journey into submission

2008-01-06T19:05:00.001-08:00

Switch

2008-01-06T19:02:00.000-08:00

So I lied...

I have basically switched over completely to the new website.

Double posting seems to require more wherewithal that I am able to muster at the moment so I'm not doing it. If you want to find me, and keep up with all the latest craziness, hop on over to journeyintosubmission.com.

Blogger has been fun, but I'm on to bigger and better things.

In Between

2007-12-18T15:34:00.000-08:00

Just so you know:

I will continue posting here for the time being, but the posts will be delayed until at least a few hours (maybe the next day) after I post them on my new site. For the hottest-off-the-press posts, check out journeyintosubmission.com. This is my way of getting people used to going to the new page.

Eventually I will stop posting here at all. I'm not sure when that will happen - I'll keep an eye on my traffic stats and see how many people are going where. I estimate a month or so, or shorter if I get sick of double posting.

Please change your bookmarks, links, and blogrolls to the new site.

I haven't decided if I will leave this as an archive or delete it once the switch to the new url is complete. I kind of like the idea of having a permanent record of where I started, so we'll see.

Robin

2007-12-17T06:35:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday morning I woke up on Mr Stern’s couch and tried to figure out what to do with myself until he and Alexa woke in the next room. We have not yet worked out a way for me to sleep in the room with them, given that none of us wants all three of us in the same bed overnight, so I sleep on his delightfully comfortable couch and enjoy knowing that he is close by. Because I am a habitually early riser and because I knew he had gone back to bed after waking earlier, I figured it was going to be a while until I had company.

It was already after nine and I didn’t want to risk giving myself a headache by going back to sleep so I lay there and thought. I thought about the Scrabble game we’d played the night before, obsessed about a few words I could have played, checked all of my email accounts on my phone, and finally got up to pee. On my way back to the living room, I glanced in the master bedroom and saw Mr Stern curled around Alexa, warm and snug under the down comforter. Something in my heart twinged unexpectedly.

As has happened before, my mind wandered unbidden to fantasies of having someone in my life who would wrap themselves around me and hold me close while I slept. From there my thoughts naturally went to the one thing that I have missed more than anything since I ended my relationship with Owen some time last year: someone to bury their face between my legs, open their mouth, stick out their tongue, and stay there for as long as I want. I lay there, feeling the almost palpably physical need for an intimate, and sloppy wet, connection and felt my breath catch in my throat.

I turned over, sighed deeply, and tried to think of something else. It seemed that, no matter what I did, my brain drifted back to sex and fucking and cunt licking and cocks. I was admittedly horny, but the undercurrent of sacrifice added a bitter edge to my need. One tear leaked out and slid slowly down to my ear. I knew I was in for a slippery rollercoaster ride of emotions before I was done with this train of thought.

As fate would have it, Mr Stern and Alexa started stirring a few minutes later. I heard them murmuring softly and the sound of their lips meeting. I smiled, knowing that Alexa’s recent illness had kept them from exchanging kisses for the better part of two weeks, and thought of how good it must feel for both of them to share that intimacy again. Some part of me dreaded what might come next but I tried to remain optimistic and focused on pleasing Mr Stern through my behavior and thoughts.

Mr Stern has had numerous occasions over the last month to reprimand me for acting, thinking, and being selfish, self-centered, and mopey. I have lost my focus as his service slut on more than one occasion and ending up feeling like I am entitled to much more than I deserve. It all finally came to a head two weeks ago – after I tallied up six incidences in one month – and was resolved by a long, detailed discussion and his hand wrapped firmly around my throat. Since then I have been much more deliberate in processing my thoughts and making sure I am always maintaining my perspective as his slut.

When the kissing turned to moaning and Alexa’s quick inhaled gasps of pleasure, I realized that, despite my best efforts at being focused and good and respectful, I was in no mood to listen to them having sex. I was feeling sad, horny, and unfulfilled. I couldn’t figure out a way to turn my thoughts to the positive so tried to ignore the problem. I stood up to fold up my blankets and sheet, stack them neatly on the couch, and get dressed. I was as quiet as a mouse – there was no way I was going to get in trouble for disturbing them – as I busied myself for a few minutes. The noises from the bedroom started getting more heated and more intense and I started feeling more and more awful.

Never mind that the thought of having someone share my space – my home – for even so much as one night is incredibly frustrating and annoying, my body wanted someone to touch it and make it feel alive. While I have a very real need for the kind of fucking in which Mr Stern and I engage, I also have a very real hunger for someone’s eager tongue on my cunt and soft lips on my nipples. My desire for someone to focus completely on my pleasure and pleasing me was spilling over as tears.

Once I was done with my few little tasks, I sat back down on the couch. I had nothing to distract me from my feelings and their lovemaking, so I continued to be just this side of miserable. I was in a PMS-induced hormonal imbalance and knew that at least a portion of my anguish was being blown out of proportion. But some of it was real and even the part that was irrational was making my life difficult at the moment.

In a moment of inspiration, I remembered the laundry downstairs in the laundry room and quietly made my way there. I was far enough away from the bedroom that I couldn’t hear what was going on and felt free to sniffle in peace. I took a few minutes to wipe my nose and my eyes on my shirt sleeve, feel my hurt, and try to compose myself. I am not given to fits of emotion and this one was far from under control. Even as I climbed the stairs and folded the laundry on the couch, the tears kept leaking out.

As I tried to block out the sighs and moans from the bedroom, I heard Mr Stern’s voice in my head reminding me to be grateful for what I have, reminding me how fulfilling serving him and being his really is for me, reminding me to allow myself to feel my emotions and then move on. I took his advice and tried to focus on being his perfect slut while recognizing that I am a human being. Something about the sounds of him pleasuring Alexa just wouldn’t let go though. I could not figure out how to turn the situation to my advantage and maintain my service-minded attitude.

When I heard him roll over, heard the bedsprings start to creak, and heard Mr Stern’s breathing becoming heavier, I bailed. I fled down the hall to the playroom, knowing that I could not hear them from there, and closed the door hastily behind me. I sat on the bench by the window and wept as they fucked. I was alone in the silence with my tears, watching the birds flit by and the branches shivering in the wind, and I let my emotions do what they needed to do. I felt my need for someone to focus on pleasing me in a completely un-D/s setting, I felt the ache in my breasts and my cunt for someone’s soft caresses and wet kisses, and I coveted.

Don’t get me wrong – I absolutely do not want Mr Stern to fulfill those needs. I don’t want to relate to him in that way. I haven’t the least little bit of desire to make love to Mr Stern (that thought ends up somewhere between ridiculous and repellent) unless you call being fucked senseless from behind while being called all kinds of disgusting names making love. I want my Mr Stern just the way he is, where he is, and how he is. My unrequited longing is for the mysterious “someone else” – someone who can relate to me in a completely different way and allow me to feel something entirely separate from what I feel with Mr Stern.

Neither was I angry at Mr Stern or Alexa for the sexual fulfillment they find in each other. I wasn’t upset that he was fucking her instead of me, or that they were fucking each other. I was happy that they were able to reconnect after her illness and enjoy a lazy Saturday in bed when he didn’t have to hurry off to work. I will admit that I was a little peeved by their timing, but since I have joyfully and willingly listened to (and watched) them make love before, I took the burden of my annoyance on myself. Neither one of them had any reason to even think I might be less than thrilled with what they were doing.

No, I was saddened by the fact that I have a persistent emptiness that refuses to be placated and continues to rear its head at undefined intervals. My body remembers what it feels like to have a certain kind of attention and that was what I was mourning and missing. As I worked through my thoughts, a bright fat robin caught my attention. For a few minutes I focused on talking to it, asking why it had not winged its way the more pleasant climes, to stop the whirling, tangling, hurting thoughts in my head.

I sat on the bench, talking to the birds and the squirrels outside, until I heard Mr Stern’s heavy tread down the hall towards the bathroom. I scurried out of the playroom, wiping my tears away with my already damp sleeve, and busied myself with filling a glass of water in the kitchen. I knew there would be no avoiding explaining my red eyes and pouty lips, but I still tried to gather myself together. After a moment, I heard Mr Stern heading back to the bedroom. I realized what had happened when I heard him get back in bed. Alexa had had her turn and now it was his. I knew exactly what Alexa was doing to him – I could see it vividly in my imagination – and I wondered if I was going to have to make my escape again.

Somehow Mr Stern having his cock sucked was almost as erotic as it was annoying. I could focus on the fact that he was enjoying himself and almost ignore my lingering sadness. Almost. So instead of retreating to the playroom again, this time I sat down in the breakfast nook, reached for whatever book was sitting on the table, and tried to distract myself. The tears seemed to dry up a bit until I stopped focusing on what I was reading, then they would well up and spill over quietly. From where I was sitting, I could hear only the most exuberant exhalations and cajoling words and felt better for taking care of myself in this way. Removing myself from every movement and moan and doing something I enjoy helped me feel better.

Mr Stern and Alexa were done by the time I reached chapter four in my book (Animal Farm, of all things). I heard them traipsing back and forth between the bedroom and the bathroom several times and knew that I was going to have to face one or both of them within minutes. Deep breathing seemed to calm my nerves and steady my emotions momentarily, but I knew Mr Stern would surely see that something was wrong.

“Where’s the slut?” Mr Stern asked a minute later from the vicinity of the living room. I could tell he was looking for me on the couch. Alexa suggested that maybe I was doing laundry. I turned in my chair to face him as he poked his head around the corner into the kitchen.

“There you are. What are you doing hiding in the nook, slut?” he asked. He was completely naked.

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled at him. He returned my smile with a playful grin and turned back to the bedroom.

“Where is she?” Alexa asked curiously.

“In the breakfast nook, sitting down reading,” Mr Stern said then called out to me. “Slut, can you put some water on for tea?”

I fetched the kettle and did as he asked, then rested my hip against the counter and waited. I had usurped his spot in the breakfast nook and was not about to be hassled for sitting on the furniture without asking permission. He reappeared, dressed in his pajamas, a minute later.

“What were you doing hiding in the nook, slut?” he asked as he wrapped his arms around me for a good morning hug and kiss on the forehead. I shrugged again.

“You didn’t want to listen to us fucking?” he asked. I nodded and sniffled slightly. His sixth sense kicked in and he instantly picked up on my misery. He put his hand on the back of my head and held me tightly to his chest.

“I’m sorry that was hard for you. Was it jealousy?” he asked. I loved him just a little bit more for his sympathy and his kindness.

I shook my head and took a deep breath. He grabbed hold of my hair and tried to tilt my head back so he could look in my eyes. I offered just the slightest bit of resistance, holding my head down, and he allowed me my moment of reluctance.

“I’m sorry, slut,” he whispered. “I’ll let you in on a little secret though. Before this, I’d fucked you more recently than I’d fucked her.”

I nodded again and thanked him for his expression of sympathy.

“What is it?” he asked again. I looked up at him this time.

“It’s that same certain part of me that feels unfulfilled. It just seems to keep coming up,” I said as strongly as I could. He knows full well of my desires and has dealt with my fits of emotion several times before.

“See the glass as half full, instead of half empty, slut. Remember what you have and be grateful for it. You are allowed to have your feelings. Be happy that you have a Master who will allow that and hold you while you have them,” he reiterated softly.

“I know, Mr Stern. I told myself all of those same things this morning. And I am grateful. Thank you,” I said softly. I knew his love for me and his compassion for my feelings was taking precedence over his position as my Master at that moment and my knees went weak with gratitude and love.

“I could tell you to fucking deal with it, or not even care that you were hurt,” he said.

“I know, Mr Stern. Thank you,” I repeated.

He reached around, swatted my bottom a few times, and kissed me on the forehead again. I snuffled up the last of my tears, felt remarkably stronger just for having told him what I was feeling, and sighed a deep sigh. He moved away and I set to getting three mugs ready for tea.

Debut

2007-12-15T21:13:00.000-08:00

www.journeyintosubmission.com

Waiting

2007-12-15T20:06:00.000-08:00

ABSENCE
by Frances Anne Kemble (1809 - 1893)

What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing?—shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time;
Shall I these mists of memory locked within,
Leave, and forget life's purposes sublime?

Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive
To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?
How may I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, belovèd one! art far from me.

For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time, and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won, since yet I live.

So may this doomèd time build up in me
A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.

Counter

2007-12-15T18:10:00.001-08:00

I have a surprise.

As soon as that cute little blue stat counter that I installed a little over a year ago clicks over the two hundred thousand mark, I'll share my little secret. As a reward to every one of you who clicked and clicked and clicked, I'll show you one of the projects that has been eating away at my time this past week...

I'm so excited I almost can't stand it!

Fleshbot, Part Twelve

2007-12-15T18:02:00.001-08:00

Fleshbot has done it again... This makes an even dozen the past year and I am as grateful as ever for the nod from those nice perverted folks.

AAG seemed to think that my Queen post was worth a special mention a few weeks ago. What can I say except thank you?

Since the beginning, I have always appreciated Fleshbot for the readers it brings me and this time is no different. If you happened upon my strange little world by that route, welcome and stick around. It only gets better...

Projects

2007-12-13T19:22:00.001-08:00

Fear not, faithful readers.

I am still here.

I've just been busy with a couple other (top secret) projects that I will reveal in all good time. As with most things in my life, when I start something new I obsess about it until I exhaust myself and clear my system of the bug. Unfortunately both of these projects are rather time- and thought-intensive and seem to be keeping me from completing my current series.

It will be finished as soon as I tear myself away from my headache-inducing endeavors.

Hair (Sleeve, Pt. 6)

2007-12-09T17:58:00.000-08:00

When I finally string enough pleas together, Mr Stern relents. He draws his hand out of my cunt and I collapse. My hips fall back against the bench, my legs quiver helplessly, and my mouth hangs open. I start to take my feet out of the stirrups but he reprimands me forcefully. He stands up, stretches his shoulders, and starts moving around the room. For several long minutes I remain in suspended animation.

Finally I am allowed to close my legs and wriggle back to the safety of having my feet on the bench.

“Stay there, slut,” he says when I am fully supported and limp.

He starts to slip the gloves off as he leaves the room. I have no inclination to breathe, let alone move, so he needn’t worried. He is gone for a few minutes – I hear water running in the kitchen and his footsteps moving through the house.

When he returns, I am exactly where he left me. I am nothing but jelly inside. Thoughts are nothing more than brief flits of words and images interrupting my calm retreat into nothingness. He puts a straw to my mouth and I greedily suck in the water.

“Sit up, slut. Slowly.”

He holds me by my hair, watching my progress into a semi-vertical state. When I achieve it without visibly wobbling, he starts untying the rope that encircles my chest and shoulders. I don’t move, my head hangs forward, and I am barely conscious of what he is doing. Only when he is done and has his hand in my hair again does he let me move forward until my feet are on the floor. I am clinging to his arm, the one that hovers over my head and keeps me balanced by my hair. My eyes are almost open but not enough that I can process what I am doing.

“Whose slut are you?” he asks. There is absolutely nothing threatening in his words or his tone of voice, but I know this is leading somewhere.

“Yours, Mr Stern,” I reply. My words sound slurred, even to me. I can’t imagine how I must sound to him. Being beaten and fucked past the point of reason tends to leave me somewhat befuddled and slow to respond.

“That’s right, slut. And you will do anything I want, won’t you?” I am getting more and more worried the longer this conversation goes on.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I croak. My voice is betraying my fear.

“That’s what I thought,” he says.

I am suddenly thrust forward by my hair. He steers me around the chair he was sitting in, through the doorway, and down the hall. There are exactly two places we could be headed – his bedroom or the bathroom. When he marches me past the bedroom door I start to feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.

I almost struggle as he pushes me toward the bathroom. I have had more than I can take already – more pain, more orgasms, more humiliation, and more rope. I want to curl up in a little ball and float softly away while he watches over me. I am so fucking owned it’s a wonder I don’t have his name branded into my ass at this point.

G Spot (Sleeve, Pt. 5)

2007-12-08T16:09:00.000-08:00

I wiggle as best I can until my ass is at the end of the table. Once there, I lift my hips up so Mr Stern can slide a towel under me. There is only one thing this can mean. Mr Stern grabs one of my feet and places it in a stirrup. The other one follows. My cunt is completely exposed and wide open.

Mr Stern snaps on a pair of black latex gloves, drags a chair over between my outstretched legs, and sits down to enjoy himself.

As soon as his fingers touch me, I am moaning with passion and desire. His thumb brushes lightly over my clit while his fingers work their way into my cunt. I am completely helpless, weak from pain and adrenaline, and all I can do is feel myself respond. My hips move of their own accord and I feel myself opening even farther for him.

Within minutes, his gloved fingers find my G Spot. I cannot tell how many fingers he has inside of me – sometimes it is definitely only one, sometimes it feels like three – but I don’t really care. I cannot keep track of what he is doing or saying, all logical thought has flown out the window with my inhibitions and sense of self. He owns me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

I don’t know how long it takes him to get the first orgasm out of me, but certainly not more than a few minutes. I feel the squishy wet warmth, the intense squeezing pressure, and the grunting, groaning contractions. I am completely helpless to do anything to resist coming. No matter how hard I fight it, or how I beg my body not to come, the tide is relentless. A second orgasm follows the first. A third is close behind.

My silent begging turns into frantic gasps and whimpers. I am close to begging him to stop but I cannot form the words in my mouth. My mind is overwhelmed by the strength of the climaxes.

He moves the vibrator back to my clit and I practically shriek with sensory overload.

“Does that make it better or worse, slut?” he asks cheerfully, his hand never stopping.

“B-b-better,” I stutter eventually. I cannot imagine the force of a clitoral orgasm overlapping a G Spot orgasm and I surely don’t want to find out.

He seems oblivious to my plight and continues to stroke and press that perfect spot.

“You are such a fucking slut. You’ve been squirting all over the place for the last ten minutes,” he says in amazement. I nod in agreement – I’ve felt every single gush leaving my body and spilling down over my ass. I picture torrents of warm liquid and burn with the embarrassment of such obvious erotic arousal.

“Please, Mr Stern,” I start, after the fifth orgasm leaves my head spinning and my stomach weak with the effort of contracting.

“What is that, slut?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Mr Stern, please, it hurts,” I manage to blurt out.

“Where? Inside or outside? Right there?” he asks, rubbing his fingers around the opening of my vagina. I nod frantically and try to wriggle away from him. Despite the copious amounts of whatever it is that I am squirting, it does not lubricate the thrusting of his fingers into my cunt. He is rubbing me raw in one small area.

“I guess I’ll stick to one finger then,” he muses.

One finger is enough for another horrific climax in short order.

“Please… No, Mr Stern. Please…” I know I’m not making any sense but my body and mind are flying to pieces on me. I want him to stop, I need him to stop making me come, my mind is completely consumed by the force of coming so many times.

“What is that, slut? You want me to stop?” he chides, never slowing down in the least.

“Please, no, stop, Mr Stern,” I beg incoherently. He laughs at me. And makes me come again.

I feel as close to the edge of insanity as I’ve ever been. I am a helplessly fucked pile of mush begging for salvation.

Mouth (Sleeve, Pt. 4)

2007-12-05T13:32:00.000-08:00

I can feel the airy kiss of the cane against my thighs as Mr Stern lines up his first strike. He lets it hover a mere fraction of a centimeter above my skin, pulls back, and lets loose.

Thwack!

I scream with no consciousness of the noise I am creating. The pain is miles above what he had created minutes before on the back of my thighs. My knees bend up, my toes contract and my head jerks back in unhesitatingly vocal protest. Mr Stern leans over me, holding my face between his hands. My eyes flicker open for a brief second. He is inches away, watching me.

“Open your eyes, slut,” he whispers. I manage small slits of awareness and he chides me.

“Is that all you can manage? Open your eyes for your Mr Stern,” he says.

I feel my eyes roll back in my head and then force them open again, wider this time. He is still hovering three inches away. I hold his gaze and feel my stomach lurch with the earthquake of emotion it creates. I love him so fully, so deeply, and so completely that I cannot experience anything else. He smiles slightly, that crooked little smile that I adore, and sees my heart in my reaction.

As he stands up, I close my eyes again. A hand on my hair turns my head to the left. Underneath my groaning and arching, I sense that he is still close by.

“You feel that, slut?” he muses as I feel a warmth against my skin. His cock is hot and hard, rubbing against my mouth and cheek. I open my mouth reflexively and tilt my head towards him.

“That’s from your submission. That’s what it feels like.”

His voice is low but intense. The fire in my thighs has produced this reaction in him and the combination of his excitement and my pain sends my brain into turmoil. I am so aroused I can barely breathe and so hurt that I can barely move. His cock slides into my mouth roughly. I move my lips and tongue trying to find enough moisture to lubricate his passage.

He shoves deeper and harder. He is fucking my throat and I never even think to gag. He moans airily and jerks his hips forward. Again and again he pushes farther back than I have ever been able to take before. I am so far out of my body that sensations that should trigger a reflex do nothing more than shove me further into subspace.

“What do you say?” he asks as he finally pulls his cock away from my lips. “Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

I struggle to comply, swallowing hard. Saliva drips from my lips and his cock as I see him standing above me.

He watches me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to read his mind.

“‘Thank you, Mr Stern. May I have another?’” he supplies for me.

“Thank you, Mr Stern. May I please have another?” I repeat. He bends over, places a kiss on my forehead and praises me for adding on the “please”.

Seconds pass before I feel the hummingbird weight against my thighs again. I can imagine him watching me breathe, judging when to lift the cane and when to swing it down.

Crack!

The second strike hurts even more than the first. My hands fly out from behind my back and dart towards the injury. I catch myself before they touch my skin and block any future blows. I am not allowed to protect myself or turn away, not even from his cruelest tormenting.

I am gasping through an open mouth, trying to fly through the pain, when his cock slips into my mouth again. He is rewarding me for taking what he is dishing out, even though the pain and the swelling are fair compensation in and of themselves.

It seems like mere seconds before he pulls his cock away again. He is waiting, I can tell.

“Thank you, Mr Stern. May I have another please?” I whisper.

Five times this sequence is repeated. Five cane strikes leave five neat lines on my thighs. Five times he slides his cock into my mouth and I swallow him as far as I possibly can. By the fifth one, I am barely responding, barely wrapping my tongue around his rigid cock.

When he sees that I am floating away on the pale red tide of pain and submission, Mr Stern changes his tactic. He plucks the vibrator from my cunt and tosses it aside. I sink into the table, my body as heavy and lifeless as a wet washcloth rung out and tossed aside.

“Scoot down to the end,” Mr Stern orders, moving to the foot of the doctor’s bench.

I’ve been dreading this moment since he told me to go to the play room.

Another one gone?

2007-12-04T20:11:00.000-08:00

What happened to Roper over at Confessions of an English Gentleman?

I am pretty damn sure that he didn't get deleted by his Master so where did he go? Anybody know?

Roper, if you're out there, leave me a note?

Thighs (Sleeve, Pt. 3)

2007-12-04T16:22:00.000-08:00

I turn to face the imitation doctor’s bench and end up with my elbows, forehead, breasts and stomach pressed against the vinyl covering. Mr Stern asks how it feels and I tell him I am comfortable. He flips my skirt up to reveal my naked ass and starts with the paddling. No gentle spanking to start things off this time. No, this time he starts with a stingy teak paddle and moves on to a heavier black wood one when the teak has done its job.

The warm-up is just the way I like – short, fast, and intense. Not exactly what most would call a warm-up, but exactly what I need to get in the right mood and mindset. The severity of the blows increases exponentially until I am moaning through the strikes and wobbling on knees gone gradually weaker. Mr Stern uses the stingy paddles first then picks up the thick rattan canes – the ones that jar me to my core and send me into paroxysms of joy. He knows what I like and he saves it until I need it.

At some point in his scheme of tormenting me, Mr Stern takes a small vibrator and nestles it snuggly against my asshole. It is attached by a wire to a control box that he tucks under the ropes across my shoulder blades. The vibrator buzzes in a routine pattern, keeping at least a portion of my attention fixated on my asshole. When the pain gets too much to control physically, I forcefully block out the stimulation of the buzzing and concentrate on the pain. Somehow the sexual arousal keeps me from floating too far away too quickly.

When I start to quiver and rock with the blows, Mr Stern puts two hands around my waist and lifts me off the floor. I land neatly on the bench – ass up, head down. My forehead and knees bear most of my weight so he arranges pillows to support my chest and stomach. Bending my hips and knees to precisely the right angle, he starts with the serious caning.

The thick cane swung with wind-whistling speed makes me jump and shriek. This time he does not follow his blows with soft caresses and calming words. This time he lets me feel the full intensity of my agony and find my own equilibrium. The vibrator has been positioned once again to tickle and stimulate my ass and I do my best to pay it no mind.

At the other end of my body, my hands are aching for something to hold onto. My fingers work themselves against the ropes at my wrists and I have to force myself not to plot my release. Mr Stern is watching the welts rise on my thighs and ignoring my hands. I am on my own to stay where he wants me.

The few words he does speak relate to the pain he is inflicting and how I am not getting off easy tonight. This is a session we have both been waiting too long for and we both know how it is going to progress – from bad to miserable to worse in quick succession. I suck in the pain and the humiliation like the cock hungry, masochistic slut that I am and he feeds off of my need for pain and degradation. There will be no punches pulled or niceties observed tonight.

Mr Stern finishes off the backs of my thighs with a thick, heavy paddle. I feel the slaps against my thighs but by now I cannot feel the full depth of the pain. I relax into the thuds and groan with the weight of the blows. He remarks that I am going to be pretty fucked up from those whacks, then lets me rest for a moment. He removes the vibrator and control box and puts them on the chair.

Again his hands wrap around me. This time he tosses me over onto my back. I yelp when my thighs make contact with the bench and instantly bend my knees up. He presses my legs back down and asks how my hands are doing behind my head. Once I realize that my thumbs will probably go numb from the pressure of the ropes on my wrists, he releases just my wrist bonds. I force myself to keep my legs flat while he repositions the mini vibrator over my cunt.

The warm-up on the front of my thighs is even more abbreviated than that on the back. He uses the small flogger for a few minutes, just long enough to bring some color to my skin, then he turns back to his canes. My hands end up tucked under my lower back to keep them from protecting my soft, vulnerable thighs. I open my eyes briefly to keep track of where he is in the room but close them again as he picks an implement. I don’t want to know what he is going to use. The fear of knowing is far worse than the fear of anticipating.

Crotch (Sleeve, Pt. 2)

2007-12-03T14:50:00.000-08:00

I drop to my hands and knees as I round the corner to the play room after taking care of business. I am shaking inside and out from anxiety. Mr Stern spots me coming and walks to within a few steps of me. I crawl up to him.

“I’m up here, slut,” he points out. He wants me to look up at him, to meet his eyes as I crawl. I look up at him and feel the energy flowing between us. I am his, he knows it, and this is it.

He backs off, a few steps at a time, watching me as I follow him. He talks about how slutty I am, makes me tell him that I am his slut, reminds me to look into his eyes so he can see my humiliation. He stops a few feet short of the doorway to the play room.

“Are you looking at my cock, slut?” he demands. I assure him that I am not, that my eyes have not wandered from his face.

“Did you see it get hard when you started crawling? You see how hard my cock is, slut?” he asks, pressing the heel of his palm against it. I hadn’t, in fact, noticed that he was hard but seeing it now doesn’t surprise me. I catch my breath and feel a moan building. Seeing his hand against his cock sends a spasm through my cunt.

“Put your head in my crotch,” he says.

I lean forward and rest my head against the bulge in his pants. His cock is long, hard, and thick behind the denim. I rub my face against him, opening my mouth to let my breath caress his cock. I can’t control the moans now. Feeling the strength of his arousal caused by my submission leaves me lightheaded.

“You want to suck that cock, slut?” he asks. I look up into his eyes and tell him that I do. He unbuttons his pants, except for the top button, grabs his cock and brings it out for me to see.

“Open your mouth and stick your tongue out,” he whispers. Just knowing that me crawling gets him this turned on sets my heart to racing and overwhelms my breathing.

Mouth open, tongue out, I wait. He rubs his cock over my cheek, teasing me, before he slides the length of it across my tongue. Just before the tip of my tongue touches the head of his cock he turns suddenly and shoves it into my mouth. I gag as it hits the back of my throat. I close my mouth around him in protest. When I gag in earnest he relents in his attack and allows me to embrace him with my tongue.

Mr Stern alternates fucking my throat and letting me caress the head of his cock with my tongue. He holds my hair and shoves himself into me, just hard enough to hurt but not so hard as to make me gag forcefully. He only allows me a few minutes to savor the luxury of his silky soft naked cock in my mouth before he steps away. He wipes the saliva and pre-come off of his cock onto my face, warning me not to dare wipe it off.

I follow him, still on all fours, into the play room. Once there, he just holds my gaze for a few long seconds. The message keeps getting repeated – more and more forcefully each time – I am his.

“Get up,” he says quietly.

I stand, remove my blouse, and he starts with the rope.

Mr Stern is not a rope aficionado. He does not have the patience or interest required to create artistic and beautiful bondage. This time, however, he finds the persistence and creativity and I end up beautifully restrained in a chest harness with my elbows up and my hands tied behind my head. I float softly while he drags the ropes across my skin and double-checks his tension to make sure that I am securely bound. He knows I can wriggle out of almost anything and works diligently to ensure that his loops and knots are tight.

I stand, firmly caught in blue rope, and face him. He grabs his single tail from the chair and flicks it at me. The first few strikes land on my breasts, seeming to hit exactly on the nipples. A few bites later and he moves up to my throat. I whimper with fear and tilt my head back to keep my face out of the line of fire. Just a few stinging caresses of the whip across my throat then it’s back down to my breasts. I breathe easier for a moment until he returns to my throat. Then one hits my chin.

Tears spring to my eyes and I whimper my protest.

“Even if I do hit your face, it isn’t going to hurt very much,” Mr Stern says. I nod shakily and he sees my fear. “But that is pretty scary, isn’t it? I’m sorry, slut.”

He steps toward me and rubs his thumb gently across my chin. I thank him softly and nod when he asks if I am okay.

“Lean over the bench,” he finally says.

Sleeve

2007-12-01T19:03:00.000-08:00

A brief summary of my day: I woke up from ten hours of sleep, spent two hours organizing my closets, took a shower, and brought lunch to Mr Stern. I spent a few minutes with him at his office, went to his house, chatted for a minute with Alexa, and spent the next three hours cleaning. He got home, the three of us talked and relaxed for a while, I fetched our take-out dinner, and Alexa got ready for a party she was going to.

Zoom in on the moment when Alexa leaves for the party. Now it is Mr Stern and me, alone in the house for the next several hours, for the first time in ages. He has something up his sleeve but I have no idea what. He told me that morning to bring a change of clothes for the evening but didn’t tell me why. Now he wants to see them.

After I model all of my outfits for him, Mr Stern finally picks one. I am convinced that we are going out. Never before has he made me get dressed up for a night at home and earlier in the day he asked where his good jeans were – the ones he wears out. As further indication of something public, he tells me to go wash my cunt – “squat in the bathtub or something” is how he puts it. I do as he orders then take it upon myself to fix my hair and do my makeup. Then I venture back to the living room to find my lipstick.

“What were you just doing?” he asks.

“Washing my cunt, Mr Stern,” I reply sheepishly.

“And after that, what did you do?” he persists.

“I was fixing my hair and doing my makeup,” I say. Just thinking about why I was doing it turns me on and gets me squirmy.

“How come?” he asks, knowing full well why I’m wiggling.

“To look cute,” I mumble.

“Did I tell you to do that? Did I say you didn’t look cute before?” he asks.

“No, Mr Stern,” I admit.

“You think we’re going out? Is that why you want to get all cute looking?” he finally asks.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I say.

“Well, we’re not. We’re staying right here.”

He stands up from the couch and gestures at me to follow him into his bedroom. He directs me to take all of his toys, including the violet wand, to the spare bedroom now known as the play room. It takes me three trips but I manage to get it all. Then I sit on the doctor’s bench and wait, just like he said. (The doctor’s bench is a piece of furniture made to resemble a primitive doctor’s exam table, complete with bright, shiny chrome stirrups for vaginal exploration. It is sturdy, scary, and seemingly right at home in the new space.)

Mr Stern is quiet in the other part of the house for a while – I have no idea how many minutes pass – and then I hear him coming down the hall. I can tell I am wracked by anxiety by my incessant need to wiggle and move. Normally a very calm and steady person, now I can’t sit still. My nerves are on edge and my stomach is doing flip-flops. It’s been a long time since Mr Stern took me on a long walk through deepest subspace and I'm scared.

When I ask Mr Stern if I may please use the restroom one more time he demands to know why I didn’t go earlier. I tell him that I did, but that I have to pee again. This leads to him poking at my bladder and asking where it hurts. Then he grabs my hair and forces me to lay down so he can simultaneously press on my bladder and slap my naked cunt. After a few minutes of me squirming, he relents and lets me get up to go pee.

“When you come back, crawl down the hall. Crawl to me,” he says. There is something in his voice that tells me that I am in for one hell of a night.

Fortune

2007-11-26T18:35:00.000-08:00

My fortune (according to a daily email) the other day: “A little self restraint goes a long way.” Ha! Not in my world, and certainly not in the world of being Mr Stern’s slut.

That particular day I’d had the unexpected and all too rare opportunity to sneak away from my job, my kids, and my ex for a few precious hours. I was on my own in the middle of a weekday afternoon and my first thought was Mr Stern. I’d been missing “alone time” with him recently and figured my best bet in getting was to ask for what I wanted. Mr Stern is all about being direct and asking to get needs met.

So, about thirty minutes before I was scheduled to leave work I sent a message: “Mr Stern, I will be off work at 230p. My ex is taking the girls for at least a few hours so I will be free. Is there any chance you need me to suck your cock?”

My stomach was filled with butterflies at the brazen forwardness of my request but I reasoned that the worst he could do was say no (well, there was worse, but I didn’t dare contemplate that). I danced around my classroom in nervous anticipation waiting for his reply and practically jumped out of my skin when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I had to wait a few minutes until I was out of sight of my co-workers before I could look at his message.

To my absolute delight, he thought the idea of me coming to suck his cock was very sweet and a great idea. He told me to grab some condoms and go to his office. Because his company’s schedule follows demand and not the typical work week, I knew he was alone there despite the fact that it was Monday afternoon. Needless to say, I lost no time in sending him my most heartfelt thanks and asking if the condoms I stash in my purse would work.

“As long as you like the way they taste, what the fuck do I care?” he wrote back. I laughed giddily and watched the minutes tick slowly by.

When I finally got out, the drive to Mr Stern’s office seemed three times as long as it usually does. I swore traffic wasn’t moving and everyone was out to get me, but eventually I pulled up in front of his building. He opened the door and immediately set to teasing me about why I was there. I grinned sheepishly and wriggled uncomfortably in my jeans. My cunt was already wet and just being near him made my mouth water.

After a few minutes of casual conversation in his office Mr Stern asked if I was wearing a bra. I assured him that I wasn’t and lifted my shirt to show him my naked breasts. Then I let the shirt fall back down.

“Let me see them again,” he said. “Bring them over here.”

I stepped toward where he was sitting in his desk chair with my shirt in my hands. He motioned for me to bring my right breast to his mouth. He bit down and I grabbed his shoulder with my left hand. When he eased up on the pressure I adjusted my stance and rested my hand on the back of his chair. He switched to the other breast as I moaned and squirmed under his teeth and tongue.

When he was done with his sucking and biting he grabbed my nipples and shoved me towards the floor. I fell to my knees as his hands closed around my throat. My face rested against his crotch as his hand squeezed tighter and tighter. I gasped around his grip and felt his cock straining against his pants.

“Undo my pants. With your teeth,” he said when he let go. I caught my breath and opened my mouth. Unfortunately Mr Stern wears his jeans a little too tight and I couldn’t get the top button undone. Once he helped me, and I figured out the right technique, I opened the rest of the buttons with only a little help from the pinkie finger on my left hand.

“I see that finger there. Don’t think I don’t see you cheating, slut. I wouldn’t be getting in trouble now, if I was you,” he reprimanded.

I batted my eyelashes at him and grinned as sweetly as I could. I was on my knees in front of his already-hard cock but that was no guarantee that I was going to get what I wanted. Mr Stern has been known to be infuriatingly self-disciplined and a stickler for protocol and rules, even if it means him missing out on getting his cock sucked.

Fortunately for me, he humored me this time and stood up to take his pants and boxers down. I sat back on my heels and watched him settle back into his chair.

“Get your condom out and make my cock hard enough to put it on,” he directed. I quickly retrieved the condom (a vanilla flavored one, if you can believe that) and set it on a nearby file cabinet.

“May I use my hands?” I asked.

There have been times when he’s given that same order and restricted me from touching him. Making his cock hard with just my words and my body language can be decidedly frustrating. This time he gave me permission to use my hands so I reached eagerly for his cock. He laughed at my desperation to get my hands on him.

Using soft, smooth, light touches on his cock and balls, I soon had him hard enough to facilitate donning of a condom. He tore the package open carefully and started to roll it on.

“This thing feels like it’s made out of plastic wrap,” he commented. I’d grabbed it as a free sample at a recent kinky workshop so I took no credit for its bad qualities. Knowing that getting his cock sucked with a good condom is still nowhere as pleasurable as going without, I’m sure Mr Stern was less than enthusiastic about my super-thick freebie.

Regardless, I slipped my mouth over his cock and the condom – most assuredly not very vanilla tasting – and set to work. Just feeling the warm slipperiness of his cock in my mouth set me to moaning and groaning. Being this close to him, having my head between his legs, kneeling down in the back of his office, all of it made my cunt wet and my head spin. I get off on sucking his cock almost as much as I do from getting fucked. The sensations are completely different, as are the rewards, but the mental stimulation is almost on a par.

When I started to push his cock farther back into my throat, I started drooling all over his cock and my hands. He reminded me to wipe my mouth on my shirt sleeve to keep from completely soaking his chair. After that, I pulled back every so often and swallowed the accumulated saliva so it wouldn’t drip all over the place.

Mr Stern held the back of my head for a few minutes, directing the speed and depth of his penetration into my mouth. He forced my nose towards his pelvis but loosened his grip when I started gagging. Me creating a mess in his office didn’t seem particularly appealing, no matter how good shoving his cock all the way into my mouth felt. I was grateful for the reprieve and redoubled my efforts on the portion of his cock I could comfortably lick.

Using my soon-to-be patented tongue swirling technique (so named by Mr Stern, of course) I encouraged Mr Stern’s cock to ever harder and greater lengths. He sat back in his chair, tucked his shirt up, and watched my mouth moving over him. He reminded me to use my hands and not neglect his balls and soon enough I could sense he was close to coming.

“You want me to come for you, you fucking little slut?” he whispered. The naughty, nasty, vile phrases Mr Stern utters right before he comes excite both of us to no end. Those are the moments when the level of our connection seems to encompass us and create our own little world.

I could not, of course, answer distinctly but I nodded my head and moaned my agreement.

“Suck that cock like it’s the last one on earth, slut. That’s right, suck your Mr Stern’s cock, you little whore. You like being my little cumslut, don’t you?” Mr Stern’s voice was raspy and low as he crept closer to the edge.

I was squirming on my knees, the seam of my jeans grinding into my cunt from the pressure of my heel. I opened my eyes briefly, just to catch a glimpse of him.

“Look at me, slut. Look at your Mr Stern while I come for you,” he growled.

I whimpered in exquisite agony and peered up at him. His eyes were barely open but he was looking back at me. I kept my eyes open as I bobbed and swirled around the end of his cock, increasing the pressure of my mouth and hands just a tiny bit.

Mr Stern came in my mouth with almost no fanfare. No grunts or groans or manly noises, just a long, drawn-out sound that I have come to know is his expression of complete pleasure. My voice joined his and I slowed the pace of my hands. Keeping my mouth in contact with his cock, I let him enjoy another minute or two of my warm softness before he waved me off.

Halfway tangled up in his pants, Mr Stern made his way to the sink and cleaned himself up a little. The condom was wrapped in a napkin and stuck in an empty soda can in the trash - not that anyone would go digging around in his wastepaper basket, but some things are best hidden away.

I fixed my hair, straightened my shirt, and wiped my face clean. The smirk that nearly always accompanies a job well done managed to creep onto my face. Mr Stern remarked on it and asked how I was going to explain my absence to my ex.

“I had half a mind to tell him what I was doing – just say I was going to suck some guy’s cock – but I decided that wouldn’t be the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” I laughed. The funniest part was that it was true – I’d had a tiny urge to blurt out the truth to my ex and see what he said but decided the fallout would be unmanageable.

“You don’t have to tell him anything, you know,” Mr Stern reminded me. He is forever teaching me that I am an adult and not responsible to my ex.

I left Mr Stern’s shop with the grin still tickling the corners of my mouth and a faint redness spreading from my lips. No one would know, unless I told them, what I’d been up to. But I knew and that was the best part of the secret. Self restraint has nothing over pleasing my Mr Stern and getting my mouth fucked in the bargain.

Humble

2007-11-25T19:04:00.000-08:00

“It’s like you took a bong hit. It just settles over you.”

Mr Stern was sitting at his desk, looking down at me.

I had walked into his office a little bit before while he had been talking to a client. I’d waited out of sight for several minutes until she left then I’d approached Mr Stern’s desk. We’d talked about my day and Mr Stern’s busy workload for another few minutes.

During moments like that, I can almost convince myself that I am nothing more than a friend of Mr Stern’s stopping by to chat. I can relate to him in a completely nonchalant, but still entirely respectful, manner that would raise no eyebrows if someone chanced to overhear it. I speak in the same tone of voice that I use with my co-workers and we talk about things that close, but perhaps non-intimate, friends would discuss.

While we talked Mr Stern started moving his chair away from his desk a little, back to the place where he knows from experience that no one walking by can see. He kept up our conversation, interrupting it for a moment to take a phone call, all the while scooting back a good two feet. I had a good idea what he was doing but surmised that it was probably wishful thinking. There was a chance someone would walk into the office anyway, regardless of how far back he pushed his chair and I was pretty sure he didn’t want to have to explain.

Then he motioned for me to kneel between his outspread legs. I walked the five or six steps to him and kneeled down, my heart beating faster. I pressed my face to the inside of his thigh and quickly settled into my spot. My heartbeat slowed, as did my breathing and my thoughts. He was quiet for a few long moments, leaned back in his chair, his hands crossed over his chest. I didn’t know what he was doing and didn’t put any effort into trying to figure it out. I was enjoying my quiet, soft, dark, contemplation of belonging to him.

That’s when he spoke.

“It’s like you took a bong hit. It just settles over you.” His voice was slightly amused and slightly reverent.

I was surprised, on one level, that he could see the calm submission settling over me so clearly. But on the other hand I knew that he knows me so well that he can read my every expression and practically my every thought. This one should be no different, I thought, especially when he had seen me so animated and alert just moments before. The contrast between my moods must have been striking.

Focusing on what he was saying, I nodded my head and smiled slightly. Never having taken a bong hit, I couldn’t say for sure that that’s what it felt like, but I went with the analogy. I imagined the altered state of consciousness that must accompany the inhalation of any drug and agreed that this might be similar. I go to a completely different place in my mind when Mr Stern allows me to kneel before him.

No matter how many hours I have been talking to him, or serving him, or spending time with him, the moment Mr Stern gestures for me to sink to my knees and bow my head before him I slip into an alternate reality. The pressures of the real world cease to weigh me down, the rush of time stops whistling past my ears, and the world’s colors drain away. I see nothing except the darkness of my thoughts. I hear nothing except the enforced calm of my breathing. I feel nothing except my softness and his strength. His scent, his aura, and his energy come down over me like a warm blanket and I sigh.

Humbling myself in front of Mr Stern shows no weakness on my part. I am not doing it because he has defeated me and forced me into this posture. I am not doing it because he is greater, or better, or more forceful than I am. I do it because I need to show him how much I respect him. I need to show him how much his ownership and guidance and love mean to me. I need him to know that I trust him without fail.

I need my body to say what my words cannot.

Because of this, I put my whole being into kneeling. It is not a simple physical act done mindlessly but a forceful, mindful expression of my well-thought-out and completely intentional submission. I am his.

Wet Spot

2007-11-25T18:15:00.000-08:00

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!

Mr Stern discovered my G Spot last week.

Never in my life have I loved getting fucked as much as I do now. Not only can he hit it with his fingers when he has me on my back with my legs spread wide, he can also hit it with his cock when he has me bent over the bed, slapping his crotch against my ass.

Coming on Mr Stern's cock with the force of a G Spot orgasm was fucking astounding. I've never come just from penetration before. Never. Someone - either me or my partner - has always had to stimulate my clit to get me to come and that happened only rarely. But now that I know what a G Spot orgasm feels like and how to get there, having him pound that spot with the head of his cock is like magic.

The first time Mr Stern discovered that he could make me come with his fingers inside of me was the night we were all being queens. Alexa and I were laying side by side, legs spread and knees overlapping, each with one of Mr Stern's hands in our cunts. When he finally collapsed between us, dripping with sweat and panting for breath, he asked how many times I had come.

"I didn't," I replied innocently.

"You didn't have a clitoral orgasm but you sure as fuck came," he said. "You were squirting all over the place."

Sometime right about then I noticed the enormous wet spot underneath my ass. He was right. I tried to remember what it had felt like with his fingers inside of me and what might have been the G Spot orgasms he was talking about. Having been so fully engrossed in just experiencing the moment, I wasn't sure when I had come and let loose with my torrent of liquid.

A few more forays into the world of my G Spot and Mr Stern has it firmly established in his muscle memory. There is absolutely fucking nothing I can do except come when he puts the right pressure on the right spot. Usually I have to fight to get myself to a clitoral orgasm so the freedom that comes with just going with the flow (no pun intended!) is amazing.

The weirdest part about a G Spot orgasm and the accompanying gushing is the unreasonably vivid association with giving birth. Two epidural-free vaginal deliveries left some deep-seated memories in my cunt and this experience is remarkably similar, although on a much smaller scale. Feeling the gush of warm liquid spreading over my bottom inevitably brings about thoughts of pushing out tiny babies and their accompanying fluids. Gross, perhaps, to some but completely lovely to me - I adored giving birth to my adorable progeny.

Knowing that I am, in one more way, completely helpless before Mr Stern leaves me both dreading and begging for sex in a way I never have before. I want to come and come and come, but I also know that coming like that is dauntingly exhausting and mind wrenching. As with everything else that Mr Stern takes, or forces, from me, there are pros and cons to knowing what a G Spot orgasm is.

And just to make sure he always leaves me wanting more, Mr Stern has forbidden me from fucking my G Spot when I masturbate. That is his Spot and no one, not even me, is allowed to touch it. Fuck, I want to get fucked!

Attempt

2007-11-20T21:55:00.000-08:00

Don't look now, but I did it.

I made a nice little ad for one of my favorite kinky porn sites and put it right over there. Did you notice it?

It's a tribute, of sorts. Not quite three years ago, when I was trying to figure out who I was and who I wanted to be, hogtied.com gave me a place to fantasize and dream. I owe them at least a small portion of my kinky soul for showing me that my desire to get tied up and fucked was not some mental deficiency but was actually fucking hot.

If the ad bugs the hell out of you, let me know. If you think it is tasteful and appropriate, let me know. If you could care less, just keep reading.

And, thank you all for your comments and emails regarding this question. Opinions seemed split about 50/50 on the advisability of selling myself out. I'm going to let this sit for a while and see what I think about it.

2007-11-19T21:36:00.000-08:00

I need some help from you, my loyal readers.

The thought of adding advertisers to this humble bit of nonsense I call my blog has recently crossed my mind. Many of the blogs I frequent have banners and links over there on the side so I've started wondering why not me? Usually I ignore most of the ads I see but if I am in the mood to browse, I click on them. In my opinion, most of the ads in and of themselves are not particularly annoying or intrusive. It is the shock of seeing a formerly virgin page polluted with commercialism that is the hardest to get over, but I manage quite well, thank you very much.

Turning back to my own url, how much whoring of my words do I want to do? Is this the beginning of a slippery slope that will lead me to other forms of selling out? Is selling out such a bad thing when I bemoan my lack of income and assets? Is making money from my most intimate ideas fundamentally wrong or something that should be embraced in this capitalistic society? I am a writer. Real writers get paid for their words. Why not start here?

What would you, personally, think if you came back one day and saw one, two, or three colorful ads lined up with my blogroll and archives? Would you be turned off? Intrigued? Fed up? Complacent? Would you care?

On a more personal note, I am scared to death of linking my blog and my real name together. In order to sign up as an "affiliate" and get paid for referring shoppers to a retailer, I would have to reveal not only my real name but also my address and my social security number to said retailer. And, should great fortune befall me, I would have to account for my additional income to the government. Is that a risk worth taking? Anyone have any experience in maintaining anonymity while making money through click-throughs? Any advice?

Queen

2007-11-19T20:30:00.000-08:00

“What would you do if you were the queen, slut? If you could do anything you wanted this evening, what would it be? If you were free to chose, regardless of what you think I want, what would you pick?” Mr Stern asked.

I was laying on their bed, forming a triangle with him and Alexa. Their heads were close together on the pillows, mine was near Alexa’s feet, and my feet were intertwined with Mr Stern’s.

I pondered for a long moment – all of the possible alternatives running through my head – and then I leapt.

“I’d want to get caned,” I said quietly.

“Really?” he asked. As an aside to Alexa he mock-whispered, “Notice she didn’t say she wants to suck my cock.”

“Yes, Mr Stern. I’d like to be caned.” He already had a good idea that this was on my mind – earlier in the day I’d requested his indulgence in caning me whenever it might be convenient for him.

“What about you? What would you do if you were the queen?” he asked, turning to Alexa.

She responded promptly.

“I’d take a long hot, bubble bath, get into a nice warm, fluffy bed, and be petted,” she said.

Mr Stern nodded and smiled at her.

“Somebody ask me what I’d do if I was the queen,” he prompted. Alexa and I indulged him.

“I’d want to hurt somebody then climb into a warm fluffy bed and have sex,” he declared. I giggled at the playful look on his face but paid attention as he described how we were all going to be queens for the evening.

“Alexa, you take a bubble bath while I cane the slut, then we all get into a nice warm fluffy bed, pet you, and then we all have sex.” He was so proud of his ability to make everyone’s fantasies come true that I had to laugh.

Mr Stern had already decided that we were going to have a pajama party – he and Alexa had started changing into their lounging clothes the minute we got home from dinner and Alexa had lent me some comfy clothes as well – so we were all in the mood to be pampered in our own particular style. I was astonished at Mr Stern’s ability to fit everyone’s desires into one neat package.

Within a few minutes (after I gave the tub a quick scrubbing) Alexa ended up in a Hollywood-style bubble bath with bubbles practically up to her nose, I ended up naked over the edge of Mr Stern’s bed, and he ended up beaming with excitement at the prospects spread out before him.

“Do you want tattoo caning or English caning?” he asked. “You are the queen, after all.”

“Ummm…” I was thinking about the relative merits of each – constant, repetitive blows, one leading into the next, or quick, stark, individual slashes – when he landed one across my thighs. I muffled a scream in the bedspread and danced around on my tiptoes.

“Not what you wanted? You don’t want to be like Rachel with no warm up at all?” he asked.

“No, Mr Stern. I think a little warm up might be good,” I insisted.

He indulged me with his hands. He sat on the bed next to my right hip and started spanking. From top to bottom and side to side, he warmed up my skin and got the blood and endorphins flowing. He gradually went harder and harder until I was amazed at the weight and strength in his hands. He didn’t miss anything, including my cunt, in his regimen.

By the time he picked up the cane again (a rattan one shaped like a real cane) I was ready for that quick, biting pain. I had promised earlier in the day, when he said he would love to cane me, that I would breathe and share my energy with him. Now he coached me on breathing – deep breath in, all the way to my toes, hold it for a second, and blow it out as hard as I could – and placed a hand on my back to make sure I was doing it.

When I was deep into my rhythm the first strike came. I raised up on my tiptoes, moaned through the pain and continued to breathe. I imagined the energy from the cane’s impact circling through my body and back out to Mr Stern. I settled back into my breathing and he hit again.

Each whack of the cane got progressively harder. They were beautifully spaced on my thighs, about an inch apart. Each time he allowed me time to breathe, find my center, and then he would hit me again. When I started screaming from the impact he settled me with his hand on my back and his cock against my ass. I danced and wiggled until the pain subsided and I was able to stand still again.

The time went by incredibly fast and before I knew it Alexa was getting out of the bath. I’d endured somewhere around a dozen blows from the cane and was getting weak in the knees. Mr Stern lifted me by the hips and threw me on the bed where I promptly drifted off into hazy subspace. My thighs didn’t actually hurt yet, I was too far out of it to feel any residual pain.

Once Alexa was settled into bed, with me tucked in beside her, Mr Stern left the room. I can’t remember what he was doing or how long he was gone but when he came back he remarked on how happy we both looked, and for completely different but extraordinarily similar reasons. We had each taken care of ourselves, and our cravings, and felt soft, warm, and pampered. Never mind that I’d been beaten and she’d been floating in hot water – we were both overflowing with good vibrations.

Mr Stern lamented that we were both going to go to sleep now and, to ensure that we didn’t, he maneuvered himself in between us. We both snuggled up next to him and roused our sleepy heads off of the pillows and on to his chest. I was still lingering in that strange netherworld of subspace and couldn’t pay much attention to what he and Alexa were doing. Mr Stern grabbed my hand and put it on her arm to pet her and I remembered that that had been part of her “queen” request.

I petted Alexa over the barrier of Mr Stern for a few minutes until he decided I needed to be on the other side of her, closer to her skin, where I could pet her more intently. I roused myself out of my cane-induced stupor just far enough to drag myself over both of them. I ended up curved against Alexa’s back, stroking her from shoulder to thigh, while Mr Stern concerned himself with the front of her body.

As usual, with the three of us naked in bed, things digressed quickly away from petting. We still had Mr Stern’s “queen” request to fulfill and that meant a lot more deep breathing, sweating, and moaning and groaning.

Organic

2007-11-18T22:44:00.000-08:00

Used to be, I didn’t believe in organic foods. I mean, I believed they existed and that they possessed certain benefits over non-organic foods, but I didn’t pay much attention to their claims. It seemed to me that regular old grocery store produce and meats were good enough and anything mass produced should be healthy enough.

Then I had kids.

I saw the way my then-husband ate and I was horrified. He was raised on the earliest versions of tv dinners, peanut butter and jelly, and the worst kinds of fast food. His father didn’t put much effort into cooking and even less into thinking about what would do a growing boy good. Needles to say, my ex came into marriage with much the same mindset. He had a bigger sweet tooth than I did, consumed junk food like it was going out of style, and didn’t bat an eye at McDonalds for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I slowly realized that my upbringing had not prepared me for the real world of cooking for a family in today’s economy and fast-paced rat race. I had no idea how to go to the local grocery store and find fast, easy, and healthy meals in the midst of all of the “latest and greatest” trends in food. I got caught up in the world of Hamburger Helper and meals in a bag. Working full time, commuting, and taking care of two babies didn’t give me time for much else. Certainly not the home-cooked, nutritious and delicious meals my stay-at-home mother had made when I was young.

Fast forward through a few years of marriage and a divorce. Then I met my erstwhile love interest, Theo. Besides introducing me to the joys of bdsm, he also opened my eyes about organic foods and the local stores that specialize in carrying them. At that time I was in no mood to learn life lessons from him and was still too caught up in the drama of being me to devote any time to thinking about changing my most basic habits. Eating was something I did for just that reason – habit – and I was not to be bothered with figuring out what was healthy.

I must say, in my own defense, that I was a little more aware of the basic elements of a healthy diet than some people (like my ex). Dinners almost always consisted of protein, carbs, and vegetables. I made a gallant effort to ensure that meals were balanced both within themselves and throughout the day. I paid some attention to fat and calories but not nearly enough to make a difference and I certainly never considered sodium, artificial ingredients, or additives or preservatives.

Shortly after Mr Stern came into my life something shifted. My diet altered so radically that I lost nearly twenty percent of my body weight without conscious thought. I stopped munching and crunching on junk food and leftovers because I started spending so much time on this blog. I started thinking about, and planning ahead for, my meals because I never knew when Mr Stern might require my services. I paid attention when I went grocery shopping for him and made his meals.

Mr Stern shops at one of the local chains that specializes in local, organic, and health-conscious foods. He buys food the day he consumes it, or as close to it as possible, and refuses to eat anything in a can (except beans for chili). His meals (although they still lack in vegetables, an oversight I have taken unto myself to correct) are cooked from fresh ingredients that have never seen a chemical in their lives. Over the course of several months he started talking to me about the benefits and reasons for buying organic and local, avoiding most red meat, and cutting dairy out of my diet. I soaked up his words, as I do with all knowledge he imparts, and let them float around in my head. Knowing that I am on a fixed income and not susceptible to active interference in my life with my daughters, he never ordered me to change my buying and eating habits, he just talked to me.

The more I watched him, though, the more I realized my upbringing was coming back around full circle. I was raised on local, organic, and health-conscious foods. My parents maintained a garden that provided all of our produce and root vegetables. They belonged to a co-op where they bought our dairy and meat products. They raised and butchered rabbits, chickens, and turkeys. They made bread, yogurt, dried fruit, and other assorted necessary ingredients of life. They were hippies who believed in the back to the earth philosophy and made sure I reaped the benefits.

I can’t remember ever eating fast food as a child. I didn’t know what meals in restaurants were like except when we visited my grandparents. I never had Twinkies, French fries, or soda. I still to this day can’t stand chocolate, carbonated beverages, and Big Macs. Without even knowing it, I ended up needing to take care of myself just to feel like I was doing the right thing.

So now, through the combined influences of my parents and Mr Stern, I have learned how to shop at the local organic markets, cook fast and healthy meals, and pass my knowledge on to my girls. Mr Stern ended up having to order me to cut diary out of my diet, but other than that, I simply followed my heart and my gut and did what felt right. Looking at the pile of salad, spaghetti, and broccoli – all organic and as local as I can get – on my girls’ plates and better yet, seeing them gobble it up, leaves me with a light and joyous feeling in my heart. I have done something to better my world, their world, and the world at large.

Saved

2007-11-18T19:15:00.000-08:00

I woke up on Mr Stern’s couch this morning with a song firmly planted in my head.

I could hear the singer’s voice as clearly as I could hear my own. Somehow, after an evening spent completely at Mr Stern’s mercy, re-learning my place in his world, my subconscious found the words to describe how I felt. I have never in my life called Mr Stern “baby” but that’s not what is important here. What is important is that he is the one who saved me from my former self.

Love of My Life
Sammy Kershaw

You are the love of my life
And you are the reason I'm alive
And baby baby baby
When I think of how you saved me
I go crazy

I've never known love like this
And it fills me with a new tenderness
And I know I know I know
You're in my heart you're in my soul
You're all I can't resist

And I need to tell you
The first time I held you
I knew you are the love of my life

I spent a lifetime waiting
Always hesitating until you
I was lost so deep inside my shell
'Til you came and saved me from myself
Now all I really know
Is I need you

And you are the love of my life
All the joy and tears that I cry
And baby baby baby
You don't have to say a word
I see it in your eyes...

(Update: Twelve hours later and I STILL can't get this out of my head...)

Laundry

2007-11-16T20:46:00.000-08:00

Perfectly folded laundry has become a soothing counterpoint to the disorder and disarray that generally permeates my life.

Mr Stern has very specific ways in which he likes his laundry folded. He wants his shirts to be folding in thirds, then thirds again, otherwise they don’t fit in the drawer right. Jeans are folded in thirds from the hem up, zipper on the inside. Underwear and socks are not, contrary to my usual style of dealing with them, thrown haphazardly in a drawer. They are also folded or rolled neatly and put in specific places.

Towels, washcloths, and bathmats get similar treatment. Sheets and blankets are to be made as neat and uniform as possible and arranged just so in the closet. Everything must look, feel, and be as orderly, utilitarian, and pretty as possible. Time must be invested in each article of laundry that comes out of the dryer and effort must be put into meeting his exacting standards.

Contrary to what may be your first thought, folding his clothes in this manner does not stress me out. In fact it does the exact opposite – it provides me with yearned-for moments of calm and composure. The feel of cotton sliding through my fingertips, creases forming perfectly beneath my palm, piles of demurely tamed garments on the table – these are what soothe me and offer me moments of respite. When I work for several minutes at a go on folding a bedspread or a fitted sheet, I am given the opportunity to listen to the words in my head and remember why I am working so diligently. I can focus on being Mr Stern’s service slut and pleasing him with the accuracy and efficacy of my work.

Laundry follows me wherever I go. We go through copious amounts of washcloths and bibs at my place of employment and I, as one of the first to arrive in the morning, am blessed with the task of transforming mounds of rumpled fabric into sweetly cute stacks of pastel quarters. One by one they give in to the manipulations of my hands and allow themselves to be subdued. I end up sighing a deep sigh of contentment, remembering Mr Stern, and starting my day relaxed and focused.

Likewise at home. The laundry never ends. Two small people, even though they are only with me half-time, create a staggering amount of dirty clothes. Add into that my wardrobe changes – work, home, slut, party, service, etc. – and the hampers overflow on a constant and consistent basis. I don’t try hard enough to keep up and so always end up with something dirty, or something waiting to be put away, but never with anything waiting to be folded. As soon as it exits the dryer it is subject to my obsessive need for routine and comfort.

Mr Stern has taught me many, many useful things in the past year and a half and folding laundry may seem the least important of them. But in a life filled with so much uncertainty, chaos, clutter, and scattered tangibles, neatly folded laundry is a much needed treat. His insistence on perfection has worked its way into my daily life and left me grateful once again for his influence.

Now if you will please pardon me, I have to get back to the blob of unfolded towels on the couch that inspired this post. I need a few minutes of peace and they need some loving attention.