Brother and sister. Guitar and drums. Not even a bass player. That's the White Stripes. It sounds like it can't possibly work, but it does. Amazingly well, in fact.
The First Week -- Wednesday
The urge to masturbate had slowly percolated down from Sunday's mind-wrenchingly unbearable to somewhat manageable by the time she got home from work on Wednesday. Terri couldn't wait to get home, eat a couple of Pop Tarts, and fall asleep. Dave had said he'd contact her but her cell phone had been silent all day.
She couldn't help but smile as she opened the door and saw the packages sitting there in the porch, an envelope sitting atop one with "OPEN ME FIRST" neatly written on it. She laughed to herself . . . men . . . as if I would tear into the boxes without reading the card first.
Terri brought everything inside and decided that since she was getting so good at this self-denial thing, she would change out of her work clothes before looking at those boxes.
She got changed and sat on the couch, opening the envelope and reading the note inside:
In these boxes you'll find everything you need for our date on Friday. Be sure you wear everything provided and only what's been provided.
I know you are being a good girl for me . . . I can feel it, Terri. And I'm very pleased and excited that you are.
I will pick you up at 7:30 Friday night. I expect you to have cleared your weekend of plans. Don't pack any extra clothes -- it's taken care of.
Terri felt that familiar melting feeling inside and the sudden wetness . . . the effect he had on her with the simplest of words . . . the way he knew that she would go along with whatever he said . . .
Terri opened up the boxes, hoping it would be something that would look good on her.
She gulped softly as she went through the boxes. A short black dress, pretty low cut, front and back. Garter belt. Black stockings. A simple pearl necklace and earrings. And a pair of shoes that would challenge any woman -- the heels had to be 7", with a platform of 2".
Suddenly she realized that the outfit contained no bra or panties. She double-checked, and breathed a sigh of relief when she spied a small box she'd overlooked. Gratefully she opened it.
Momentary gratefulness gave way to another shocked gulp: The box contained a bra, but it was a half-cup bra. And no panties! She picked up the note again and made sure she'd read correctly . . .she had -- she was to wear everything, and only those things.
Terri looked at the outfit again, and this time she was grateful. Grateful for a fast metabolism and a regular workout regimen. This outfit was not one suited to hiding the proverbial figure flaws.
It was only later, between bites of tuna fish (the skimpy black outfit had steered Terri away from the "Pop-Tarts for dinner" plan) that Terri wondered exactly how Dave knew her measurements. She could tell by looking that the dress was going to fit perfectly, and the shoes and bra were the right size. How?
She recreated the evening in her mind and quickly wished she hadn't -- thinking back to Saturday night made her hot and bothered all over again. But she realized that she had not so much fallen asleep as totally passed out. Dave could have measured her extensively and she'd have slept through it.
Terri was starting to let her mind wander to what Friday, and the weekend, would hold in store when her Blackberry went off. She read the e-mail: The 10:00 meeting for tomorrow had been moved up to 8:30. That meant the preparation she'd been planning to do between 8:30 and 9:45 would have to be done between 7 and 8:15. And that meant she had a perfect excuse to go to bed early . . . and let her overloaded brain and body just turn off.
Jazz isn't my thing. Nor is jazz-rock fusion, or electric jazz, or whatever you want to call it.
There is however one major exception -- The Mahavishnu Orchestra, a group that defined that fusion genre like no other. While every member displayed great musicianship, the driving force was guitar virtuoso John McLaughlin.
McLauhglin's guitar playing is . . . spiritual, is the only word that fits. And the only other guitarist I'd use that adjective in praise of is Hendrix. Technically, he does things that I've heard few others do, and none other with the fluidity and seamlessness that McLaughlin does.
In a 2003 survery, McLauhglin was ranked #49 among the 100 Greatest Guitarists Of All Time. #49 is about . . . 47 places too low, to My way of thinking.
This accompanying video is a series of beautiful kaleidoscopic "birds" by a very talented person known as mxurbanski. Watch and listen . . . and don't worry, you might feel like you've taken peyote, but this trip is 100% legal.
The First Week -- Sunday
Dave had driven her home, saying she'd hear from him "very soon." Terri didn't really believe it . . . it wasn't exactly an original thing to say, and for whatever reason guys seemed to often come down with buyer's remorse after fucking Terri's brains out.
Terri lazed on the couch, absently flipping channels . . . neither "Bridezillas" or "Property Virgins" holding her interest. She was grateful it was Sunday -- she felt tired, but not body tired . . . emotionally tired was the best way she could think of to describe it. She needed the day . . . well, she had the nagging feeling she needed a lot more than "the day," but she needed the day to at least be able to face the week. The (presumed) Debacle of Dave would hurt less with time . . .
Terri was seriously considering bundling herself up in her bed and passing out when her cell phone went off. She didn't recognize the number.
"Hi, it's Dave." Terri had one of those multi-faceted moments. She was shocked and excited and happy that to hear his voice, but at the same time she immediately began frantically trying to recall giving Dave her cell phone number. She gave up trying after a few seconds, her mind suddenly blank.
"Uhh. . . hi, Dave. It's . . . good to hear your voice." She blanched -- jeez, Terri, could you sound any more like an idiot?
Dave's manner was smooth without being slick. He exuded self-control, and Terri realized that was a big part of her attraction to him . . . she could feel submissive around him because he had himself under control -- he could be trusted.
He glossed right over Terri's nervousness. "Great to hear your voice, too, Terri. I called to say I had a wonderful time."
Terri didn't need any prompting. She hadn't been letting herself really enjoy how great last night had been because she'd been assuming she'd never hear from him again.
"Dave, I had a fantastic time . . . "
She felt she could hear his smile through the phone. "Well, I had a feeling . . . "
Dave that hang in the silence long enough, then switched gears.
I wanted to talk about this week and next weekend. "Dinner, Friday night. And -- keep the rest of the weekend clear . . . if things go well there's other things I want to explore."
Terri bit her lip . . . he hadn't asked if she wanted to go out . . . he just knew that she did. And, while some might have thought it presumptuous of him to expect her to be free for him all weekend, Terri jut nodded, entranced, until she realized that she needed to actually speak, since they were on the phone.
"Yes . . . of course . . . sounds great."
"Good. Now . . . since you like when I tell you what to do, Terri . . . I'm going to tell you to do something." He paused, but clearly Terri was supposed to listen at this point, not speak. She squirmed on the couch as he continued.
"I want you to not masturbate this week. You can manage that for me, I know."
Terri instinctively pushed her legs together as her cunt tingled under her robe. She swallowed hard. The voice that came out of her . . . she wasn't sure where it came from, or to whom it actually belonged . . . she answered without thinking.
"Unnh . . . yes, Dave. I . . . can do that for you."
"Mmm. Good girl"
Her cunt throbbed again.
"OK, I have to run. You'll hear from me . . . Wednesday, about details for Friday. Bye . . . and remember . . . you promised. And I'll know if you cheat."
He hung up before she could answer . . . which was fortunate, since the sound that came out of her was hardly conversational.
She went back to flipping channels but soon gave up . . . suddenly and acutely aware how pretty much everything on TV, programs and advertising, was about sex, in some way or other. She put down the remote and pulled here robe open . . . spreading her legs, she let her hand slide down her tummy . . . . she could feel the needy heat emanating from her sex . . .
Fuuuuck . . . I have to touch myself . . . I think I'm going to explode. He'll never know . . . and I can't take it.
She let out a frustrated little yelp and closed her robe up. She was overcome . . . not with a sudden onslaught of terrible goodness, but with the unmistakable certainty that somehow he would know if she touched herself.
She picked up the remote and went back to flipping channels.
Terri fidgeted a little in her chair, then caught herself and stopped. She'd been told by several guys that her fidgeting was a "tell" . . . she tended to fidget when she started to feel excited.
Terri looked across the table at Dave, then quickly back down at her chicken. Trying to hide how she was feeling was almost certainly futile. When Terri sensed that a guy was exactly the right type, it was pointless to try to hide how she felt. It wasn't necessarily a good way to be but Terri had learned not to fight it.
Terri looked up at Dave again and she could see it in his eyes. He knew. He knew it was in the bag . . . they wouldn't be going to the movies, or anywhere else but back to his place, where he was going to do pretty much whatever he wanted with her . . . and he didn't care that she knew, either.
She hoped her gasp wasn't audible as her cunt tingled and a trickle started to seep onto her thigh.
*/ */ */
The words "first date" kept going through her head . . . everything was nearly silent -- the only sounds were Dave's subtle moans of satisfaction and the soft sounds of Terri's warm mouth sliding along Dave's cock. Terri felt that familiar warm glow inside as her head moved up and down . . . losing herself in the rhythm of worshiping cock, feeling herself slowly peel away, layer by layer . . . wondering if it was obvious to anyone else how totally she revealed herself at moments like this.
It seemed to go on forever like that . . . Terri sunk down into the perfect rhythm of it, Dave holding it off a long time, giving her the message without a word spoken -- she would have to work hard to satisfy him, to get the salty reward he withheld from her.
That realization broke Terri out of the almost meditative state she'd been locked in. Her pace increased, her sucking more forceful, her breathing in through her nose more focused, feeling the breath propelling the sucking, letting her hunger be naked now, exposed to him and her -- what she was, what she needed . . . what she had to have.
His hand slid through her hair and he held her down on his cock as he spurted, over and over . . . feeding Terri a massive amount of cum. Somehow she didn't gag, slutty greed overcoming even the gag reflex . . . she swallowed down every drop and greedily milked his cock dry until he nudged her off of it.
Panting, she sat back on her knees, eyes unfocused, suddenly aware of the trembling deep inside her.
*/ */ */
Dave lingered a while, turning on the TV, seemingly watching it. He didn't say a word . . . and didn't suggest that Terri come up off of her knees and join him on the couch. Terri shuddered a bit at the silent implication, intentional or not.
Finally he got up and helped Terri to her feet and led her down the hall. Terri wobbled a bit, feeling somewhat self-conscious wearing nothing but her stockings and heels.
Dave led her into his "playroom," and Terri really wanted to be able to look around a bit at all the toys and devices but Dave now moved with purpose and poised her right where he wanted, and within what seemed like seconds she was quite securely bound, strappado-style: arms up behind her, legs wide, ankles locked in the ends of a spreader bar, body bent forward.
Terri closed her eyes and felt Dave slowly moving around . . . surveying/admiring his handiwork, presumably. She felt her bare sex quiver . . . and then her eyes snapped open, feeling something pressing firmly against her wetness . . .
She sucked in sharply as something firm pressed inside her . . . something smooth, and round, and then gasped as it was pulled out with a popping sound.
"Open your mouth," Dave said, and Terri complied without thinking. Dave smiled and slowly slid the ball gag into her mouth, coated with her juices. Terri grunted as he fastened the gag securely behind her head.
She closed her eyes and let the taste and scent of her own slutty excitement fill her head. She felt something inside her give way -- she opened up, tangibly . . . she felt as though her entire existence was focused on whatever sensation would enter her next, and fill her, complete her.
Dave moved behind her . . . his voice seemed to sneak up on her from behind and suddenly steal into her ears.
"I don't want you to cum, Terri," he said. "Can you do that for Me?" Terri nodded her head without thinking, yet somehow knowing she was capable of anything he might have asked at this moment.
Terri moaned into the gag as Dave's cock slowly filled her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling of it, her slut cunt dutifully clenching his cock, making herself whatever he might need or want her to be . . . shuddering in the bondage as Dave worked her over with his cock, taking her like he had known her forever, letting her know without a word that he was going to use her however he liked, as long as he liked.
Terri tried to squirm . . . finding her raging excitement so difficult to contain . . . fuuuuck, she thought to herself . . why did I agree not to cum? There's no way I'll be able to hold back . . .
Terri bit down on the gag when she suddenly felt Dave cock plunge deeper and explode inside her . . . the surprise of it wrenching her away from the edge she'd been teetering on. She drooled around the gag as a pang of frustrated desire shot through her like an all-over toothache.
Eventually Dave untied her . . . she vaguely remembered stumbling out of her shoes and falling onto a bed before passing out.
Most people have read a Dilbert strip at some point. But you can tell people who have never worked in a company of any size -- when they read Dilbert, they might chuckle, or smile, or generally have a minor reaction. To these people -- Dilbert is funny, but they think it's highly exaggerated . . . not real enough to be truly hilarious.
Those who have worked in any medium-large sized company for any length of time know better. As My girl lissa said the other night, "Dilbert is dead-fucking-on."
In many ways Dilbert is not only a reflection of the office workplace but a predictor. Catbert, the evil HR Director, who at one time seemed like a parody of a villain, is now shown to be pretty much standard issue. The willfully stupid things the company and the boss do in Dilbert can be read right off the headlines now.
And I've noticed over the past few years, especially, that employees now are much more likely to show their Dilbert-like awareness of the reality than they ever were before. We office drones who used to toil in silent acceptance of the essential stupidity and meaningless of the office experience now are much more likely to act like we know what we know -- and why not? The worst that can happen -- losing one's job -- is more than likely to happen anyway. If we are not laid off or moved to Topeka or outsourced to Bangladesh or downsized or right-sized, we might hang on for a while . . . or not. After a while the knowledge that there are lots of younger/cheaper/stupider/more naive people they can get for My job loses its power.
So Dilbert is not just a diversion, not just a refreshing bit of humor from a guy who gets it. If you think of it the right way, it's a very subtle reaffirmation of the human spirit. And while our employers have managed to mostly eradicate that spirit from the workplace (and get very big bonuses for doing so, apparently), it's not totally gone.
It's important to remember that. And to laugh. And to adopt the tag line from the strip above as My personal motto:
"I'm tempted to stop acting randomly."
Tempted, mind you.
subs (girls, mostly) talk to Me. I'm a good listener . . . I don't judge, I don't sugarcoat the truth, but I'm sympathetic.
There is a girl I'll call phoebe I talk to a couple of times a month, on average. phoebe is an intelligent girl in her 30s, an experienced submissive with a good sense of humor and a lot to give.
phoebe has been on again off again on again off again with a Domme in Her 20s, Who I'll refer to as Miranda. Miranda and phoebe, from what phoebe tells Me, have a great sexual chemistry, and are highly compatible in many aspects of D/s.
Where M and p have fallen apart is as a result of M's method of administering discipline.
p described that one of M's typical punishments is for p to sit in a totally dark room for hours at a time, presumably contemplating the error of her ways. This would be for something relatively minor on the scale of infractions. Over time, p got to resent this form of punishment . . . her attempts to talk to M about her frustrations fell on deaf ears, and eventually p left (for the second time), in order to preserve her sanity.
While there might be benefits to sitting in the dark (that's another post), M's method of punishment showed Her insecurity and immaturity.
The idea of punishment is for the submissive to learn the error of her ways, in a way that presumably is unpleasant enough in some regard or other to make the submissive not want to repeat her mistake. Punishment by . . . sensory deprivation over the course of hours is by definition non-productive -- aside from being deprived of the company of the Other, what is the lesson being imparted? Especially when that Other is unapproachable on the subject?
The lesson that p learned, and it's not surprising . . . was that M's authority was not constructive. And as such, there was nothing to be learned gained from following her/belonging to her.
I've written on this before . . . but it bears re-stating.
An effective punishment is:
1. Close in time to the infraction.
2. Controlled in its application.
3. Proportionate to the offense.
4. Never administered in anger.
5. Limited to the offense, not used to make any other point.
The good Dominant knows S/He is in control; S/He punishes only to correct behaviors S/He wishes to change, not to prove One's Dominance. The difference is subtle, but it is the difference between a real Dominant and a wannabe Dom/me control freak.