"Don't know why I'm still afraid,
If you weren't real I would make you up,

Honey and the Moon
Joseph Arthur

I sing these lines whenever I'm with Him. I sing them quietly to myself in the darkness of my bedroom when I'm alone. Never have song lyrics spoken to me more, because, if I stop to think about it, I swear that I have made him up.

I don't know how I could have done this. Before we met, I didn't even know how much I needed him. I couldn't conceptualize this experience at all. But now there are times when I look at his face, times when he doesn't know that I'm looking at him, and I can't believe that he is real. Even more than that - I can't believe that he is real and that he chose me.
I stare into his impossibly dark eyes, at his soft lips, and wonder how they came to be. I touch his face, his beautiful face, and cannot believe that he is looking at me.

If I hadn't met his friends and family, if he hadn't met mine, I would think that he was just a figment that floats through my window at night. I hold my breath so I don't scare him away, I keep perfectly still so I don't wake from this dream.

I realize that he is real, that everyone else can see him, and I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. But then I'm immediately gripped by a long before he realizes what a fraud I am? How long before he wakes up and sees me for who I am, turns me aside for someone as beautiful as he is, inside and out? How long before his delusion breaks?

I kneel with my head down, hoping that he'll let me remain at his feet forever.


I was straddling him, sitting on his lap as he sat up on the bed. He had my breasts in his hands and was threatening me with the nipple clamps.

"I don't even need to use the clamps on you, do I?," he said, pinching both nipples between his fingers. I squirmed and gasped against his fingers. "See, if you pull away, I just clamp tighter." He twisted harder. I closed my eyes and bit back a moan.

"Open your eyes and look at me, slut," he ordered, momentarily releasing my nipples before clamping down on them again. I cried out with the pain, the hot ache that was worse than before.

He pulled me closer to him by the nipples and whispered in my ear. " like the pain, don't you?" I shook my head and tried to squirm away from him. "Say you like the pain. Say, 'I'm a slut and I love the pain'."

"I like the pain," I mumbled. He twisted harder until I relented. "Okay, okay. I'm a slut and I love the pain."

"That's right, you're my slut, just for me." He released my nipples for a moment, then clamped down on them hard for the final time. The pain shot through me, white hot. My mind was a flash of light and pain.

He released me and I sat back, gasping for a moment. He sat forward and wrapped me up in his arms. We sat face to face with our legs around each other. He traced his fingers over my sore nipples in slow circles.

"I know everything you want, Kitten, everything you desire," he murmured into my hair. "I know things that you don't even know you want." He started tracing his index finger from my cheek, down my neck and across my chest. "I know that you want to feel the cold blade down your body," he said quietly.

"You do?" The fantasies had just recently awoken in my mind. They were unformed, practically unknown to myself. How could he know?

"Yes, you want to feel it across your stomach and maybe feel it dig in a little here," he pressed his fingers against my abdomen, "or here," he pressed against my thigh. "That's what you've wanted, isn't it?"

I looked down at my hands, then back up at him. "Yes," I whispered, astonished at how he could read my mind.

"Has anyone ever done that to you before?"

I shook my head. " one except me." I grinned ruefully and rolled my eyes, trying to make light of a heavy topic. He didn't press the matter though, he just kept touching me lightly with his fingertips.

"I know everything you need, Kitten. And I will give it to you." He moved his hand up to my face and drew his fingertips across my cheek and down across my neck as he pinned me beneath him.


We were rooting around in my kitchen for a snack before the movie we planned to watch came on tv.

He opened the freezer. "What's this?," he asked as he pulled out an individually-packaged orange sorbet, the kind that comes inside an actual orange rind. "Did you buy this?," he laughed.

"No, someone brought it over for me a while ago," I said and turned away.

"Oh, D. brought it for you," he said, his face falling. D. is the man that I was seeing before I met Him. And he hates any reminder that anyone touched me before He owned me. "Never mind," he sighed as he tossed it back into the freezer.

He sulked over to the pantry. "See, you do have a case of bottled water here." I came over to look; I had forgotten it was there. "Did another boyfriend bring that over for you?," he joked with an edge in his voice.

"No," I said carefully.

"Good," he said and he turned toward me rapidly. His hand went to my throat and he pinned me against the wall next to the pantry. "Because you know that none of those boys -," he spit the word boys, "- could give it to you like I do."

I nodded in panic. "Yes, Sir."

"You know that no one could own you and hurt you just like you need, don't you?," he seethed as he tightened his grip on my neck.

"Yes, Sir," I whispered.

He let go and slowly patted my cheek. "Good," he smiled, "don't you forget it, sweetheart."

Plug, Part II

I keep looking at that one picture from that night, the one of my face while He had the plug in my ass. He told me that he came around to the front of the bed to take that picture, but my head was down. He ordered me to lift my head and I wailed a pathetic "no." He repeated the order and I lifted my head to look right at him. He snapped the picture.

I am on my hands and knees in the middle of the bed. My hair is hanging in my face, disheveled. I obviously look like I have been crying. The tops of my breasts are visible, as are the boots that I was wearing the whole time. My ribs are visible on my side. Usually it would make me happy to look so thin, but somehow in this picture it looks pathetic. I have never seen myself like this.

I can't figure out the look on my face in that picture. I see a hundred different things, and then sometimes I see nothing at all. There is a manner in which my look is completely blank and vacant. After all, I was somewhere else when the picture was taken. I might as well have been unconscious. But I look again and maybe I see fear, and despair and overwhelming hunger.

I cannot believe that I do not remember so much from that evening. He has never controlled me so much as to take my mind out of my body, give me as much pain or pleasure as he wants without my knowledge.

I asked him later, "Do you realize what you could have done to me at that moment?"

"What could I have done to you?"

"Anything." For a moment, that thought frightened me. Really, he could have done anything to me, taken anything, hurt me immeasurably. I trust him to keep me safe, but who would be watching over him at that moment?

My masochism is such that it gets carried away with itself at times. I get a taste of the pain, just a tiny morsel of it, and I want more, exponentially more. In my mind, my masochistic fantasies spiral in on themselves, spanks becoming body blows, scratches and bites becoming stab wounds. If my masochistic mind had its way, each encounter would intensify until I was completely destroyed, torn apart by his lust and his power. Obviously, my mind is out of control and it is for the best that He determines my desires. But what if he is out of control, drunk on his power over me?

All my concern was for naught. He explained to me that the amount of power he had over me at that moment increased his control over me but kept the power itself tightly contained. He spoke of his "laser focus" on the pain he was giving me - a precise ability to administer each blow or spank in the exact position he desired, to the exact intensity. He was everything that I was not - lucid to my floaty absence, restrained to my uncontrolled ambition. He was everything that I could not be and everything that I needed in that moment.


He made me take my pants off in the kitchen. I stood there in my sweater, black lace thong panties and boots. "Take those off too," he gestured to the sweater and panties, "but keep your boots on." He put my hands on the counter and kicked my feet apart so he could feel between my legs. I was already so wet.

He led me by the hand into the bedroom and laid me down on the bed while he lit a candle and got settled. "Close your eyes," he said and I did. I felt his hands all over my body, then the sting of the hot wax across my breasts. I opened my eyes and squealed in surprise, eliciting a stern "Close them!," from him. He trailed the wax down my stomach and on the insides of my thighs, drawing more squeals out of me. He flipped me over onto my stomach and dripped the wax down my back and onto my ass.

He pulled my head up by my hair. "Get down there and suck it," he growled. I knelt between his legs and took his cock into my mouth, sucking slowly with his hand in my hair. I pulled my head up and he smacked me across the face. He put my face back down on his cock and pulled me back up by my hair and slapped me again. The slaps were harder than I'm used to and I felt the tears well up hot, fast. He put me back down on this cock and I stifled a sob as I sucked. Back up, slap, back down on his cock, repeated, again and again. Tears streaming, nose running, he didn't stop. He kept going, again and again.

He lifted me up and put me on my knees on the floor beside the bed. He stood over me and held up his hand to slap me. I flinched, put my hand up to my face. "Put your arms down and hold still," he warned as he twisted his hand tighter in my hair. I clenched my fists to my sides and tilted my face up toward him.

"Good girl," he cooed, caressing my face before slapping me hard against my cheek, harder than I thought possible. I started sobbing again, shaking with the tears. "I can go easier on you. I can stop," he suggested in his most patronizing voice.

"No, no, please don't stop," I begged, knowing that this was what he had been waiting for all week, what I had been waiting for for a lifetime. He slapped me as he taunted me over and over again.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No, please don't stop."

"I can't hear you."

"Please, don't stop!" And he landed the hardest blow yet.


That's the last thing that I remember before I went under, before I went away. My body kept moving and feeling, but I was somewhere else. I was on that ocean shore at night, watching the waves crash and pull back. I was in the special place where I go to in deep meditation. I wasn't with Him anymore.

I only know what happened next because he put the pieces together for me later.

He brought me back up onto the bed and spanked me until my ass was red and hot to his touch. Then he got out the new anal plug that he bought me as I laid on my stomach on the bed. The plug is purple and has two bulbs so it can go partway in or sink deep all the way in to the widest point. He bought the plug to get me ready to take his cock. After he trained me with the plug, I'd have no more excuses.

He lubed up my asshole with his fingers, probing in and out as I moaned softly into the sheets. He slid the plug in partway and wiggled it slowly back and forth, watching me squirm. After a moment, he pushed it all the way in.

That's when he took the pictures, the humiliating record of how very submissive I was to him at that moment. The close-ups of the plug deep in my ass, the shots of me on all fours from behind with the plug in my ass, the full-length pictures of me sprawled out on the bed with his hand opening the lips of my pussy. And the worst one - the shot of my face with that priceless look.

After a couple of minutes, he noticed that I seemed more uncomfortable. I was squirming and started begging him to take the plug out. He made me lift my head so he could hear me beg and he saw me crawl back onto all fours. I rocked back and forth, begging and crying.


Somewhere deep in the sand, I felt the pressure of the plug. I tried to stay, I kept repeating my mantra to myself but I was being pulled away.

Suddenly, I was back on the bed with the plug in my ass. I was crying, pleading for him to take it out. It was too much. He pushed it in farther, wiggled it back and forth as I rocked and moaned, and then he finally pulled it out. I collapsed in exhaustion on the bed and went back under.


Again, He fills in the missing pieces. He pushed the plug halfway in and told me to touch my pussy while he did it. I laid on my stomach with my arm underneath me, rubbing my wet clit with three fingers. My moaning turned guttural, until I was practically an animal writhing beneath him. As I grew closer to coming, I begged him to push the plug all the way in.

He did and I exploded, screaming obscenities.

After that, he removed the plug and stroked my hair while my breathing returned to normal. He lifted me onto his lap and had me straddle him. Spent, I fucked him with my head down on his shoulder. Although I don't remember this, apparently I didn't stop talking the entire time, telling him that I have never loved anyone as much as him. He came hard inside me, holding me tight.


I came back out. "What was that?," I asked, dazed. What had just happened?

Bonding, Part II

We connect, we disconnect, we reconnect again. The tide comes in and goes out. Days change, nothing changes.

He and I have time together, moments of intense connection. Then we have periods apart, and I have periods of solitary longing. These times feel like falling away into the cold, away from his warmth. But we find each other again and he brings me back. How long will this cycle continue? Won't I feel this way even if I spend every night with him and wake up with him every day? Won't I always long to bask in his glow at the end of every long day? Won't I still suffer every second of his absence? Can this please continue forever?

It was our first time back together after an absence and we had to run an errand before a store closed. We were threading our way through the aisles. I was trailing him, holding onto his hand. He stopped to pick up an item and I stepped close to him, putting my face close to his neck and inhaling his scent. (Have I mentioned that I love how he smells? Sometimes I hold the pillow he sleeps on close to me at night so I can breathe him in as I sleep.).

He put down the item and turned to me, looping his arms around my back and nestling his face in my hair. He were both breathing in and out, in and out together, deeper and faster. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I could feel him strong against me. We were both still, but there was a silent crackle of electricity. Everything was charged and I was on fire.

How much time passed? Certainly not more than a minute or two. But I could feel myself being drawn into him, absorbed by the sheer power of him. He pulled back an inch and looked down at me, devouring me with his eyes, consuming every inch of me. We seemed to hang suspended in time, not breathing or moving, simply existing in a space created just for us.

Then we both took a deep breath and stepped back. "Whoa," he sighed, shaking his head.

"Down, boy," I smiled.

"Down me? Down you. Damn, can I just take you right here?"

I giggled and we moved off down the aisle together, hand in hand, reconnected.


I stand in the snow and think of you.

I look up at the streetlight and see the snow fall like glitter from the sky. I close my eyes and feel the icy pinpricks on my face. I think of you.

I think of our first night together. How we woke up to find a beautiful blanket of snow, pure and clean and perfect.

I think of the first time you told me that you loved me, quiet in the dark of my bedroom. I remember your eyes. I will never forget the look in your eyes.

I think of so many things. The images and memories flash before my eyes.

In the cold of the street, my love for you keeps me warm. I head home, covered with snow, thinking of you.

Happy Valentine's Day. I love you.


I was always told that girls are pure and innocent and that boys are dirty and insistent. That if you didn't watch out, boys would corrupt you, do terrible things to you and make you a slut. You should be careful to be as pure and virginal as God made you for as long as possible.

But I think I started out dirty. I masturbated early and often, humping stuffed animals and pillows, rubbing furiously with my hands. I made out with neighborhood girls, turning their innocent games of house and Barbie into debauched sessions to get myself off. I pored over my brother's dirty magazines and wrote my own erotica. I was a whore from the start. I was never really pure on the inside.

I wore the white dresses and the lace gloves. I went to Sunday school and stayed a virgin until I was 19. But all the while I was dirty through and through. I always knew it and to me, it meant that there was something wrong with me.

Once I started having sex with boys, my fears were confirmed. The more sex I had, the more I wanted - in more places, in more positions, with more and more partners. My desire and limits knew no end. Meanwhile, the men in my life turned out to be something other than the lascivious lechers I had been warned against. They were sensitive, soft and emotional. They doubted themselves and let their feelings stand in front of their cocks. Their sex drives dwindled as mine grew.

The world was upside down. Nothing was as I was told it was supposed to be. So I kept living my prudish life on the outside, all the while harboring my secret whorish fantasies on the inside.

I think I started to shock my partners with my insistence and the strength of my desire. They looked started when I got on my knees in front of them to suck their cocks, blushed when I used the word cock at all and generally made me feel like a whore for being...well, for being so whorish.

But what they didn't know was probably even more shocking. That I wanted to be told to get on my knees, bitch, and smacked across the face. That I wanted them not to swat absently at my bottom, but to spank me like the dirty slut that I am. That I want to be used and fucked and passed around like an object, like a cunt subject to their most depraved desires. How could I tell these nice, respectful boys, these same boys who never used the word cunt let alone as a term of endearment, that they should abandon all of their strictures and free themselves in the process?

I'm free now. I'm as dirty now as I was when I first touched my pussy as a girl but I'm not pretending anymore. Now when I get down on all fours and beg for His cock like a whore, I never feel cheap. I feel whole and loved and understood. I'm finally free.


I'm not supposed to have wants or needs of my own, needs that don't serve Him. But my submission to him has made me vulnerable and needy. I tried to be hard and impervious to everything, every emotion. I tried to stay back, to keep everything in control. But he knocked down my defenses. He made me this way in his own interest and now he has to face the demon that he created.

I need him to make me feel secure, I need him to hurt me and take away all of the pain, I need him to put his hand on me and bring me back to the ground, I need him to love me, I need him to absolve me of all of my guilt, I need him to keep me from worrying, I need him to feed my hunger, I need him for my sanity, I need him for my salvation...

I need, I need.

What to do when he isn't there, when I'm disconnected? Nothing to do but fret and blame him and drink too much. I can't ask him to be what he is some of the time all of the time. I can't ask him to give, give, give.

Especially when all I have to give back is my cunt and these hands and my heart.

Traffic Stop

The car in front of His car pulled through a red light and made a last-minute left turn...right in front of the police car sitting across the intersection.

"Wow, that guy has balls to do that right in front of a cop."

"I know, right?," I agreed, somewhat distractedly. I wasn't driving so I wasn't exactly paying attention.

"If I was that cop, I'd pull that guy over in a second."

"Oh my god, you'd be such a dick cop," I teased him. Seriously though, can you imagine a worse opportunity for abuse of power: a dominant with state-issued handcuffs and a weapon?

"Oh, I'd pull you over in a second," he said suggestively, leering at me out of the corner of his eye as the light turned green.

Uh-oh, I thought. He just flipped the switch. We just went from casual conversation, one in which I can sass him and there is no power-exchange, to one in which the overtones of power are evident and every word I say means something else. There is a shift inside of me, too. It used to happen without my knowledge, but now I can feel it. It is the catch in the back of my throat that makes me breathless and quiet, it is the sinking like stepping onto soft dirt and feeling it slowly collapse under my feet.

He slowed the car to a stop at the next light and turned to me. He held my face in his hand. "I'd stop you and make you get out of the car." He shook his head and smiled slowly at me. "I'd cuff you and put in the back of the car. And I think I'd have to spank you to punish you for running that light."

I stared at him, eyes wide. I squirmed at the sudden wetness in my panties.

He turned my face from side to side, considering. "You'd try to get out of it, but I'd spank you anyway. And you would look so good in those handcuffs." He released my face as the light turned green and returned his eyes to the road.


I answered the door in my short pleated skirt, the one He ordered me to wear for him. He told me that he would take me out in that skirt with no underwear and that he would make sure that he fucked me somewhere public with the skirt pulled up around my waist. Today, however, the skirt would be staying inside.

I opened the door, wearing the skirt, high-heeled sandals and a camisole. "Hi Daddy," I breathed and leaned in to kiss him chastely on the cheek.

"Baby, hi," he said wrapped his arms around me and squeezed me tight, lifting my feet a few inches off of the ground. "How's my girl?"

"Ok, Daddy." I stepped away from him and saw his eyes rake over my body, down my bare legs and back up my body, lingering on my breasts peeking out of the top of my camisole.

"Have you been a good girl for Daddy?," he asked, stepping closer.

"I...I think so," I stammered nervously, twisting the hem of my skirt in my hand.

"Not sure, little one? Have you been naughty again?" He cupped my chin in his hand.

"I don't know...," I trailed, wondering if he could sense the wetness between my legs. If he found out...

"Have you been touching your little cunt without permission?"

Oh no, he had my number. "Maybe a little. I was going to tell you, promise!" I pouted prettily, hoping that he would forgive me immediately.

"You know the rules," he said, advancing on me as I backed away. "What are the rules, tell me."

I dropped my eyes. "I can't touch my pussy without permission from you." He held up a hand and raised his eyebrows. "My cunt, sorry. I can't touch my cunt without permission from you. And no one else can touch my cunt except for you."

"That's right," he stepped close, running his hand up my bare arm. I shivered. "And why is that?"

I paused and looked up at him. "Because it's your cunt, Daddy."

"Mmm...," he murmured as he ran his hand down my body, brushing my nipples with the tips of his fingers. His hand stopped at the hem of my skirt. "It is my cunt, all mine," he whispered as he lifted my skirt up and stepped back to admire the view. He stepped back closer and tucked the front hem of the skirt into the waistband. He slowly ran his hand over my exposed stomach, down to my pussy. He wiggled one finger between the folds. I gasped as he touched my clit, which was already wet and throbbing.

"Why is your cunt so wet, little girl?," he sighed. I bit my lip. "Face the wall, hands flat," he ordered. I turned and he lifted the back of my skirt up, tucking the hem into the waistband. He pulled my camisole up over my breasts and cupped them from behind, pulling at the nipples until I started to squirm.

"You know Daddy's rules, and you deliberately broke a rule so now I have to punish you." He slid his hands down and caressed the cheeks of my ass.

"Yes Daddy."

"I'm going to spank you and teach you a lesson. Thank Daddy for reminding you how to be a good little girl again."

"Thank you, Daddy," I whispered, feeling my face burn with shame.

"Louder," he demanded as smacked my right ass cheek.

"Thank you, Daddy," I said louder, closing my eyes in anticipation of a brutal punishment from him.

"Good girl, now you're going to take twenty." Before I could think to question the number, I heard him unbuckle his belt and slide it out of the loops.

"Daddy, please, not the belt...," I whined, looking pleadingly at him over my shoulder.

"Quiet. Twenty strokes," he said sternly. He put his hand on the back of my neck, tilting me forward so that my forehead was against the wall and my ass was pointed out toward him.
He nudged my legs farther apart. I took a deep breath and, just as I let it out, he brought the belt down across the tops of my legs. I pulled away and shrieked, but he just tightened his grip on the back of my neck and forced me up against the wall.

"What do you say?," he breathed in my ear.

"Thank you, Daddy," I gasped, trying to catch my breath.

"Good girl," and he quickly hit me again across the cheeks of my ass. "Again."

"Thank you, Daddy."

He continued to beat me, until my knees were shaking and the wetness from my pussy was running down my thighs. My behind was hot and sore, even more so when he ran his hand over it. I was having trouble standing and I hung my head so he couldn't see my tears. He pressed his body up against me and started whispering in my ear.

"Do you think you've learned to leave Daddy's cunt alone?"

"Yes, sir," I whispered hesitantly. Was he going to make me take more from the belt? I felt him fidgeting with something behind me and then I felt his hard cock against the cheeks of my sore ass.

"Your punishment isn't over," he said slowly, quietly. He pulled me closer to him by my hips and rubbed his cock against the wetness between my legs. "You know what Daddy wants now."

I nodded, apprehensive. He had been training me to take his cock, slowly teaching me to fuck him the way that he likes. I made sure that my feet were spread apart and I tilted my ass back toward him even more.

"Be a good girl," he cooed as he threaded his fingers through my hair. He pulled back sharply on my head as he forced his cock into my pussy. He started thrusting slowly, pushing me harder against the wall. "That's a good girl, take Daddy's cock."

It hurt and it felt so good all at the same time and before I knew it, he was urging me to come for him. "C'mon baby, come for Daddy, come all over my cock...," he kept up insistently as I moved in time with his hips. He put his hands over mine on the wall and held them there as I started coming, bucking against him and moaning. He held me tight as I came for him.

When my moans subsided, he turned me to face him. He cupped my chin in his hands and smiled at me. He took me by the hand and led me up the stairs to my bedroom, sitting me down on the bed in front of him. "Lay back and open your legs for me," he said as he leaned over me, cock in hand. He slid into me as he wrapped my legs around his waist.

I held on to his shoulder as he fucked me, slowly at first and then harder. He murmured into my hair, his voice soft and full of lust. "Daddy loves you so much, baby. You're such a good girl for Daddy." I gripped him closer as he pounded me harder and came in shuddering gasps.

"My girl...," he sighed as he laid beside me on the bed and caressed my face. "You love pleasing me don't you?"

I smiled and nodded happily. "Yes, Daddy. I do. Very much."

"Good girl."

The foregoing is a fantasy, about which I'm trying to work up the courage to tell Him. Wish me luck!

Ownership, Part II

I spent most of last weekend apart from Him. I had family obligations and a long-planned girls' night out, and I just couldn't find time to see him for several days. I was feeing a bit lost without him and I know he was hurting. He kept calling and demanding that I come for him over the phone in more complicated ways (in a public restroom, with two fingers in my ass, etc.). I was in constant contact with him, but I struggled to manage my obligations and remain under his control.

On Saturday night, I was out to dinner with my friends and I was feeling listless. We had just ordered and they were having a conversation about a popular television show. I don't watch the show, so I felt disconnected from the conversation, but there was more to it than that. I had spent the whole day with these people who don't know about the D/s aspect of my relationship with Him. I felt like a part of me was missing. I don't need to talk about my submission all the time, but to live like it doesn't exist made me quite uneasy.

Until I received several texts from Him:

I want you on your knees when you get home.
Fingers on your clit.
Then call me.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He was thinking of me and would reach out to control me soon. His words would wrap around me and keep me safe until I could see him. I texted him back "yes, Sir."

In a moment, another barrage of messages came through:

You are in so much trouble when I see you next.
Just wait until I get my hands on you.
You are going to get the spanking of a lifetime.

I shivered with delight. I wasn't in trouble for anything, but he was warning me that his desire was growing, that he would need to hurt me when he finally saw me.

Then the final message came through:

"Don't forget that I own you."

That was all I needed. I looked around the restaurant, feeling a surge of pride. I am owned, I thought to myself over and over again. I am owned. How do all of these people go through life without this feeling? Weren't they lost, all on their own? I felt so lucky at that moment to be owned by Him, to be under his control. I felt fortunate that I had found him, that my long time in the wilderness, searching for that missing piece, was over. I felt safe and secure and in my place. My submission was with me all the time, as long as I could remember.

"Romantic messages?," my friend asked.

"Oh yes, he is so romantic," I sighed wistfully and smiled quietly to myself.


He doesn't often withhold orgasms from me, although he has threatened to do so. Instead, he likes to force more and more out of me. I was always a girl who could come easily and I could have more than one orgasm if the circumstances warranted. But with him, I have become unapologetically multi-orgasmic. I will have three orgasms in the course of a 30 minute phone call with him; in person, the orgasms come so fast and so often that I lose count.

He usually brings me close - with his words, with his touch, with my touch - and then he demands that I come for him. His voice is strong and commanding. There is no question that I will come hard. More importantly, it is clear that I will come for him. My orgasm is no longer my own, demonstrated for my only my pleasure. It is his. He owns it, along with the rest of me, and it can be drawn out as he pleases.

After a time of simply demanding that I come for him, he added another layer and required that I ask him permission to come. Now he makes me beg for it until I am dying to come for him, just for him. This extra layer of control reinforces that my body exists for his pleasure and that he has the right to manage my orgasms.

What I didn't realize was that this pattern was burning a new pathway in my brain. Without knowing it, I was being trained.

Recently, he was on top of me and my ankles were on his shoulders. I had already come several times and I wasn't in a position that is conducive to another orgasm if I've come already. Don't get me wrong - the deep penetration and stimulation is amazing and I can come in this position, but it is not the usual thing. At that moment, I wasn't close to coming. I would need to rub my clit for some time before I could come like that.

But then this magical thing happened. He looked right at me and said, "Come for me now, Kitten, now, come for me." From out of nowhere, my legs started shaking. There was a strange pulsing feeling deep in my pussy, then it was over me in waves. The orgasm took hold of me, took my breath away. I gasped up at him, eyes wide in disbelief. The orgasm had a life of its own. It took over and was squeezing me for all of its worth.

It was amazing. Did he know that he was doing that? That he had linked his demand for my orgasm with the act itself. That he had reworked my wiring so that his voice became part of the trigger. It has happened since then, just once, but now that I know that it can happen, the possibilities seem limitless. His words, his will can accomplish anything and my completely controlled body is the vehicle. It exists for him.


Things have been quite heavy in Kitten Land lately. I've been adjusting to his slightly increased control over me. Actually, I've been handling it badly, bratting out and sassing him left and right. That just makes things worse for me in the long run, but I think I'm finally learning the lesson.

Meanwhile, the non-D/s elements of our relationship have been progressing. I'm usually cautious in relationships because I've been burned before, but I've approached our commitment to each other with wild abandon. However, sometimes it catches up with me and I realize just how serious things are between us. That scares me, but he's so reassuring and so steady that I can handle it.

Still, we continue to move forward. I usually see him once during the week and at least once during the weekend for an overnight visit. We have found that that is not enough. So we are taking steps to see each other more often, to share more of our lives together. He is not moving into my home in any official capacity, but his presence will be more pronounced and he will have more of his own space within my space. I hope that by seeing each other more, we can alleviate some of the painful sadness that we both feel when we are apart, waiting to see each other again.

He pointed out to me the other night that, with all of the problems that some couples have, missing each other and loving each other too much are two problems that he'll gladly take. I agree with him and I am valiantly trying to focus on that very rational point of view. I'm focusing on these light, happy thoughts in an effort to avoid being dragged down by sadness or fear. Occasionally I go back and forth between the two, but today I'm coming down on the side of hopefulness and cheer.

To keep myself in this frame of mind, I've started to meditate on a certain feeling from a few nights ago. It was late on a weeknight. He and I had spent most of the early evening relaxing in bed. I wasn't feeling that well, so we didn't have sex, but the time we spent together was just as intimate. At some point, I realized that I was hungry.

"Do you want me to make you something?," he asked.

"I can get something. It's okay." I didn't want him to put himself out, plus I have a hard time accepting help sometimes.

"Kitten, do you want me to make you something?," he asked more persistently, looking at me with serious eyes.

"Okay," I said uncomfortably.

So he settled me onto the couch with a blanket and a DVD of my favorite show and went to work. I napped lightly on the couch as he bustled about in the kitchen. After a time, he came in and brought me my dinner. I sat there happily eating and listening to him hum as he did dishes in the kitchen. I drank some hot tea and felt very safe and small, like a child being cared for on a sick day. I smiled as he came over, drying his hands on a dishcloth, and wrapped me in his arms.

I think of that feeling, I crawl inside it, and I feel stronger. I am stronger.


The last few weeks, He has started to play with issues of consent and non-consent. It gets very complicated and he has challenged me to re-examine my ideas about control and submission through the prism of consent.

I do retain the right to withdraw my consent for any activity at any time if I have an adequate excuse. If I am sick, I can tell him and he never pushes me on it or disrespects my health. While we are having sex, I am within my rights to call things off if I am injured. But if I am not in the mood? Well, that doesn't happen that often, but in that situation he is within his rights to ignore what I want altogether. The thing I've realized is that doing so is an unbelievable turn-on for him and an amazing point of focus in my submission for me.

The first time this happened, it was a Sunday and we had spent the morning in bed. After having sex about three times the night before, we had sex another three times that morning. We were both worn out - tired, dehydrated, in desperate need of food. I felt hungover, even though I don't drink. I didn't think that I could take another orgasm. I just didn't have the energy in me. And how could he keep getting hard? It didn't make sense!

Maybe I gave him that look that he accuses me of giving him, the one that makes him growl and narrow his eyes with lust? Maybe he could see it in my eyes. There are times when my desire and my physical capacity do not match up. It is possible that I looked like I wanted to be fucked again when it was not physically possible. Whatever it was, he pulled my ear to his mouth and whispered, "Are you my hungry little girl?"

Yes, I'm hungry for breakfast, I was thinking. But he was talking about a different type of hunger. In any case, he was soon on top of me.

I was fine for the first couple of minutes, until he started fucking me harder and I started to feel a bit sore. I whined a little, thinking that he would let me stop, or at the very least change positions or use some lube. Instead, he seemed spurred on by my complaining and fucked me harder.

I started to ask him more desperately to stop. I was pleading with him. "Please, please, it hurts, I can't anymore, please..."

"Keep begging. Beg me to stop fucking your sore pussy, go ahead, beg me."

I felt wrung out and exhausted. I couldn't even keep my hips at an angle that would minimize the impact of his thrusts. After a time, I couldn't even keep my legs around his waist. I was sobbing - making the sound a person makes when she is crying - but the tears wouldn't come. I think I was so drained that I couldn't even produce tears.

"Why is your pussy getting wetter?," he taunted me. "You like this, don't you?"

"No, no, I can't take any more, please," I croaked.

"Then why are you so wet, huh?"

"I don't know..."

He bit into my shoulder viciously. I was laying underneath him as he fucked me. I couldn't even move in response. I was a rag doll. Was he still inside me? I couldn't tell. I was completely numb. I closed my eyes and listened from far away as ridiculed me for being so unconsciously turned on by his sadism.

And that's what I didn't exactly understand. I really did want him to stop, not because I was in any acute pain but more out of my own discomfort. At the same time, I knew that I had to submit to him. I was intrigued by the fact that he wasn't stopping, no matter how much I begged. In fact, the more I begged, the more enthusiastic he became. It seemed so messed up to me.

I could deconstruct why being forced to do something that I ostensibly didn't want to do would be a turn-on for me, especially in light of my background. Sexuality or sexual behavior was discouraged in my childhood home, something to brand you as a slut and an inferior, base person. To express a sexual desire of any sort would be frowned upon, a terrible breach of etiquette for a proper young lady. As a result, any sexual behavior could not occur willingly. It would have to be forced on me in order to absolve me of any responsibility for my own sexual agency. If I was forced, I wouldn't be a willing, eager slut. I might be the proper young lady that the world sees. There's the mindfuck - what side of the coin would win the toss-up?

But what about Him? I really couldn't figure out why that would turn him on, aside from the immense feeling of control he had over me at that moment. I was begging him to stop and and he retained the power to continue to make me suffer against my will. Was that it? Was it that simple?

The next time, we were in exactly the same situation: weekend morning, overfucked and overtired. I just wanted to take a hot shower and have a cup of coffee, but he pinned me down on the bed and wouldn't let me up. He touched my pussy, slowly inserting one finger inside me. As I tried to squirm out from under him, he started threatening me.

"Get back here." He touched himself, stopping occasionally to slip a finger into me or rest his hand against my throat.

"I don't know, maybe you do want to get fucked," he mused. "Maybe you want my cock in your sore little pussy."

"No, no I don't," I stammered.

"Hm...," he thought for a moment before rolling onto his back. "Get up here and straddle me."

"Please, no. I can't right now, please." I was exhausted and could barely gather the energy to sit up and mount him. But I straddled his body anyway. He positioned his cock right at the entrance to my vagina and paused.

"You want to get fucked, don't you?"

"Please no, please, please no," I begged. He rubbed his cock against my wetness and smirked as I continued to beg and pull away. He put the tip of his cock right against my hole and started pushing it in slightly.

"If you want me to stop, you had better beg better than that," he warned, holding my hips steady.

"Please, please, I'll do anything you want later. Anything, just please, not now."


"Anything! Name it, I'll do it later, I promise!"

"Silly Kitten, don't try to bargain with me. You know I'll do whatever I want with you later anyway. You can't bargain with what you don't control."

I whimpered and clutched at my hair. I lost all sense of decorum and began begging with shameless abandon. And suddenly, he released me.

Later, after I had recovered in his arms, he looked down on me fondly. "You know that I would never make you do something you didn't want to do, Kitten."

I thought about that for a minute, then said, "You did last time."

"I did, but you liked that too, didn't you?"

"Maybe. I don't know...yes," I equivocated.

"Hmm," he mused and we laid there together, lost in thought. I don't know where that left us, but I don't think I've seen the last of this dynamic play out between us yet. One thing is for certain, and that is that I don't know what to expect - and that is what he loves the most.


"Can you tell I'm going easy on you tonight?," He asked as he held my face and stared deep into my eyes. I nodded. He was so quiet and calm.

"You know, there are times when I have to be rough with you and punish you. And there are times like tonight when I only have to look at you and talk to you, and you'll just know I'm in total control of you. I'll be easy on you and caress you, but there will be no question that you're submitting to me completely. Do you understand?"

I did understand. After some difficult times recently, I was calmer and deeper in my submission to him. He told me that he would break me, and by overcoming my resistance he started. He broke that part of me that fought against him and brought me to a new level of submission to him. That night, though, he didn't need to force his dominance on me in the least - I was completely compliant. Admittedly, we weren't breaking any new ground that night. But our deeper connection, forged in tears and pain, was powerful enough for that night.

His hands were gentle on me, his words soft, whispered into my ear. Aside from his demand that I tell him who owns me over and over again, we could have been any other couple sharing a few intimate hours together. There are times when I need this, can take only this, and it fits perfectly in the ebb and flow of our relationship. These are the times when the pain fades away and my need to be hurt is absent. I still feel wonderfully, freely submissive to him and I still know that every part of me belongs to him. Only to him.