Wednesday, February 25, 2009

More Thoughts

I’m not sure what to focus on in this entry.

I could write about how I had a giant meltdown last weekend and how Master held me and refocused me and brought me sunshine to dry my flood of tears.

I could write about how I push him away under stress, but instead of getting upset with me, he just draws me back into his arms. He reminds me that I belong with him and to him—not with force or threat—but by showing me how wonderful and compassionate he is, which further re-enforces my love for him, my need to be with him, my desire to serve him.

I could write about the way he explained his Mastery over me; gave me the framework of ‘guided inquiry’ to show me that while I am accountable to him, he does not want to remove ounce of my autonomy or hinder my goals or break down my personality. He wants me to serve him, but in a way that works for both of us, so that in the end I’ll always want to serve him and always feel like this was a choice that I freely and happily made.

I could write more about how he called me his soulmate today, and then predictably downplayed it, when I “oohhhed and awwwed”. I could write about all the little ways that we match and come together like pieces in a puzzle. I could mention our shared quirks and fascinations; our shared wonderment for so many of life’s little nuances.

And if I wanted to talk about sex, I could write about how I love when he just nestles into my chest and suckles on my breasts. How, I am surprisingly bad at this no eye-contact rule when I wear my collar—but how I love feeling powerless. I could talk about how much I want him in me all time, but also enjoy the fact that he can deny me pleasure at his whim. It just makes me crave him more.

I could write about how he tied me to his door two weekends ago, and clamped my nipples and flogged me soundly. About how I wish he had an instrument that he could hit me with at his full force so that neither of us feels like he’s holding back, but at the same time doesn’t injure me. I really don’t think I could handle him whipping me at full force with the flogger—and I would pass out at full force with the cane—but I think it would feel oh-so-good to have him really going at it with something that was pushing my limits, but still allowing me to withstand the pain.

I could write about how much we jokingly role-play—like he we once stood in the shower and recreated the kissing scene from The Notebook, or how we pretend that we’re breaking up in public to freak people out, or how we’ll have conversations in different characters at a restaurant just for fun. And I could write how much I like it and how interesting I think it would be to do full-out sexual scenes. Or how greatly aroused I am by the whole prison warden/inmate scenario.

Or, I could write in more depth about how I feel when we’re just sitting on the couch together and we’re on our different computers, doing our own separate thing…and how amazing he is, for enjoying spending even that kind of time with me. I could write about his immense faith for our future, and while I was once worried that it was blind faith—I once feared that his reassurances were not completely genuine or well thought-out—I can now see the strong commitment to working on things together and making both our dreams com true.

And I’m sure there’s even more to to touch upon, but this is my start, held together by one resounding theme: I love you, Master!

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Look Down

I wrote an angst-filled entry here last night but have decided to revoke it. My stress is, in turn, stressing Master and causing him to inadvertently put more pressure on me about getting things done. However, my problem isn’t lack of motivation or procrastination. I do everything I have to do, I just tend to worry about outcomes in the process. But worrying Master in the process of venting has only worsened the situation.

So, let’s forget that. This past weekend was good, as usual. I studied, we went out, we played.

A new rule was made: no eye contact when I’m wearing my collar. I like the concept. These days, I rarely feel helpless when we play since I can easily look into his eyes and plead silently for his mercy. And because he loves me, and fears that he may be really hurting me, he often gives in. This rule is good for our play; it lets him watch and enjoy my expressions while removing any power I had over him, when I inadvertently begged with puppy-dog eyes. I like it. I want to feel helpless again; I trust his judgement and want to give up power to him.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Lust and Greed

On our way home from a movie on Friday night, Master whispered to me—out of earshot of his friends in the backseat of the car—“black slip, collar and cuffs”. After dropping our passengers off, we entered his apartment and I stripped silently before re-dressing—for the first time, in a long while—as his slave.

I passed my naked arms through the thin straps of the slip he had requested and let the silk glide over my body, until the fabric pulled over my breasts and grazed my upper thigh with its lace trimming. I smoothed the black material flat against my stomach and played with the slit that carved a path of exposed flesh under the material. Then, I fastened the leather cuffs tight around my wrists and ankles and secured a thick black collar around my neck.

I caught my reflection in the mirrored backing of the cabinet where he keeps his books, and I saw myself—not as the put-together woman I try to be—but a small, shy girl. His little pet. My clit began to tingle at the mere notion of it.

I grew suddenly timid when he gestured for me and snapped once. I knelt before him, between his open legs. He didn’t tell me to look away, but feeling coy, I kept turned my eyes down as I waited for instruction. He didn’t speak, but rather, pulled the hair-elastic down my ponytail to loosen the dark strands over my shoulders. His touch was rough, perhaps disapproving, but without seeing his face, I couldn’t be sure. I stole an upwards glance and was relieved to see him smiling. Not a carefree, playful grin—the curve of his lips were far more subtle—but there was still a glimmer in his eyes. And that, along with the bulge that grew between his legs and pressed into my chest, was enough to convince me that he was pleased. My clit began to throb.

He snapped his fingers twice and I stood up at the command. He got up too, and I followed him to where the toys were kept, watched him pull out the butt plug and lubricant. He gestured to the bed.

I placed my hands and face on the mattress, but kept my bottom raised. The silk slithered down my back and exposed my ass to him. He ran a palm over the cheeks, then his finger along the crack.

“Spread your cheeks with your hands and hold them open” he commanded.

I shifted my weight, and leaned into the bed with my chest, pressing the side of my face into the sheets to stabilize myself as I moved my hands to my backside and pried open my asscheeks for him. I could hear him squirting the lubricant out of the tube, coating the plug.

I felt the silicone press into me slowly, until it was sitting comfortably inside. Then, he pressed the base of the plug, plunging it in deeper than was comfortable, and driving a sharp jolt into my abdomen. He pulled the plug out slowly, before he twisted it deep into me. I moaned. Not in agony, but in delight, as warmth spread inside my cunt and waves of moisture coated my insides. He pushed me onto the mattress and flipped me over so that I could see him as he stood over me at the edge of the bed.

I watched him take his pants off. I watched the material fall away, to expose his sturdy legs, the dimple where his thigh met his ass, the shadows across his hip bones. I watched his underwear peel away to expose the smooth, round head of his cock, and the beautifully engorged shaft whose central vein was throbbing to the same rhythm as my little clit.

“Sit up,” he demanded, and I did, forcing the butt plug erect inside me. He moved toward me. “Play with me, slave.”

I reached out longingly and cupped his hardened balls in my hands, caressing them between my rotating fingers, making the outer skin of the scrotum glide over the firm testes inside. Cocooning his balls with one hand, I brushed my other hand—lightly, breathlessly—from the base of his cock, up along the shaft, finally tickling the head with my fingers. Then I wrapped my fingers around his shaft, and slid my hand down, up, around the head. My thumb and fingers massaged, flickered, tensed, eased, stroked. I lowered my mouth over the crown of his cock’s smooth head, my tongue varying it's pressure as I sucked, and then moving in hard, sharp flicks across its lines and curves and gentle indentations. I didn’t look up at him, I sucked greedily, while one hand trickled its fingers along his balls and the other milked his shaft. I could feel his length, ever-growing, the rushing blood beating like a second heart in my hands.

Finally, he took my hair, and pulled my mouth away. He pushed me back, so that I was flat against the bed. With one of his hands digging into my hip and the fingers of his other hand hooked inside my cunt, he dragged me into the center of the bed. There, he straddled me, raised my arms over my head and clipped my wrist cuffs together.

He moved his hands down my body: pausing at the place when my collarbones met underneath the collar, the mounds of my breasts, my nipples, my waist, my hips. Then, he reached between my legs to part the silk and expose my cunt. Fluid pooled inside me. My cunt was weeping; begging to be used.

I wanted him inside of me so badly. I wanted to raise my hips toward him, to plead for him to touch my clit, to enter me, to pound me like the dirty, little whore that I was. But I knew that he would probably punish me for begging without permission, so I lay still as he smirked at me, holding his cock in his hands.

Finally, he turned my head so that my chin touched my shoulder and I could no longer stare at him. He moved over me and brought his cock into me. As he pounded into me, he wriggled his hands under my bum and moved his fingers to synchronously drill the butt plug into me with his every thrust. I closed my eyes and relished in the pressure building in so many places—the mattress against my back, his solid body over mine, the leather encircling my wrists, and ankles and neck. I squeezed my eyes shut and became overwhelmed by the sensation of pulsing from every direction—his cock in my cunt, the butt plug in my ass, the oscillating pressure of his hips against mine, the thud of our chests together, the heaving gasps of air moving in and out of our lungs.

I wanted so badly to move under him, to rotate my hips, to rub my clit vigorously against his body. I was getting wetter and wetter, spiraling into a dizzy wave of sensation. I wanted to complete it with his friction over my clit, with the eruption of an orgasm. But I restrained my need and wondered what he must be feeling.

I wondered if he, even though he was not the one subjected to this wide array of stimulation, of fullness from within and weight in all directions, if he was feeling the same joy and exhilaration as I was. I wondered if he was experiencing the same arousal from using me, that I was feeling from being used by him.

I wanted to move, to take more, to force more pleasure for myself. But I lay still and let him fuck me with his cock, as his hands alternated from fucking my ass with the plug, to jerking my hair back, to squeezing his fingers into my breasts, and pushing down into my nipples.

I wanted relief from the building pressure— the beautiful, wonderful but overwhelming pressure. I wanted to relieve all the agonizing tension growing within, to move, to take control, to search for an orgasm, to actively create that final release. But instead, I stayed still and hoped that he was enjoying himself as much I was, that he was finding pleasure from my body, my obedience, my restrained need.

I willed myself still and despite the tormenting waves of physical pleasure, I found relief and delight and a calm, steady pleasure from the acceptance of being motionless underneath his body; from being helpless, used, controlled. Owned.