Corner Time and Follow-Up to the Eye-Punch Confrontation

I’m sure my eight readers would much rather read stories about my job and the kinky clients I run in to at work, but my relationship with The Collector is so bizarre that I felt compelled to write about it again.

Sometimes I’m paranoid about whether he’s reading this.  He would recognize himself immediately.  I tell myself that he would confront me about it right away…but then I remind myself that he’s a crafty individual. A bit of a schemer, in fact, and the blog provides a way for him to spy on me and what I think about him and our relationship, especially things that I might not be sharing with him, or things that I might be doing when I’m working away from him.  If he’s reading it, and that is the way he feels, it is in his best interest to pretend he doesn’t know about it so that I keep writing it…or, at least, about him.

I was supposed to go to hypnotherapy that day and I was a little angry about it.  As you recall, we had a huge, ugly confrontation about this issue previously.

Know what that fight accomplished…?  Absolutely nothing.  The only difference is that now when I’m cranky about anything, he laughs and asks if he’s going to have to wear an eyepatch to work tomorrow.

“Frankly, I feel like a lot of what you’re asking me to do is drudge up bad memories I’ve forgotten about so that you can use them to manipulate me,” I said. “I think maybe I need a little time off.  This is getting intense.”

“You can’t take time off until you’re an expert with it, like any other skill.  You’ll lose momentum.”

“I don’t want to go today.”

He lowered his newspaper to look at me.

“You don’t pay for it.  This is an investment that I make in you.  Go stand in the corner and ruminate on your ungrateful attitude.”

Well, this is a new one, I thought to myself.

“I don’t want to go stand in the corner, either.”

“Fine.  Go kneel in the corner and stay there for a while.  You may use a cushion.”

“Collector, I’m not going to the corner!  It’s humiliating!”

“Of course it is.  That is the point,” he said,  from behind his paper.

“You are a fucking asshole,” I whispered (and, for the record, he often is, by any objective standard.  Doms often are.  What can I say?  That’s just the way the cookie crumbles in my life).

That finally got his attention.  The New York Times was lowered again.

“Are you sure?

“That’s the way you’re acting when I have a perfectly legitimate complaint, yes!”  However, I was already starting to get nervous.

“I guess I need to prove it, then.”  He folded the paper, put it down, and started to get up.  “And I have not even finished my morning coffee.”

Uh-oh, I thought, as he started to nonchalantly remove his belt.  In the right circumstances I find this simple masculine gesture very arousing, but this was not the right circumstance.

“Go bend over the table or your bed and don’t struggle.  It affects my aim.  Your arm looks so much better and I would hate to mark it up again before Friday.”  (We have An Event to go to on Friday and about a week ago I fell down wearing handcuffs and got a YUGE bruise on the inside of my elbow.  I’ve been telling people I fell down while cross-country skiing and hit a rock.)

“Don’t hit me with that!  I’m not ready!”

“What, is it going to eyepatch time?  Fine, go get ready for your hypnotherapy appointment like a good girl and you can stand in the corner while I eat dinner tonight so I can enjoy the view.  You are lucky I don’t do it now and get out the rice.”

And that, my friends, is exactly the way it went down.

I did fool him about one thing, though: since he told me in advance (what a screwup on his part) I was going to bed without supper, I stopped at the deli on the way home and wolfed down a sandwich.  I wasn’t very hungry at all that night.

Corner time, though, was as demoralizing as I’d feared it would be.

The Collector’s Riding Boots

As I wrote in an earlier post, another thing that he asked me for my birthday was to tell him two fantasies.

Now, I generally don’t like to give the Collector fantasies because it allows him to put his foot in the door, psychologically speaking.  Our BDSM interests are similar enough that they overlap, so I’m sexually content.  You tell someone your private fantasies, and it’s like they’re reading your diary or dream journal.  It’s one of the reasons I respect my clients: sure, they’re paying top premium for a luxury service, but, at the same time, MOST (not all) of them are making themselves very vulnerable.

But, I agreed to do it, so I did.

The first one was the tamest thing I could think of, but still be legit.

I’ve documented my attraction to men’s footwear in the past (here, here and here ).  Now, I know the Collector used to play polo when he was young–you know, that rich-person sport that’s like golf on a horse?

I asked him, with trepidation but a longing I could barely control, if he still has his boots.

He made me wait for about a week, because he’s a calculating fucker and he also likes to spring surprises.

I came in the house and he was cooking dinner (of course.  I know it’s a wholesome hobby, but this guy has a really weird relationship with food.  I say that as a former anorexic.), dressed in a male riding habit sans helmet.

I was hypnotized. Picture Peter O’Toole in riding boots and just shoot me now.

Now, this guy is a sick fuck, like most of the sick fucks I fall in love with, except even sicker, but I  can’t deny that I’m very sexually attracted to him. Like most of my long-lasting relationships, it’s sort of the glue that keeps us together (well, he does love art, and he’s a fascinating conversationalist).  That and my Daddy issues, which are probably going to ensure I never reproduce because all the guys I like are geezers.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him and his boots.  They even made a little rapping on the hardwood floor as he walked around.

“You…you look beautiful,” I mumbled, staring.

He was chopping radishes for the salad.  He has a big knife rack that is magnetic, a  magnetic strip down the wall.  When he uses the knife, he doesn’t even have to look down.  He can follow his fingers. I find it terrifying and very erotic.

He smirked at me.  Yes, the Collector Condescending Smirk.  If there is anything this guy loves in life, it’s knowing he has someone by the proverbial balls.

He laid down his knife.

“What do you think you can do for me, Margo?”

I took off my dress, dropping it to the floor, and sank down to my knees.  There was a time, years ago, I would have been self-conscious about doing this, but I’m not anymore.  I don’t have any shame.

He marched past me, heels rapping, and had a seat on the sofa in the big room.

“You can worship me,” he said.

I immediately scrambled over to kiss his shoes and breath in the leather smell.  I laid down on the floor so that he could press on my exposed neck.

“They’re 20 years old and they need to be serviced.  Do you think you can do that?”

“Definitely,” I panted.

“You’ll do it every week then.  And I’m going to teach you how to ride.

You can masturbate now. Let me see it.”

So I did.

Ten Things

His birthday was coming up, and I had no idea what to buy him.  What do you get for the man who has everything…?  He was harder to shop for than the Surgeon, which is saying something. For Father’s Day I’d given him a Waterman pen that I had inscribed and a piece of a meteor that crashed in the Soviet Union in the 1950s.  He loved them both, but now I needed some new ideas.

So, I went to him and asked him if there was a gift he thought he’d like to have.

He thought about it, and then came back to me later in the day.

“There are three things you can give to me.  One is list of ten things you think you can do to be a better submissive.  You can also make a list of things you think inhibit your progress.

The other two are fantasies you have that you haven’t told me about yet.  Something that I could do for you.  Things that tell me something about you.”

Over the next week, I sat down to work on my list.  This is what I came up with:

  • Stop resisting
  • Don’t hide things.  Try to be more transparent.
  • Try to keep an open mind about situations and activities you presume are going to be bad.
  • Finish getting your hair lasered.
  • Personally follow up on the grocery deliveries to make sure all of the ingredients are there before he starts cooking so that there is no dinner crisis.
  • Think about what you can do to ensure his comfort.
  • Be present without radiating expectation.
  • Express gratitude.
  • Make him feel like God.
  • Return library books on time so they don’t call the house.

I don’t know?  Usually I’m very good at stuff like homework, but this one was challenging.  Do you think it’s good?  Or good enough?  Maybe I should take the chores off….though, seriously, life would be much more sedate and harmonious if the man never ran out of  Parmesan cheese again.

On the back of the sheet of paper, I wrote: “I’m afraid of you sometimes and this makes it difficult to trust you and be vulnerable.  Also, I think you can be impulsive.”

Then I just sat there and stared at the paper.

Don’t Keep Him Waiting

(The blog’s been quiet because I burned the hell out of my hand and upper arm in the kitchen fire.  The injuries hurt like hell and also prevented me from typing.  I still can’t make a fist with my right hand and I had to take last week off from work because I look like a leper.  The wounds are improving daily, however, and they shouldn’t scar.)

 

It was 12:45 PM and I was in a cab going from his place near the Flatiron Building to the Upper East Side to meet him for lunch.  He’d made a reservation at a special place and wanted me to meet two of  his friends for the first time, who would be dining with us.

Well, I’d been in the cab for almost an hour and we’d just managed to pass Times Square.  Traffic was an absolute nightmare; the street might as well have been a parking lot.  I was freaking out because the reservation was at 1 PM and kicking myself for not taking the subway–I’d decided on a cab because it was hot and sticky outside and I knew that if I took the train I’d sweat all my makeup off and ruin my hairdo by the time I arrived.

On top of that, I couldn’t text him and let him know what was going on because my phone was dead. 

Now it didn’t matter whether that the cab had AC: I was sweating it out anyway.

After half an hour, we’d gotten to the East Side, but were still only halfway there.  I was panicking and knew that I needed to contact him and explain–there was no way I could just stand him up in front of his friends.  He’d kill me.

I asked the driver if I could use his phone.

“Sorry, no,” he said, which I felt was pretty fucking rude, given the fare I was running up.

Ten more minutes.

I saw a Radio Shack, told the driver I’d get out, and bolted for it.

Inside, I bought an overpriced phone charger and begged the staff to let me use an electrical outlet.  They could tell I wasn’t lying when I said that it was important.

Once I had power, I sent him a text explaining the situation.  By this time, I was about 40 minutes late for lunch.

He wrote back: Forget it.  Just go back to the apartment.  I’ll meet you there. 

(I would later learn that his friends had to cancel last-minute because of an emergency at work, which meant he’d been sitting at a table alone 40 minutes.)

I apologized profusely and took the subway back to his place.  I changed out of my dress and went to the kitchen to make a sandwich, because I still hadn’t eaten.

I was two bites into it when he walked in the door.

“I am so sorry about this afternoon.  The traffic was horrendous and I was stupid not to make sure my phone–”

He walked right up to me, snatched the sandwich right out of my hand, and threw it in the garbage can.

“If you won’t eat with me, you must not be hungry,” he said.

I stood there, blinking in surprise, letting it all sink in.

Finally, I sighed and nodded.  I understood: he was pissed and punishing me for it.  Okay, fine.  Personally, I didn’t think it was fair–the traffic wasn’t my fault, and I’d left in plenty of time–but, well, that’s life.

I guess I’ll have to wait till dinner, I thought.

I picked up a glass and went to the fridge to use the water filter.  I’d been in all that heat and I was very thirsty.

“No,” he said when I put my hand on it.

“No water?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I put the glass away and checked the clock.   Only about five and a half hours until dinner–unless he was working late or coming back to town completely jetlagged, he was a pretty consistent dinner-at-8 guy.  And when I was there, we always ate together.

Five and a half hours of thirst.  Not fun, but I’ve had worse.

“Stay in the library,” he said, and walked out.

I thought of dashing to the fridge for a bottle of water and immediately decided against it.  Better to wait.

I got my laptop and played on the internet for a few hours.  He came in to check on me every now and then.

Thirst isn’t fun.  I can ignore being hungry.  It’s much harder to ignore being thirsty.  My mouth was dry and it felt like my tongue was swelling.

Then I got a “bright” idea: the next time he poked his head in the door, I asked him if I could take a shower because I’d sweated on the subway all the way home (he’d taken one; I’d heard the water running).

“Why?  So that you can drink from the faucet?  No.”

Foiled.

I kept waiting, and at about 7 PM, he came back, and this time he was happy.

Oh thank God it’s over, I thought.

“I’m making shrimp scampi for dinner!” he announced, smiling.

“Great!  Do you want me to help you in the kitchen?  Set the table?”  About half the time, he wants me to help him make dinner.  He’s a good cook, and he teaches me things.  Other nights, he prefers to do it alone–besides torturing women, I think it’s how he relaxes after work.

“No, I’ll do it myself.”

Soon, I could smell the cooking and started envisioning a plate of shrimp and a few big glasses of ice water.  With condensation dew on the glass.  And a wedge of lemon.

“Dinner is ready, Margo!” he called from the kitchen.

I practically ran to the dining room.

It looked how it always looked, unless he was in a big hurry to get back to some work project: tablecloth, cloth napkins, two candles.  He was already seated.  Beautiful, aromatic plate of scampi, rice, glass of white wine, and water.

I pulled up to my place.

There, in the middle of the plate, was…a single piece of toast.

You son of a bitch, I thought.

“Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing with his hand.

I stiffly took my seat.

“You know, I think I lost my appetite,” I said.

“But I cooked for you!” He laughed at his own joke (it was true–he had, after all, toasted the bread).  “It would be rude not to eat.  So eat.”

Get it over with, I thought.

I picked up my toast and took a bite.  It was unbuttered, dry, and crunchy, and chewing it took forever in my desert of a mouth.  I couldn’t produce any saliva.  It scratched going down.

He sat there and ate his meal, happy as the proverbial clam, no doubt getting lost in self-congratulation at what a witty and clever fellow he was.

“This wine really matches the dish perfectly,” he said.

If I’d had cutlery, I just might have stabbed him in the hand with my fork.

I got about halfway through the slice of toast when I couldn’t take it anymore and  meekly asked if I could have some water.

“Of course!” he said, rising from his chair.  He went to the cabinet and selected a wide, shallow soup bowl, which he filled with water from the sink and carefully carried to me.  Then he took his chair.

I stared at it.  What the hell was I supposed to do with it?

I looked at him.  No feedback.  He just watched me and ate his food, smirking.

I reached out to grab the bowl in both hands–I guess I was supposed to tip the water out to drink, and hope it didn’t spill out the sides of my mouth and down my chest.

“Don’t use your hands,” he said, sharply.

“Well, hell, can I at least have a straw?

“No,” he said.

The bowl was shallow and had a flared rim.  There was no way to drink the water without literally putting my face in it.

Should I have been stubborn?  Refused?  My dignity was already gone, and I was thirsty.

I bent my head to the water and slurped at it.  It took a few slurps to get a mouthful of liquid, and they were loud.  The human face is not designed to drink that way.

When I sat back up, I felt water running down my chin.  He hadn’t given me a napkin, so I wiped it with the back of my arm.

“Better?” he asked.

I didn’t respond.

“Well, wetter, at least,” he said, and chuckled.

I finished my bread, took a few more noisy slurps of water, and asked to be excused from the table.

“No,” he said.

So I had to wait for him to finish his food and clear the table.   He blew out the candles, came up behind me, and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Ready for bath time now?”  He always gave me a bath after dinner unless he had really important work to do.  It was part of our nightly ritual when we were together.

Was it over?  Finally?  Was he done; satisfied?  I was angry but I was more than willing to let bygones be bygones if it meant he was finally going to forgive me and relax and I wouldn’t have to be stuck in this house with an unpredictable sadist anymore.  If he was happy with me again, well, hell, what’s a little Humiliation by Toast?  I’ve had a fuck of a lot worse, believe me.  In fact, I’ve done a fuck of a lot worse.

I pulled back my chair to stand up to go draw the bath, as usual.

He gently pushed me back down into the chair.

“I’ll do it tonight,” he said.

Uh-oh, I thought.

TO BE CONTINUED (it’s not pretty)

 

 

 

How He Would Punish Me

We were laying together in bed, sitting up on the pillows, in a hotel in Copenhagen. It was about 9 AM, and he’d already fucked me.

“When the time comes,” I ventured timidly, “How will you punish me…?”

“Punish, or discipline?  They’re two separate things, you know.”

(They are.  Discipline is control with respect.  It’s positive and intended to better improve the individual, even if it hurts.  It’s what they do in the military (at least, in a good and competent military).  It’s what teachers do to children in school.

Punishment is deliberate cruelty and vengeance, even if it’s just.)

“Punish,” I said.  I was afraid to ask, but I had to know.  I was starting to tremble.  Everything in my body was tense, and I was getting excited.

“Suspend privileges.  Take away your use of furniture; make you sleep in the kitchen on the floor without a blanket.  Corner time, so that you may ruminate on your infractions. Beating you in a way you could not process.  It would not be pleasant.  Making you wear something humiliating in public.

…Is this arousing to you…?”

(I’d started to rub myself under the blankets.)

“I can’t help it,” I said.  I was ashamed, but the longing was very strong.  My eyes were suddenly full of water and I was salivating.  When I swallowed, it hurt.  The sex drive is deep; primordial.

“I want to see it,” he said, and threw off the bedding to expose me. His voice was calm and authoritative.  He knew exactly what he was doing.  “Don’t stop.”

“Please, X.  Please don’t hurt me from inside.”  I spoke his name.

“The only thing that I like even more than the sound of my name in your mouth is when you beg me.”

Crying, now.  Not sobbing, but all the water was leaking from my eyes.  The emotion was building; impending. It felt like standing in a river.  It felt like standing in the water at the ocean, when the wave sucks the sand out from around your feet.  It felt like vertigo.

“I want you to come for me,” he said.

I did.  It was almost involuntary.

Smirking, he got out of bed and looked down at me.

“I just made you come with the power of my words.  Imagine what I could do to hurt you.”

“You won’t have to.  I will obey you in all things.”

He nodded.  “For your sake, I hope you do.”

The Puzzle

He was on top of me, which is usually very enjoyable to me because I like to feel the man’s weight and warmth and to smell him, but this time it felt claustrophobic.  His thumbs were grinding into the nerve that runs under the arm and the armpit, and it hurt.

“I love your expressive face.  I want to see what you look like when you cry,” he said.

“I…I don’t know if I can.”

“Did your last master ever make you cry…?”

Not exactly the happiest thought to have while in bed with a different man, but I was, as always, honest (besides, he would have known if I lied): “Many times, but not from pain.  If it gets very intense, my eyes tear up sometimes, but that’s an involuntary physical reaction, not from emotional distress.”

“That is a barrier I want to break with you,” he said.  His hands were grinding, grinding, grinding away and his face was right in front of mine.  I couldn’t look away from him.

“I’m…I’m not sure if I can; if I’m even capable.  I don’t think I even want to,” I said.  The pain and the warmth of his body were starting to make me sweat.  At the same time, my mouth was dry, and when I swallowed it made a clicking noise.

“We’ll find out together,” he said, and gripped the nerve in my armpit as tightly as he could.

The pain was too much and all at once, and I couldn’t process it, I couldn’t transform it, as I am usually capable of doing–doing automatically, even.

He lowered his head and started to bite my shoulders.  Hard.  The impressions from his teeth were gone in a few hours, but his probing fingers left bruises in the morning.

I started to squirm and writhe around, making screechy little noises.  I couldn’t help it.

“What will it take?” he panted against my neck.  “Do I need to hurt you from inside?  You know I am learning all your tricks, Margo.”

With that his hands relaxed, and he lifted himself up onto his arms, looking down at me.  He was smiling–I could see it, even in the dark.

I shuddered and relaxed.  Assuming it was over, and now we’d just have sex.  I don’t know if I was aroused, per say, but I was certainly geared up: adrenaline going, heart pounding, the long muscles in my thighs twitching.

He slowly bent his head, and I thought he was coming in for a kiss.  I opened up my mouth and pressed my body up against his.

Instead, he spat onto my upturned face.  Laughed.  And then reached back and slapped me upside the head.

When I dominate men, I never slap them in the face unless they specifically request it, because, as I’ve written in one of my very early blog posts, it’s both extremely intimate and psychologically loaded.  It’s humiliating.  And, like being strapped by a belt, a lot of people have negative memories associated with it from childhood.

He reversed hands and slapped the other cheek.  Seemed to know what he was doing–his aim was true, and he avoided my nose and orbital bone–but it was a hard slap.  It made a thunderclap in the room.

He pulled back and did it again, his other hand pinning my shoulder down on the bed.

Besides the emotional distress, in my experience, being hit in the head causes one’s thinking to short out.  I can think–to a greater or lesser extent–when I’m being hurt on any other part of my body.  Not so on the face.  When I’m being hit on the face, all I can do is have the experience and the feelings.

“I want to see you cry.  I want that part of you.  I am greedy, and I want it all,” he said, smiling.  He pulled back and did it again.

He did it again.  And again.

The first emotion after disbelief was rage.   I screamed at him to stop it, baring my teeth, all the tendons in my neck standing up.

To his credit, he stopped immediately.  He was always in control of himself, this one.  He didn’t slap me again, but instead turned my head to the side and pressed it down, hard, into the pillow.

“What will it take…?” he asked.

“More than that!” I snarled.

“We will learn together.  I like puzzles.”

He hasn’t solved this puzzle yet.

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.

*                         *                                    *                               *

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.

Sorority Paddle

Behold the sweet manna the prodomme goddesses in heaven have chosen to rain down upon me!

I was at the used furniture store the other day, shopping for a bedside lamp and a gift for my mother’s birthday, when, what did I see hanging on the wall but this!

An authentic sorority paddle from 1956, engraved with the logos and official seals of my undergraduate university!

I couldn’t believe it!  It’s perfect!  It’s everything I ever wanted in a wooden torture instrument!  And it only cost me $20!

“It’s been hanging on the wall forever,” said the salesman, who seemed honestly confused by my delight and rapturous enthusiasm. “It came from an estate sale.  We found it in a box of random junk.”

“It’s not junk!” I hissed, as if someone had just insulted a prized family heirloom.

He pulled back, startled.  “Well, I’m glad you like it, Miss.”

I handed it to him, but before I released it into his hand, I said, “I’m going to keep shopping, but I want this paddle!  Under no circumstances are you to sell it to anyone else!  I’ll be done in 20 minutes.  Hide it in a drawer, so nobody else can see it!”

He looked increasingly alarmed and promised me that he would keep it safe for me until I was done shopping.

I was so happy that I came straight home and took a zillion photos of the thing.  Here are a few.  Sorry, I can only show you one side of the paddle…the side with the sorority crests and the writing, “CHRISTMAS FORMAL ’56.”  I can’t show the college seals for security reasons.

It’s so special that I almost don’t want to beat a boy with it.

Almost.

BEHOLD MY PRIZE:

christmas formal 56 1

 

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Heinrich Dominates Margo

It was the second night of my tour to San Francisco, and after thirteen sessions I was emotionally drained and exhausted.  Thirteen sessions is a LOT of BDSM.  Some of the sessions were very physical, and I was spotted with bruises even though I hadn’t been subbing (domination and fetish only).  I was still fucked up emotionally from Therapist Jung, and I’d just completed a session that involved publicly humiliating a client in the bar of the W Hotel in Union Square.

I was begging Heinrich to dominate me.  Usually I don’t feel sexual after a long day’s work at all–so much of my energy goes to my clients, and coping with their eroticism–but now, this moment, I needed something.  I felt afraid and out of control.  I felt all alone.  I felt like my clients were making me crazy.  I kept wondering if Therapist Jung was right, and my sexuality made me a sick person.  Thinking about my sexuality made me feel sexual.  I felt like I was going to act out–get on Craigslist and find a date, or go hunting at the hotel bar.

Heinrich to the rescue.  He talked me through it.  He did it in the middle of the night, too, and he had to be at work early in the morning.

His English isn’t perfect, but he knows all the right words.

“You are a weak, docile, small female animal!  Weak little prey for any man who walks along.  I should take you back out to the country.  You can serve me and my friends after we have been walking in the fields all day.”

I was kneeling in front of my computer in my black cocktail dress, still decked out from my session at the W Hotel bar.  He had me on the floor.  Heinrich doesn’t usually let his subs use the furniture.

“You are good for that.  Tending to us and meet-ink the needs.  You really are an obedient child and a well-trained servant.”

The wave of emotion that came upon me was overwhelming.  Maybe it was just catharsis after two hard days of sessioning out of a hotel suite.  Maybe it was all the second-guessing of myself I’d been doing for Therapist Jung.

Maybe it was just feeling like I was seen.   Seen and recognized and accepted for what I am.

(I really was an obedient, submissive daughter.  I did everything that was asked of me, and I was calm, and never resisted.  I worked hard, was responsible and dutiful. I don’t understand why my obedience never earned me the love of my parents.)

I started to cry, right there on Skype, on the floor of my hotel suite, in front of my computer screen.  Great hitching breaths, tears running down my face.

“I’m sorry!” I apologized.

“Nein!  You are a beautiful submissive woman, and what you have, for the offering, is very rare.  Your future husband should be keeping you in a closet, and beat you every day.  You need leading.  Like” he flapped his hand, trying to think of the word, “anchor.”

I was sobbing, yes, just sobbing on the Skype.  And, readers, you know I never cry.  Honestly, I cry maybe 6 times a year.  Ten times at most.

“You need some pain to focus you.  I am sorry, that I cannot do it myself.  Do you have the wood paddle?”

I sniffled: “Yes.”

“Bring it, please.”

I went to get my nice heavy wooden paddle.   I showed it to him on Skype.

“You need to take the pain where you have no wish.  Hit on the tits.  Five is good.”

Heinrich knows that I hate to be hurt on my breasts.  It’s a big deal for me.  Usually, I don’t even let men touch me there, even boyfriends, and I definitely don’t let men touch my nipples.  The Surgeon could, but he’s about it.

Well, I smacked my breasts five times, with the paddle, for Heinrich.  And it hurt, and I have mild bruising.

“Sehr gut!  Wonderbar!” 

And that was the session.  I don’t know how to end this blog post.

 

Meet Top Gun, Shark of the Skies

This blog post will be considerably more cheerful than the last one…

I recently decided that I was sick and tired of not getting my masochistic needs met.  I’ve seen Heinrich a few times, and he gives me assignments to do via email and on skype, and he’s an excellent Top (I mean that), but our relationship is kinda rocky right now because of the fact that I’m doing sex work.  He doesn’t tolerate it.

So, that meant I had to search for a new guy.  I wasn’t looking for a master, a boyfriend, or a real relationship.  Just someone safe, who I found attractive, who visit me and manhandle me once a week, and maybe order a pizza.

I put an ad up on the internet.  I was completely frank about what I was looking for.  Why be coy?  Why fuck around?  This was the opening line (and the ad is taken down now, so don’t bother Google-stalking): “Very experienced slavegirl, single/unowned and not on the market…but I still have needs and they must be met.”

My email box blew up immediately.  Predictably, most of the mail was from idiots who got their ideas about how to be dominant from disgusting misogynistic porn.  Sorry, pornsick dude, I’m pretty wild in bed, but sex with me will never be an episode of facialabuse.com!  Pass!

The next largest group of emailers were just horny guys with no BDSM experience who said that they wanted to learn and were eager to try it.  While there’s nothing wrong with that–I’ve taught a few of my vanilla boyfriends how to meet my needs–I really don’t have the patience right now, and also, the time and the effort that would require teaching a new guy how to be my Service Top, would move the relationship into a level of intimacy (emotionally, psychologically) that I am just not interested doing.  I taught my vanilla boyfriends because they were already my boyfriends and we had intimacy and an existing relationship.

I was almost positive that I was going to find my new Top in San Francisco.  I was extremely skeptical that I’d be able to find anyone local.  I mean, there’s no kink scene in this stupid town–it’s one of the reasons I had to move away.  It’s true I met my first-ever Top here, but that was a random fluke, incredible good luck, like winning the lottery!

Well, incredibly, I hit paydirt!  I found someone local (well, sort of)!

He’s a military guy who works at the Air Force base outside of town.

I know, I know….you’re thinking to yourself, Huh?  Miss Margo and a military guy?  How’d that happen?

I’ll tell you how it happened: beggars can’t be choosers, and since I have absolutely no intention of dating this man or sharing any romantic activities or feelz with him, I set the bar much lower than I usually would.  I don’t need an intellectual scumbag with good taste who can impress me with his conversation and the things he’s accomplished in life.  I just need a safe, competent, experienced male who will respect my emotional boundaries, not get possessive-stalker-y on me,  and who will go away and get out of my hair when playtime is over.

And, of course, who won’t chicken out on the violence when it’s time to get down to business.  That’s happened to me a few times, and it’s frustrating, and it’s another reason I wasn’t interested in training a novice: sometimes guys are not as capable of being mean and violent as thought they were.  It’s exasperating to weed out a contender, email him for a week, go out to dinner, get him home, and find out all he really wants to do is slap some handcuffs on you and have sex. :/

Meet Top Gun.  Whatever else you can say about the man, he’s not a chicken.

Top Gun has a long career of flying airplanes and serving in our various illegal and ill-advised military campaigns.  The first photos he sent me were of him flying some freakishly fast-looking fighter jet.  I wrote back, asking for more elaboration, and he actually sent me a link to a video of him doing maneuvers.   I couldn’t believe it.

I’m sure his pilot abilities and the video would be enough to give the average woman major vagina tingle.  I’m sure it’s been getting him laid, and attention from chicks in bars, his entire life.  Macho shit like this doesn’t do much for ME, I’m afraid–I’m much more impressed with intellectual stuff–BUT, I will concede that it suggests some things about Top Gun that are attractive, and germane to our purposes:

Flying planes for the military, while uninteresting, is not a small accomplishment.  In fact, it is infinitely more impressive than anything I have done with my life thus far.  So, kudos.

Also, it means that the government trusts this man enough to let him fly very, very expensive pieces of machinery.  That means that he is competent, responsible, and not an idiot.

And he’s not an idiot.  He took me out to dinner at a local seafood restaurant (a nice place! Good food, ambiance, not cheap!  Sorry, hate to sound like a bitch, but if a grown-ass man took me out for buffalo wings on the first date, well, yeah, I would raise an eyebrow.  College is over with) where we could sit in an isolated booth and get to know each other.

He’s not an idiot.  I’m really good at getting a handle on peoples’ intelligence.  I think this guy would probably get about 115 on the ole IQ test.  He has a degree in Engineering from a very respectable school (memorable quote, over our crab cake appetizers: “I got good grades in college because I had to!”  This quote caused my inner educator to die a little.  He went on: “But school was such a pain in the ass!  I was glad to be out of there.  Professors are some of the stupidest people I’ve ever met!”  To be fair, he said this before he learned that I used to teach college.  He did feel embarrassed, and apologized to me.).

Politically, he is an atavisitic knuckle-dragging fascist.  I expected that he would be, because military guys skew right-wing.  Normally, this would be a deal-breaker for me.  The idea of actually sucking a Republican’s cock is pretty depressing.  But, what are you going to do?  What did I expect, that this macho career military person, who voluntarily terrorized a bunch of foreign brown people for four tours of duty, was going to tell me that he was a huge Dennis Kucinich fan?

“Women don’t belong in the Navy OR the Air Force!” he told me, with complete confidence, over his drink.  He was snarfing Royal Crown.  What a shocker!  “They’re ruining everything!”

I almost said: “Well, given the astronomically high rates of rape and sexual assault in the military, maybe you’re right.”

 

But I didn’t.  I just nodded politely and smiled, a skill I have perfected from many long, excruciating dinner-dates with clients.  In my head, I was wondering if maybe there was a way to work with this awful chauvinism: was there a way to somehow make it sexy?  Maybe I could somehow eroticize this piggish male dominance?  Can I make lemonade with this, somehow?  I am a sub, after all!

I continued to observe him and listen to him talk. The Empire needs guys like Top Gun.  He is a happy, contended man (well, somewhat–the government won’t let him fly as much now, because he’s getting too old, and I think that’s really crushing his self-esteem, which is understandable and which I actually found touching).  He is completely unburdened by imagination, introspection, or curiosity.  I have never heard anything remotely speculative come out of his mouth.  He never says things such as, “I wonder why that would be?”

What Top Gun is, is a big dumb shark.  That’s what he is!  He’s at the top of the food chain, a big dumb dangerous predator shark, just cruising along in the ocean.  The only thing he knows, is what he likes and wants, and that hunting is fun.

“Are you going to punish me for voting for Obama?”  I asked him, at the dinner table.

That made him start laughing very hard.  Then he got serious and nodded solemnly: “Yes ma’am.”

That’s when I knew, that this guy could do the job.  Getting shit done–completing the mission, following orders, bringing back the prize–is this man’s entire reason for being.  He wouldn’t be afraid to get violent.  Violence is his job.  Some of my readers will probably find my characterization offensive, but when you get right now do it, the military exists to secure resources via death and destruction.

And I was right: I invited him back to my place, and he tore off my dress (that actually pissed me off, but he paid me for it, including the underwear) and beat my ass.  He brought a pair of sap gloves.  It was the only piece of gear he brought with him.  Which was fine.  I have plenty of my own.  I asked him to use my favorite wooden paddle, and he did.  He didn’t have much experience with that, but, you know, it’s a paddle.  It’s not rocket science.  He did just fine.

Hottest part of the evening: I was over his lap, screaming (it hurt a LOT, there was no warm-up), and he told me to shut up, and put his enormous hand, still wearing the sap glove, over my mouth.  It covered the entire lower portion of my face.  Pretty hot!

It is with great shame that I report that I did end up sucking a Republican’s dick.  I’ll never forgive myself for that.  But, what are you going to do?

The shark took a shower and left.  He returned to his cruising.

I’ll probably see him again, if I develop a craving (the bruises are going to last the better part of a week).  I don’t trust him enough to let him tie me up yet, which is too bad, but we can do other things.  He doesn’t know how to use a lot of the other BDSM gear, but I can teach him.  I’m sure he’s a quick study.  I taught the Surgeon.

And that’s my blog post about Top Gun.  I dunno, readers.  I kinda-sorta like him.  He’s polite and respectful (except when he’s not, if you know what I mean).  He brought me flowers, called me ma’am, pulled out the chair.  He’s safe.  Didn’t complain about the condom (always the mark of a gentleman).

But he doesn’t capture my imagination, at all.  But maybe that’s a good thing.  He can’t get into my head.  Can’t seduce me, can’t rattle me.  I will always be in charge of this relationship.

But his job is Service Top.   And he’s good enough at that.