The Crate

When I came back to his house (I could come in by myself by then; all the security guards and front doormen recognized me), I found him in the living room.  He’d changed out of his suit and into gym shorts and a t-shirt.

There was packing material all over the floor–cardboard, foam–and he had a tool kit out and was…

…assembling something?

I’d seen this man assemble shit a few times before, and beyond replacing lightbulbs it always had something to do with ME, so I froze and took notice.

(The first time, it was removing the door from my bedroom.  The second, drilling a hole through his kitchen table to install an screw-eye so that I could be chained through it during dinnertime, like a prisoner in an institution. “What are you doing?  Are you really drilling a hole in your beautiful tortoiseshell furniture?!” I asked, incredulous.  I mean, this table is probably 100 years old, the material priceless and endangered, and here he is with his shirtsleeves rolled up, drilling away.  Not to mention: “How are you going to explain the hole to dinner guests?”  “Take out the hardware and cover the hole with a vase of flowers,” he said.)

“Hello, Darling,” he said, still working.  He was using manual tools and not the power screwdriver–consulting the manual.

“What is this you’re working on?”

“I bought something for you!  Ordered it online.  It just arrived today!”

I stepped closer and took a closer look at the pieces that were spread out on the floor.

It was wooden and had bars.  It looked like…

…a crib?!  For a baby?!  

For a moment, I didn’t know whether to be elated or completely horrified.  I’m going through some complex emotional issues right now concerning whether or not I’ll ever have a family, as I am rapidly approaching the later part of my child-bearing years, and I know my mother went into early menopause.  I never wanted children before, I was always against it and assumed I’d be happily childfree, but recently I guess there is something to that “biological clock” trope and I’m starting to think that if I decide that I DO want a family, I need to step on the gas.  This is completely new to me, and it’s stressful.  I know several women in their 40s who have happily born healthy babies and I still have time left to decide what I want to do, but it is stressful.

I can’t tell anyone about this anxiety.  I don’t have a shrink right now and I’m isolated.  I can only tell you, my 8 readers.

So, getting back to our narrative: I took a closer look at the packaging and what he was assembling.

It was not a crib.  It was a dog crate.  A fancy wooden dog crate.  Looks a lot like this:

 

dog crate

The first time he put me into it, we were having movie night.  He sat on the couch with the crate close by.  He gave me popcorn and a diet Pepsi I could drink through the bars with a bendy-straw.

It was not comfortable being in the cage because I’m tall and have long legs, so I couldn’t really relax, but, you know, for a few hours it’s tolerable if you don’t have joint problems and aren’t a crybaby. I did have a matress pad and a blanket.

As it ended up, he became too excited knowing that I was in the cage, and he could not focus on the movie.

He stopped it and let me out.

You can guess what happened after that.

 

The Dinner Party

CONTENT WARNING!  CONTENT WARNING!

I keep everything on this blog Rated R.  I think I have only written two sexually explicit posts.  Well, this one’s the third.  It’s not exactly lurid, but it is very graphic by my standards.  It contains descriptions of sex and sadomasochism.  If you don’t want to read that, you should avoid this post.  Thank you.

*                                     *                                      *

I knew it something sexual was going to happen, but I didn’t know when.  Heinrich had it planned out in advance, but, naturally, he didn’t share his plans with me.   It was a surprise.

We’d just finished a light supper at his friends’ apartment in Brooklyn.  There were four of us seated at the table–Heinrich, myself, and our hosts, who were a couple.  What can I say about them that won’t compromise their privacy…?  The man was tall and dark-haired and worked in the arts.  The woman was a redhead, a true redhead, with long springy hair and freckles on her arms.

I’d just met them both for the first time.  I went with Heinrich to their apartment.  Heinrich carried a bottle of wine, and I bought a bouquet of flowers.

I felt an affinity with them when I stepped into their home: it was full of books and musical instruments.  The woman helped us with our coats and hanged them in the closet.  I felt a little nervous, because I knew something was going to happen that evening.  Also, they were Heinrich’s age–10-15 years older than I, and obviously well-off.  Their apartment was spacious by New York standards and they had nice things. Internally, I geared myself up to practice some class drag: I can pass as bourgeois if I need to, at least superficially.

They were charming and gracious hosts.  The woman brought us drinks (I had tea) and propelled the timeline: first, drinks and a tour of the apartment (a custom that I’ve never understood–why show guests your entire house?), then conversation in the living room, where the man answered questions about his musical instrument.  We talked about music for a while.  Then the woman seated us for dinner, which was delicious but seemed catered.   There were several candles on the table of various heights.  Heinrich moved one closer to me to emphasize my décolletage. 

Now the plates were cleared and the others were drinking port, and I was wondering when it was going to happen.

Heinrich turned to me and told me to stand up, please.

“Pardon?” (for a fleeting moment, I thought that perhaps I was being asked to help with the dishes)

“Stand up, please.  From the chair.”

I did.

He stood up beside me and put his hands on both my shoulders.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Here it is.  It’s time, I thought.

I nodded.  After Abduction Weekend, how could I not?  I knew he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.  But, still, the anticipation.

He slid the straps of my white dress over my shoulders and it fell in a puddle to my feet, chiffon and sequins.  Then I was standing there in my underwear and my stockings (I hadn’t worn a bra because of the cut of the dress, and my breasts are small).

The couple put down their glasses and clapped their hands a few times.  They were smiling.

I have no hangups at all about nudity, but suddenly I couldn’t face them.  I focused on a painting on the wall instead, behind the table.

“She is beautiful, yes…?”  Heinrich asked his friends.

“Oh, yes! Just wonderful!” said the man.

Heinrich grabbed my upper arm.  There was pressure in it this time.  He leaned in and nuzzled my neck.  I felt his breath on my skin.

“Recite, my dear,” he whispered.

My brain froze.  I stood still as a statue.  Then I remembered…from Abduction Weekend.

“Schön war ich auch, und das war mein Verderben,” I said, and I was so relieved that I remembered my line.

(“Fair I was also, and that was my ruin.” Faust, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe )

Heinrich led me away from the table by my arm, halfway across the dining room.

“Move onto the floor.  Onto the floor!” he said, pulling my arm down.

I dropped to my knees and went to place my hands behind my head, as I’ve been trained, but he told me to go all the way.  Hands and knees.

The couple had pulled their chairs away from the table.  They were staring at us, still smiling.  The guy in particular.  Heinrich put his shoe on my back, like a huntsman posing with a trophy.

“Crawl to him,” he said, and then he gave me a hard kick in the ass.

I started crawling…and then I heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being pulled out of a pair of trousers.  I’ve heard that sound many, many times in my life.  Oh, the belts I have known!

I knew it was coming before it actually hit me: Heinrich belted me.  It hurt and made a loud snap.  I yelped.

“Crawl to him!  Make it sexy!  Make it good!” he roared.

I focused on my movements and dropped lower to the floor.  Now, I was looking at the couple’s shoes.  I focused on his.  They were black loafers.

I crawled all the way across the room, with Heinrich beating my ass every step of the way.  The sound of the belt was the loudest thing in the room, much louder than the Mozart in the background.  After the first hit, I didn’t yell, though I exhaled hard.

When I got in between his knees, I cautiously looked up at him.  Ah, yes, the familiar pose.  I’ve spent a lot of my sex life on my knees, looking up at a man.

At least I knew where this was going.

“Do you like her?” Heinrich asked his friends, the man specifically.  The couple were looking down at me and holding hands.

“She’s perfect,” he said.

“Ask him for it!  Beg him!”  Heinrich said, and belted me again. “Beg him!  Grovel!”

(Heinrich’s English isn’t perfect, but he knows all the words pertinent to his sexual proclivities.  I mean, how many Germans would know the word grovel?)

I asked the man if I could suck his cock.  Please.  I made eye contact.  It was humiliating.

“Beg more!” Heinrich roared behind me.

Dignity has its charms, but this was neither the time nor the place: I started to beg.  Just like Oliver Twist, asking for more.  Please please please, may I blow you, Sir?

“Go ahead,” he said, and my hands flew to the button of his trousers.   I unzipped his fly and then exposed his penis.  He was hard as a rock.

I went to work.

Heinrich finally came out from behind me and stood by my side.  He leaned over and kissed the woman.  I saw it out of my peripheral vision.

“Remember, I don’t do pain like her,” I heard her say (referring, obviously, to me).

“For you, I will be gentle, very gentle,” I heard Heinrich say.  They kissed again.

She got up from her chair, and he picked her up off the ground, holding her in his arms. He carried her to a sofa in the adjoining room.  It was within eyesight.

I was wondering about this moment–how I’d feel inside, knowing he was making love to someone else.  I am not a jealous person at all, but I’d wondered if it would still hurt me somehow.  Sometimes you can’t control if you feel hurt or jealous, even though you know it’s not rational.

It didn’t hurt (thank God).  I had a partial view of them, reflected in one of the mirrors on the wall.

Even when he was bent over her, fucking her, her head with its coils of red hair nestled in his armpit, he was almost completely focused on me.

He stared at me the entire time.  And he looked hungry.

Mystery Assignment!

         SQUEEEEEEEEEE!!!

        Heinrich gave me an assignment…!

        A MYSTERY assignment!

        I have a paper of writing.  I have to copy it down in my handwriting and mail it back to him.  I don’t know what it is that I’m writing because it’s in his language.  I recognize some words, but I can’t read most of the sentences.  I can’t use my old textbooks or the Google translator.  I can’t ask my old German professor, either (“Trust me.  You do not want your professor to read this,” said Heinrich).  

       I’m going to copy it down right now.  I wonder what will come of it!  Heinrich has something planned.  He’s quite a planner, this one.

       EEEEEEEEE!

Heinrich Throws a Going-Away Party (I)

      The day after I gave notice at the Studio, I contacted my friend Heinrich and told him that I was leaving town. 

      “You are moving?  Why?  You do not like it there!”  I could hear his voice echoing a bit over the phone.  It sounded like he was in his kitchen.  His kitchen has tiles and weird acoustics.  Not like his living room, which is soundproofed (I’ve never seen a private home that was as tricked out for BDSM as Heinrich’s place.  I mean, it should be covered by Home & Garden‘s annual perv issue or used as a marketing point if he ever decides to sell the place.  It’s faultlessly executed–everything either blends in with the decor or is hidden from view.  For instance, the curtain rods are heavy metal and sunk deep into the beams behind the wall…perfect to use as bondage anchor points.  One of his coffee tables is screwed securely to the floor. The most conspicuous thing is the O-ring on the ceiling.  Unlike the ugly one in my apartment, his collapses flat against the ceiling so it doesn’t hang down when not in use.  If anyone inquires about it, he says he uses it to suspend a punching bag.  For training.  He says this with a straight face.  Quite a little inside joke, that).  

       “I’m overworked  and the Studio isn’t good for me.  I can’t handle it anymore!  I need to at least take a break and get some perspective!  It’ll be like pouring all the booze down the sink and moving thousands of miles away from the nearest liquor store.”  

       “Is it because your lease almost finished?  I thought you had found a place to sublet for two months.  Have you house difficulty?  Do you need a place to stay?”

          We talked for a while longer.  I explained that no, I had to go.

          “There is one thing that you can do for me that I would really appreciate,” I said.

          “Yes?  I will help if I can.”

          “I want us to have a going-away dinner and I want to get on the airplane with something to remember you by.  One last fix, for Lord knows how long.  There’s nobody like you where I’m going.  You are the only one here I know and trust to do this for me.”

           He barked laughter into the phone.  Heinrich’s mannerisms are fairly understated, unless you pay special attention to how he carries the tension in his body and his face.  You’d think his laughter would be understated, as well, but the sound of the laugh is either a smiling chortle he’s trying to repress, or a big bark.  It’s startling and sounds almost like a cough. 

     “Oh, Margo,” he laughed, “I knew that it would not be a lift to the airport.”  

        “I know it’s short notice.  I didn’t expect everything to happen so quickly.”  

         Long pause.  Then: “Shall we arrange for Sunday evening after the game?  That will give time for planning.  I will call you soon.  My place, this is okay with you?”

        “Of course.  I love your apartment.” 

        “Any special requests?  What experience do you want to have?”

        “You know what I like.  Surprise me.”

        “Miss Adler, that is a very dangerous thing to tell a sadist such as myself.  You should be more careful.”  The tone of his voice was joking rebuke.

         “You’re not dangerous.  You’re safe.  That’s why I trust you.”

         “Oh dear.  I think you trust me too much, then.   We will have to talk about this.  We will have to talk about this very much.”  No joke at all in his voice this time.

         In the interest of full disclosure, I will confess that when I heard him say that, I started to get turned on.  My heartbeat sped up.  But…I couldn’t help but egg him on a little bit:

        “It’s okay, Heinrich!  We’re friends.  And besides, it’s not like you need to inspire fear in your subject to be a great Top.  It doesn’t mean that they don’t take you seriously or anything.”  

        He laughed again.  This time, it was a sarcastic, fake laugh.  You know, the laugh you make when the joke is stupid or not funny.

        We talked a while longer, and made plans to keep in touch while I was gone.

        Approx. 27 hours later, Heinrich sent me a text message: May I invite a guest to our party?

         Me: Uhhh….what kind of guest?  A guy, right?

         H: Yes, a guy.  

         Me: Hell, yes, you can bring him!  Did you really need to ask? Bring them ALL!

         He wrote back: Good, thanks!

         It wasn’t until later that evening that I realized what I might have just gotten myself into. 

              TO BE CONTINUED

Abduction Weekend Part I: Delivered

         As it happened, I ended up being snatched off of the street, after all.  

     I never saw them coming.  Three weeks of advance notice, three long conversations with Heinrich in which we addressed major logistical concerns (did I intend to resist?  Was my living room large enough to accommodate 3-5 men and their gear? What would I say to the landlord or a neighbor in the event that we were interrupted?), and I still never saw them coming.

      Heinrich & Co. were supposed to let themselves in to my apartment with a spare key I’d provided.  That was the plan.  They knew when I was going to be home, and I knew that they were supposed to drop in on me sometime that weekend…but I didn’t know when, and the anticipation was killing me.  I was walking on pins and needles around my apartment, freezing whenever I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs or unfamiliar male voices in the hallway.  Sleep was thin and uneasy.  I kept thinking that I heard the sound of the key in the lock…the deadbolt pulling back. 

      In the end, they took me by surprise by pretending to be UPS.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I am embarrassed to report that they needed no sophisticated or complex trickery in order to catch me.  They simply called to say that they were trying to deliver a package to me downstairs in my apartment building. 

     My dumb ass fell for it.  For what it’s worth, I was, in fact, expecting a package that day from Amazon (PowerEdge Pet Hard Floor Vacuum!  Works GREAT!  Miss Margo heartily recommends this product!). 

     I was not expecting an ambush downstairs from the UPS man.  So when I got a call for my apartment number, I said that I’d be right down, donned flip flops…

      …and delivered myself.  They would have gotten more hassle if they tried to order Chinese food. The van was perhaps seven feet away from my apartment building’s door, parked at the curb.  Incredibly, I didn’t even notice it. I was focused on the UPS guy standing in front of it, just outside my door.  

       He was young and I noticed a bit of tattoo on his arm that wasn’t covered by his sleeve.  He was wearing a brown UPS shirt and a brown UPS hat and carrying a big cardboard box with labels on it.  Nothing struck me as amiss. 

        “(Apartment #)?” asked UPS guy.  “You have ID to sign for this?”

          “Sure thing,” I said, walking right up to him. I opened my purse and started rummaging around in it for my wallet.  Rummage rummage rummage.

        “Hey, Miss Margo,” someone said.

         I looked up to see who was calling me, and looked up into the open back doors of a minivan.  

          There was a man in there.  A man I did not recognize–a white guy with sunglasses on.  He had salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee. He was smiling.

        “Long time no see, Miss Margo!  How’ve you been?” asked the  dude.

          Who was this guy?  How’d he know my name?  I am notoriously bad at recognizing faces, so I stood there for a second, racking my brain, trying to place him.  Was this someone from school I was supposed to know?

        Then I was grabbed at the waist, lifted, and literally tossed into the back of the van–specifically, into the arms of the stranger who’d called my name.  He embraced me as if we were friends.  

         I didn’t scream. The loudest sound was the noisy metal klang my shinbone made when it knocked against the back bumper.  That left a huge bruise which endured for ten days.  


         I remember thinking two things: Ow, my shin! and Who the fuck IS this person? 

          The van doors slammed shut behind me.  It was dark.  I looked at the windows and saw roll-down sunscreens.  With that, finally, came the dawn of comprehension. 

          “Oh fuck!” I swore, mostly to myself.  Aghast at my gullibility.  “I can’t believe I fell for that!”

           The Stranger was already passing me down onto the floor of the van.  Onto my stomach.  It was already too late to resist in any meaningful fashion, even if I’d wanted to.  He’d climbed on top of my back and pinned my shoulders with his knees.  His weight pressed the wind out of me.  It hurt.  

             Then I felt someone holding my legs…and then, a sharp, violent bind just above my knees.

           I tried to say It’s okay, I give up, but I couldn’t get enough air.

          Someone put a soft black bag over my head.

          “Okay, lift her up,” said a voice.  Was that UPS guy?  “Get her purse.”

            Then: sudden restraint around my torso, just below my breasts, tying my arms tightly against my body.

            I didn’t realize it until they took the bag off of my head, but I’d been restrained with common adjustable nylon winch straps with buckles–the types of straps used to secure kyaks and luggage to the roofs of cars, for example.  Cheap all-purpose restraints.  Heck, I have four of them in my Bag o’ Swag underneath my bed.  

          In my mind, I’d pictured the van speeding off into the night, like in a movie.  But it was the middle of the afternoon, and the guys were in no hurry.

       “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I choked out.   The restraints were very tight.  They were hurting me.

          They didn’t say anything to me.  Maybe they didn’t even hear me.  I was back on my stomach with my check pressed into the floor and the strange van guy’s weight on my back again–not quite as heavy this time, but still very forceful.  I couldn’t see anything.  

          “Here’s the blanket,” said UPS guy, and I felt my lower half being draped in fabric.  “I’ll be right back with her stuff.  Does anyone else need to come up with me to use the bathroom?  No?  Okay, I’ll be back in a sec.”

           I heard the van door open again.

           UPS guy apparently let himself into my building and ran up to my apartment, where he fetched the weekend-overnight bag that I’d left at the agreed-upon place right outside my bedroom door.  He locked the door behind him when he left and came back to the van.

          “Ready,” he said, and burst into laughter. Then: “We totally over-prepared for that.  Did you see her face when you called her name?”

            The engine started.  It made the metal floor underneath me humm.  I felt it through the bag on my head.


          Wait, I thought to myself.  Who’s the driver?

          I perked up, trying to catch voices, but the men were not talking.  How many of them were there?  Three, at least.  But where was Heinrich?  I hadn’t heard his voice!

          What if he’s not here?  What if you’ve been caught by the WRONG GROUP OF PEOPLE?

           No, that couldn’t be right–they had my housekeys and knew my name.  It had to be the right bunch.

        They adjusted the straps tied around me–made them a little looser–and put on two more.  Then someone attached a fingertip heart-rate and blood-oxygen saturation monitor to the pointer finger of my left hand.  Very prudent, a very prudent thing to do.  That was the hand of Heinrich for sure, I told myself.  Because you wouldn’t want to take your captive out of town, get the bag off of her head, and then realize you’d, say, suffocated her to death inadvertently on the drive over.  

         We went for a long drive.  I’m not sure how long it took–about two hours, I’d reckon, but I could be wrong about that.  I know that the last part was definitely over an hour because someone put headphones over the bag on my head and turned up the radio.  At first it was Spanish-Latino pop music, which was a torture which almost prompted me to complain, but then one of them must have interceded on my behalf and changed it to NPR.  

       What a fascinating life I lead.  I couldn’t make some of this shit up if I tried.  

       They took me out to a nice house…a house in the country.  You know the one: the one with a million dogs and cats on it (jesus, just KIDDING! lol).  

       Things got very tough for me very quickly. 

       NEXT: locked in a closet with creepy-crawlies, meeting the Boss, interviewed in icewater, and…a poetry recital! 

       It’s ruining a bit of the fun for next time, but I’ll post this here anyway…

       I was given a piece of poetry to memorize, which I then had to recite upon request, often under extremely, ahh, distracting circumstances.  When I recited it incorrectly, I was punished  “reminded.”  LOL still can’t believe he did that to me.  But what a great idea!

Abduction Weekend Story Sneak Preview: Margo Digs a Hole

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(Abduction Weekend was waaaay too busy to capture in a single blog post.  It’ll have to be a series.  There’s only so much I can present without getting pornographic, but since I keep my blog Rated R, I’ll do my best.  The weird stuff is the most fun, anyway.  You can get sex anywhere, right?

Anyway, this was one of the weekend highlights (in retrospect).  The first morning I was there, they had me dig a hole that I became convinced I was going to be buried alive in as some sort of ‘test.’  I was paranoid because they messed with my mind a lot.  Well, they didn’t put me in a crate in the hole…but they did make me fill it back in.  It took the entire morning.  Quite an attitude adjustment.  Dudebro rode me like a donkey the entire time.)      

Shackle left a sore.  I put neosporin and a band-aid on it.

       I walked with them to the edge of the lawn, where the grass gave way to what looked like a sizable vegetable and flower garden.  Heinrich had me walk ahead of them, which struck me as odd until I realized that it would afford them greater surveillance over me.  

      The dew was off the grass, but it was still chilly outside.  My skin was broken out in gooseflesh.  Otherwise, it was a beautiful late morning, sunny and clear.  

      “Halt.  Stand there,” Heinrich said when I reached the edge of the grass.  

        There was a tree about ten feet to my left.  I don’t know what kind; the leaves weren’t out yet.  Besides the tree was a wooden  crate-like structure with a hinged lid and a black plastic tube that looked like a large vacuum-cleaner attachment.  

        I stared at that wooden crate, contemplating it with foreboding.  

       That crate gave me the creeps.

       “Eyes front!”  screamed the loathed Dudebro.  I could hear the smile in his voice.  A second later, something whacked against the back of my head and fell to the ground by my feet.  I sneaked a glance down, while keeping my head straight.

        Gardening gloves. 

        To my left, Heinrich was looping the end of the chain around the trunk of the tree.  He locked it shut with a padlock, checked it, and then walked back over to me.

       “Be sure to wear those gloves,” he gestured at where they lay on the ground.  I bent and picked them up.  “I don’t want to look at your blistered, scraped-up hands working around my supper later.  Have me loose my appetite.”

       Dudebro came up from behind me.  He was carrying a round point gardening shovel with a long wooden handle, which he trust into my hands.  “Have fun with it!”

       “What?” I said.  Confused.

        Heinrich fished his stopwatch out of his pocket.  “Make for us a hole.”

       “A hole?  Where?”

       “Here.  In the dirt right in front of us.”

       “How big?”

        “We’ll tell you when it’s the right size.”

        My heart sank.

        I walked a few feet forward into the dirt, dragging my chain behind me.  The shovel was sort of heavy.  I put the metal blade against the earth, sank it in with help of my tennis shoe, pulled up the dirt, and threw it away to my left.  

         The first of many, many such movements.

          I looked up at the men for confirmation that I was doing it right.  I felt idiotic.  

         Dudebro had that big happy gloating smile on his face.  Heinrich looked mostly neutral, but when he saw me staring at him, I could see the muscles around his mouth tighten and knew that he was trying not to laugh. 

      He help up his stopwatch.  “You know, I started this when I told you to make the hole.”  

       Dudebro laughed and nodded.

      I looked down at the earth and commenced shoveling.

      They backed away a few paces–probably so that I wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation–and watched me work.

       I really had no idea what I was doing.  I couldn’t remember the last time I used a shovel for anything.  I told myself not to overthink it, it was just shoveling–the term “ditch-digger” was used as a metaphor for bottom of the employment hierarchy because, supposedly, anyone could do it.  

      It quickly became obvious that I was an inferior ditch-digger, however.  I was too weak to displace a lot of soil, and my movements were not economical, though I did improve a little as I got the hang of it.  The good news was that the earth was pretty soft and there weren’t many stones in it–it looked like this entire plot was used for gardening and had already been turned over many times.  The bad news was that the soil had a lot of moisture in it.  It was heavy. 

       I peeked up at the men to see what they were doing.

      They were watching me and smiling. 

      “You’re going to be out here a long time,” said Dudebro.   Argh, I hated him! 

      I kept digging.  After a little while, they drifted back into the house.  

    The morning wasn’t so cool anymore.  I wasn’t chilly at all.  The breeze felt nice.  I was glad that it was too early in the Spring for the bugs to be out.  A month from now, the bugs would be eating me alive.  

      Mr. White came out to look at me while he drank his morning coffee.  He nodded his head at me but didn’t say anything, so I didn’t speak to him.  After a few minutes, he went back inside. 

      The hole was getting bigger.  How big was this hole supposed to be, again?  And what was I digging it for?

      I popped my head up and eyed the wooden crate by the tree again.  That fucking wooden crate!  What was it for?  It gave me the creeps!

     I stood up and leaned on my shovel, taking a good, long look at that crate.  I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and then saw someone approaching me out of my peripheral vision.  Uh-oh!  Back to work!

     “Getting hot?  Need a break?” 

      It was Dudebro.  Of course, it had to be Dudebro.  That asshole had been riding me like a donkey all morning.

       “No, I’m all right,” I said, not looking up.  Shoveling away.  “I was just wondering–“

      I was suddenly blasted on the back with a high-pressure stream of water.  I screamed as if it was acid.  It shocked me.  I hadn’t seen it coming.

      The water turned off and I looked behind me.  Dudebro was dragging a long green garden hose.  It had one of those pressurized pistol-grip nozzles attached to the end–the kind you use for gardening or washing the car:

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      “You’re all right?  Are you sure?  You don’t sound all right to me,” laughed Dudebro.  He turned the water on me again.  I squealed like a piglet, dropped the shovel, and tried to turn to the side so that the jet of water didn’t get on my chest.  The stream was intense enough to hurt.  

      Dudebro turned the water off.  He was cracking up.

      And he wasn’t the only one.

      The other three had come out onto the porch to watch, and they were cracking up, too.  Even Heinrich, and he is not exactly prone to laff attackz. 

       “You sure scream a lot,” said Dudebro.

        So fucking frustrating and embarrassing!  I felt just like a little kid being picked on by a bunch of jerky boys.  I hated them!  

        Heinrich saw me watching and tapped his wrist.  Reminding me of the time.  

        “That hole’s not going to dig itself,” said Dudebro.

         I pretended that I hadn’t heard him, gathered up the remains of my dignity (WHAT dignity, ha! ha!), and went back to work.  Dudebro retreated back to the house.  

          I had no idea how long I’d been digging–my sense of time was getting distorted.  Probably not too long.  I was getting tired, though, and I noted that my efficiency was decreasing.  The guys went back into the house.  It was me and the hole.  

          I got the theme to Rawhide stuck in my head.  It started to drive me absolutely fucking batshit.

 (Boy, Clint Eastwood was handsome when he was young!)

       Rollin’-rollin’-rollin’….

        I thought briefly of my mother.  My mother gardens a lot.  She would probably be good at this.  She probably knew how to use a shovel right.  

        When was the last time I dug a hole?   I tried to tune down the Rawhide theme in my head and concentrate.  

         When I helped dig a grave for Pepper, the family dog.

         I froze.  My eyes got big.  

         I popped my head up and looked at that crate by the tree. 

         And I was hit, all of a sudden, with a jet of water from the garden hose! 

         I didn’t drop my shovel this time, and after an initial yelp, I didn’t scream, either.  I just froze up and tried to be stoical about it.  

       “You looked like you were getting hot out here, Margo,” said Dudebro.  

       Oh, Dudebro, your zingers have no zing, I thought, but of course I didn’t say that.  Stupid Dudebro!  Even his wit was lame!

        Dudebro didn’t go back into the house right away this time.  He stood there with his big happy smile, as if he was a kid at the fair, and watched me dig.  It was embarrassing.  When I turned my body to the side, he’d try to get the water on my tits, which kind of hurt.  He was doing it on purpose!  Cause he knew that I didn’t like it!

         I wished he would just go in the house and let me work in peace.  The water was making the ground muddy and now I was getting dirt on my shins and on my shackle.  I hate to be dirty. 

        Heinrich and Mr. White wandered down, presumably to check on the progress of the hole.  

         “This is taking longer than I anticipated,” Heinrich said.

          “I keep getting interrupted,” I said, scowling at Dudebro.

          Mr. White winced and shook his head. 

         “I hope you are not making excuses,” said Heinrich.  

          “Of course not.  Sorry, sir,” I said.  Diggin diggin diggin! 

          “That sounded like an excuse,” said Heinrich.

          I kept my eyes down and waited for him to land on me.  I could feel him scrutinizing me.  After about a minute, I felt that he’d decided to let it go.  Whew!  Dodged that bullet!

           Dudebro turned the hose on me again.  Just for a second.

          When he stopped, I glared at him, then looked at Heinrich, and then back at Dudebro.

           Dudebro saw what I was doing, laughed at me, and then turned the hose on again

          I stared at Heinrich.  I was furious.  Are you going to keep letting him do this?  

           Heinrich’s face got tense.  

           I suddenly realized I was in big trouble.  

           “Well?  What do you keep looking at me for?  Hm?  What do you think?  You waiting for big Daddy Heinrich to come downstairs and stop the mean boy?  Is that what you think I am going to do?”

          He moved toward me and, instinctively, I started to back away.  I moved the shovel in front of me to shield myself.  I wasn’t even aware that I was doing it.  

           Dudebro started laughing again.  Over Heinrich’s shoulder, I saw Mr. White shaking his head sadly.  

        “Do you really think I would help you instead of one of my friends?  Do you think that is what I am here to do?”

        He kept advancing.  I kept backing up.  Oh boy.

       I suddenly ran out of chain and was pulled up short.  I stumbled backward and fell flat on my back.  I’m lucky the shovel didn’t hit me in my face.  

       Heinrich stopped a few feet from me.  He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d fallen.  Even Dudebro had done that.  When I pitched backwards, I heard Dudebro yell, “Woah!”

      “He can do whatever he wants to you!”  Heinrich roared down at me.  Then–get this–he pulled his foot back and kicked a wave of dirt over my body.  

       “Now you will have to clean the dirt off my shoes later.  And probably launder the trousers as well.”

        Then he turned on his heel and walked back.

        Because I was soaking wet from the hose, the dirt stuck all over me.  

         I stood up and looked down at myself.

         I was filthy!  It was disgusting!

         I picked up my shovel and hobbled back to my hole.  The chain clinked.  I was reminded of all those movie scenes with chain gangs in them.  Shit.  At least it wasn’t Cool Hand Luke. 

(Git boss’s dirt boy!)

        Of course, Dudebro declined to hose me down after that.


Snatched Off the Street

    Paltego, owner of Femdom Resource, recently posted a blog entry about (in part) abduction fantasies.  It got me thinking about how much I would like to do an extended kidnapping session.  This, in turn, made me wish that I could somehow arrange for a scene in which I was the person being kidnapped.

     I spent a goodish amount of time yesterday turning the idea over in my mind.  I was enjoying it tremendously, if you know what I mean…wink wink, nudge nudge.  

     Then, about 9 PM last night, I decided: fuck it–I’m going to do it!  Why shouldn’t I?  If I can’t have a boyfriend and love right now, the least I can do is have TONS OF FUN!

       And I knew just the man to give it to me…in town again, for a limited time only…

        I shot off an email to Heinrich outlining my ideas, and then impatiently sent him a text:  Mein Herr!  You have email!  :-D!

         My phone beeped ten minutes later:  I have a friend on Long Island with land and an artist’s studio…not residential, but running water & electricity.  Very private.

        Me: So nobody could hear me scream!

       Heinrich:  You know screaming is not permitted.  How many men?  
   
       Me: 3 or 4…?

      Now we’re trying to work out the particulars.  I need to tell him precisely what my limits are and what I want to get–or think I want to get–out of this experience.  That part’s easy.  This ain’t my first rodeo.  

      It’s the practical details that are going to prove problematical.  As with client “Ants-in-His-Pants” (as I’ve taken to thinking of him), this scenario presents certain logistical challenges.  My fantasy has certain components to it that simply may not be feasible.  I might have to abandon or modify them.

      First and foremost: how are the guys going to snatch me off the street in New York City, throw me in a van, and drive away?  Especially if they are wearing ski masks?  How is that going to work?  I assume (and perhaps I’m being too generous in my estimation of their compassion and sense of civic duty) that multiple horrified onlookers would take out their phones, snap photos and video, and call the cops…probably in that order too, heh.  Besides the risk of arrest and the awkwardness of trying to explain that one to the cops, it’s just not cool to subject innocent onlookers to that level of stress.  I don’t know about you, but I’d be very upset if I saw someone–especially a girl–get abducted in front of me.  

   I guess we could try to do it in a quiet area at night–like the financial district, where it’s crickets-and-tumbleweeds after 6 PM–but that area is full of security cameras and with my luck, the video would be broadcast on the local late-night news.  Yeah, the Post would love that one.  

     I certainly wouldn’t want all parties involved to end up like this unfortunate couple.  (While I feel badly for them–well, a little bit–they didn’t do it right.  If she was going to be naked in the back seat, the least they should have done is cover her with a blanket or long coat.)

      Second: where are we going to get the other guys?  Heinrich says that he can take care of that part, and while I trust his judgement implicitly (and it would feel more “authentic” if I didn’t know the other persons involved)…the idea of doing this with individuals I have not personally interviewed and vetted strikes me as, well…unwise.  The last thing I need is some asshole taking photos of me and putting them all over Fetlife, or thinking that I agreed to something that I didn’t, or…well, we all know what could happen.  

    Third: I want it to be a surprise…but it can’t be a true surprise, because this requires so much planning and coordination.  People have to get time off work.  If I’m gone for more than 24 hours, I need to arrange care for my animals.  Maybe we could narrow it down to a weekend?

     Fourth: Not too bright to be somewhere “on Long Island” without money, ID, and/or cell phone.  Heinrich is safe, but…

      I will put my mind to this…if any readers have advice or suggestions, I’d love to hear them!

Testing Dr. Psychologist

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       The man I referenced in my last post, “Dr. Psychologist,” kept his appointment.  

        He brought me a new pair of shoes (what is it with men and SHOES?).  They are patent platform pumps–an unusual cornflower or perikinkle blue color:

Toe Cleavage Rocks.  And I love the almond toe.


   I still haven’t decided whether I really like them or not, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter (thanks for buying them, Dr. Psychologist.  I can’t afford to buy myself much new stuff.  I appreciate it!).  

      When I learned that he couldn’t swim, I held his head under in a big bucket full of cold water.  That always scares people who are afraid of water. Worked like a charm.  They usually can’t take more than fifteen or twenty seconds.  Max. 

     After I lifted him out, I took a soft terrycloth towel and dried his hair and his face and his shoulders.  I took my time.  I made certain that there were no stray beads of cold water running down his torso or into his ears.  I combed his hair back from his forehead with my fingers.  Where are your ancestors from…?  I asked.  What color was your hair before it turned gray…?  

     Then it was time for the finishing act: once he was dry and comfortable, I had him stand and suspend a bucket of water in each hand, arm held out at the shoulder. (I knew he couldn’t do it for long.  Nobody can.  If you want to really humiliate someone, ask them to hold out a pencil at arm’s length for ten minutes.)

      I turned on a dime.  He was lucky that he told me he couldn’t be marked, because otherwise I’d have taken off half his hide.  I paced back and forth in front of him, behind him, berating him, insulting him.  “Keep those buckets up!  What kind of man are you? What sort of weak little creature?  Keep them up!  I told you to keep them up!  You are PATHETIC!” 

        The muscles in his arms twitched, shuddered, started to give out.  I kept pacing, whipping him, lecturing: “You didn’t underestimate me, did you?  Think I was so nice and sweet to you when I toweled you off?  I think you trust me too much.  How can you fear me if you trust me too much…?  I think I need to do something to violate your trust.  I think you’re a fucking fool if you don’t think that I’m more than capable of doing what you clearly need me to do to you.  Are you a fool, Doctor?  Do you feel like a fool?”  WHAP!  WHAP!  “I asked you a question, you fucking chump!  Did you trust me too much?”

        (There is no right answer to that.  There is no right answer.  I have learned very well from the sadists in my life.) 

        He collapsed, and then I let him go.

       While he got dressed, he told me:  “You are very interesting.  There is such a contrast in your personality.  You were so gentle and caring when you dried me off and toweled my hair–almost maternal.  It was almost loving.  I’m not saying that you love me, of course not.  But it made me think of that.  And then, suddenly, such hardness and force.  It was scary.  You are intense.  It was really good!

        I think of it as a sort of teaching evaluation.  

Homework Assignment III

“…that which mediates my life for me, also mediates the existence of other people for me.”


“What, man!  confound it, hands and feet
And head and backside, all are yours!
And what we take while life is sweet,
Is that to be declared not ours?
     Six stallions, say, I can afford,
     Is not their strength my property? 
     I tear along, a sporting lord,
     As if their legs belonged to me.” 
                                 (Mephistopheles, in Faust
From Karl Marx, Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844


ASSIGNMENT: To what substance, precisely, does Marx refer which “mediates (his) life for (him)…?”  Give three other descriptions/names Marx uses to call this substance.  How does Marx use this passage from Goethe to illustrate his argument?  Do you personally find Marx’s argument about this persuasive?  Why or why not?  


4-5 pages, double-spaced.  


Extra Credit Opportunity:  Much has been written about Marx’s rhetorical style.  Based upon your reading of the text, do you personally think the man was probably an asshole?  Or was he just pissed off?  Provide at least 3 quotations.  1 page, double-spaced.  Thoughtful responses will add 10 points to the final grade. 


For the curious, previous Homework Assignments are here (Shakespeare) and here (Orwell)

The Kiss

    August 2011

    The Surgeon and I were watching a televised boxing match in my living room.  I like to watch men fight.  It excites me.  I downloaded twenty hours of MMA fights off the internet and watch it late at night sometimes.  I can’t watch boxing in public.  It feels too pornographic. 

    “I want to get punched in the stomach!” I declared.  

    The Surgeon did not look surprised.  I had asked for much stranger things.  

    “That would hurt a lot,” he observed.  

     “Do you know how to do it?” I asked him.

     “Well, I guess.  It’s not hard.”

     “When’s the last time you punched someone other than me?” I asked, happily.  Storytime! 

      “Summer camp.  No, wait–med school.”

      “Really?   So that was, like, 1950, huh?”


      “Smartass.  Keep it up.”  


      “Who’d you fight?  Wow, muy macho!  Did you win?”  


      “It wasn’t really a fight.  I’ll tell you about it sometime.  You know, you are really strange.  A really strange girl.”


      “You know you love it!  I want to get punched in the stomach right now.  I want to know what it feels like.  I heard that if you get knocked in your solar plexus, it’ll make you fall down!”


      “If you get knocked anywhere hard enough, it’ll make you fall down.”


     “Do it to me now!”


      He smiled and put his drink down on the coffee table.  “Well, all right.”


       We stood up.


      “What do I do?” I asked.  I was suddenly nervous.  


      “Close your eyes.”  


      I closed them.  I remembered back to the beginning of our relationship, when I was beginning to open up to him about my sexual proclivities.  He’d said: I would do those things to you, but I could never hit a woman. 

      I’d laughed in his face.  Even then, I’d know that he could.  He was only saying that he couldn’t because that was the socially correct answer. “Oh yes, you could.”

      And I was right.  My intuition about his capacity for violence was always right.  If anything, I underestimated him.  He was more intemperate and savage than I could ever believe.  Sometimes I’d watch him presenting a lecture at a conference and be struck by an unnerving feeling of strangeness.  He passes himself off as a normal person, I’d think. 

      I felt him moving around me, felt his weight shift on the wooden floor.  I was suddenly scared.  Sometimes it’s worse when you can’t see it coming.  He knew it; he was using it.  The Surgeon had a flair for showmanship.  I’d started to sweat and clenched the muscles in my torso in anticipation of the punch.  Wait for it.  When I felt him move again, I flinched.  He laughed. 

       The blow hit my diaphragm and caused me to exhale all my air in a violent whoop.  My legs gave out immediately and I started to collapse backward.

     He caught me in his arms, bent over me, and kissed me deeply.  

     He told me that he loved me. 

     For a while, I even believed it.