apparition.
We are not real.
I will carve myself into your soul, burn my touch onto your skin, leave my taste on your tongue and you will cherish it, wrap it inside your mind and keep it safe. We hold our imagined-together-dreams and they sustain us. While you touch yourself you are there in those moments.
Then they are gone because we are not real.
Thursday
Patience - a dish served cold
I was wanting to patiently (impatiently) wait until the weekend. I was wanting a quiet visit. I had no idea what patient meant...no idea at all...
He pulled them from me over and over until the floor was wet, my thighs wet, my cunt swollen. He grabbed my hair, pulling me to him, pulling it as I came. He thrust his fingers in and out then, intensifying my cumming. I was literally in a puddle. He had to get a towel to mop up. All of a sudden it stopped. I was not permitted to cum anymore. I was sucking his cock and had to keep stopping, bringing myself down, my begging to cum met each time with a no. I knelt between his knees, shaking, holding off the orgasm. I begged again and again and again. He cupped one hand under my chin and angled my face towards his. Eyes locked, I could not turn away.
He lifts his hand and brings it down, slapping my left breast. I try to be quiet. I know I am not. I am whimpering. Please, Sir. Whack. Each time bringing my orgasm closer to the surface. I push my breasts forward wanting more. Please, Sir may I..? Whack. I shake my head. I feel my eyes wide. My cunt is throbbing, dripping on the floor. I am going to cum. God what is going to happen if I cum having been expressly told not to... Please Sir? He shakes his head, eyes flash, NO. Whack. Whack. Whack. Oh God oh God oh God I have never been this close and not tipped over the edge. If I move I am going to cum. Tears roll down my cheeks, our eyes still locked. The tears are from the desperate need to cum. I want him to slap me again and to release me to cum with it. Tears tears more tears. He never lets me cum when I am being whipped or slapped. I needed it so badly. I am shaking, sobbing. He traces my face with his finger, drinking in my distress. My breath sticks in my throat. I have to look away. He stops.
I am sucking his cock again. Victorious. I did not cum. It does not feel victorious. Perhaps he will allow me to take my fill. Perhaps he will cum. He stands. No. I will not cum until the weekend. Until.....(I am still not spilling)....You though, I can see you need more. Sit over the towel and cum until I say to stop. The towel is thrust at me and I cum over and over. He leaves the room and comes back. There, that is enough for you. No more. I tell you it was not what I needed. It was far from it and he knew it. I needed in those moments to cum, not after. Fuck him. Fuck him and the goddamn horse he rode in on.
And that was how the true test of patience began.
He held out his hands and helped me to my feet. We walked outside and had a cigarette. The air was fresh and the wind ripped through me, cooling my damp and overheated skin. My dress was soaked through in sweat and cum, mainly cum - my cum. My hair washed fresh that morning was just dry and now stuck in thick, sweaty, teary chunks to my neck and face. I tied it back, loosely with some pins. I would have to wash it again and it takes all damn day to dry. I stand to leave and present him with the meals I had carefully packed, frozen and labeled.
I had prepared him a meal for each night of the week. All organic and every single thing was handmade, the pastry on the pie, the pasta sheets, the sauces. Everything was touched by my hands.
I pour everything I am into my food. Into my food and into my fucking but maybe moreso into the food.
He walks me to the door and hugs me. He wants me to really feel how grateful he is. I can't stand in it. I can't own it. I want to look away, run out the door. He holds me there and hugs me. "...no. As a person to another person, I really want you to get it. I really want you to get what this means to me..." He is saying. I am nodding, looking at the floor mumbling "I get it" and dying to be in my car. Why am I so uncomfortable?
Finally I escape. I arrive home, shower, husband and I play a bit then we curl up on the couch to eat chinese and watch a movie. The weekend rolls on and is filled in with friends, family, birthdays, backyard soccer, food and laughing.
I know Sir is not alone when he eats because a little bit of me is there too. I get a message about the delicious food and a "good girl". Smiling, I send back a cheeky "aren't I just?" and get away with it too - because I am, aren't I?
He pulled them from me over and over until the floor was wet, my thighs wet, my cunt swollen. He grabbed my hair, pulling me to him, pulling it as I came. He thrust his fingers in and out then, intensifying my cumming. I was literally in a puddle. He had to get a towel to mop up. All of a sudden it stopped. I was not permitted to cum anymore. I was sucking his cock and had to keep stopping, bringing myself down, my begging to cum met each time with a no. I knelt between his knees, shaking, holding off the orgasm. I begged again and again and again. He cupped one hand under my chin and angled my face towards his. Eyes locked, I could not turn away.
He lifts his hand and brings it down, slapping my left breast. I try to be quiet. I know I am not. I am whimpering. Please, Sir. Whack. Each time bringing my orgasm closer to the surface. I push my breasts forward wanting more. Please, Sir may I..? Whack. I shake my head. I feel my eyes wide. My cunt is throbbing, dripping on the floor. I am going to cum. God what is going to happen if I cum having been expressly told not to... Please Sir? He shakes his head, eyes flash, NO. Whack. Whack. Whack. Oh God oh God oh God I have never been this close and not tipped over the edge. If I move I am going to cum. Tears roll down my cheeks, our eyes still locked. The tears are from the desperate need to cum. I want him to slap me again and to release me to cum with it. Tears tears more tears. He never lets me cum when I am being whipped or slapped. I needed it so badly. I am shaking, sobbing. He traces my face with his finger, drinking in my distress. My breath sticks in my throat. I have to look away. He stops.
I am sucking his cock again. Victorious. I did not cum. It does not feel victorious. Perhaps he will allow me to take my fill. Perhaps he will cum. He stands. No. I will not cum until the weekend. Until.....(I am still not spilling)....You though, I can see you need more. Sit over the towel and cum until I say to stop. The towel is thrust at me and I cum over and over. He leaves the room and comes back. There, that is enough for you. No more. I tell you it was not what I needed. It was far from it and he knew it. I needed in those moments to cum, not after. Fuck him. Fuck him and the goddamn horse he rode in on.
And that was how the true test of patience began.
He held out his hands and helped me to my feet. We walked outside and had a cigarette. The air was fresh and the wind ripped through me, cooling my damp and overheated skin. My dress was soaked through in sweat and cum, mainly cum - my cum. My hair washed fresh that morning was just dry and now stuck in thick, sweaty, teary chunks to my neck and face. I tied it back, loosely with some pins. I would have to wash it again and it takes all damn day to dry. I stand to leave and present him with the meals I had carefully packed, frozen and labeled.
I had prepared him a meal for each night of the week. All organic and every single thing was handmade, the pastry on the pie, the pasta sheets, the sauces. Everything was touched by my hands.
I pour everything I am into my food. Into my food and into my fucking but maybe moreso into the food.
He walks me to the door and hugs me. He wants me to really feel how grateful he is. I can't stand in it. I can't own it. I want to look away, run out the door. He holds me there and hugs me. "...no. As a person to another person, I really want you to get it. I really want you to get what this means to me..." He is saying. I am nodding, looking at the floor mumbling "I get it" and dying to be in my car. Why am I so uncomfortable?
Finally I escape. I arrive home, shower, husband and I play a bit then we curl up on the couch to eat chinese and watch a movie. The weekend rolls on and is filled in with friends, family, birthdays, backyard soccer, food and laughing.
I know Sir is not alone when he eats because a little bit of me is there too. I get a message about the delicious food and a "good girl". Smiling, I send back a cheeky "aren't I just?" and get away with it too - because I am, aren't I?
Monday
A quiet visit
I got there Friday afternoon. As is normal practice the door is key-locked behind me. I always gulp when the key turns in the lock. It is a very difficult thing to get used to - one that I am not sure I will get used to. The only way I can leave is when he unlocks the door. I was planning a short visit - discussing future deviant plans and small talk. I had brought some of my things but thought to leave them in the car. I felt it far better to have them at the ready if requested than to get in trouble for not bringing them. Instead of being directed straight up to his room I was invited (directed/invited - it is all so closely linked, no?) to sit and chat in one of the downstairs lounge rooms. I settled back into the giant L-shaped couch on one side and he sat on the other.
We chatted for a few minutes. I wanted so badly to be out-of-control. I wanted also to be patient and wait for the upcoming weekend. To build anticipation. I said as much.
He nodded in agreement and then said quietly, "But first you must cum now."
I said "no." Small but firm. Our gaze was locked. He raised his eyebrows. I needed him to take them from me. I needed for him to know I had no choice, that my body responds to him of its own accord.
"I said cum - NOW."
I shook my head and said "no" again. I could feel the warmth in my belly, the tingle in my cunt and I knew I could not win this battle but boy was I enjoying it. I came in a small little wave. It washed through quickly, not betraying itself.
"What did you say to me?" He did not move from his seat. "I said cum!"
I shook my head, keeping my eyes locked on his and said "No - I - will - not". Trying my very hardest to appear controlled I could feel all of my muscles clenching. My cunt tighten, my stomach knot. I was trying to keep my breathing calm and even.
His look grew slightly more fierce for just a moment. I could see he was about to speak again, to walk over, when I came for the third time. This time with more weight behind it. I am not quiet at the best of times and my tell-tale gasp coupled with the biting of my lip and eyes losing focus - even in the dim light of the television he could see his victory.
"Again slut, now."
Sitting in the room with him, faster and faster they came. Staring into his eyes I gulp them down like air, like he is breathing for me and I suck at the oxygen he gives me. He was pulling them out of me one by one. I was on the floor, kneeling at his feet. As I came he wound his hand through my hair and pulled my head back demanding my silence. It only intensified my cumming. I was on all fours, panting. He stepped around behind me and lifted my dress. I could hear his smile. Despite my petitioning for a quiet chat, my pantie-less state was a blatant disclosure of my true desire.
"Good girl..." He breathes as he dips his fingers between my thighs.
Sunday
Public Humiliating Humor
So I went to see Sir on Friday. It was quite different - a brief albeit pleasurable and entirely satisfying visit. Well not entirely satisfying but that is because (under sufferance) I am apparently learning to be patient. Patience is a virtue I have been working on for quite some time. It is fair to say of all of the virtues I have few downpat - unless nihilism or hedonism have recently made the list and someone forgot to drop me the note.
We have an up coming plan that I am drooling over, waiting, counting minutes. I will not bore you with the details until after as, well, that would just spoil it now, wouldn't it? So I am waiting patiently.
Last week was hard. There were several days where I thought homicide was a realistic possibility. I needed the release. After Friday (phew) this week is shaping up to be a big, tingly, giggling mass of anticipation.
So, (you say) where is the public humiliating humor? Did you notice that I said public humiliating - not publicly humiliating? That was on purpose.
Let me take you back to Friday afternoon. Lets just presume I was feeling particularly subbie. I dressed simply in a black, v-neck, knit dress, lacy black panties, a good strapless pushup bra and some patent red mary-janes (I love mary-janes). I had my hair in two long plaits draping down over my shoulders that day but that was just a little too much. I decided to wear it down....much easier for him to wrap his fist in, no? Half way to Sir's place I had an idea. While stopped at the traffic lights I quickly removed my underwear and shoved them in my handbag. I am pretty certain the guy in the car next to me knew what I was doing. I winked at him just incase he had any doubt and beat him at the lights (dragging boys off at the lights is one of my many vices...). The visit was going to be short and I was not asked to bring any of my things, though I had stashed my handcuffs and gag incase I was asked. I got to Sir's and left an hour or two later, soaked in sweat and cum, blissed up to my eyeballs.
The next morning I went shopping. On my way out of the first store I was bag checked. I rarely am (must give off just the right level of the 'don't fuck with me' vibe). Being still sweet tempered from the night before must take the edge off so I sauntered over to the cutsie 17 year old boy with his lightly plucked eyebrows and swooshed hair covering one eye. I unzipped the bag as I was walking over and looking in realised my dilemma. I decided I had to either run, refuse (I know my rights) or suck it up. In half a second I had discovered another option - enjoy it. I made hard eye contact with him, smiled and opened my bag. The lace panties were sitting high ontop, leather cuffs underneath. The poor boy. He stammered a quick "ah that's ah fine ma'am" and blushed a thousand shades of red. I nearly asked him if he wanted me to unzip the middle pockets or if he wanted receipts but I am not that mean.
We have an up coming plan that I am drooling over, waiting, counting minutes. I will not bore you with the details until after as, well, that would just spoil it now, wouldn't it? So I am waiting patiently.
Last week was hard. There were several days where I thought homicide was a realistic possibility. I needed the release. After Friday (phew) this week is shaping up to be a big, tingly, giggling mass of anticipation.
So, (you say) where is the public humiliating humor? Did you notice that I said public humiliating - not publicly humiliating? That was on purpose.
Let me take you back to Friday afternoon. Lets just presume I was feeling particularly subbie. I dressed simply in a black, v-neck, knit dress, lacy black panties, a good strapless pushup bra and some patent red mary-janes (I love mary-janes). I had my hair in two long plaits draping down over my shoulders that day but that was just a little too much. I decided to wear it down....much easier for him to wrap his fist in, no? Half way to Sir's place I had an idea. While stopped at the traffic lights I quickly removed my underwear and shoved them in my handbag. I am pretty certain the guy in the car next to me knew what I was doing. I winked at him just incase he had any doubt and beat him at the lights (dragging boys off at the lights is one of my many vices...). The visit was going to be short and I was not asked to bring any of my things, though I had stashed my handcuffs and gag incase I was asked. I got to Sir's and left an hour or two later, soaked in sweat and cum, blissed up to my eyeballs.
The next morning I went shopping. On my way out of the first store I was bag checked. I rarely am (must give off just the right level of the 'don't fuck with me' vibe). Being still sweet tempered from the night before must take the edge off so I sauntered over to the cutsie 17 year old boy with his lightly plucked eyebrows and swooshed hair covering one eye. I unzipped the bag as I was walking over and looking in realised my dilemma. I decided I had to either run, refuse (I know my rights) or suck it up. In half a second I had discovered another option - enjoy it. I made hard eye contact with him, smiled and opened my bag. The lace panties were sitting high ontop, leather cuffs underneath. The poor boy. He stammered a quick "ah that's ah fine ma'am" and blushed a thousand shades of red. I nearly asked him if he wanted me to unzip the middle pockets or if he wanted receipts but I am not that mean.
Tuesday
Cooking
So I have been trying my very hardest not to do it. As the urge has pulled me I have pushed back. I have tried to back out, back away. I have used every excuse I could throw out there. I have been sad and mad and everything in between.
Now here I am in my kitchen, happier than the proverbial pig in shit.
I make lashings of beautiful lasagna. Out of necessity I am trialing gluten free things at the moment. I make beef and guiness pies, pork ribs, pastas, Moroccan chicken, apple strudel, chocolate puddings, shepards pie, lamb shanks, cheese cakes. I make all of the pastries and pastas from scratch, trialing the new flours. They feel different. This will take me a while to get used to it and I don't pretend to like it.
I think I love the cheese cakes the most. They are cute little ones.
I use smooth ricotta, cream cheese, egg yolks, eggs, vanilla and brown sugar in my cheese cakes. It gives them the soft glow of caramel. They are rich and sweet and of course I use salted butter in the base. Dollops of softly whipped cream, a few strawberries and it is bliss.
I look at my failed attempts of avoiding doing this thing and I can't remember why because it is exactly what I want to be doing. It is what I love. I am cooking - with purpose. I am cooking for him.
Now here I am in my kitchen, happier than the proverbial pig in shit.
I make lashings of beautiful lasagna. Out of necessity I am trialing gluten free things at the moment. I make beef and guiness pies, pork ribs, pastas, Moroccan chicken, apple strudel, chocolate puddings, shepards pie, lamb shanks, cheese cakes. I make all of the pastries and pastas from scratch, trialing the new flours. They feel different. This will take me a while to get used to it and I don't pretend to like it.
I think I love the cheese cakes the most. They are cute little ones.
I use smooth ricotta, cream cheese, egg yolks, eggs, vanilla and brown sugar in my cheese cakes. It gives them the soft glow of caramel. They are rich and sweet and of course I use salted butter in the base. Dollops of softly whipped cream, a few strawberries and it is bliss.
I look at my failed attempts of avoiding doing this thing and I can't remember why because it is exactly what I want to be doing. It is what I love. I am cooking - with purpose. I am cooking for him.
Thursday
Guilt
I feel quiet at the moment.
I have had a very intense few days spurred on by my recent transgressions. It is always hard to tell where I sit. Hard to tell exactly how much trouble I am in. I am getting the feeling it is quite a lot.
The thing that I realised when I messaged him to tell him what I had done initially was that he was really caring for me, helping me, keeping me safe. In an instant I saw it. I knew he was going to be mad. I had to tell him anyway. I had to tell him so he knew that I knew. So that I could show him I understood, that I was grateful for his care and that I saw it for what it was.
It is also hard to talk about because I don't have any privacy on here. The people I want to whinge about, cry about, scream at are all on here (if sporadically) reading my stuff and to be honest I wish they wouldn't so I could say what I want. Today I want them all to stop reading and leave me alone in my little blog. Yes, that means YOU! You know who you are. I think perhaps this was inspired somewhat by sfp's post on blogging privacy...I think she is leading a sub-revolt. We are all about to picket our Masters, Doms and Sirs and demand some private thinking space. I think perhaps it would be a short protest.
I cried at the weekend. Yes, me. For those of you who do know me (and I am hoping you haven't stopped reading - it was just a whinge, I didn't mean it) you will know that this is a rare feat. The fact that I cried because I felt genuinely like I had done the wrong thing is even more bizarre. I didn't feel guilty, it doesn't somehow seem to do it justice. I felt at the very core of myself that I had been...I don't know...I can't express it so I shan't try.
I had big discussions with my husband. Those sort of conversations that run deep. Stuff that hangs around in your relationship, sometimes in the middle, sometimes on the edges but that is always there, lurking. It feels a little like we are starting to wade through some of it.
I had big conversations with my mother, with my father, with my in-laws and kids. All and all it has just been a loooong few days. I feel like everyone has been storing up their serious mind-ramblings to throw at me all in the two days where I felt least able to handle it.
I guiltily spoke with Sir. He is dealing with way too much at the moment to be bothering himself with this stuff. I copped an earful. His genuine anger unsettled me. A few breathless minutes of ashamed remorse after our conversation, I started to come back down. I started to feel a little more human. After three days of feeling wholly awful it was a huge relief. It was done. Almost done. I still have to go and see him and I think I will be feeling a little more remorse in those moments...
I have had a very intense few days spurred on by my recent transgressions. It is always hard to tell where I sit. Hard to tell exactly how much trouble I am in. I am getting the feeling it is quite a lot.
The thing that I realised when I messaged him to tell him what I had done initially was that he was really caring for me, helping me, keeping me safe. In an instant I saw it. I knew he was going to be mad. I had to tell him anyway. I had to tell him so he knew that I knew. So that I could show him I understood, that I was grateful for his care and that I saw it for what it was.
It is also hard to talk about because I don't have any privacy on here. The people I want to whinge about, cry about, scream at are all on here (if sporadically) reading my stuff and to be honest I wish they wouldn't so I could say what I want. Today I want them all to stop reading and leave me alone in my little blog. Yes, that means YOU! You know who you are. I think perhaps this was inspired somewhat by sfp's post on blogging privacy...I think she is leading a sub-revolt. We are all about to picket our Masters, Doms and Sirs and demand some private thinking space. I think perhaps it would be a short protest.
I cried at the weekend. Yes, me. For those of you who do know me (and I am hoping you haven't stopped reading - it was just a whinge, I didn't mean it) you will know that this is a rare feat. The fact that I cried because I felt genuinely like I had done the wrong thing is even more bizarre. I didn't feel guilty, it doesn't somehow seem to do it justice. I felt at the very core of myself that I had been...I don't know...I can't express it so I shan't try.
I had big discussions with my husband. Those sort of conversations that run deep. Stuff that hangs around in your relationship, sometimes in the middle, sometimes on the edges but that is always there, lurking. It feels a little like we are starting to wade through some of it.
I had big conversations with my mother, with my father, with my in-laws and kids. All and all it has just been a loooong few days. I feel like everyone has been storing up their serious mind-ramblings to throw at me all in the two days where I felt least able to handle it.
I guiltily spoke with Sir. He is dealing with way too much at the moment to be bothering himself with this stuff. I copped an earful. His genuine anger unsettled me. A few breathless minutes of ashamed remorse after our conversation, I started to come back down. I started to feel a little more human. After three days of feeling wholly awful it was a huge relief. It was done. Almost done. I still have to go and see him and I think I will be feeling a little more remorse in those moments...
Tuesday
Strawberry Sorbet
Strawberries are in season at the moment. A friend of mine went picking last week and brought home a bounty.
I sit in the kitchen with my paring knife and hull the berries into a big glass bowl, putting about twenty of the most perfect looking ones to the side. Placing sugar and water in a saucepan I make a syrupy mixture, stirring until the crystals dissolve, watching it bubble lightly then leaving it to one side to cool.
Humming to myself I think about what else it needs. The fruit is so gorgeous at this time of year but it needs something...I have some tahitian limes that are destined for the sorbet but it needs something...Thankfully this is a staged recipe and I can leisurely ponder the ingredients with no adverse outcomes. While I am contemplating the missing dimension to the sorbet I heat some chocolate and dip the reserved berries, leaving the chocolate to harden.
I love the laziness of the day, rolling over on itself, wandering, pondering, thinking about food and fucking. My two favorite things. Collecting herbs for dinner I notice my mint. It is a little sad after the cold and only just starting to get its first flush of real new spring growth but the winter means smaller leaves with a much fuller flavour. I pick a tight handful. This is what I have been looking for!
Back inside I pull out my mortar and pestle. I have three actually, this one is dedicated to sweet things. The other two are for curries and savory spices and are employed depending on quantity of ingredients. I have a beautiful little hand made japanese one, too. It is made just for ginger and horseradish and sits unused but very much loved. It is palm sized and almost serrated on the inside with a tiny wooden pestle. Hung by its leather thonging, it watches over me as I work. In my work corner I have two such objects, functional and beautiful but which serve no real purpose in my cooking. Both are treasured, one from each of my grandmothers.
I wash the mint, spin it dry and throw it in with a small handful of sugar. As I pound the scent intensifies, the leaves grow darker, the sugar grating into the mint. Pausing for a moment I peel some zest away from a lime, the oily aroma clinging to my already fragrant fingers. I am just about to throw it in to the pestle but think better of it and put it to the side. The mint and sugar are locked in a feud, each trying to exert his own individuality in the confines of my bowl, trying to drown out the other. The sugar biting into the tenderness of the mint, the oil from the mint permeating the sugar, dissolving it slightly. The sounds of the fray lessen and bit by bit they unify into a fine, pale green powder with occasional glimpses of a of dark green speck of mint. Now they have surrendered to each other. Now they are something new.
One of my favorite desserts is a platter filled with big chunks of fresh pineapple, sprinkled with mint-sugar. Simplicity. Perfection.
I squeeze the limes by hand over the sugar and stir, the acid easily dissolving the tiny granules. It looks like a pale cordial. The berries go into the blender and I add the minty/limy mix, pulsing it until it is smooth. At this point I get rather torn as I love a beautiful silky sorbet but I do so love the wholeness of leaving the puree unsieved. I decide that since I have gone this far that the decadence in a perfectly smooth sorbet outweighs my delight in finding the occasional tiny piece of fruit.
I hum as I push it through the sieve and it falls in thick plops into the bowl. The colour is rich and red, not like the pinkyness of raspberries. The syrup is still not cool enough so I busy myself with other things.
The phone rings. It is Sir. Thankfully I am home by myself. Stretched out on the bed, one foot on the bed head I am cumming again at his word. I quiver and ripple, my body contorting itself, bending and writhing at his say so. I am twisted into knots, wound up and unwound. Breathless, it is finally finished. I am permitted to stop. I have the desperate desire to keep going forever and the physical exhaustion pressing me to go no further. He is timing me, counting my cums. His goal for me is twenty-five times in five minutes. He informs me that I came nineteen times in five-minutes and twenty-three seconds. My stomach aches and burns. I can feel every muscle screaming at me.
I lie still for a while, listening to the nothing in my house. My eyes closed, my body tired, my mind not considering sleep as an option in the near future. Eventually I rouse myself and move lazily to the kitchen. I bite into one of the strawberries, cracking through the chocolate, juice filling my mouth. I eat while pulling the frozen basin out and placing it on the bench, pouring in the syrup, the strawberry puree and sprinkling over the tiny pieces of lime zest. I switch it on, watching it swirl for a while and slowly gather myself for a shower.
On my return I am rewarded with a pretty, red, undulating convergence of flavours. The tiny vibrant flecks of green look divine.
I scoop a spoonful while the machine still whirs and smile to myself as it melts into my tongue; drifting off, floating away in both body and mind.
I sit in the kitchen with my paring knife and hull the berries into a big glass bowl, putting about twenty of the most perfect looking ones to the side. Placing sugar and water in a saucepan I make a syrupy mixture, stirring until the crystals dissolve, watching it bubble lightly then leaving it to one side to cool.
Humming to myself I think about what else it needs. The fruit is so gorgeous at this time of year but it needs something...I have some tahitian limes that are destined for the sorbet but it needs something...Thankfully this is a staged recipe and I can leisurely ponder the ingredients with no adverse outcomes. While I am contemplating the missing dimension to the sorbet I heat some chocolate and dip the reserved berries, leaving the chocolate to harden.
I love the laziness of the day, rolling over on itself, wandering, pondering, thinking about food and fucking. My two favorite things. Collecting herbs for dinner I notice my mint. It is a little sad after the cold and only just starting to get its first flush of real new spring growth but the winter means smaller leaves with a much fuller flavour. I pick a tight handful. This is what I have been looking for!
Back inside I pull out my mortar and pestle. I have three actually, this one is dedicated to sweet things. The other two are for curries and savory spices and are employed depending on quantity of ingredients. I have a beautiful little hand made japanese one, too. It is made just for ginger and horseradish and sits unused but very much loved. It is palm sized and almost serrated on the inside with a tiny wooden pestle. Hung by its leather thonging, it watches over me as I work. In my work corner I have two such objects, functional and beautiful but which serve no real purpose in my cooking. Both are treasured, one from each of my grandmothers.
I wash the mint, spin it dry and throw it in with a small handful of sugar. As I pound the scent intensifies, the leaves grow darker, the sugar grating into the mint. Pausing for a moment I peel some zest away from a lime, the oily aroma clinging to my already fragrant fingers. I am just about to throw it in to the pestle but think better of it and put it to the side. The mint and sugar are locked in a feud, each trying to exert his own individuality in the confines of my bowl, trying to drown out the other. The sugar biting into the tenderness of the mint, the oil from the mint permeating the sugar, dissolving it slightly. The sounds of the fray lessen and bit by bit they unify into a fine, pale green powder with occasional glimpses of a of dark green speck of mint. Now they have surrendered to each other. Now they are something new.
One of my favorite desserts is a platter filled with big chunks of fresh pineapple, sprinkled with mint-sugar. Simplicity. Perfection.
I squeeze the limes by hand over the sugar and stir, the acid easily dissolving the tiny granules. It looks like a pale cordial. The berries go into the blender and I add the minty/limy mix, pulsing it until it is smooth. At this point I get rather torn as I love a beautiful silky sorbet but I do so love the wholeness of leaving the puree unsieved. I decide that since I have gone this far that the decadence in a perfectly smooth sorbet outweighs my delight in finding the occasional tiny piece of fruit.
I hum as I push it through the sieve and it falls in thick plops into the bowl. The colour is rich and red, not like the pinkyness of raspberries. The syrup is still not cool enough so I busy myself with other things.
The phone rings. It is Sir. Thankfully I am home by myself. Stretched out on the bed, one foot on the bed head I am cumming again at his word. I quiver and ripple, my body contorting itself, bending and writhing at his say so. I am twisted into knots, wound up and unwound. Breathless, it is finally finished. I am permitted to stop. I have the desperate desire to keep going forever and the physical exhaustion pressing me to go no further. He is timing me, counting my cums. His goal for me is twenty-five times in five minutes. He informs me that I came nineteen times in five-minutes and twenty-three seconds. My stomach aches and burns. I can feel every muscle screaming at me.
I lie still for a while, listening to the nothing in my house. My eyes closed, my body tired, my mind not considering sleep as an option in the near future. Eventually I rouse myself and move lazily to the kitchen. I bite into one of the strawberries, cracking through the chocolate, juice filling my mouth. I eat while pulling the frozen basin out and placing it on the bench, pouring in the syrup, the strawberry puree and sprinkling over the tiny pieces of lime zest. I switch it on, watching it swirl for a while and slowly gather myself for a shower.
On my return I am rewarded with a pretty, red, undulating convergence of flavours. The tiny vibrant flecks of green look divine.
I scoop a spoonful while the machine still whirs and smile to myself as it melts into my tongue; drifting off, floating away in both body and mind.
Monday
Silence
So where were we before I got all distracted with my new trick? That's right, me tied to a spreader bar on the bed, cuffed and gagged with Sir wielding some deadly looking clamps.
He stares into my eyes and places The Mother of all clamps over my whole cunt, sandwiching my clit in the middle. He stares at me, watching my eyes roll back as it snaps shut. I have to say the feeling was exquisite in a very good way. I let out a small shudder. He proceeds to fix pegs where ever he can find spare flesh around the clamp. Then he comes at me with the two small clamps. The first one goes on my right nipple. It hurts but I can bear it. The second one goes on my left nipple and I can not take it. I am whimpering - Sir says I sound like a puppy. I kind of agree but am not in much of a position to comment. I am gagged, tied and in major sensory overload.
The twisted nature of these moments is that when he removes the clamps I look to him as my saviour. He says there will be a punishment for that later. In that moment I could not see past getting the clamp(s) off my nipple and it is gone and he has rescued me.
He walks over to the drawer and pulls out a long sharp white needle about the length of a ruler. He pokes me with it. Pokes my clit with it. I am not liking this game. He rests the needle flat against the top of my thighs.
I don't remember what happened next. I remember him standing beside me, to my right. I remember the look on his face as I lay on the bed, tied to the bar, hands cuffed to the bar, clamped and gagged. I remember I had to move my knees up towards my chest. I don't remember why. I can picture myself lying there and see the confusion spread across my face as my knees draw higher. I see my eyes grow wide, my head start to shake. I look over at him. I understand what he has done, what he is doing. He smiles, nods and chuckles a "MmmmHmmmm." I shake my head. He nods his head. I try to ease into it, looking to him to save me.
The thin white needle rests on my thighs and in the middle it is threaded by a loop to the clamp on my clit.
As my knees draw up, the clamp pulls. I am breathing faster, transfixed by the sensation but the fear is building. The fear is driven by the anticipation of pain. I know once the clamp pulls to a certain point the smaller amount of skin will make it excruciating. I look to him. He smiles and says nothing. I am like a trapped bug in his web. It is blissfully divine. I want to cum but know that if I do it will pull harder on the clamp.
I wish I could remember what it was that was making me draw my knees up. I have a feeling it may have been a cane. Just before I dive into real panic he yanks the clip from me.
I breathe hard.
OMG.
I ask for release but it is denied.
I am freed from my bonds while he uses his hand to bring forth the most intense orgasms. I cum over and over, trying to be silent as he insists. (He tells me later is because it intensifies the orgasm. This I can now attest to.) Holding my breath, I sit up as he is there with his hand in me. I stare into him, looking to him to guide me, direct me, keep me present. I listen and his words wash over me, his eyes locking me in. I am at his will in this moment more than any other. More than when I am tied up, bound, gagged. In this moment I breathe at his will. The word comes, "Now" My eyes roll back and I am spasming, brimming with sound which channels itself all into my cunt grabbing at him, pulling him in. I am thrown back on the bed, gasping. I feel the waves rolling through me from my middle out to my ends. Cum is dripping down my legs, pulsing out of me. The room is full of the smell of sex and fucking.
I am spent.
Eventually I am able to rouse myself enough for a cigarette (though I want it dually noted I don't smoke). The walk down the stairs was tough on my legs.
Saturday
Crime and Punishment (and pizza dough)
So JaT is in trouble. There have been one or two small hiccups on the path to sub-liness. The hard balance for me is that outside of who I am with Sir, I am Mistress.
Generally speaking Mistress does not ask permission from anyone for pretty much anything and when I do it is just cursory. Perhaps a more polite way of telling people what they are doing. Interestingly both recent transgressions have been brought to Sir's attention by me. As always he strikes the worst blow possible. He tells me he is disappointed. He does not get angry, does not say anything else, just that he is disappointed. I can deal with a mob of angry people, talk down a screaming banshee, brush off the silent treatment or a snide remark. Disappointment strikes harder than anything else.
So as I sent Sir my latest confessional (why I even felt compelled to tell him I do not know) I pulled out my trusty old faithful coping techniques.
I heat a bowl, measure out the warm water, throw in some sugar, mix it with my hands, sprinkle some yeast ontop and send the message. I wait while the yeast foams, mobile in hand. I pull out the 00 flour and throw it haphazard into the bowl. I don't know why I measured the water. I rarely measure anything when making pasta or bread. Grinding salt and pouring over the olive oil I keep glancing at my phone. I put my hands through the flour and into the warm water underneath and pull it through on itself. My phone beeps. My stomach drops. With one hand I mix while with the other I pull the message up. Tears sting my eyes, I kneed the dough and it comes together. I add just a little more flour and pound into it, folding it back on itself, pushing, pulling until I am done. Cleaning the bowl, oiling it, rolling the dough in oil and leaving it to proof, I wonder at whether I should reply.
I always wait like a kid at Christmas for dough to proof. There is a kind of magic about it going in a tightly bound ball and coming out a light fluffy mass of bubbly something. This time I am just wrapped up in my head. I could try to explain myself. I could apologize again. I could tell him it was no big deal or none of his business. The truth of it is that he was clear and my disregard of that cannot be explained away so I decide to say nothing.
I will have pizza tonight and hopefully in the process eat some of my guilt.
Generally speaking Mistress does not ask permission from anyone for pretty much anything and when I do it is just cursory. Perhaps a more polite way of telling people what they are doing. Interestingly both recent transgressions have been brought to Sir's attention by me. As always he strikes the worst blow possible. He tells me he is disappointed. He does not get angry, does not say anything else, just that he is disappointed. I can deal with a mob of angry people, talk down a screaming banshee, brush off the silent treatment or a snide remark. Disappointment strikes harder than anything else.
So as I sent Sir my latest confessional (why I even felt compelled to tell him I do not know) I pulled out my trusty old faithful coping techniques.
I heat a bowl, measure out the warm water, throw in some sugar, mix it with my hands, sprinkle some yeast ontop and send the message. I wait while the yeast foams, mobile in hand. I pull out the 00 flour and throw it haphazard into the bowl. I don't know why I measured the water. I rarely measure anything when making pasta or bread. Grinding salt and pouring over the olive oil I keep glancing at my phone. I put my hands through the flour and into the warm water underneath and pull it through on itself. My phone beeps. My stomach drops. With one hand I mix while with the other I pull the message up. Tears sting my eyes, I kneed the dough and it comes together. I add just a little more flour and pound into it, folding it back on itself, pushing, pulling until I am done. Cleaning the bowl, oiling it, rolling the dough in oil and leaving it to proof, I wonder at whether I should reply.
I always wait like a kid at Christmas for dough to proof. There is a kind of magic about it going in a tightly bound ball and coming out a light fluffy mass of bubbly something. This time I am just wrapped up in my head. I could try to explain myself. I could apologize again. I could tell him it was no big deal or none of his business. The truth of it is that he was clear and my disregard of that cannot be explained away so I decide to say nothing.
I will have pizza tonight and hopefully in the process eat some of my guilt.
Thursday
Training
Since I started seeing Sir I have been working hard to hold orgasms until I am told to cum or until I ask and permission is granted. This has proven difficult as I hit rolling orgasms quite easily and why deny, right? I have to say I think there have only been one or two slip ups or very near half misses which I count as a minor miracle. I have also been tasked with learning to remain quiet...no actually silent. I think this is a much more difficult task in some ways. I have found though that through the silence I am able to be in some ways more present to the experience. I am finding that in the really deep moments if I can stay afloat, the orgasm is magnified - exponentially. Drifting into myself in such a way that I actually block out everything/one else has been my chosen path (remaining true to my hedonistic nature) up to this point. Staying in the space, while more difficult, offers up far greater possibilities.
Interestingly I never really considered the counter to withholding orgasms and asking permission to cum, which is the whole point of the post. Through learning to listen and, as it were, cum-on-command it would appear that I am now able to (surprise) cum-on-command. It really hit a whole new level though, one I had not given consideration to. Mick who writes (Under Contract to my Wife) talks often of his "pavlovian" response. It would seem that I too am as easy to train as Pavlov's Dogs.
I have been in a little trouble this week. I was being a little mouthy last night. I said something to Sir about him being a manipulative. He says no, I think yes, he says what I believe does not matter. He seems to think he just elicits from people their most base desires. I still think he manipulates. Whether they/we are being lead or coerced is neither here nor there anyway - he is like the pied piper for subs. He spoke to me about how he is not manipulating, just...facilitating.
He spoke to me about the new man-thing I am considering playing with as a Mistress. How I will not be a Dom, like he is a Dom. (I do not want to be a Dom like he is a Dom. I like my role as Mistress or Top, thank you!) The conversation quiets for a second. He is thinking. He changes tack. I can hear his tone change. He gets this shift in his voice when he is hatching a plan, when he strikes a new idea he knows will drive his point home.
"You know that while I talk to you, you get wet."
"Yes, Sir."
"You know if I told you to cum now, without touching yourself you could."
"Yes, Sir."
"I could have you so your cum is dripping down your legs."
"Yes, Sir."
"You know if I told you to cum ten times right now, you could."
"Yes, Sir..."
This is interesting, mainly because he does not like for me to cum outside of our sessions but also because I do not really believe it. I wonder if he is just throwing it out there as an idea.
His voice was soft and deadly, "So you could cum for me now, slut. Do not touch yourself."
I was mid-protest, mid-"I can't" when I felt the thrill of a build start in my belly and engulf me before I could get the words out. There lying on the couch, nothing other than his word and I was writhing mid-cum. Against everything I am outside of who I am with him, I had to ask, "Please, Sir, Please?"
"You have my permission to cum. You will cum when I tell you to. Cum now and quiet, slut. No noise."
As my orgasm faded away his voice was in my ear "Again, slut, now, " and another one rose to meet me where the first had left.
I gasped and groaned heavily into the cushion. I was clenching, twisting and his voice - I can only describe it as a whisper but one that comes to me like a shout - "Silence!"
Before I had reached the final shudder he spoke "Now cum for me slut."
They were fast and hard and building in intensity. I was shaking. He was demanding. "Again" or "Now." and there I would go again. I was gasping for air but trying to keep my breathing steady to maintain his need for silence.
"Are you counting? No? That is five now, little slut. Cum for me now."
I was slick and wet, shaking. My stomach was starting to hurt and then I was lost. Over and over I could not pause for breath. I was quiet, nigh silent but still he knew the instant I was riding down the wave and he pulled me back up to dive in once again. I felt like someone was holding my head under water and only allowing me half a second up to breathe. I lost all sense of everything, my cunt dripped, my stomach ached and he paused. Here, when I thought I was done, he told me to cum again. I could feel the wetness, the heat. I was gasping and clenching and then there it was, that one where I have to sit up more and I feel my eyes grow wide, my breath catch in my throat. A silent second and my eyes roll, my back arches and I tremble, embracing the cum as it washes over me. Finally he allows me to be done and I collapse back onto the couch.
I could not and still cannot understand - I did not even have the chance to think anything through, there was no stimulation, no build in, not even a hint of fantasy and there I was - my cup truly had runneth over and made a slick mess on my legs and the couch.
"Now" he says. "Do you know how many times you came?"
"No, Sir"
"Why not?" Although I suspect he knew the answer.
"I..I...I can't think, Sir. I couldn't..."
He laughed. "E-le-ven times." He broke the word eleven into three words. "Now you cum eleven times in less than five minutes. You cum without touching yourself. You cum because I tell you to cum. That is a Dom. That is why I am a Dom and you are not."
I have nothing left but a tiny, humbled "Yes, Sir."
Interestingly I never really considered the counter to withholding orgasms and asking permission to cum, which is the whole point of the post. Through learning to listen and, as it were, cum-on-command it would appear that I am now able to (surprise) cum-on-command. It really hit a whole new level though, one I had not given consideration to. Mick who writes (Under Contract to my Wife) talks often of his "pavlovian" response. It would seem that I too am as easy to train as Pavlov's Dogs.
I have been in a little trouble this week. I was being a little mouthy last night. I said something to Sir about him being a manipulative. He says no, I think yes, he says what I believe does not matter. He seems to think he just elicits from people their most base desires. I still think he manipulates. Whether they/we are being lead or coerced is neither here nor there anyway - he is like the pied piper for subs. He spoke to me about how he is not manipulating, just...facilitating.
He spoke to me about the new man-thing I am considering playing with as a Mistress. How I will not be a Dom, like he is a Dom. (I do not want to be a Dom like he is a Dom. I like my role as Mistress or Top, thank you!) The conversation quiets for a second. He is thinking. He changes tack. I can hear his tone change. He gets this shift in his voice when he is hatching a plan, when he strikes a new idea he knows will drive his point home.
"You know that while I talk to you, you get wet."
"Yes, Sir."
"You know if I told you to cum now, without touching yourself you could."
"Yes, Sir."
"I could have you so your cum is dripping down your legs."
"Yes, Sir."
"You know if I told you to cum ten times right now, you could."
"Yes, Sir..."
This is interesting, mainly because he does not like for me to cum outside of our sessions but also because I do not really believe it. I wonder if he is just throwing it out there as an idea.
His voice was soft and deadly, "So you could cum for me now, slut. Do not touch yourself."
I was mid-protest, mid-"I can't" when I felt the thrill of a build start in my belly and engulf me before I could get the words out. There lying on the couch, nothing other than his word and I was writhing mid-cum. Against everything I am outside of who I am with him, I had to ask, "Please, Sir, Please?"
"You have my permission to cum. You will cum when I tell you to. Cum now and quiet, slut. No noise."
As my orgasm faded away his voice was in my ear "Again, slut, now, " and another one rose to meet me where the first had left.
I gasped and groaned heavily into the cushion. I was clenching, twisting and his voice - I can only describe it as a whisper but one that comes to me like a shout - "Silence!"
Before I had reached the final shudder he spoke "Now cum for me slut."
They were fast and hard and building in intensity. I was shaking. He was demanding. "Again" or "Now." and there I would go again. I was gasping for air but trying to keep my breathing steady to maintain his need for silence.
"Are you counting? No? That is five now, little slut. Cum for me now."
I was slick and wet, shaking. My stomach was starting to hurt and then I was lost. Over and over I could not pause for breath. I was quiet, nigh silent but still he knew the instant I was riding down the wave and he pulled me back up to dive in once again. I felt like someone was holding my head under water and only allowing me half a second up to breathe. I lost all sense of everything, my cunt dripped, my stomach ached and he paused. Here, when I thought I was done, he told me to cum again. I could feel the wetness, the heat. I was gasping and clenching and then there it was, that one where I have to sit up more and I feel my eyes grow wide, my breath catch in my throat. A silent second and my eyes roll, my back arches and I tremble, embracing the cum as it washes over me. Finally he allows me to be done and I collapse back onto the couch.
I could not and still cannot understand - I did not even have the chance to think anything through, there was no stimulation, no build in, not even a hint of fantasy and there I was - my cup truly had runneth over and made a slick mess on my legs and the couch.
"Now" he says. "Do you know how many times you came?"
"No, Sir"
"Why not?" Although I suspect he knew the answer.
"I..I...I can't think, Sir. I couldn't..."
He laughed. "E-le-ven times." He broke the word eleven into three words. "Now you cum eleven times in less than five minutes. You cum without touching yourself. You cum because I tell you to cum. That is a Dom. That is why I am a Dom and you are not."
I have nothing left but a tiny, humbled "Yes, Sir."
Wednesday
Restrained
His nails dragged down my back getting firmer. I could feel my flesh pulling, my cunt getting wet, my back arched in response - not out of pain but out of lust. I was panting, hot, desperate to cum and we had not yet even begun.
"You like that, don't you, slut?" I could tell he was grinning. "Stand up." I stood, staring down. He slapped my face lightly. I stayed, eyes locked on the floor. I know now to look at the floor. All at once my clothes were gone, my collar on and I was being walked to the edge of the bed. "Bend over, spread your legs....WIDER! I am going to inspect you."
I fucking hate it. I am bent over the bed while he checks me over. I want to stand up, turn around, look him in the eye, tell him to fuck off and walk out. I know if I do that, I don't get what I want. What was it I wanted again, anyway? I am not a particularly good sub. Yes I know all subs say it but really I am not. I am just not subbie. I think I am perhaps a masochist and to get where I want to go with that I feel like I have to submit. I don't like submitting, I don't want to but I can't turn away from it. It is a strange dance, a very strange dance indeed. I could walk away if I wanted to but I don't. I can't quite explain it. Perhaps I am not willing to admit to myself how much I enjoy parts of this game - this however, is certainly is not one of those parts.
I feel cool metal chains press into my wrists and they are pulled up behind my back, beyond where it is comfortable and fastened to the back of my collar. It is almost not bearable. I am face down on the bed and there are cuffs going on my ankles. Now I am standing. My feet are bound to a bar and tied in to my cuffs and collar and my breasts are pulled into tight balls of red burning flesh, the ropes knotted up high so that I might look down on them. He stands back and admires his work. He is fast and efficient. He tells me how beautiful, how perfect they look. The whip is in his hand. My hair is in my face again. I hate it. My fucking hair is suffocating and hot and awful. I know if I cut it though I would miss him grabbing it, twisting it, pulling me to him. I can't see properly. I can't breathe properly. Now he is whipping. How he gets around my bound arms I do not know but the whip strikes. He pulls my hair to one side so that it does not temper the blows to my shoulders. The ends wrap around my body, stinging my breasts, my stomach, my legs. It licks up between my thighs plunging me into desperate panic that he may not stop - or perhaps that he will. The thin leather drives home, kissing my cunt. I am brimming with lust, with want. I am begging with my eyes, pleading for the collar to be loosened, begging to cum, begging for more, for less, to leave, to stay. He strikes again. I shake my head, muffled squeals and grunts he somehow knows what I am saying, through the gag. He knows what I am saying even when I don't.
He moves to the chest of drawers and takes out a cane. He puts it back and pulls out a much meaner looking stick. In retrospect the flexibility of the cane probably makes it a much harsher weapon but at the time I was not thinking clearly. It drops lazily onto my skin, once, twice. I feel my breath hasten, my body tense, the fear grip me like a vice and squeeze. He puts it to one side and pulls me back down to earth before I plunge over the edge into something I cannot escape from.
My hands and legs are freed and I am permitted to lie back on the bed. A few seconds respite. I look over and see his eyes glinting. He is on me, my legs are pulled up and tied open by the ankles to the bar, my wrist chains clipped to the ends. I suppose if I were upright I would look like I was squatting - awkwardly. That glint in his eyes, raw and animal. He slips his fingers into my need and mutters something about what a slut I am. I hear the sound of light metal chinking. My heart races. He grins, the glint is now replaced with victorious, gleeful anticipation. My 'respite' was so he could collect some pegs, some small clamps and The Mother of all clamps.
My eyes wide, I shake my head. He chuckles, I think at me, perhaps to himself. He stares straight at me and opens The Mother clamp so I can see it snap closed. I draw a sharp breath. He opens it again and looks down, hungry to place it on my flesh.
I know I asked for this but really, in this moment do I want it?
"You like that, don't you, slut?" I could tell he was grinning. "Stand up." I stood, staring down. He slapped my face lightly. I stayed, eyes locked on the floor. I know now to look at the floor. All at once my clothes were gone, my collar on and I was being walked to the edge of the bed. "Bend over, spread your legs....WIDER! I am going to inspect you."
I fucking hate it. I am bent over the bed while he checks me over. I want to stand up, turn around, look him in the eye, tell him to fuck off and walk out. I know if I do that, I don't get what I want. What was it I wanted again, anyway? I am not a particularly good sub. Yes I know all subs say it but really I am not. I am just not subbie. I think I am perhaps a masochist and to get where I want to go with that I feel like I have to submit. I don't like submitting, I don't want to but I can't turn away from it. It is a strange dance, a very strange dance indeed. I could walk away if I wanted to but I don't. I can't quite explain it. Perhaps I am not willing to admit to myself how much I enjoy parts of this game - this however, is certainly is not one of those parts.
I feel cool metal chains press into my wrists and they are pulled up behind my back, beyond where it is comfortable and fastened to the back of my collar. It is almost not bearable. I am face down on the bed and there are cuffs going on my ankles. Now I am standing. My feet are bound to a bar and tied in to my cuffs and collar and my breasts are pulled into tight balls of red burning flesh, the ropes knotted up high so that I might look down on them. He stands back and admires his work. He is fast and efficient. He tells me how beautiful, how perfect they look. The whip is in his hand. My hair is in my face again. I hate it. My fucking hair is suffocating and hot and awful. I know if I cut it though I would miss him grabbing it, twisting it, pulling me to him. I can't see properly. I can't breathe properly. Now he is whipping. How he gets around my bound arms I do not know but the whip strikes. He pulls my hair to one side so that it does not temper the blows to my shoulders. The ends wrap around my body, stinging my breasts, my stomach, my legs. It licks up between my thighs plunging me into desperate panic that he may not stop - or perhaps that he will. The thin leather drives home, kissing my cunt. I am brimming with lust, with want. I am begging with my eyes, pleading for the collar to be loosened, begging to cum, begging for more, for less, to leave, to stay. He strikes again. I shake my head, muffled squeals and grunts he somehow knows what I am saying, through the gag. He knows what I am saying even when I don't.
He moves to the chest of drawers and takes out a cane. He puts it back and pulls out a much meaner looking stick. In retrospect the flexibility of the cane probably makes it a much harsher weapon but at the time I was not thinking clearly. It drops lazily onto my skin, once, twice. I feel my breath hasten, my body tense, the fear grip me like a vice and squeeze. He puts it to one side and pulls me back down to earth before I plunge over the edge into something I cannot escape from.
My hands and legs are freed and I am permitted to lie back on the bed. A few seconds respite. I look over and see his eyes glinting. He is on me, my legs are pulled up and tied open by the ankles to the bar, my wrist chains clipped to the ends. I suppose if I were upright I would look like I was squatting - awkwardly. That glint in his eyes, raw and animal. He slips his fingers into my need and mutters something about what a slut I am. I hear the sound of light metal chinking. My heart races. He grins, the glint is now replaced with victorious, gleeful anticipation. My 'respite' was so he could collect some pegs, some small clamps and The Mother of all clamps.
My eyes wide, I shake my head. He chuckles, I think at me, perhaps to himself. He stares straight at me and opens The Mother clamp so I can see it snap closed. I draw a sharp breath. He opens it again and looks down, hungry to place it on my flesh.
I know I asked for this but really, in this moment do I want it?
Tuesday
Some Sub Text
For all those folks who do not know, I am now a regular contributor to Some Sub Text , a poetry blog (squeeee - so excited). While I know that the term regular implies some sort of regularity - the exact meaning of regular in this context is something to which I cannot attest.
I can say however, that I was so extremely excited to hear from sfp (who writes an amazing blog that I just adore) so I jumped at the chance to contribute.
My second poem is up here so any of you who are that way inclined, please have a read.
They are short and sweet with just a sprinkle of what makes subbies so very special!
Big Love, Big Kisses and yes I do kiss my mumma with that mouth! Thank God she doesn't ask where its been...
I can say however, that I was so extremely excited to hear from sfp (who writes an amazing blog that I just adore) so I jumped at the chance to contribute.
My second poem is up here so any of you who are that way inclined, please have a read.
They are short and sweet with just a sprinkle of what makes subbies so very special!
Big Love, Big Kisses and yes I do kiss my mumma with that mouth! Thank God she doesn't ask where its been...
Sunday
Back in the room
I know I don't go into great detail about the physical goings on but having to look so many people in the eye who I know read this makes it somewhat difficult to be as forthright as I would like. I am working on getting over it.
So last night I went to see Sir.
I am gradually feeling more comfortable, less consumed by concern about my marriage through the constant conversations with Husband Dear and thus more able to be present, less terrified about what is awaiting me....no, scrap that I am still sitting on the edge of terrified about that - but that is the way I like it.
Our last few days were filled with good humour, texts, conversations and laughing. I have not been able to work a suitable time into my schedule to see him. I am lacking childminding at the moment and as devious as I am I could not leave my children with my in-laws for a rendezvous with Sir, although on some kinky level I do find it appealing.
I was not sure if I would go as we really need some whole family time but after a few texts back and forward I had to go and I had to go right then. Husband Dear took the kids for dinner at his parents (I should really find out what I am supposedly doing at these times for future reference) and I went home, quickly showered and drove to see Sir.
On arrival I was made to kneel face down on the floor. Sir was busy with something, his energy felt scattered and stressed but still when he entered the room he spoke with me and was calm and controlled. Between spankings he kept leaving to attend to something while I knelt, perfectly still on the floor. He got the whip out. He was quite wieldy with it, no build in. My back-side already smarted from his hands. He started to pull pieces of clothing to the sides, down, around, off, scattering them around the floor. I could sense frustration, perhaps. Though he may have been in that headspace, not a whisper of it drifted into our play. I am always amazed by this. He whips me, hard. Still I am facedown on the floor and again he must leave the room. My arse is naked, in the air, my back bare and he rests the whip right in the middle, commanding that it should not move.
I am still, listening. I wonder if I should try not to listen but in the silence it is all I have. My hair drapes down around me making me hot. At some stage I must have had the gag in as I remember spit dripping through my sweat soaked hair, me shaking it, trying to get it out of my face. It sticks in thick chunks to my cheeks and neck. I can see a drop of spit stringing its way down to the floor. I can feel the leather snaking its way down my back. I imagine how it looks, folded down on itself, tendrils of thinly plaited black leather with knotted ends, sitting, waiting, softly curving over my arse, betraying none of its sting. Doors open and close downstairs. Momentary panic sets in.
What if there is someone else here? What if he is bringing someone here now? We have talked about it but I am not ready for that. What should I do? I am here on the floor. I could look over and see the door but then that would not be holding position. I am working hard at being good. I am not a good sub, I know that, but for now, today, I am trying so I stay perfectly still, kneeling, palms outstretched on the carpet, forehead an inch from the floor, sweat dripping, spit leaking, hair draped around me like a veil. If there is someone here what will I do? I can hear footsteps on the stairs. It is one set of sounds or two? They are at the door, turning the handle, walking towards me and I feel a hand collecting the whip and lazily trailing it over my back, putting it down on the bed. A warm hand caresses my shoulders and traces down my spine. I shiver and my back arches. I am trying so hard to be still. "Good Girl." He soothes. "I am here with you and now I can give you my full attention. Is that my touch making you shiver?" I could hear the smirk in his voice. I murmured something. He ran his nails down my back. My body arched in response.
Sir.
We were in the room now, in the game, locked in until we were done.
So last night I went to see Sir.
I am gradually feeling more comfortable, less consumed by concern about my marriage through the constant conversations with Husband Dear and thus more able to be present, less terrified about what is awaiting me....no, scrap that I am still sitting on the edge of terrified about that - but that is the way I like it.
Our last few days were filled with good humour, texts, conversations and laughing. I have not been able to work a suitable time into my schedule to see him. I am lacking childminding at the moment and as devious as I am I could not leave my children with my in-laws for a rendezvous with Sir, although on some kinky level I do find it appealing.
I was not sure if I would go as we really need some whole family time but after a few texts back and forward I had to go and I had to go right then. Husband Dear took the kids for dinner at his parents (I should really find out what I am supposedly doing at these times for future reference) and I went home, quickly showered and drove to see Sir.
On arrival I was made to kneel face down on the floor. Sir was busy with something, his energy felt scattered and stressed but still when he entered the room he spoke with me and was calm and controlled. Between spankings he kept leaving to attend to something while I knelt, perfectly still on the floor. He got the whip out. He was quite wieldy with it, no build in. My back-side already smarted from his hands. He started to pull pieces of clothing to the sides, down, around, off, scattering them around the floor. I could sense frustration, perhaps. Though he may have been in that headspace, not a whisper of it drifted into our play. I am always amazed by this. He whips me, hard. Still I am facedown on the floor and again he must leave the room. My arse is naked, in the air, my back bare and he rests the whip right in the middle, commanding that it should not move.
I am still, listening. I wonder if I should try not to listen but in the silence it is all I have. My hair drapes down around me making me hot. At some stage I must have had the gag in as I remember spit dripping through my sweat soaked hair, me shaking it, trying to get it out of my face. It sticks in thick chunks to my cheeks and neck. I can see a drop of spit stringing its way down to the floor. I can feel the leather snaking its way down my back. I imagine how it looks, folded down on itself, tendrils of thinly plaited black leather with knotted ends, sitting, waiting, softly curving over my arse, betraying none of its sting. Doors open and close downstairs. Momentary panic sets in.
What if there is someone else here? What if he is bringing someone here now? We have talked about it but I am not ready for that. What should I do? I am here on the floor. I could look over and see the door but then that would not be holding position. I am working hard at being good. I am not a good sub, I know that, but for now, today, I am trying so I stay perfectly still, kneeling, palms outstretched on the carpet, forehead an inch from the floor, sweat dripping, spit leaking, hair draped around me like a veil. If there is someone here what will I do? I can hear footsteps on the stairs. It is one set of sounds or two? They are at the door, turning the handle, walking towards me and I feel a hand collecting the whip and lazily trailing it over my back, putting it down on the bed. A warm hand caresses my shoulders and traces down my spine. I shiver and my back arches. I am trying so hard to be still. "Good Girl." He soothes. "I am here with you and now I can give you my full attention. Is that my touch making you shiver?" I could hear the smirk in his voice. I murmured something. He ran his nails down my back. My body arched in response.
Sir.
We were in the room now, in the game, locked in until we were done.
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