No Smoking Please

Forewarning: The following is explicit in nature and intended for mature audiences only. (As is everything I write, but this one especially so.)


I woke up in the wee hours of the morning from a bad dream, tears streaming down my face and my heart racing. I have bad dreams often. Nightmares, or as he likes to call them, night terrors. It's troublesome. For some reason I do a lot of processing in my sleep. And the frequency of the nightmares is a fairly accurate gauge for my stress level; along with my feelings of guilt. If I feel guilty about something I'll have a bad dream, guaranteed.

So I woke up crying, and my instinct was to reach for him. He wasn't there, but he would be soon; and I knew this, so I sent him a message informing him of my current emotional state.

"Awww, it's ok... it's not real, it's just a dream. Make a space for me in that bed... and go back to sleep young lady," his words were as comforting as his voice.

"Yes Sir," I whispered.

Of course I couldn't fall back asleep completely. I dozed in and out, and he was there within the hour. Climbing into the warm bed, his cool skin was both shocking and calming. I quickly nuzzled into his nook as he wrapped his strong arms around my delicate frame; and after only a few moments I slid myself down his torso and suckled myself to comfort, whimpering.

*sigh*

"I was a bad girl last night."

The confession rolled off my lips without my even thinking of doing so. Something about his presence and my sleepy state... there was no hiding. When I feel safe with him, I expose myself entirely.

"How bad?" He asked, his interest obviously piqued.

"Bad bad."

"Tell me."

"I don't want to tell you," I said as I buried my face in his chest.

"That doesn't matter. You will tell me right now," he snarled.

"I smoked a cigarette."

His hands grabbed a hold of me, positioning me over his lap before he even opened his mouth in response.

*Smack*
*Smack*
*Smack*
*Smack*

"Unacceptable behavior. You know I will not tolerate you smoking. You are going to get the cane for this. Do you understand?"

I couldn't speak. The displeasure in his voice had stolen mine from right under my breath. I nodded. He kept smacking.

*Smack*
*Smack*
*Smack*
*Smack*
*SMACK*

Pulling me up and back to his chest, he held me tight as he continued to scold me for my transgression and explain what was to come. Twelve very hard cane strokes.

"Now go get the cane," the look in his eye left no room to wriggle, yet of course I still tried.

Even when I'm in trouble, I'm a brat.

"No honey, just hold me some more," I pleaded.

"I'll hold you some more... after you take the twelve. Now go."

Instead of going I pushed away from his chest and rolled away from him. Tapping my shoulder he said,

"C'mon now, you know how this works, go!"

I went. I returned with the cane and handed it over. He instructed me to put on a pair of white cotton panties and to fetch a towel I wouldn't mind getting dirty.

"You know what I mean," he asserted.

And he was correct. I knew exactly what the towel was for... and the panties too. He simply adores white cotton panties. And he has a particular affinity for pulling them down from a naughty brat's bottom in order to stripe her with cane marks. The towel was for dealing with any mess that may result from his sodomizing me once my ass was striped with angry red welts. Something else which holds a special place in his heart.

When I returned with the towel, clad in the panties... I assumed the position. Hands and forearms flat on the bed. Hips bent at 90º. Legs straight. Feet flat on the ground. Back slightly arched. Ass presented perfectly.


*THWACK*

He didn't wait. He didn't ease in. He gave no warm up and no warning.

"One.... Thank you Sir."

*THWACK*

Hardly any time transpired between the strokes, barely a moment for me to catch my breath."

"Two.... Thank you Sir."

*THWACK*

"Three.... Thank you Sir."

By now my voice was strained, and I was breaking position. He kept me down by placing his hand on my back. It was both helpful and comforting. He always knows exactly what to do to assist my taking the pain; the searing agony with which he lands that stick. He hits me hard, and God does it hurt.

After the fourth stroke I was on the verge of crying and he voiced his approval of such.

One by one the barrage continued. Him swinging the cane harder, me counting, him helping me maintain position. By the time we were through the first 6, my ass was ablaze. He paused, leaned the cane against the bed, and slowly entered my now thoroughly soaked pussy. Mmmmmm. It felt so good even though I knew it wasn't for my pleasure, it was merely a stepping stone to the next 6.

Switching sides, he continued.

When he finished, he didn't finish. He gave me three more very hard strokes, in quick succession. And when he was finally done, so was I.

Wiping some of the juices from my pussy backward, he slowly prodded his way into my ass. It clenched. It didn't want to let him in. I wasn't trying to fight it, I just couldn't surrender to it. At least, not at first.

"Relax and let me in... I'm not going to stop so it's just going to hurt you more.... I don't care."

He was deep before I gave in. When I finally did, he felt my body melt under him.... felt me open myself to him and yield to his force. He rode, hard. Faster and faster. My hair wrapped in his fist, my neck pulled back, and me watching him in the mirror. It felt so fucking good. For both of us. It was written all over our faces. He warned me not to come. This was for his pleasure, not mine. My ass belongs to him and he will take it and use it for his purposes only.

"My God there is nothing quite like caning you and then raping your ass. Truly, nothing compares."

I came. I received 6 more strokes for it. But oh my did I come. As did he. And then he cautioned me of what was to come the next time I smoked a nasty little cigarette....

"You will buy a cigar and I will burn you with it."




(Fucking ouch.)

spankable

I can't remember the artist but I adore his work.

It's the Timing

Forewarning: This post is going to be nothing more than a jeremiad so please feel free to not read it.


I realize that my going on the Manfast, reading through old journals, and starting this blog are not mere coincidences of occurrence. They are a matter of timing. Specific timing. Reasonable and noteworthy timing. He placed a collar around my neck in June, 2005. It was removed in July 2006. Although truly, he took possession of me well before the collar, and he gave me up approximately two weeks after the collar was removed.

I am doing well. I'm independent and supporting myself and enjoying my life in one of the greatest cities on earth. I'm learning new things, taking care of myself, meeting new people, and reconnecting with old friends. I'm learning to rely on myself and trust myself again. And this is all very good for me.

But my God do I miss him. He hasn't been my Master for over a year now... and for some reason the anniversary of the de-collaring has me nostalgically melancholy. And yes, I realize those two descriptors make an oxymoron.

It isn't that I'm not capable, intelligent, willful, opinionated, and confident. I am all of those in spades. It's that I'm in need of possession. I need to be told what to do. I need to be taken. I need a strong hand to guide me. I need to serve and entertain. I need someone to answer to. Not just anyone though. I need that someone to be him. Since we've parted, I have not been attracted to anyone. I have fleeting moments of attraction that are based in loneliness, but I have made no genuine connection. I don't feel hopeless about it... I've learned to accept it for what it is. A case of very bad timing.

And it's not that he's so special. His failings are many, and significant. He and I are perfect together, you see. The things that turn me on, turn him on. He understands me and my nature better than anyone I have ever met. We compliment each other in all the fundamental ways that lovers and partners possibly could. It was almost as if he was made for me... or rather, seeing as he's older than me, that I was made for him.

I do not expect to ever meet another with whom I 'click' so completely. I can't even fathom the idea. And part of the intention of this Manfast is to come to terms with that; to recognize that the connection we made is not common, and the chances of it happening again with someone else are just not likely. I understand this now. And I'm learning to accept it.

Yet still, I miss him something awful. I wish he'd call me and give me instruction. I wish he'd come to me, take me by my hair, force me to my knees, look into my eyes, and tell me he just can't live without me. I wish I could lay across his knee and feel his belt kissing my flesh. I wish he would scoop me into his arms and carry me to our bed and whisper into my ear.

My God I Fucking Miss Him.

My new commute = 4.5 blocks

I love my city.


I love my neighborhood.



And I adore my new job.










(audi a4 for sale by owner)

girl on girl

There's nothing in the rules of the Manfast about receiving spankings from fellow females.

*smirk*

The Switching

She stood in the corner, waiting patiently though slightly anxious as well. The things he'd asked for were placed carefully on the bed. Including the switch he told her to bring, which she'd cut a mere ten minutes prior.

She'd never had a proper switching before. Not the kind of switching he had in store for her. She could sense that.

When she heard him enter the room, she resisted the urge to turn around and look at him - for only a moment. Quickly her desire to see him overcame her self-discipline and... she peeked.
And he saw her look, of course.

"Face forward!" He barked.

She quickly twisted her neck straight and listened for his steps as he approached from behind.

The first thing she felt was his breath on her neck. Shivers shot down her spine as he reached his hands out to touch her. (She melts in his hands.) He told her to drop to her knees by grasping a fistful of hair and tugging downward. Once she was there, he kept pulling; harder and harder, until her back was arched and her chin sticking out, leaving her neck exposed and vulnerable.

He wanted to kiss her. Though as he went to satisfy the desire, he caught a glimpse of her red lipstick, and he stopped. He had told her to wear that lipstick.

He thought to himself, "What a good girl I have."

Wanting to save the mussing of her lipstick for another type of kiss, he opened his mouth and bit into her neck only to abandon it and dive down to her nipple.

"Ouch!" she yelped.

(He bites those things so dang hard, always has.)

He loves it. And so does she.

The switching came next.
She quickly became aware of such as he positioned her precisely where he wanted. She tried to settle herself, but she was holding her breath and unable to focus. She was nervous.
She hadn't been nervous like that... waiting for the first stroke..... in a long time.
Maybe it was her not knowing what to expect from that thin little stick. Whatever it was, it threw her concentration off and as a result she found it increasingly difficult to maintain position. This is not a good thing.

He does not like it when she breaks position.

She doesn't like it when she breaks position.

It's disrespectful.


That little stick hurt her something awful. Each stroke was like a little razor blade slicing across her skin. Not deep like the cane. Similar, but more superficial. Nasty.

Nasty little switch in the hands of a mean Master. Every time she moved, every time she broke position - even slightly, he struck her thighs: swinging that nasty little switch faster. God it hurt. She was shocked by the pain. She struggled to breathe and take it and she just couldn't stop herself from moving. She could feel his frustration. He's under a lot of stress right now and his slave has been acting up ad nauseam.

This switching was for him: much more than it was for her.
It's usually for her.

She desperately needed the last beating, the one with which he broke his cane.

He desperately needed this beating. Which makes her breaking position that much more troublesome.

He welted her backside superbly. Angry little stripes crossing every which way. He hits her so hard. And even with her incessant moving, she takes his hits so well. It's truly remarkable. It's impossible to know how many times he swung that skinny little branch against her flesh.

Many many many.