Coming Home

When last I wrote, Mr. D had just gotten a new position and would be transferred home. So far, we have found a new place to live and we’ll move in at the end of the month.

Mr. D is being completely overworked right now. He has the current job and the new job responsibilities together. I worry for him being stressed and tired. I’m glad we found a place so I can make his arrival easier.

I have been preoccupied myself with work, packing and house-hunting. Our D/s lifestyle has gone completely out the window. There is no time for such things in the midst of all this upheaval. I know we will find our center again but for now it’s buried in details.

I would love to say that my submission is so ingrained that I use it in these times of disarray. But, honestly, it has deserted me. The manager me has taken over. I long for the days, a month hence, when I can put the mantle of responsibility aside and kneel before him naked and in service to his needs.

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Following

I was responding to a comment and something came up that I thought I’d bring to a more public place for discussion. Those of us that write a blog all have certain things we do as part of this blogging way of life. It’s not just write, publish and reap millions of readers’ love and adoration. Is it? I mean, if it is for you that’s insanely good. Move along, there’s nothing for you here.

Like I said in my last post, this is a blogging platform not specifically a social one. If you want it to become a social one you have to work at it. Most followers at the beginning to middle stages of a blog are other blog writers. We’re interested and we’re here a lot more than general readers. It just stands to reason that we are each other’s audience to a great extent. What that means is that there is reciprocation needed. You can’t just write and move on with your day if you want to build a community.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read a blog post about someone’s guilt related to not reading all their followers’ posts. I feel that guilt all the time. I’m sure many of you do too…I’ve read it. I’ve gone back and forth with this guilt. I’ve tried to read through and comment on every subscription email I receive on your posts. I’ve tried to have a laissez-faire attitude of “I’ll read the ones that really interest me,” because I can’t read them all. Then I’ve fallen completely off the wagon and deleted them all in one swift fire sale of frustration. I haven’t found the sweet spot of following.

My question is what do you do? How do you handle the flow? How do you build community? I see some folks who have succeeded. They have a nice group of consistent commenters and they are having a grand time. I post a comment in the midst of their conversation and it makes me smile. I feel the glow coming from their light.

I know not everyone has the same goal. People blog for many different reasons. My own reasons vacillate back and forth. I write because I love to write. I write for my Dominant. He loves to read and it thrills me to thrill him. This is a way I can serve him and show my love. He likes to use my writing to assess how I did with his choice of scenes. He is a process thinker, an engineer. He needs input and I don’t always want to talk it all through. I love talking to him but I don’t always volunteer information, so I write and it’s

another way to communicate.

I am a social person and a service person. My submission to Daddy has a big service element. My work and parenting also have a service element. This means that I don’t do anything in a vacuum or just for myself. Which leads me to realize that I need to give weight to that in my writing endeavors too. I thrive on feedback. I thrive in a community. When the community or service aspect of my writing dwindles, I stop wanting to write as much.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on building a blogging community, how you are a good follower or why you write. Thank you to all who read and follow me. You are truly my lifeblood here.

Facial Touch

Have you ever noticed there are levels of intimacy within the whole scope of touching?  Clearly sexual touch is intimate, you only do it with people you want to share that experience with usually.  The best sexual touch happens with someone you are emotionally intimate with.

I was thinking today that other touching also carries differing levels of intimacy.  You hold hands with people you are close to like your children and also your husband or wife.  That one isn’t sexual at all.  

Face touching also falls in the category of intimate touch. I touch my child’s face and also my lover’s.  There is something so intimate about it.  I feel such a closeness being allowed to stroke Daddy’s face.  I feel like the most inner of his inner circles.  I love the sensation and the intimacy, it fulfills something deep inside me.

I’m the same way with my child.  He loves when I touch him, it eases his angst to have his arm touched or to get a hug.  If we’re all piled on the couch I notice I randomly touch whichever of my guys I can reach. I love that.  It calms me too.  It puts me in a cocoon of warm, intimate calm.

I learned too late to allow my mom to do this.  My dad has always been the parent I had the closest connection with.  Dad always had tickle fights and all us kids would pile onto his bed for stories or wrestling or just to talk. He was at ease and comfortable around us.  Mom was very loving but she didn’t really extend that love to touch while we were growing up. She wanted massages from me all the time but she wasn’t a ‘warm fuzzy’ kind of person.  

In my later years she began reaching over to me at parties to cup my face in her hand.  It felt invasive and out of place.  I allowed it because I loved her and didn’t want to hurt her feelings.  I look back now and wish I had welcomed that touch more. 

I love to give and receive touch but I really have an addiction to touching Daddy. He is so touchable.  I can close my eyes and feel him now.  It brings the warmth and calmness to me even though he’s not here. 

The Real Deal

We had drinks then he had me close my eyes and undress in the living room.  He had packages and rustled through them.  Soon he was putting something on me. “Lift your arms, tuck through, there.  Turn around.” He perused his handy work, his hands smoothing the garment on my body.  “Yes, that will do. Damn you are hot. Go look.”

I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.  I was in a red mesh dress.  Nothing was left to the imagination.  I was a red siren with all my femaleness on display for him.  I returned to him and he took the red off me.  Next came something smaller.  A black body suit.  It was crotchless and backless.  The sides rose high on the hip.  The sheer black material hugged my waist, covering my belly and framed my breasts which were exposed to the touch. 

“I bought these for you but they are most decidedly a gift for me.  Yes, yes they are.  Sometime this weekend you will pose for me in these.  Now, into the bedroom.”

At his direction, I laid on the bed.  He knelt between my spread legs. “Open.” He said.  I held my pussy open for him.  His tongue slid down my clit teasing me, awakening me.  His tongue flicked my clit with feathery strokes setting me on fire.  The fluttery flicks he does with his tongue drive me insane with pleasure.  He latched on and sucked hard. It was so intense, too intense.  It had been a month of no contact and now he was thrumming on my sex hard and fast.  My traitorous body responded.  

First it begins as far too much.  He sucks and works my pussy with an intensity my body rejects.  Too much, too fast.  Then she turns, she bends to his will, ultimately she betrays me.  My clit swells and my hips thrust to meet his assault.  I want it all.  I want the intensity and the heat then I lose all control. 

Rolling and bucking on the bed under him, I am on the bitter edge of orgasm.  His tongue has opened me, his power has drawn me out.  I am a willing prisoner in full abandonment to his will. 

He pulls up from my crotch and asks, “What are you to do when I give you an order, when I give you homework slut?” Oh shit. 

“I am to obey. I must obey Daddy.”

“That’s right. And if it’s hard?”

“I still must obey.” He was right and I knew this.  I felt horrible all over again for letting him down.

“Yes slut, because you still must obey when it’s hard.  Especially when it’s hard. That’s why it’s service.”  He had me utterly exposed and vulnerable. “Hold open your pussy.” That was when I saw the crop in his hand.  I whimpered, knowing he had played me. He had suckled my clit until it was swollen and raw with need so that this would really hurt.

The crop came down right on my clit and the pain exploded throughout my entire body.  “No Daddy, no please!” I knew I had to take the punishment, wanted to even, but I had not expected this pain.  It is the absolute center of me and he was inflicting precision blows with the crop. It was all I could do to stay open for him. 

I cried and he continued with the crop.  “You understand that I must punish you?”

“Yes Daddy, y..ye..esss.” I tried to catch my breath, it was useless.  

The crop came down again.  The pain shot through my crotch into my stomach.  I desperately wanted to curl up and protect myself. I put my hands over my pussy.  I couldn’t help myself. 

“Move your hands slut.” I whimpered and shook my head but obeyed nonetheless. “Good, you’re learning.” Oh that was insult on top of injury.  I had let him down.  That hurt so much more than the pain. 

“Now you’re going to count for me.” Oh god no, not the counting.  That means these were just the warm up strikes.

I held open my pussy and he let loose the crop.  The pain blossomed from my pussy outward and I counted, “One, Daddy.” Whimpering all the while with my eyes screwed shut. 

“What are you going to do the next time I give you homework baby girl?” He struck again.

“Obey Daddy, two!” I may have rolled over. I tried not to but damn if I wanted to protect myself. I got back into position.

“Good girl.” I opened back up and he struck again. 

“Three Daddy.” I said.  I whimpered and cried shamelessly. He hit again.

“Four Daddy!” Fuck it hurt.  My poor pussy was raw and on fire.  He hit me one final time. 

“Five Daddy.” I cried out and before I let out my breath from the final hit he thrust his cock fully to the hilt inside me.  I screamed as I felt him rip me in two. Daddy’s cock is very, very thick and it had been a solid month since any penetration. It burned all the way inside.  

Once he was buried balls deep in me, I felt his weight on me and it dawned on me that the punishment was over and Daddy was fucking me.  My body responded and I moaned.  Finally, we were together again and he was inside me.  

He fucked me with such intensity.  My pussy was so raw and sore but I didn’t care.  I was home and I was forgiven. 

Punishment

The minute I woke up I knew I had failed him.  I felt awful that I had not completed my homework.  On top of knowing I had failed to obey him, I had an extra dirty layer of guilt because I hadn’t wanted to obey in the first place. 

When he texted me, I knew I would have to report my failure. “How was your homework last night?” He asked.

“I fell asleep before I was able to complete it Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

“Well, we’ll talk about that when I see you tomorrow night lover. Have a great day.” He texted.

Ooo, now that was ominous. A few minutes later he asked, “What time was it before everyone left?”

I answered, then he asked, “And when did the boy finally settle down and go to sleep?”  I answered again.

“Ok, thank you darlin.” He was killing me with his calm methodical questions.  His analytical mind needed data so Master could decide if and what punishment would be a reciprocal response. 

I was flying to be with him the next day.  I didn’t have long to wait to see what the verdict was but it was going to be an interminable wait nonetheless.

I wondered about the punishment.  I  knew I deserved to be punished.  I knew Daddy was weighing the options.  I knew he could let me off because I was tired and he knew it.  I knew he could make it play punishment and we could have fun playing the roles.  I also knew he’d want to be lenient because we’re in this weird limbo because we’re living four states apart right now. 

Secretly, I didn’t want any of those options.  I hadn’t planned this but now that punishment was on the table, I wanted to be truly punished. As a submissive walking the line into slavehood, I want more than anything to feel his power.  I want to feel the yoke on my neck and know I’m being led by a strong hand. 

He picked me up from the airport on Friday and I was giddy to see him and touch him.  Finally, I had my Love in reach again.  He fulfills me.  Me makes my heart whole. Along with my joy was expectation.  What would happen?  He knew it and I knew it. 

We got to the apartment and he sent me to the kitchen for drinks.  He followed. “Arms on the counter in front of you.” Oh god, already? I giggled nervously and bent over the counter, ass out.  I was in a lacey blue dress for him. He threw up the skirt exposing my ass.  His hand caressed my cheeks then he ever so lightly tapped on each cheek with the palm of his hand pulling my skirt back down afterwards.

“You may finish getting the drinks.” He went about putting things away giving me a little smirk in the process. He knew I was waiting and wondering.  He was toying with me. 

(To be continued…)

Kneeling

I kneel to him to honor my Master and his control of me.  I am here next to my bed.  My knees burning.  It has been a long hiatus and my body is rebelling.  It is my just punishment.  

My Master deserves so much more than I currently give him.  He is caring and honorable. He is thoughtful of others and keeps a whole list of found-family as part of his care circle. 

It is my wish to serve him in every way, every day.  So, today I kneel.  I picture him in front of me.  His fingers pushing my chin up so my gaze is captured in his.  His hot breath soon on my neck.  His words, oh my god, his words etching carnal sin on my soul.

Today, I kneel, to honor but also to feel him.  To know that I am wholly his chattel, his girl, his slave. That I will do as he commands, that I will choose subjugation, that I will debase myself, and that I will be as dirty as he commands.  All of this, I do for him. 

Life in the Lifestyle

Currently, I have no life in the lifestyle.  I have only myself to blame.  I have been a sulky and bad girl.  

“My Dominant is away, I have no orders, so I have no lifestyle.” The more I think these thoughts the more they’ve rolled around my mind and become acrid.  If I have no lifestyle to speak of it’s my own damned fault. How am I serving?  How am I being a valuable and significant slave in my Master’s life?

It is time I bring what I want to the table.  It is only through my giving and service that I truly offer myself up to him.  It is through pure service that I feel most alive and connected to him.

We were at a party over Christmas with some friends.  They were his roommates when we met.  During that time I made doing dishes one of my services to my Master. Not a big thing or a sexual thing.  I don’t know that anyone really understood why I did it.  But they reaped the benefits.  I simply wanted to serve him, to do everything in my power to honor him. At this party, which was months after he had moved in with me, I saw that there would be a lot of work for the host so I did all the dishes. 

The host was grateful.  Daddy, I hope, was proud of me.  One of the drunken roommates started making fun of me to her friend. “There she goes again, doing dishes. Having fun?” She yelled the last line from the patio while she and her friend had a good drunken laugh.  I have to admit, it stung and I felt hurt. After that I wondered about my service.  If the service you offer isn’t understood is it worth doing?

I know it wasn’t Daddy laughing so I should have completely ignored it and went on with my evening.  But I wonder about it nonetheless. Is this part of why I stopped serving so well? Can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen?

Daddy has only governed sexual service.  This is a bigger part of it.  In the everyday times of existence he chooses not to govern and wants an equal partner.  So, my offering anything service-oriented out of the bedroom is all my own doing.  Why do I care then? Why do I bother if my Dominant doesn’t ask it? 

Here’s the crux of it. I want three things out of this and it shouldn’t matter if anyone understands but me.  I want to show my devotion to my Master in as many ways as I can.  I want to feel the yoke of his ownership at all times. I want him to feel wrapped in my care and love and heat.

Two of my reasons are only for him and him alone.  The third reason is selfishly motivated.  I hunger to feel his yoke around my neck.  I ache for it.  The feeling of his imprisonment of me, his power over me, it makes me shiver and sends shockwaves of dirty pleasure through my whole being. Why? It just does! And he feels it too. When his power has me in its grip there is an electricity that fills the space between us.  The hunger, the raw power, the darkness envelopes us.  Fuck, I will subjugate myself in any fucking way he’ll let me for another taste of that. 

So, if those are my pure and deeply ached-for goals then it shouldn’t matter at all if no one understands what the hell I’m doing or if anyone is around to see it. 

So, from today on, I will stop the childish sulking and create my own devotions to him.  This morning I kneel beside my bed to honor my connection to my Master.  And then I will get on with my day fully in devotion to serving him in every way.