The Puppet

 

CONTENT WARNING: This one is more sexual than most of my posts.  I think it gets an “R” rating and it’s not pornographic, but there is sexual content and description of masturbation and a little (consensual) sexual violence.  I feel a little bit weird putting myself out like this, but, hell, it already happened, and it’s not like I’m claiming credit for it under my legal name.

In any event, if this sort of content offends you, you shouldn’t read.

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He told me to masturbate, which startled me because he’d never asked for that before.  I am almost completely sexually uninhibited, but this is one thing that makes me feel self-conscious.  It’s a very vulnerable feeling, doing that in front of a partner.  More: it’s potentially humiliating.

But I did it.  I did it there on my knees. What was I going to do, tell him no…?  My cheeks were burning and I couldn’t look at him for more than a few seconds at a time.  He watched me from across the room, with his arms folded across his chest.  His eyes were keen, but the rest of his expression was neutral.  He wasn’t giving me any feedback at all.  I sneaked a glance at his crotch, looking for evidence of an erection, but I couldn’t tell anything through his trousers.

I stayed in position, working at it, for what seemed like forever.  I was too embarrassed and nervous to get myself off, or even to become really aroused.  The insides of my thighs were trembling a little, though, from being in a difficult position, and I’m sure the top of my chest was flushed.

Suddenly, he strode over to me at a brisk pace and grabbed a handful of my hair.  Hard.  It hurt, and I sucked in breath.

“Komme,” he barked, and started walking, pulling me by my hair.  I got on my feet and scrambled after him.  He held his hand at elbow level, so I couldn’t stand up straight or look around me.  The leather soles of his shoes rapped on the hardwood floor.

He dragged me down the hall and into his bedroom.  Then let go of my hair, and I stood up straight, panting, my eyes watering.

He grabbed me by my upper arms, lifted me, and literally threw me onto his bed.

I already knew he was strong—he’s in fantastic shape for a man pushing 60, and he has a pilates instructor and a weight room—but he was a small-ish guy, wiry, shorter than me.  I am almost 5’10”.  I did not expect him to be able to throw me like that.

I yelped like a kicked puppy and landed on my back on the white duvet.

I did not sit up.  I lied as I had fallen, waiting for instructions.  My skin was broken out in gooseflesh and my scalp hurt where he’d pulled my hair.  I watched him from the bed.

He looked down at me, and his expression wasn’t neutral at all now.  Now I perceived an odd mixture of emotions on his face: he looked tense and hungry, but also triumphant.

“Finally,” he breathed, more to himself than me.

I got a chill on the back of my neck and down my spine, and the hair on my arms stood up even more.  I realized I was curling my toes and that my hands were clenched in tight little fists.

He unbuttoned his suit vest and then his shirt, not taking his eyes off of my prone body.  He dropped the clothes on the floor, which I’d never seen him do before—he was always very fastidious, and, at minimum, would drape them on a chair, or on a hook on the back of the door.

He stepped out of his shoes, took off his socks, and then unbuckled his belt, still looking at me. The jingling of the belt buckle.  Oh, the belts I have known.  Are there any sounds I know better, more intimately, than those associated with men’s belts?

Then we were both naked.  A first for us.  He’d seen me naked many times, of course, and I’d sucked his cock on multiple occasions, but, like most male Tops I’ve known, he always declined to fully undress (he would often remove his shirt, but no more).  I understood why: clothes give you power.

“Do you know what you are…?” he asked me, approaching the bed.

I thought fast:  “A…slave?” I guessed, hoping for the best answer.

“You are a toy.  A toy that I bought myself for Christmas.”

He climbed onto the bed and straddled my chest, pinning my arms under his knees.  He put his hand on my neck, but didn’t squeeze.  I could feel the heat radiating off of him.  I looked into his face, trying to read him, but I suddenly felt that I could not predict this man or what he had in store for me.

“You know that sometimes boys break their Christmas toys,”  he said.

With that, he brought up his hands and brought them down hard on my upper chest, just around the sternum (not the breasts—I never could have handled that, no matter what, and he knew it.  I never let men torture my breasts.  The Surgeon could, but he was it.).  The slapping noise was very loud and the jarring sensation shook me.  He hit me very hard.   I think he probably hit me as hard as he could.  It felt a little bit like being thrown forward into a safety belt when the car slams on the breaks.  It felt a little bit like falling from a height onto your back.

He did it again.  And again.   And again.

It was a strange feeling, looking up at his face over his erection.  Strange.

He climbed off of me and grabbed my hair with one hand, my bicep with the other.  Even after that violence, he was not trembling at all.  He always ran cold, this one…not like the Surgeon, who ran hot, and would fill up a room with his emotions.

He flipped me over and maneuvered me into position, on my hands and knees.

Then, penetration.  As he kneeled behind me.

The first time.  We’d done the “Bill Clinton Compromise” (as he put it) after our 6th session, and I was always comfortable with it because I was attracted to him and trusted him, and I wanted to do it, even though it made me feel distressed  about breaking my sexual boundaries  (it was the third time in my career as a fetish worker/prodomme/pro-sub  that I broke a sexual boundary—the previous two times were with the Surgeon and the Mathematician).  God knows how many blowjobs I gave this man in limos or sedan cars outside of Lincoln Center or the Met.

But, we’d never had intercourse.

He grabbed my hair again and I felt his fingers raking down my back, over my spine, while he drilled into me.  His fingernails were extremely short, but the tips of his fingers dug in.

“What sort of toy are you…?  Are you a doll…?  A puzzle…?  A kalidescope, like a Rorschach test? ” he asked, again, mostly to himself.

I couldn’t say anything.  Only pant.  My neck and head were bent back too much, clenched in his fist.  And the motion.

“I know!” I heard him say.  “You are a puppet!  My puppet, and I control your body now!”

It is really the oddest feeling, to be out of control of your own body.  It happens to me when I’m in an extreme state of sub-space (dunno if I believe in “sub-space” as it’s currently defined, but I know SOMETHING happens when you get into that head state).  It’s thrilling, but horrifying in its way.

“You were good.  Show me how you come now,” he said, and he released my arm and started smacking my ass.  My neck and head were still held back, taut.

I am an animal.

It feels like being possessed.  Not possessed as in “owned” (tho there is an element of that), but possessed as in being possessed be a demon or a ghost.  I don’t have an explanation for it.

He played with my body for a long time.  An hour, at least.

Then, in the morning, he gave me berries and cream for breakfast.

The Adler Christmas Dinner: What a Shitshow

Ugh.  Where to begin…?

I got through Christmas okay, but things got ugly over dinner…

We’re sitting there eating the ham and scalloped potatoes, and the male dickheads in my family decided to get into a heated “debate” (re: fight) about gun control.

Why…?  Why at dinner…?  Why do some people not understand that the best thing to do at holiday functions is be polite, on your best behavior, and avoid any potentially incendiary topics of conversation? 

So the rest of us–myself, my mother, the non-dickhead male friend of my mother’s, and my brother’s spouse–had to endure this bullshit.

You can’t dissuade these men with feminine appeals to mind their manners at the dinner table: one’s an ex-cop and the other one, my brother, kills animals as frequently as possible, which says it all. They don’t scream or yell (nobody in my family raises their voice much–stoical Teutonic upbringing, I guess), but they are dominant and feel entitled (re: inconsiderate) in the household.

So they hijacked the entire dinner.

We have my brother, whom I love fiercely but who has become a Republican gun nut.  I honestly don’t know how it happened.  Our family isn’t “liberal” by New York or San Francisco standards, but we’re old-school Roosevelt Democrats.  Very pro-Labor, progressive tax and redistribution, and basically against military intervention (even though every man has served in the military).  I’m much further to the Left, it’s true, but my political preferences have zero chance for realization, so they are not a source of discord except within my mind.

I don’t understand what happened to my brother.  He started hunting and then got sucked into the MINORITY/subculture within that (most hunters are not dingbats).  It’s the only thing I can think of.

Now he gets his news from conservative talk radio and he has at least 12 guns.  He is also mad at black people, despite not knowing any in private or professional life.  If he interacts with a single African-American on a daily basis, I’d be surprised.  I sure don’t, when I live here.  Even when I was teaching at the local university, I didn’t.

What did black people ever do to you, brother…?

Then we have my ex-cop uncle.  He is highly opinionated…and he knows EXACTLY what gun violence means, having dealt with its repercussions for many years.  He’s getting old and still made out of metal.  Still looks like a Marine.  When he wasn’t a cop, he was working, physically, all his life.  His hands are like sheet rock and his body is an engine.  He’s fearless and a sexist.  He’s very macho (but he votes Democrat and actually likes Bernie).

The topic of recent mass shootings came up, and my uncle opined that the general public does not need access to all these fucking guns.

My brother was, insecurely, incensed by this, and spoke up.

Then we were off the the races.

Soon, nobody was eating anything.  The food was getting cold.

I had to learn more about my brother’s irrational and paranoid ideas than I would have liked.  I love him.  What accounts for this needless, toxic masculinity…?  He kills hundreds of animals a year, including things like badgers (in snare traps) that are outside of town and don’t hurt anyone.

Is he trying to compensate for not having a father….?

Because, believe me, things could have been worse: he could have had mine.