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.
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
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.
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.
Vanilla and Eggs
So, you'll never guess where I ended up last night?
Sir was kind and talked me down from where ever I was. I sat on the phone to him for a long time. Then I went to see him.
I had the house to myself this morning. I slept late. I made a strong coffee and sat outside. I had a cigarette. I don't know where it came from (remembering that I don't smoke).
Retiring to the kitchen, I revel in the abundance of my beautiful produce and wonder what I am going to create. Possibly my favorite thing in my produce delivery is the arrival of my marinated feta. I know I ordered it but I can't help the excitement knowing it is sitting in my fridge! The smell is divine. It has garlic, chili, thyme, fennel seeds and a few other unidentified herbs and spices and I love it. Every time I walk past the fridge I have a small piece, it is soft, salty and gorgeous and it falls apart when I try to pull it from its jar. When the cheese is gone I use the oil to make omelets. The flavour is exceptional and just permeates the eggs. I have way too many eggs this time - some left over from last delivery. I want something sweet.
I dig through all of my recipe books, my cards, my handwritten notes. I want something easy but something that takes time. Something worthwhile. Something with lots of eggs. Not too heavy. Something that makes me smile.
Créme Pátissiérie.
It is one of my favorite things to make. I love watching the food change, be worked and molded into something other than what it was. I love this process. I can take my time.
I heat the milk on the stove and hum, smiling at what is there in front of me, knowing what it will become. Milk, eggs, sugar, and a vanilla pod. Endless possibilities.
I slice the vanilla pod and scrape the seeds into the hot milk. Instantly the room fills with the scent of baking and icecream and lolly shops and childhood. It lifts my soul high. I leave it to cool slightly as I tend to the eggs.
I love separating them. My favorite way to do it is to break the eggs into the palm of my hand, letting the whites fall into the bowl beneath, leaving the yolk sitting, exposed at the base of my fingers. I drop them one by one into their own bowl. I beat the egg yolks and sugar until they are rich and pale, the sugar dissolved, trailing ribbons through the bowl. I drop through a small amount of corn flour, though it does not appeal to me. It feels somehow like cheating. I beat again until it comes together.
I pull the pod out of the milk and bring the heavy saucepan over to the bowl. Straining to lift the pan with one hand and whisk with the other, my breasts scream at me in pain. They were punished last night. They sting and burn all of a sudden. With the pain and the remembering of last night, I feel a tremor surge through me. I put down the pan and brace myself against the bench as my heart races and I cum, quickly and silently.
Again I start to pour the hot milk. Flushed and smiling, I bite down on my lip. I pour about a third of the milk in and whisk it, adding the rest, whisking, returning it to the stove. I beat and beat and my heart soars.
The thick pale custard is cooling off, impatiently anticipating its use. I am smiling and lazily flicking through my books, deciding between profiteroles and strawberry tarts, dipping my finger into the hot custard, remembering last night.
Sir was kind and talked me down from where ever I was. I sat on the phone to him for a long time. Then I went to see him.
I had the house to myself this morning. I slept late. I made a strong coffee and sat outside. I had a cigarette. I don't know where it came from (remembering that I don't smoke).
Retiring to the kitchen, I revel in the abundance of my beautiful produce and wonder what I am going to create. Possibly my favorite thing in my produce delivery is the arrival of my marinated feta. I know I ordered it but I can't help the excitement knowing it is sitting in my fridge! The smell is divine. It has garlic, chili, thyme, fennel seeds and a few other unidentified herbs and spices and I love it. Every time I walk past the fridge I have a small piece, it is soft, salty and gorgeous and it falls apart when I try to pull it from its jar. When the cheese is gone I use the oil to make omelets. The flavour is exceptional and just permeates the eggs. I have way too many eggs this time - some left over from last delivery. I want something sweet.
I dig through all of my recipe books, my cards, my handwritten notes. I want something easy but something that takes time. Something worthwhile. Something with lots of eggs. Not too heavy. Something that makes me smile.
Créme Pátissiérie.
It is one of my favorite things to make. I love watching the food change, be worked and molded into something other than what it was. I love this process. I can take my time.
I heat the milk on the stove and hum, smiling at what is there in front of me, knowing what it will become. Milk, eggs, sugar, and a vanilla pod. Endless possibilities.
I slice the vanilla pod and scrape the seeds into the hot milk. Instantly the room fills with the scent of baking and icecream and lolly shops and childhood. It lifts my soul high. I leave it to cool slightly as I tend to the eggs.
I love separating them. My favorite way to do it is to break the eggs into the palm of my hand, letting the whites fall into the bowl beneath, leaving the yolk sitting, exposed at the base of my fingers. I drop them one by one into their own bowl. I beat the egg yolks and sugar until they are rich and pale, the sugar dissolved, trailing ribbons through the bowl. I drop through a small amount of corn flour, though it does not appeal to me. It feels somehow like cheating. I beat again until it comes together.
I pull the pod out of the milk and bring the heavy saucepan over to the bowl. Straining to lift the pan with one hand and whisk with the other, my breasts scream at me in pain. They were punished last night. They sting and burn all of a sudden. With the pain and the remembering of last night, I feel a tremor surge through me. I put down the pan and brace myself against the bench as my heart races and I cum, quickly and silently.
Again I start to pour the hot milk. Flushed and smiling, I bite down on my lip. I pour about a third of the milk in and whisk it, adding the rest, whisking, returning it to the stove. I beat and beat and my heart soars.
The thick pale custard is cooling off, impatiently anticipating its use. I am smiling and lazily flicking through my books, deciding between profiteroles and strawberry tarts, dipping my finger into the hot custard, remembering last night.
Thursday
Sweetness and Cupcakes
So I have written my lists of punishments. Sir was very approving.
I vacillate through varying shades of unsullied bliss to the darkest of self-loathing, though I find the loathing lesser now and easier to push aside. This subdued feeling is foreign. It feels quiet.
I wait softly, impatiently to hear from him.
Waiting for his words to soothe and calm.
They come.
They come and wash over me.
I say to him "Sir, the smile! The girlish grin where my head bows when you say 'good girl'...sometimes I blush. Sweetly. Sweetly, it is sweet somehow - I don't know how - and today it does not seem important. Today it just is - and I love it."
I am baking cakes. Lovely little chocolate mudcakes and my head is there in that moment. Everything is perfect and smooth and rich and dark and sweet and bitter. They plop perfectly into their little cases and rise even and well formed. I beat the icing, cocoa and butter (lashings of butter) and wait for them to cool. They are just warm out of the oven and I can smell them.
My everything now is waiting to see him so I will cook and whip and bake and taste but it is not with fraught desperation. Perhaps not even so much anticipation - just acceptance.
I remember speaking with him asking him how he knew. We were in a huge room filled with people, why me? How did he know to sit near me? To talk with me? How he knew of all of the people in that room that I wanted what he had? He just looks at me and grins this malevolent grin and whispers "It screams at me from your every pore. I stand near you and I can smell it on you like an animal hunting its prey. I see it in your eyes. I feel it in my bones. I watch you touch your face, your hair. I know you. I have always known you. I know what you want, what you need."
I remember after that conversation feeling that exulted, intoxicating high. Walking around as though I was all at once transparent to everyone.
He reaches in and touches my mind in ways I can't even begin to understand and I don't want to try, for fear that I might.
I vacillate through varying shades of unsullied bliss to the darkest of self-loathing, though I find the loathing lesser now and easier to push aside. This subdued feeling is foreign. It feels quiet.
I wait softly, impatiently to hear from him.
Waiting for his words to soothe and calm.
They come.
They come and wash over me.
I say to him "Sir, the smile! The girlish grin where my head bows when you say 'good girl'...sometimes I blush. Sweetly. Sweetly, it is sweet somehow - I don't know how - and today it does not seem important. Today it just is - and I love it."
I am baking cakes. Lovely little chocolate mudcakes and my head is there in that moment. Everything is perfect and smooth and rich and dark and sweet and bitter. They plop perfectly into their little cases and rise even and well formed. I beat the icing, cocoa and butter (lashings of butter) and wait for them to cool. They are just warm out of the oven and I can smell them.
My everything now is waiting to see him so I will cook and whip and bake and taste but it is not with fraught desperation. Perhaps not even so much anticipation - just acceptance.
I remember speaking with him asking him how he knew. We were in a huge room filled with people, why me? How did he know to sit near me? To talk with me? How he knew of all of the people in that room that I wanted what he had? He just looks at me and grins this malevolent grin and whispers "It screams at me from your every pore. I stand near you and I can smell it on you like an animal hunting its prey. I see it in your eyes. I feel it in my bones. I watch you touch your face, your hair. I know you. I have always known you. I know what you want, what you need."
I remember after that conversation feeling that exulted, intoxicating high. Walking around as though I was all at once transparent to everyone.
He reaches in and touches my mind in ways I can't even begin to understand and I don't want to try, for fear that I might.
Friday
We're not in Kansas anymore Toto.
So it has been two weeks now. Yes I am counting the days. I was on the highest of highs for a while. Actually, that is not entirely true. I was on the highest of highs for exactly three days. Then with the suddenness of an unexpected slap in the face (which we will get to later) I came crashing and careering off the lighted clouds of endorphins and into the black abyss of wanton desire. I suppose that wanton desire is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact I quite enjoy it but this is not one of those sweet encounters where you sit waiting to see your new beau or beauette. This was dark and dirty. I desperately needed to go back, to have more. I needed to be fucked again and I needed to be fucked by him. The part I hated was that he knew it. We spoke on the phone, briefly now, because there was no joy in anticipation anymore. The bliss of talking softly, imagining touches, the thrill of my cunt getting wet at the sound of his voice was there but no longer enough. I got that he had taken a part of me. He owned it and he was not giving it back. Not now and according to him, not ever.
I am back to cooking. Cooking a lot. Avoiding going to see him again. Waiting until I can give it away, give him away, or until I can't bear it anymore. Some moments I can't bear it anymore and I am in the car about to drive there but I haven't - yet.
He sits on the phone. He tells me what I want, what I need and that I am his. Not in the romantic way where I am his forever. In the way that he owns a part of me that is small but so significant, the part of me that has submitted to another person. Whether I admit it or not we both know it to be true.
It is a very difficult thing to describe, that piece. The feeling of being owned. It is vastly different to belonging, to desire, to the beauty of a fresh relationship. There is a small amount of....what is the word? Panic I suppose. For someone like me to give over to someone else, half willingly, half I am not sure...hell, I am not even sure what "it" is. I guess the half that is not willing desperately wants for it to be taken too...whatever it is.
So in my quiet moments I fill my head with fragmented rememberings of debauchery. I can feel the touch, the sting, the release. The glorious fucking release.
He took out a bamboo cane. I stood with the burning of an orgasm unreleased in my belly as he caned my arse. I moaned softly. It got harder and harder. My breath stuck in my throat. I could feel the fire burning in my belly, building again. Evidently so could he.
"You are a very naughty girl. You mustn't cum. You mustn't cum until I say. Is that clear?"
"Yes." My voice was quiet, angry. "Yes, Sir."
"Good Girl."
He knew that I was there fighting him. Surrendered in body only. The fire burned brighter as the pain ripped through my arse. My legs started to shake.
He whispered to me, "You are a slut."
He took my hands down. I knelt on the floor as he collared my neck.
"Suck my cock." It was thick and perfect. I took him in my mouth and devoured him, while he stood there above me, me on my knees, deeper and deeper. It brought me again to where I was ready to cum. I looked up at him, begging him with my eyes to let me go, to stop or to finish me. To let me cum.
"Not now." He bent me over the bed and that moment of entry, that glorious moment. He thrust inside me. It is like a sweet second where the world stops turning. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. It was hard and fast. My head was spinning. "You cum on my cock, now." He thrust a finger in my arse and pulled my hair back harder. My back arched, my cunt tightened and I came. Finally. I could feel my cunt constricting in waves over him, pulling him in. Once, twice and on the third wave he pulled out.
"No!" I shouted. "No, no, not now. Please...Can't you just..."
He stood back and said "You talk too much. You are too loud. I told you not to say no to me." He shoved something in my mouth and tied it there.
I was sitting in a messy puddle on the floor at the foot of his bed, my eyes stung with tears of frustration. At his command I got up on my knees. He licked my breasts, sucked my nipples and then started placing clamps on them. The pain was exquisite. I was unable to speak with the gag in. I know my eyes were searching, begging him. I shook my head and he smiled. "It is only for a minute. It will get better. You will take it." There were three on each nipple. I was shaking my head, making muffled sounds. "Good Girl." He patted my head.
He was softer now, quieter. He pulled out a length of rope. He tied it in expert loops as he must have done a hundred times before. He tied my breasts one at a time so they were tight balls of flesh, red and swollen. He bent me over and caned my bare arse. I was to stay on all fours with my head down. He fucked me again, over and over. Whenever I got close to cumming he would stop and wait for the moment to subside, then he would start again. The thrusting made my breasts jolt and sting but I wanted to cum so much I could not help but thrust back into him. My breasts really burned now. I wanted them to be released. It hurt so much I could feel a surge of panic start to rise in my chest. He took out a giant dildo. He moved around behind me. It was too wide. I shook my head, begging for him to stop, wanting him to continue. "You can take it. I know you can." As he pushed it into me I could feel my cunt stretching. The glorious feeling it brought to my clit. He fucked me with it slowly and I came so hard I could see it spurting out of me. "Good Girl. Good Girl." The waves would not stop coming as he pounded it into me. There was nothing in the world except this. The sensations. The occasional stinging on my arse as he slapped me, the thrusting, stretching of my cunt. The filling up of my insides. The throbbing of my breasts. I sat back on my knees, he went to remove it from me and I shook my head. He smiled.
He pulled back and stood in front of me. I looked straight at him. There was defiance in my eyes I knew it. This is what I was here for. This moment. He slapped my face. Hard. It stung. It made me angry. I challenged him again with my eyes, again he slapped me. I shook my head and frowned. He slapped me again and again until I looked down. In that moment, I was owned. My chest was nearly bursting. It felt so liberating, so unimaginably amazing.
"You look so beautiful there, Girl. Look at how beautiful your breasts are. Perfect. You are such a good slut and right now you fucking own it. I told you I would make you, create you. You are a slut, my slut and right now, you love it."
He was right. I was there, tied, gagged, panting, wet, stretched, hurting, submissive and all of the defiance gone from my eyes. I could feel it. All that was there was lust and fucking. I looked back up at him with playful eyes, shaking my sweaty hair from in front of my face and I grinned and nodded. I did fucking own it. I owned it, I loved it and there was no going back.
I am back to cooking. Cooking a lot. Avoiding going to see him again. Waiting until I can give it away, give him away, or until I can't bear it anymore. Some moments I can't bear it anymore and I am in the car about to drive there but I haven't - yet.
He sits on the phone. He tells me what I want, what I need and that I am his. Not in the romantic way where I am his forever. In the way that he owns a part of me that is small but so significant, the part of me that has submitted to another person. Whether I admit it or not we both know it to be true.
It is a very difficult thing to describe, that piece. The feeling of being owned. It is vastly different to belonging, to desire, to the beauty of a fresh relationship. There is a small amount of....what is the word? Panic I suppose. For someone like me to give over to someone else, half willingly, half I am not sure...hell, I am not even sure what "it" is. I guess the half that is not willing desperately wants for it to be taken too...whatever it is.
So in my quiet moments I fill my head with fragmented rememberings of debauchery. I can feel the touch, the sting, the release. The glorious fucking release.
He took out a bamboo cane. I stood with the burning of an orgasm unreleased in my belly as he caned my arse. I moaned softly. It got harder and harder. My breath stuck in my throat. I could feel the fire burning in my belly, building again. Evidently so could he.
"You are a very naughty girl. You mustn't cum. You mustn't cum until I say. Is that clear?"
"Yes." My voice was quiet, angry. "Yes, Sir."
"Good Girl."
He knew that I was there fighting him. Surrendered in body only. The fire burned brighter as the pain ripped through my arse. My legs started to shake.
He whispered to me, "You are a slut."
He took my hands down. I knelt on the floor as he collared my neck.
"Suck my cock." It was thick and perfect. I took him in my mouth and devoured him, while he stood there above me, me on my knees, deeper and deeper. It brought me again to where I was ready to cum. I looked up at him, begging him with my eyes to let me go, to stop or to finish me. To let me cum.
"Not now." He bent me over the bed and that moment of entry, that glorious moment. He thrust inside me. It is like a sweet second where the world stops turning. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. It was hard and fast. My head was spinning. "You cum on my cock, now." He thrust a finger in my arse and pulled my hair back harder. My back arched, my cunt tightened and I came. Finally. I could feel my cunt constricting in waves over him, pulling him in. Once, twice and on the third wave he pulled out.
"No!" I shouted. "No, no, not now. Please...Can't you just..."
He stood back and said "You talk too much. You are too loud. I told you not to say no to me." He shoved something in my mouth and tied it there.
I was sitting in a messy puddle on the floor at the foot of his bed, my eyes stung with tears of frustration. At his command I got up on my knees. He licked my breasts, sucked my nipples and then started placing clamps on them. The pain was exquisite. I was unable to speak with the gag in. I know my eyes were searching, begging him. I shook my head and he smiled. "It is only for a minute. It will get better. You will take it." There were three on each nipple. I was shaking my head, making muffled sounds. "Good Girl." He patted my head.
He was softer now, quieter. He pulled out a length of rope. He tied it in expert loops as he must have done a hundred times before. He tied my breasts one at a time so they were tight balls of flesh, red and swollen. He bent me over and caned my bare arse. I was to stay on all fours with my head down. He fucked me again, over and over. Whenever I got close to cumming he would stop and wait for the moment to subside, then he would start again. The thrusting made my breasts jolt and sting but I wanted to cum so much I could not help but thrust back into him. My breasts really burned now. I wanted them to be released. It hurt so much I could feel a surge of panic start to rise in my chest. He took out a giant dildo. He moved around behind me. It was too wide. I shook my head, begging for him to stop, wanting him to continue. "You can take it. I know you can." As he pushed it into me I could feel my cunt stretching. The glorious feeling it brought to my clit. He fucked me with it slowly and I came so hard I could see it spurting out of me. "Good Girl. Good Girl." The waves would not stop coming as he pounded it into me. There was nothing in the world except this. The sensations. The occasional stinging on my arse as he slapped me, the thrusting, stretching of my cunt. The filling up of my insides. The throbbing of my breasts. I sat back on my knees, he went to remove it from me and I shook my head. He smiled.
He pulled back and stood in front of me. I looked straight at him. There was defiance in my eyes I knew it. This is what I was here for. This moment. He slapped my face. Hard. It stung. It made me angry. I challenged him again with my eyes, again he slapped me. I shook my head and frowned. He slapped me again and again until I looked down. In that moment, I was owned. My chest was nearly bursting. It felt so liberating, so unimaginably amazing.
"You look so beautiful there, Girl. Look at how beautiful your breasts are. Perfect. You are such a good slut and right now you fucking own it. I told you I would make you, create you. You are a slut, my slut and right now, you love it."
He was right. I was there, tied, gagged, panting, wet, stretched, hurting, submissive and all of the defiance gone from my eyes. I could feel it. All that was there was lust and fucking. I looked back up at him with playful eyes, shaking my sweaty hair from in front of my face and I grinned and nodded. I did fucking own it. I owned it, I loved it and there was no going back.
Sunday
The Morning After The Night Before
I felt better in the morning. I looked over and there he was, my husband, sleeping next to me. He looked more gorgeous than he had the day before. I think I even loved him more. I stretched in bed, curled and uncurled myself. I smiled. I couldn't stop smiling. It has been five days now and I still haven't stopped smiling.
I looked at myself in the mirror and I remembered her. I was glad to see her. I had missed her all these years, now here she was again smiling and whole, in power and control. Awesome, amazing, filthy, hot and ready to take on the world.
I padded out to the kitchen and made my special pancakes - ones I don't think I have made since my husband and I were dating. I separated the yolks and whites and beat the whites to soft peaks, mixed the dry ingredients in another bowl, including a dash of custard powder (my secret ingredient) then added butter milk and yolks to the dry mix and folded through the white meringue mix. Perfect, fluffy, beautiful. I put the bacon in the oven and started flipping pancakes. It has never been my favorite task. Somehow though every single one was gorgeous. Golden-brown and buttery on the outside, thick and soft.
I stretched out in my chair, warmed through by the sun, gazing at my amazing husband with an espresso and hot breakfast. I sat quietly as he read the paper and I watched our kids jump on the trampoline. He looked up at me and smiled. "Thank you for breakfast, honey. It is amazing."
I looked at myself in the mirror and I remembered her. I was glad to see her. I had missed her all these years, now here she was again smiling and whole, in power and control. Awesome, amazing, filthy, hot and ready to take on the world.
I padded out to the kitchen and made my special pancakes - ones I don't think I have made since my husband and I were dating. I separated the yolks and whites and beat the whites to soft peaks, mixed the dry ingredients in another bowl, including a dash of custard powder (my secret ingredient) then added butter milk and yolks to the dry mix and folded through the white meringue mix. Perfect, fluffy, beautiful. I put the bacon in the oven and started flipping pancakes. It has never been my favorite task. Somehow though every single one was gorgeous. Golden-brown and buttery on the outside, thick and soft.
I stretched out in my chair, warmed through by the sun, gazing at my amazing husband with an espresso and hot breakfast. I sat quietly as he read the paper and I watched our kids jump on the trampoline. He looked up at me and smiled. "Thank you for breakfast, honey. It is amazing."
Thursday
Tangled Webs
I spent the day checking in with my husband, making sure he was still okay, that everything was still okay. I cooked beautiful bologna and hand made egg fettuccine. I stood in the kitchen, tense, worrying about what this could lead to, whether my husband would change his mind, whether I would change mine. The hours dragged by so slowly. Pulling the eggs through the flour was a welcome relief. I made a well with the flour and added first two whole eggs and then four yolks bit by bit pulling it through the flour with my hands. I don't like to use cutters or recipes. I love to feel what I am doing, to understand what it needs to be perfect. It needed another yolk. As I pulled the dough together across the bench, over and over I forgot everything else - there was just the rhythm and the texture. I set the dough aside to rest and called my husband.
He was second guessing or maybe it was me, wanting him to. I hung up the phone and started to gently push the dough through the machine until that sound came, the small sucking sound indicating the release of the dough. I tightened the settings and started again. I wound over and over, finding comfort in the familiar repetitive actions, until the dough became pasta and the pasta became perfect. I cut it, hung it and there it sat, waiting. Beautiful, wide, yellow ribbons. I felt much the same - hung out to dry in anticipation, just waiting to be eaten alive. I was not sure if I would be eaten alive with reckless, savage, abandon or whether I would be consumed by guilt.
He pulled up and walked in. My kids were there and my best friend, my brother and sister in law - everyone was getting together for dinner. My girlfriend can read me like a book. I know she doesn't approve of the idea, let alone the practice. I told her I had spoken with my husband about an open relationship and she got very upset telling me I should make sure he is not cheating. She shook her head and knitted her eyebrows together exclaiming men are pigs and that it would lead to a very bad place. She was in the middle of a major heart-break. I did not tell her it was me who asked. I did not tell her it was me who wanted it. I could see her indignation on my behalf and feel her disgust at my husband for even thinking of putting me through such torture. I did not correct her.
I had not told her where I was going that night - I had no intention of telling her. My husband understood all of this and watched me squirm as I made vague gestures about where I was going, what I was doing, when I would be home. I could see his small delight in my discomfort as I repeated the story for my brother and his wife. I felt transparent, like they could see I was being untruthful, like they knew where I was going.
The complexities of honestly managing my other relationships had never really occurred to me as a problem within the context of this understanding. I had mistakenly thought that it would involve myself, my husband and any partners we chose to bring into our beds or whose beds we chose to visit. The need to explain away a night out only served to propel my anxiety to a whole new level.
I had many conversations with this man over the previous few days and weeks talking about what he would do, what I would do but now here it was. What happened if I did not like it? What would happen if I changed my mind? What happened if I wanted it all to stop so I could run home to my husband, tell him I loved him and that it was all a big misunderstanding? What happened if my husband was upset and it did not bother me? Worse still what happened if I liked it, if I didn't care, if I wanted it more?
I needed to go quickly before he changed his mind or maybe before I changed mine. I said goodbye to my girlfriend, brother and sister-in-law. I kissed my children and told them to make sure they got enough rest. I went outside to where my husband was playing fetch with the dog. I looked up at him, the man I had promised myself to unconditionally. He wrapped his arms around me, looked down into my eyes and I could swear a small smile grazed his mouth. I could not tell if it was sad, wistful, happy or angry. He spoke softly so no one could hear. "I love you. Stay safe, have fun...and call me if you need me." I hugged him tight but did not kiss him, then nodded and walked out. I was breathing hard, heart racing, terrified, exhilarated, wondering if I could really do this.
I got in the car, turned the music up loud and drove headfirst into my uncertainty.
He was second guessing or maybe it was me, wanting him to. I hung up the phone and started to gently push the dough through the machine until that sound came, the small sucking sound indicating the release of the dough. I tightened the settings and started again. I wound over and over, finding comfort in the familiar repetitive actions, until the dough became pasta and the pasta became perfect. I cut it, hung it and there it sat, waiting. Beautiful, wide, yellow ribbons. I felt much the same - hung out to dry in anticipation, just waiting to be eaten alive. I was not sure if I would be eaten alive with reckless, savage, abandon or whether I would be consumed by guilt.
He pulled up and walked in. My kids were there and my best friend, my brother and sister in law - everyone was getting together for dinner. My girlfriend can read me like a book. I know she doesn't approve of the idea, let alone the practice. I told her I had spoken with my husband about an open relationship and she got very upset telling me I should make sure he is not cheating. She shook her head and knitted her eyebrows together exclaiming men are pigs and that it would lead to a very bad place. She was in the middle of a major heart-break. I did not tell her it was me who asked. I did not tell her it was me who wanted it. I could see her indignation on my behalf and feel her disgust at my husband for even thinking of putting me through such torture. I did not correct her.
I had not told her where I was going that night - I had no intention of telling her. My husband understood all of this and watched me squirm as I made vague gestures about where I was going, what I was doing, when I would be home. I could see his small delight in my discomfort as I repeated the story for my brother and his wife. I felt transparent, like they could see I was being untruthful, like they knew where I was going.
The complexities of honestly managing my other relationships had never really occurred to me as a problem within the context of this understanding. I had mistakenly thought that it would involve myself, my husband and any partners we chose to bring into our beds or whose beds we chose to visit. The need to explain away a night out only served to propel my anxiety to a whole new level.
I had many conversations with this man over the previous few days and weeks talking about what he would do, what I would do but now here it was. What happened if I did not like it? What would happen if I changed my mind? What happened if I wanted it all to stop so I could run home to my husband, tell him I loved him and that it was all a big misunderstanding? What happened if my husband was upset and it did not bother me? Worse still what happened if I liked it, if I didn't care, if I wanted it more?
I needed to go quickly before he changed his mind or maybe before I changed mine. I said goodbye to my girlfriend, brother and sister-in-law. I kissed my children and told them to make sure they got enough rest. I went outside to where my husband was playing fetch with the dog. I looked up at him, the man I had promised myself to unconditionally. He wrapped his arms around me, looked down into my eyes and I could swear a small smile grazed his mouth. I could not tell if it was sad, wistful, happy or angry. He spoke softly so no one could hear. "I love you. Stay safe, have fun...and call me if you need me." I hugged him tight but did not kiss him, then nodded and walked out. I was breathing hard, heart racing, terrified, exhilarated, wondering if I could really do this.
I got in the car, turned the music up loud and drove headfirst into my uncertainty.
Tuesday
Chocolate Truffle Cake
So this was becoming an addiction. I had to speak with him. He would always text just when I thought I would not speak with him again. It really was like some kind of drug.
I had switched off this memory of who I was, of what I wanted and now it was there and I could no longer hide it. Not from anyone else. Not from myself. I have played around the edges of D&S and had always worn the control, just waiting for someone to step up and take it from me. No one had - until now. No one had even come close. I have slept with musos, egotistical advertising execs, up tight accountants, CEOs, friends fathers, old men, young men, not to mention all the women and none had even looked at stepping up and taking what I wanted taken - control.
The moment I was faced with it was nothing short of terrifying. I am not sure whether I was more scared of the power that he exuded or my desire to have my power taken away. Exquisite torture.
I walked out through the world and every pore just screamed from me "SEX".
So then I started to understand. The moment I owned who I was my neck eased up and my back stopped hurting. All of this tension for all of these years, just gone. I had to know this. I had to know what it was to be there in that space, to give my control up to someone.
It somehow still felt dishonest with my husband. He had pretty much agreed to an open relationship. Pretty much. I have never cheated on him. Never been with anyone else the whole time we have been in our 7 year relationship. I know he has never looked at another girl. Funnily he does not realise how hot he is....and he is.
So I was stuck in this space. I now understand what it is I do when I feel frustrated. I cook.
I pulled together the most magnificent truffle chocolate cake. Four layers, cherry coulis and morello cherries with butterscotch schappes. It was beautiful.
I stirred by hand all of the ingredients, beating the eggs by hand until they were light, stirring the sugar through until it was dissolved, folding through the flour and melting the chocolate adding the butter until it melted through and was a thousand different flavours of awesome - that sweet salty bitterness of dark chocolate and salted butter. A lot of people I know like to bake with unsalted butter but I love salted. That balance of sweet and salt is just a match made in heaven. While the cake baked again I melted chocolate and added cream for the truffle filling, boiled down cherries, sugar and some liqueur for the coulis and pitted the morello cherries making my finger tips smell sweet, musty and tinting them pink.
I spoke with him on the phone and told him I hated him for doing this to me. I had spent weeks just trying to understand what the hell was going on. Trying to find another way out of this mess that did not involve him. He laughed.
I was in dire straits. Now I could not cum. I could not understand it. I was not intentionally listening to him. I did not want him to be right. I did not want him to win but I did. My cunt was wet and hot and my nipples hard and aching to be sucked...and here I was - I couldn't cum. I wanted to. I tried to. I just fucking couldn't. With all of the delicious desire that I had held on to for so long I knew that this was no longer a want but a desperate fucking need. This was it, the one thing I had been waiting for. There was no way I could turn my back on it whether I wanted to or not, I couldn't.
I sliced the cake while it was still hot and poured the filling over, layering perfect, even cherries and chocolate, sprinkling the butterscotch on the middle layer. It sat perfect in the fridge, cooling. It didn't even take the edge off.
So I took it to my friend's place and in the car on the way there I spoke with my husband. I told him I was serious and I really wanted an open marriage. He agreed. I sat and ate cake with my gorgeous friends in their beautiful home while our tribes of children laughed and played, just thinking about being fucked by this other guy. I sweetly sat while they said Grace at dinner, drank my tea and said my goodbyes. I got in the car, took a deep breath and said "This is hard for me to say and I know you said you were okay with the idea, Honey but I need to tell you. I have met someone I think I may be interested in seeing. Are you okay with that?" He swallowed hard and was quiet. "Yes." The questions started about how we had met and who was he, how old - all of which I neatly avoided. I got the answer I needed.
I sent the text as soon as I could - "Game on!"
So now I sit watching the hours tick slowly, slowly until my husband comes home from work to watch our children so I can go and be tied up and fucked by someone else.
I had switched off this memory of who I was, of what I wanted and now it was there and I could no longer hide it. Not from anyone else. Not from myself. I have played around the edges of D&S and had always worn the control, just waiting for someone to step up and take it from me. No one had - until now. No one had even come close. I have slept with musos, egotistical advertising execs, up tight accountants, CEOs, friends fathers, old men, young men, not to mention all the women and none had even looked at stepping up and taking what I wanted taken - control.
The moment I was faced with it was nothing short of terrifying. I am not sure whether I was more scared of the power that he exuded or my desire to have my power taken away. Exquisite torture.
I walked out through the world and every pore just screamed from me "SEX".
So then I started to understand. The moment I owned who I was my neck eased up and my back stopped hurting. All of this tension for all of these years, just gone. I had to know this. I had to know what it was to be there in that space, to give my control up to someone.
It somehow still felt dishonest with my husband. He had pretty much agreed to an open relationship. Pretty much. I have never cheated on him. Never been with anyone else the whole time we have been in our 7 year relationship. I know he has never looked at another girl. Funnily he does not realise how hot he is....and he is.
So I was stuck in this space. I now understand what it is I do when I feel frustrated. I cook.
I pulled together the most magnificent truffle chocolate cake. Four layers, cherry coulis and morello cherries with butterscotch schappes. It was beautiful.
I stirred by hand all of the ingredients, beating the eggs by hand until they were light, stirring the sugar through until it was dissolved, folding through the flour and melting the chocolate adding the butter until it melted through and was a thousand different flavours of awesome - that sweet salty bitterness of dark chocolate and salted butter. A lot of people I know like to bake with unsalted butter but I love salted. That balance of sweet and salt is just a match made in heaven. While the cake baked again I melted chocolate and added cream for the truffle filling, boiled down cherries, sugar and some liqueur for the coulis and pitted the morello cherries making my finger tips smell sweet, musty and tinting them pink.
I spoke with him on the phone and told him I hated him for doing this to me. I had spent weeks just trying to understand what the hell was going on. Trying to find another way out of this mess that did not involve him. He laughed.
I was in dire straits. Now I could not cum. I could not understand it. I was not intentionally listening to him. I did not want him to be right. I did not want him to win but I did. My cunt was wet and hot and my nipples hard and aching to be sucked...and here I was - I couldn't cum. I wanted to. I tried to. I just fucking couldn't. With all of the delicious desire that I had held on to for so long I knew that this was no longer a want but a desperate fucking need. This was it, the one thing I had been waiting for. There was no way I could turn my back on it whether I wanted to or not, I couldn't.
I sliced the cake while it was still hot and poured the filling over, layering perfect, even cherries and chocolate, sprinkling the butterscotch on the middle layer. It sat perfect in the fridge, cooling. It didn't even take the edge off.
So I took it to my friend's place and in the car on the way there I spoke with my husband. I told him I was serious and I really wanted an open marriage. He agreed. I sat and ate cake with my gorgeous friends in their beautiful home while our tribes of children laughed and played, just thinking about being fucked by this other guy. I sweetly sat while they said Grace at dinner, drank my tea and said my goodbyes. I got in the car, took a deep breath and said "This is hard for me to say and I know you said you were okay with the idea, Honey but I need to tell you. I have met someone I think I may be interested in seeing. Are you okay with that?" He swallowed hard and was quiet. "Yes." The questions started about how we had met and who was he, how old - all of which I neatly avoided. I got the answer I needed.
I sent the text as soon as I could - "Game on!"
So now I sit watching the hours tick slowly, slowly until my husband comes home from work to watch our children so I can go and be tied up and fucked by someone else.
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