Thank You

I'm not religious, I don't believe in anyone's concept of 'God' or go to church. But I do believe in a benevolent higher power, it might be the rope gods, it might be providence, it might be  Aphrodite, or Venus, or just collisions of circumstances which sometimes don't seem completely random. 


Whatever it is, I owe it my thanks, my love, my all. I have been blessed, I have love, I have friends, I have been able to be there for me, and they've been there for me, and we've held each other up, leaned against each other, helped each other to ground, and flown hand in hand to the stars and back. This weekend was a stressful one in some ways, someone had a scare and I was able to help, to hold a hand, to reassure, to stop someone dwelling on a worst case which might not come to pass. 


I helped people find things, and get to places, I made sure that things were where they needed to be, fed people cupcakes, ran Quizno's to friends and volunteers. I participated in a double gravity boot suspension, I gave a suspendee my cleavage for a pillow and I demoed for my Sir's two classes, Sexual Shibari and Partial Suspensions. I laughed, I lived, I loved. 


My Sir tied me to a rig we waited on for an hour, just a simple chest harness, a takata kote, nothing more. I couldn't fall over, only into his ropes, or into his arms.  He held me tight while he threw his fists into me again and again all over, kicks, and knees and climbing on me, digging his knees into my body, punching me harder than ever before, slapping me across the face to make my head ring with the force of the blow. He threw both fists into my chest and I managed to gasp out a 'please!' but I don't know that I would have been able to stop the orgasm that tore through me on his 'cum.' That one word sent me shaking, falling into the ropes, he didn't move his fists, digging them in instead, and I leaned in, standing on tip toes and leaning in to his fists, shaking with the force of my orgasm until he put a hand gently on my chest and said 'stop' smiling, calling me his good girl, I was so good, I smiled back, happy to have pleased him, glad that the ropes were holding me, it was as if I were wrapped in his arms. He made to untie me, and all I could say was 'Please don't say it's over Sir!" almost plaintively, but he laughed, and gave me more, more of his fists, more of his open hands, all over my body, climbing up me again.


I wasn't on the planet earth any more, the world held on by a thread, if that. I was alone with him in a parallel universe, we floated together, linked by our eyes and wherever he touched me, hands, fists, knees, boots and I knew that I was his. 


Someone caught me in the lobby a while later, and said that it had been a beautiful scene to watch, I had no idea that he'd been there. The rest of the world really had ceased to exist for a while. 


That was my Winter Fire, and I thank all the people involved, and whatever higher power gave me the opportunities I had, and the love I felt. 

North of the Border

I should have written this up ages ago, but as my blogging back then was even more erratic than it is now. 


Last year I went to Edinburgh. I won a two night stay in a wonderful hotel in the centre of the city, and I took my lanky ginger geek with me. An upgrade thanks to useful contacts meant that we ended up with a two bedroom apartment, beautiful, simple and elegant decor, super comfy, and, awesomely cool, the kitchen, living room, and both bedrooms all had floor to ceiling windows. There was an office block across a wide boulevard that swept below us. This is important because with windows like that, and a view like that, over the two days we were there (Tuesday and Wednesday) I got fucked against every window. I even got fisted in front of the one in the kitchen. Weird bit; I don't think anyone in the office noticed. 


It wasn't all sex in front of windows of course. There was sex in the bed, on the sofa, in the shower, on the kitchen counters.... Oh, and a bit of culture, we were in Edinburgh after all, we visited the castle, we walked the Royal Mile to Holyrood House, we ate fudge till I almost felt sick, and then we fucked some more. My every hole was thoroughly abused. On the second night we were there, he sat on the sofa and I leant against it upside down and he fisted me till I begged him to let me cum, then he made me cum till I was almost ready to ask for mercy! 


Despite that, I think my favourite moment was when we arrived, we fell into the room, and, having barely gone from end to end of the place, landed in front of the window in the nearest bedroom, bags having been thrown on the bed, and I dropped to my knees to tear his jeans from his crotch and take his cock down my throat and suck it till he was rock hard in my mouth, then he pulled me up by my hair till I was standing, pushed my face against the window, we tore my jeans down together and he fucked me, told me to cum again and again and let me twist and duck at just the right moment to drink his cum, he filled my mouth and I looked up, mouth open and full of cum till he smiles down at me and says 'swallow' and I obey and gently kiss the head of his cock before looking up at him, smiling. 


Those moments are the ones I see in my mind. Those and the post coital spooning while he talked about all manner of geekery. Post coital education. Is there anything quite like it? It's funny the things we miss, the things we picture when we thing about a person, I see him from my knees, as if I were looking up at him with a mouthful of his sweet cum. 

Two Things

There are two things in this world you should never do; never start a land war in Asia, and never challenge my Sir to anything. 


Which is precisely why I told him that I had once been forced to have eight orgasms inside of five minutes with nothing but three fingers on my lover's right hand. Wouldn't it be challenging to make me cum even more than that by punching me Sir....


Yes. I am a masochist. 


No, I am his masochist. He is the one I beg for pain, the one I thank for it unbidden, the one to whom I am grateful for it. Others I may goad and provoke in to hurting me, I may fight with them and tell them they can do better, I may tell them to put their backs into what they do. But him, him I simply ask as politely as I know how, and can only hope that it pleases him to hurt me that day. 


Funny how things change, they always said, 'never say never' and now I know they were right. I said I'd never be a pain slut, and now, for one man, that's exactly what I am.

A little more on service that doesn't include sex

Non sexual service isn't something I've ever even pretended to understand before, if you said that was your thing, I'd probably have given you a funny look, been confused, pondered for a while, and then given up any kind of attempt to understand. 

Not so much any more. It would appear that for the right person, any form of service can appeal, and be fulfilling, and meaningful, and beautiful. My Sir does not demand that I kneel to offer him tea if I make it, I do it because it is my place, because when I am kneeling he can look down at me and smile and say 'thank you pet' in his soft, smooth rich voice. Then I can stand, and smile, and take care of his breakfast, or whatever else he might need. 

I know it doesn't make sense from the outside. Let me try again. Tell me that you want me to be something, and I'll try if I care about you at all, but eventually, I'll probably shrug and give up, yawn, get bored, and tell you to make your own damn tea. Let me watch the beauty of service from someone else, the way she kneels before you, the way the service is so natural, so effortless, and so perfect. Don't tell me that this is what you want from me, don't expect it, and somehow, apparently, the need grows in me to serve you. Not out of a desire to be her, or out of any jealous feelings, but because I aspire to please you to the best of my ability. This seems a new way for me to please you, and therefore I want to learn it. I want to perfect the art of service. Though don't get me wrong, I still want you to fuck my brains out, just not while I'm carrying your tea. 

Someone once tried to convince me that I was a pain slut. He said I was, that he would show me, that I would learn, that one day I would beg him for pain, I would beg him to make me bleed just with the strokes of the cane every week. He would beat me with the cane until I cried and begged him to stop, and then he would carry on. But somehow, all that time, I never let a safe word pass my lips. I just came to resent him, hate him even, for the pain he caused me again and again. I swore I would never be a pain slut. 

Then I met my Sir. And he didn't ask me to be a pain slut, nor did he tell me to. He didn't hurt me more than I could handle. In fact, he hurt me not quite enough, until I wanted more, and more and more, and he let me ask him, beg him, to hurt me. That, I think, is how I came to orgasm from a single punch. That is how I came to beg my Sir for pain, to ask him to hurt me, to beg him for his rage, to try to calm him from his frustrations by telling him that nobody would be as grateful as I for his anger. 

I am sure that service not including sex is not something everyone would enjoy. But for the right person, even making tea can be an act of love, an act to put love into. Receiving the tea can be an act of love just as much as an acceptance of it. Giving the punch as much an act of love as its receipt. 

Dark Odyssey Winter Fire

I would be lying through my teeth if I said I wasn't excited about Presidents' day weekend. I have no idea what Presidents' day is, or even if it's Presidents', or President's, but I don't care either, because the reason I am excited has absolutely nothing to do with any number of Presidents. 


I get to not only spend Thursday night to Monday afternoon with my Sir, I get to be his puppy for large amounts of that time. Not only that, but there will be service and protocol of the kind I've never really done much of before. His morning cup of chai with four sugars goes without saying, but throughout the rest of the day I'll be on hand with Gatorade, Spike and gushers (get your mind out of the gutter, I'm talking about the kids' chewy sweets) there will be French maid outfit wearing, and kneeling to offer him his tea, or a drink, there will be asking to go anywhere/do anything, the kind of thing that might drive me crazy if it were an every day expectation, but is lighting a fire between my legs when I think about doing all these things for him for the long weekend. Mmmmmmmm 


Service of a non sexual nature has never been something I've even considered for more than a moment. Until him. Now I'm not going to start dressing him and packing his gear and doing his housework, but making tea, being on hand for whatever he might need at any given moment - that I can do. 


Suffice it to say at this late hour that I'm as excited as all hell, and there is going to be some serious pre-bed time masturbation. 

Please Sir, can I have some more?

I know you'll give me exactly as much as you want to, or maybe less if I really need you to. I know that you hurt me because you love me, just as I ask you for pain because I love you. I know that the thrill that runs through me when I notice you packed your sap gloves wouldn't happen for anyone else. I know that there are few people in the world of whom I would ask such pain, to whom I would give my tears happily, but they don't come because, simply put, I just enjoy myself too damn much when you're hurting me. All is right with the world and my eyes are shining with happiness, not tears, and I worry sometimes that you might only like the single tear that rolls down my cheek when you make me cum so hard even my eyes try to squirt. Maybe you're not a dacryphiliac, and you don't want to hurt me till I'm in tears. Maybe that's why I ask you for more and more, because I don't think you'd hurt me so much if I didn't ask for it, beg for it, love it, thank you for it. 


I've met sadists who have ordered me to be thank them for every horrible stroke of the cane. I thanked them though I wasn't grateful, just hoping and praying for it to end. You I thank Sir, for the pain you give me, though you never told me to, and I don't know that you expected me to. I thank you because I am sincerely grateful, I thank you for the gift that you give me with every impact of your fist, your open hand, your boot on my wild, begging soul. I thank you for the ways you push my body, tying me in hard, painful positions, asking me to push. I know when you do that, I can. I can do anything my Sir asks of me, I can let my body relax into the stretch of every muscle, even as they scream at me for release, I can push, I can stay, silent and happy in the sharp ache of the tie, as the rope bites in, and my head spins with dizziness. Of course I can, you asked me to.