Moving Day!

Well, I got packed quicker than I thought. Rusty Nale has a new address. These doors on this blog will remain open for those who can't find their way.

However, my new lodging is at:



Please don't forsake me - come to my new digs, and bring your friends ... there's room!

And, THANK YOU all for your patience and dedication. Always, Rusty!


Review and/or Purchase Your Copy of My New Book

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Is It That Time of Year Already?

I have reconnected with J, a wonderfully lovely older man I have always been quite fond of. Earlier this month I wrote about him in my two posts, The Story of J and The Story of J Part II.

I feared I had lost him, because we had not been in touch for months, and he was not responding to emails, etc. Finally, he did contact me a few days ago, and reaffirmed some of my fears – he had been ill, has lost a dear loved one, and life was a bit uncomfortable for him at this time – to say the least. But, I had missed him so much. In truth, he was – and possibly is – perfect for me in so many ways. My ultimate, sweetly delicious dominant dear one … not over the top; not too much, just right.

But, J had specific boundaries that he exercised from time to time that amused me more than anything, and he loved his space, as I do mine. For instance, the first night I went home with him, we had a marvelous time. I had a few drinks over the course of the evening, was sleepy, and didn’t want to drive the 50 miles home. He announced unceremoniously – just as I was snuggling down for a long autumn’s nap, that I had to go home. What? Yes, he wanted me to go home – immediately. Why? Well, he told me as a matter of fact, that he just could not sleep with anyone in the same bed with him. Also, he was about to take some medication, and he wanted me gone. Crap! I was so tired, I offered to sleep, on the floor of his den (no sofa or bed in there). But, nope, nope, nope – I had to go. Flabbergasted, I allowed him to walk me to the door, and I drove my cold in-shock ass home.

The next time I visited him, I asked him upon my arrival if he still wanted me to leave afterward, and he nodded, with his usual, charming grin. I didn’t push nor pull; it was his space, and that was just his way. I only had one glass of wine that time!

But shortly before Christmas on a wintry Sunday afternoon, he called and invited me over. I told him I’d love to see him, but really didn’t trust my car to drive all those miles in the cold weather, and I was too broke for a tow if I needed one. He admitted his corner apartment was freezing cold, but he wanted me, and said I was welcome to stay. This had to be a milestone for him, and I asked him to repeat that – which he did. Needless to say, J and I spent a fun day frolicking and laughing and loving all over his freezing apartment; watching the snow fall below on Meridian Street, under a blanket for two; and eating frozen gourmet dinners. I had brought my “toy box” with me, and he delighted in trying each and every implement out.

True to his word, he made room for me in his wonderful old bed. And amazingly, I was the one who could not sleep, tossing and turning, while suffering from reflux and asthma all night. Finally, I did doze, and soon I felt him stir. Uh-oh, he’s going to want me gone. It was too much for him to bear. Please, God, no … its 12 degrees below zero … But wonders of wonders, no, he didn’t want me gone – instead I felt him reach for me … it was magic; he wanted me close to him, and he held me, just the way I love it, and we finally slept together, peacefully. Yes, I loved him.

The age thing came to mind a few times for me, because I kept thinking, wow, will he be able to keep up with me? Is he still going to want to indulge my desires to submit my bottom to him for punishment? Would he still crave me? And, hell – would I still desire and crave him? What stupid ass questions! My feelings for him could not change superficially. And, in all due respect, this last year of my life has not exactly been the most exerting and energetic time of my life. The question really is, can I keep up with him? After all, he’s the one that works out, keeps fit, and is so very careful about how he eats, etc.

My friend, CD says to cherish this time for what it’s worth. And, she’s right. This is someone who was important to me, and obviously must still be. Last week, when I was putting myself through the ringer over another dominant gentleman who requested my submission – I finally told him no; I’m just not cut out for the type of relationship he needs – but all through that indecisive time, I kept thinking about my gentle J; I missed him so much.

I don’t know; perhaps we are cut out for each other, or perhaps not. But, having recently been charmed by younger and somewhat older men – I still find comfort and warmth with him – even just hearing his voice on the phone. I think he’s probably just my speed.

Friday, September 18, 2009

A Moment Back Then

I remember a moment in my life which became a turning point for me. At the age of 19, I was a "Bunny" at a prominent club in Manhattan. No, I did not pose for the magazine, and in fact, was never approached to do so. In effect, I was a glorified waitress that wore a ridiculously tiny uniform that included ears and tail. There I learned to graciously light a cigar or serve a highball while doing "the dip," rather than bending over the table and letting boobs fall every which way.

This was a grand time in the world; the early 1970's. Everyone was alive with liberation - sexual liberation, women's liberation, black liberation, and who knows what else. But, my friends and I embraced the life of glittering New York, sampling the world as it was served to us on glorious crystal and silver dishes of experience one day at a time. We learned to work by day, work by night, and still find time to party into the dawn - just in time to work by day and begin again. Every evening I would watch as New York would adorn herself fabulous diamond necklaces, draping them over the elegantly droopy bridges between Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx, lighting up the night sky. On my way home in the wee hours of the morning, I'd gaze through sleepy eyes from the back of a cab, as she would remove her strands of sparkle, replacing them in her jewel boxes deep in the East and Hudson Rivers.

My girlfriends from "The Club" and I had a game that we often played on Friday nights after we got off work. We had money, and were sick of the usual bar and disco scene that had covered the East Side like hives. We wanted to have fun. So, every Friday, we would scramble down to Penn Station and sneak aboard the Metroliner, a fast commuter train between Boston and Washington DC. We would make our way on board, and blend into the crowd in the club car, socializing and drinking our way to Washington, where we would party until the next day, then actually buy a ticket back to NY.

One particular night in October, we did our usually sneak on, and were laughing our way through the passenger cars into our familiar club car. By now, we had made friends who regularly made this commute, so it was like our own private party. Halfway between two cars, someone grabs my arm and pulls me back.

"Where do you think you're going, mam?"

With my mouth hanging open in shock and immediate dread, I watch as my friends dance their way into the next car and the next, never stopping or turning back to see if I was still with them.

Looking into the eyes of the nasty railroad (I won't say the name, but we all know what it was) employee, I mumble some nonsense about meeting my boyfriend for a drink in the club car.

"The same one you've been meeting every week for the past six weeks?" He asks?

"Well, as a matter of fact, y-yes ... yes!" I stutter, but muster up a bit of courage as I attempt to wrench my arm from his tight grip.

"Oh, is that so?" He asks. The man is hideous. Big, ugly, burly and smells of an old uniform so shiny with grime and sweat, dry cleaning was no longer an alternative. "Show me your ticket, and you can run along," he says.

"I don't have it on me. My boyfriend has my ticket." It had to sound as stupid to him as it did to myself when I uttered that last bit of nonsense.

"Really, do you want to tell me how that works?" I couldn't. After a short bit of similar banter back and forth, it's obvious I have no ticket and even more obvious he had no intention of letting me go. I will no doubt either get kicked off at the next station or prosecuted. I could not determine at that time which would be preferable. And worse, where the hell were my friends? Why and how had they abandoned me? "Come with me," he says and begins pulling me in the opposite direction.

"Wait! Where are we going?" I cry as he pulls me back to the previous car, now full of commuters who are either dozing, reading their papers, or talking amongst each other quietly. Of course I couldn't bring attention to myself, but it was obvious I was in trouble, and they all knew it. Crap! "I have money, I can pay," I protested, pulling away from him finally. I remember the train swaying wildly and I lose my balance, just in time for him to grab my arm again pulling me behind him.

"Money is something you should have thought about before you snuck onto my train," he growled. I had no idea where we could be going, but after four more cars, he stops at the far end of a quiet, semi-darkened car where there were just a few sleepy passengers. He removes a key and opens the last door connecting to another car. As we enter, I realize it is a baggage car, and I'm suddenly draped in terror. No, no, what the hell is going to happen to me? I begin to tremble when the train suddenly lurches and I tumble to the floor. It's so dark, I try to feel my way back to the door, but the large conductor grabs me by my waist and hoists me up with no effort and plops me face down on several large corrugated boxes tied with twine.

"Let me up, please! I don't believe you can do this to me! I'll call the police."

"Call them where?" he laughs. "When you're done here, feel free to call the police and tell them how you sneaked onto this train without paying; which is a crime; call your mama, your daddy, or your boyfriend up front. But none of them will hear you in here."

I begin to whimper, totally afraid of what's going to happen, and my instinct to fight seems to have left with my friends.

"You and your friends have been playing this game for weeks. Think I didn't notice you all? Gettin' on here all dressed up, flaunting your cash and your jewelry, drinking and partying, as if you belonged." He was standing very close to me, and I could smell rum on his breath. He was disgusting. I refused to make eye contact with him, but I knew he was tall and thick; his suit was ill-fitting. He was a dark man, and not very old; well much older than me, but not an old man. I noticed he wore a diamond Masonic ring on his right hand, which looked swollen.

"No, you didn't! It wasn't us; it wasn't me!" I lied.

"Look, girl. It was you; and we've got you on our security cameras. It was just a matter of time. I kept thinking, how stupid can these bitches be? Eventually they're going to get caught. Well, Missy, better you got caught by me than by the police."

"Please let me up. I promise I won't do this again. I swear I won't." He laughed again.

"Oh, I know you won't. You're about to learn a lesson on honesty and responsibility and stealing."


"Yes, stowing away without paying is stealing." He moved closer and I felt nauseous. "You're going to be spanked like the brat you are, and ..."

"Spanked?" I began to rise up. He had lost his damned mind. Call the fucking cops; this is just too crazy. But, he pushed me back down roughly, grabbing my thin coat and throwing it up over my head. I could feel his hand rest on my right hip, just at the hem of my black crepe mini dress; a cocktail dress I had just bought that afternoon at lunch. This bastard means this, I thought to myself. I had to talk myself out of this, and I tried, begging, pleading ... to no avail.

The man shoved my dress up around my waist, and I was so embarrassed as he pulled my pantyhose and satin tap pants down to my knees. Thank God it was dark in here. But, still. Oh, God ... get up and run, run now ... he could rape you! Is this rape? But, I couldn't ... I could, I guess, but I wouldn't ... Why? I think at that moment he too wondered why I did not budge or protest any further. It was that raw, burning thump right in my crotch that held me there. Here I was in a cold, filthy baggage car, with my bare ass turned up to a perfectly disgusting stranger, about to be spanked -- for the first time in my adult life.

I was 19 years old, and I lay there expectantly as this dark creature grabbed my waist with his left arm, holding me tightly against him as he began to thrash and slap my backside with a burning fury. He hated me; hated who I thought I was; who I pretended to be, and all I stood for. Every stinging slap represented a day in the life of the conductor who passed his time mile after mile on this speeding train, missing everything; missing the world; missing the divine scent of a soft, fleshy woman against his groin; the feel of her in his arms as he danced the night away in some neighborhood tavern; the feel and sight of her rounded bottom as she lovingly bent over to remove his hot supper from the oven.

He was mad, and he took his rage and fury out on my poor bottom, smacking each cheek so hard I held onto the boxes, grabbing onto the twine ties for support, kicking and screaming, begging him to stop. His hands were large and heavy, and my sobs could not be heard above the loud claps against my tender skin. He was relentless, cussing and damning me the whole time. My humiliation was completely unexpected, and I howled with the train whistle into the dark night.

At each station, he would stop, gently caress my sore bottom, and get up and tend to his new passengers. Each time he would return and resume his punishment of my defenseless ass. And, each time, I would wait obediently for his return and ultimate continued ass whipping. Somewhere over northern Maryland I came. I don't know how or when, but I came and came and came, sobbing and crying my heart out, collapsing against him, as he held my shuddering body until I slowly recovered. He stroked my blazing ass for a long time, standing me back up and mumbling something about me bringing my check book the next time I planned to travel. And, immediately it was over. He left me standing there in the dark baggage car as it bucked and swayed its way to Washington DC.

As I gathered my clothes together, I eventually made my way back out of the car into the passenger car in front of me. There, in a rear seat, I fixed my makeup slowly and tried to regain my strength and dignity. No one seemed to notice my presence; or my lack of presence before hand. As I gazed into my compact, I looked at the face in the mirror and smiled. She looked older, wiser, and more vibrant than ever. Had she learned her lesson? Well, maybe not the lesson he thought he was teaching me, but a lesson about myself nevertheless.

At Union Station in Washington, I exited the train, and there I met up with my friends who stumbled off pretty tipsy. "Where have you been?" they asked?

"Oh, I met a friend, and we stayed back here to talk ..." They laughed and teased, never the wiser, as we made our way to the cab stand. Shallow bitches, I thought to myself.

So, what lesson did I learn? I learned that if I got to Penn Station about 30 minutes earlier than normal, I could enter in the last car before the baggage car, and there would be a key waiting for me on the last seat on the left. A key to the baggage car; a key to my liberation. I never missed a Friday departure on the Metroliner for the next eight months.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

today's vent ...

It's cold (to me) this morning. I guess Fall is waiting in the wings, waiting impatiently for me and summer to move on. Actually, Autumn is my favorite season, but because I've missed out on so many summers in the past - unable to enjoy the things I've missed ... I LONG FOR THE OCEAN more than anything - I would love to see, smell, taste and touch it once more ... but, here I am.

This morning I exerted my tiny bit of dominance and kicked over a pot of mums with much glee! It's still there lying on its side, too lazy to pick itself up, and I'm too lazy to right it again - it will probably stay there through the fall, winter and into spring, when I will refill the pot with petunias and nicotiana from seeds I plan to sow all winter in my laundry room. I'm angry, sad and so terribly lonely!

But, I'm picky, selective and will not settle under any circumstances - offer me what you will - I will be picky, and I will make that decision on my own. Here's how I feel today - Step Up To The Plate, Or Put Your Fucking Bat Down!

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

the decision

As quick as the ride began, it has ended. So, he calls me and gives me the ultimatum of making my decision immediately - with me still in the dark as to what such a relationship would involve. Total control, total dependency - it's completely foreign to me. And not that I would not have, but he never told me how it would be, what to expect, what type of life it would be. It was all about me just trusting him, and walking into the unknown with him.

If we had at least met in person - if I could have looked into this man's eyes, I could have something to base my decision on. I'm new at this; am I completely stupid? Is this the way it's supposed to be? So, I told him no.

Complete ownership of my life was not out of the question; but giving it up so freely without knowing the facts, the consequences, the benefits, etc. is out of the question. I told him I had the right to make an educated decision. He told me I did not.

So, here I am, tears falling into a bowl full of cake batter, and ...

Steady on the Course

So, now he's gone - well, not really gone; but gone from me, nevertheless, for a few days on family business. He told me abruptly last evening and said he would contact me upon his return. Ordinarily, if someone said that to me in such a way, I would immediately become concerned and insecure. But, I did not; instead I felt at peace, content with his announcement, and confident I won't come unglued. Nothing was elaborated, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I need some time to think.

What he predicted a few days ago is beginning to manifest itself. My thoughts of him are beginning to consume me - most of my waking hours involve thoughts of him. And, perhaps - maybe, just maybe, he is considering me as well.

There are other things I can be busying myself with to take my mind off of him ... finding a realistic job, for one. Won't go there right now, but life changes changed everything in my life (did that make sense?) this past year, and I took a major hit - harsher than any paddle I've ever felt. Besides the economic benefits of working again, I need to keep my mind busy until this book business begins to (soon I pray) begin to pay off ... eventually. I write every day; devoting hours to it; now on my second novel, and the first has not yet made it online yet. I've been assured by my publisher yesterday that it is the word count that is holding up progress, and the editors are still working on finalizing it. That's okay - I'd rather it be done properly, than for it to plop out like a premie in the back of a cab, and have you all laughing and gawking at my "work."

A Caribbean cook book I wrote simultaneously with Seven Mile Point will probably hit the market before the novel. A writer -- I am going to have to prove to myself and the rest of the world that I am, in fact, a writer ...

So, until I hear from my dom-to-be, I'll keep on working, steady on the course, and of course, try to understand the feelings battling it out inside of me.

I also bake cupcakes/muffins on the side - my best bet is to do what I do best; write and bake, and try to generate some business. Whatever materializes between he and I, the fact remains I still need to survive.

I'm rambling ... this was not my intention. It's just that yes, my thoughts are devoured more and more by him, and I don't seem to mind it at all. My cravings are more pronounced. My desire to have him hold me, his arms locked tightly around me from behind, pulling me closer, closer, closer and finally into him ... with his warm breath caressing the back of my neck ... holding me, squeezing the resistance and fear from me until finally, finally, I allow him to possess me as only (I believe) he can ...

In the meantime, it's dark chocolate with hazelnut filling and espresso butter cream ... oh, my

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

This Morning

I am still so lost - but, I know this man has found me again - and there is a reason for this. I never set out to be owned; I was simply looking for someone who just enjoyed spanking and could quench my thirst for the same. But, this gentleman has engaged me and invited me down this path with him and it scares me.

To have to ask permission for simple things I take for granted; for having to beg him to allow myself to be pleased - he says my biggest fear should be not of what he would do to me, but of what he would NOT do to me, or with me, or for me ... I should fear that one day he will not exist for me, and it is my job to ensure this does not happen. Some people would immediately walk away in a huff and say fuck this! Two months ago, I would have ... three weeks ago, I would have ...

Yesterday, I had a small crisis in my life, and who did I call? Him ... he's winning, isn't he?

Sunday, September 13, 2009


Someone commented on Friday's post regarding my indecision about my dom from New England. If you've read it, you will understand that I've had fears, trepidation and uncertainty about having a D/S relationship with this man. It was suggested that the least I could do for myself - and him - is to give him a chance. Total submission is something I've desired for years, whether I've known this or not, but the opportunity was not there for me, nor did I understand all that it truly meant. So afraid of losing myself and my identity, my reluctance has been fierce.

I decided to write him back, and we've been in touch. This time, however, my submission is pushing me, urging me to please, please, please ... just let him take me there ... let him guide me and open myself up to the possibilities. And, now, I feel like a foolish child; smitten and totally, totally ready - to let this exquisite dominant take me to heights I did not know existed within me.

His control is that which mere men only dream of having; only wishfully thinking they possess - orgasm control - ahh, how tricky. Sure, any man can say they control your orgasms, your levels of arousal, and ultimately the termination of these marvelous sensations -- only to grant you that sweet release if and when they deem you worthy of the gift. But, those men cannot get into your mind and relax there as only a true dom can. Talk is not only cheap, it's a waste of time and energy.

I told him my submission to him would be absolute. I do not wish to give my submission to anyone and everyone. Like him, I'm highly selective and a good dom, a perfect loving dom, has to be worthy of my submission.

This morning, I offered him my gift ... and so, the expedition begins ...

Friday, September 11, 2009

Yearning Burning Deep in My Heart

Today I received an email from a gentleman I was in contact with several months ago from New England. We had corresponded briefly, and had one or two telephone calls outlining a potential relationship he desired and I had only dreamed of. His terms were absolute, yet so intriguing. He wanted a sub that he could mold and teach to his specification, taking her on a journey into the unknown - an abyss, if you will - of pleasure, anticipation and submission, with a diet to stimulate every sense known to man - or, in my case, woman.

What he related to me thrilled me far beyond any expectation I have ever encountered in life, and the lifestyle he proposed would be quite comfortable, safe, spontaneous and cozy; just like I want. However, while talking with him, I had never felt more inadequate, inexperienced and unworthy of anything or anyone in my life. Now, coming from a long-time diva who is confident and sure of herself - full of herself too from time to time - this was an extremely difficult situation to deal with. No one had ever turned me upside down like that, causing me to question my complete existence. But, he did.

For a woman like myself, pay dirt would be the best possible words to describe my coming in contact with this man, who by the way, is a quietly elegant silver fox. I say pay dirt, because the situation he seeks, and was considering at the time (with me) would have been divine, had it not been for my lifestyle and conditions at home - I take care of two older relatives, and my life at this time, is really not my own. He simply asked me to turn it over to him, and let him guide me ... which, if anyone has ever read my works, my letters, or heard my pleas -- they know this is ME; this is what I have sought forever - a man who will take me under his wings, and lead ...

So, why did this scare me so? The one person to come along to offer me what I've desired, and I had trepidation, concerns and fears - along with exhilarating excitement, arousal and anticipation. I wanted it more than anything; he was my prize.

I also had fears of not living up to his expectations; and then what? Where would I be? On the streets; cowering in the darkened corners of my heart with my tail between my legs?

He was even willing to come to me, if I was not able to relocate to him ... but, I wasn't ready. But, If Not Now, When? Why was this such an issue?

I remember emailing him and telling him I did not think I was ready for such a commitment. I wished him well, and never heard from him again.

Until today. He emailed me, and posted the same scenario - only, I'm not so sure he realized it was me he was contacting. I sent a note to the handsome devil, and reminded him of our former conversations and my fears -- that I still have, by the way. Now, I wait. Oh, damn!

Sunday, September 6, 2009

It was a beautiful warm, sunny afternoon in November, and we're walking around in downtown Las Vegas on our way back to our room at the Nugget. We'd cut through one of the side streets to look for a particular shop someone had told you about - a leather shop where they make custom-made boots -- and other things.

This was a total surprise for me, because I didn't think you'd actually buy me anything like that; we'd only been together a very short time, but you wanted to do this.

The street is narrow, and has all kinds of shops of various types; mostly adult in nature. It's starting to get dark, and I hope we find it soon before the light show begins on Fremont; I'm anxious to get back to our room and get busy with you. We find a small storefront tucked in between a book store and a tattoo salon. You take my arm and guide me into the store. Three brass bells above the door ring as we enter. The first thing I notice is that it has this smell; you know, the leather smell; only it is so rich and intense; I've loved this scent since I was a small child - it just awakens pheromones within me that overflow. I inhale deeply, as we stand in the tiny shop. A small woman about 60 comes from across the room where she had been sitting at a small desk. I notice all types of leather samples and scraps on a wall, along with a color ring and several sketches. I also notice that this boutique also carries other leather items; including riding crops, whips, floggers, straps, etc. I quickly look away, not wanting you to notice that I had seen them. Of course, you don't care what I saw or not.

"I called last week," you say to the woman. "I ordered some boots for my lady." Your voice is low, smooth, not wavering; and your hand remains firmly on my arm. You hand her your card, and she smiles.

"Yes, I remember, Mr. ... how do you pronounce your name?"

"Just call me, Albert."

"I will need to take some measurements. You said you wished for some hip boots, correct?" You nod, and I look at you in my usual quizzical way. Hip Boots! With my knocked knees? But, predictably, you don't look or request my input; this is your gift to me, and you've taught me never to question a gift.

The shop owner pulls out a tape measure, and immediately gets busy, measuring first, my right foot from my toes, up my instep to my ankle; around my ankle; from the heel up my calf to the back of the thigh; around the calf, around my knee and up the front of my thigh. When she gets there, she pauses, a little longer than necessary, holding my large thigh in her hands firmly. "Don't move," she tells me and she slowly wraps the tape measure around my thigh in two places. She then repeats the process with my right leg. I don't know why I'm feeling so awkward, and my mouth is feeling so suddenly dry. I look at you anxiously, and shift my weight a bit. Suddenly the bitch slaps the top of my thigh through my leggings so hard it stings. I am shocked, and I look at you in disbelief, but you say nothing; just hold my arm even tighter. "I told you not to move!" she murmurs under her breath.

She stands back up and looks in my eyes quite intently, then turns to you. "I have a dummy pair made up out of vinyl; she must try them on, and then that will be my master pattern; I'll cut them from that." You silently nod, and finally release my arm. She looks back at me, brushing the hair off of her face and pushing her glasses up off of her nose, "Take those pants off, and quickly. I've got other customers coming in." I look to you again, hoping you'll have some say-so, or something. I never had custom made boots before, and don't know what to expect. But this time, you just look away, leaving this horrid woman in charge of everything.

Looking around the tiny shop, I see no doors or anything that would indicate a dressing room, and I shrug, looking back at her and again at you. "Where should I change?" I ask, feeling rather feeble.

"Right there, and I said to hurry!" Shocked, I search your face for an answer. Surely you don't expect me to ...

"Hurry it up!" you snap, "She said she's busy!" Shocked and dismayed by your cool response, I don't hesitate, recognizing the tone in your voice. I remove my pumps, and slowly push my skin-tight leggings down to my ankles, holding onto your arm for support as I kick my way out of them. I feel so self conscious in this brightly lit store visible to anyone passing by. Not to mention who may come in at any time.

She then hands me the vinyl pair of faux boots and instructs me to put them on. These were made based on the measurements you had given her over the phone. They fit me like a glove and I cant stop staring at myself in the mirror. "You like them?" she asks.

"Yes, yes ... I love ..."

"I wasn't talking to you!" she snaps. What the fuck? Who does she think she's talking to, and why are you letting her address me like this? But, the grin and knowing look on your face tells me, you're liking this scene, and it is clear that I am the game piece the two of you are playing with.

"Yes, I like them quite well. You do good work. I think she will look delicious in these no matter how I have her." You're talking to her directly, and I'm feeling invisible, void as the two of you discuss me as if I were a new sofa.

"Did you decide on the leather, Albert?"

"Yes, red kid, white calves leather, and pearl snake skin. Three pairs." I don't like red kid, but it's not my decision, obviously. The two of you stand there staring at me as I shift from one foot to the other, half naked in a leather store in the middle of Vegas. My pink lace boy cut panties feel as if they've abandoned me too, and I've never felt more self conscious. "Do you have the other item I requested in the email?" you ask her.

"Oh, yes, Albert. Yes, I have it right here." She turns and goes back over to her little desk; behind it there is a hidden panel I had not noticed before that opens up a small storage compartment from which she produces a long, thin riding crop. My heart leaps.

Gulping back my breath in fear and anticipation, I begin to shiver as I stand there in the store with you, who clearly has gone mad, and this woman who gives me chills just looking at her. She walks back over to us, and gives me a strange grin, and hands you the crop. It's long and thin, with a fine looped end. "Here," she says, "try it out." I gasp in protest, and start to move away from the center of the room, but you grab my arm quickly and yank me back,holding me steady.

"No, I'd rather you show me how it's done, since you made the implement."

No, no, no ... I implore you with my eyes; please don't let her use that thing on me; not her; not here!

"I'll hold her steady, and you can give me a tutorial." Both of you laugh like idiots, and I am sufficiently mortified by the nasty predicament you've created. Heartbroken, you take both of my hands in yours and force me to bend over there right in the center of the store.

"Very well," she laughs, "It will be my pleasure." And before I can say anything, quick as a flash, she sends the crop sailing in a circle above her head, landing on the back of my thighs like a lightning bolt. I am shocked; not expecting to feel the first blow on my sweet spot, and grit my teeth, refusing to give her my pain.

"I seemed to miss that technique, will you give her another, please?"


Swish! Crack! Ohhh, it landed right on the same spot again, as did the next and the next - five of them, and I groan, slightly swaying before you.

"Give her 20, please. I want to see if the product can stand up to her stubborn ass."

"Please, please, Albert, don't let her ..." I speak out loud, imploring you, and you raise my hands to your lips kissing my fingers lightly.

"Hush, sweet pea. Don't you want me to buy this for you too?"

"No, no, I don't ... Owwww!" Without ceremony, the old cow begins going to town, sending four more blows to my upturned bottom; two on each cheek. She stops just long enough to raise my panties up through he crack of my ass so my naked behind is fully exposed. No, no, please, no ...

Just then, the moment is interrupted by the jingling of the brass bells above the front door. Hell! A customer has come in. "I'll be right with you," she tells them. I just need to finish this fitting."

Fitting, my ass - no pun intended! I can't see the new guests, but I can tell it's a man and woman because I can hear them murmuring together. I am so embarrassed and humiliated. But, I hold my position, only now, the woman spreads my legs wide apart, and changes her mind about the panties, jerking them down to my ankles, forcing me to step out of them.

Again, without ceremony, she begins assaulting my tender backside with such a fury I shriek in agony. She has no pattern or rhythm; just out and out whipping, over and over, I cry out as the crop tears into my burning behind again and again like the a spark that travels to the end of a fuse, igniting, burning and exploding. My tears are futile, and I press my head against your chest, as she continues to crop my swollen backside. With every blow, I can feel my globes jiggle helplessly. At 20 she does not stop, and I beg you to make her end it, feeling my knees go weak, and you release my hands, cradling my head against your chest, nodding to her to continue.

She sends 10 more to my hips and thighs, finally ending on the sweet spot again. My sobs are pitiful, soaking your shirt, as I moan in agony. By now, I cannot tell if my tears are that of humiliation, pain or both. When she stops, she places the crop on the glass counter, ignoring my crying, she begins to write up a receipt.

"The three pairs of boots will be ready on Friday; the crop goes with you tonight. You may write a check for $4750.00; pay me cash or use a credit card."

Immediately, she turns to the other customers, standing politely off to the side, "May I help you?"

"Yes, we spoke on the phone," the gentleman says. "I inquired about some custom boots - thigh high boots, for my wife."

Through my tears, as you begin to tenderly redress me, I eye the couple, and envy the beautiful petite woman with the downcast eyes.

"Ah, yes, I remember you," she tells the man. "You were here last year too, weren't you?"

Friday, September 4, 2009

The Story of J, Part II

My time spent with J was both sweet and explosive. He had a beautiful apartment in an old historical building in downtown Indianapolis, with huge windows that looked out over downtown, as well as his neighbor's bedroom. It was furnished simply, but so elegantly with finds he collected from his travels all over the world, including an antique iron bed from Bordeaux almost 400 years old, huge throne-like chairs from an abandoned cathedral, and a chandelier with ruby crystal votives that floated over his rustic dining room table like magic fireflies in the night.

Whenever I went to visit him, we would sit quietly in his tiny living room, gazing at the fire and sipping port, while listening to opera. He had his chair, and I had mine. J was easy to please, and we loved each other's company. His only requirement was that I either wore one of the many enormous, heavily embroidered vintage Japanese kimonos he kept in a large old trunk, over black lace panties and bra - or nothing at all.

But the magic came with his strength; the way he held me, arranged me, took me. He had a powerful body for a man his age, and with him I felt totally secure, protected, beloved and possessed by him. His energy never drained as he wielded his large leather belt across my throbbing behind for 20, 30, 40 minute sessions, only stopping long enough for me to catch my breath. Bent over that iron bed, standing on my toes, exposed and vulnerable, my agony took me to places I never knew, and if J felt I had stayed there too long, he would soothingly bring me back, rocking me into the night.

J was never arrogant, rude or aloof; he was perfectly wonderfully suited to me, and I was soon in love. He felt love for me as well, but our relationship was fragile. Some nights I would wake to find those steely blue eyes staring off into the distance, his long, elegant index finger resting on his top lip, deep in thought. When I inquired what was wrong, he would just pull me close and kiss me gently. His great fear in life was of being/living alone at his age. He had been ill over the years, and his health was actually quite fragile, and his children led lives of their own that did not include him unless they wanted something. His other fear was being a burden, particularly to me, who was 54 at the time; 18 years his junior. I didn't see it that way at all, but he worried about it a lot. I told him it was silly; I could find a 30 year old man tomorrow, and he could have a debilitating accident, and I would have to care for him for the rest of his or my life. But, J was determined not to have me hurt that way, and soon severed our ties.

Tearfully, I have attempted more than once to call him, write him, or just show up at his door, knowing he'd never turn me away. But, one thing my relationship with him taught me was respect. And, those were my J's wishes. Yes, I loved him.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

The Story of J

Last year I met a gentleman online that I will call "J." He was much older than myself, but in our few emails, we learned we had much in common. It was refreshing and also exciting to step into new territory after so many years, having had relationships with men younger than myself for the most part.

The site we met on was a popular, but vanilla dating site. At some point in our correspondence, I confided to J that I was a sub; or, at least had strong submissive tendencies. Within minutes, J was on the phone, and in his deeply seductive voice, tells me that he is a dom, and insisted that we meet that very night. Without giving it a second thought, I agreed, and within the hour, I was on the interstate on my way to meet him at a Broad Ripple pub. J was tall, still exceedingly handsome, with intensely steel blue eyes that settled on one part of my body at a time, visually slurping my essence inch by inch.

We sat at the bar and talked quietly, and every now and then, I noticed he had pulled his stool closer to me, and soon, I was locked in between his long legs unable to escape. J impressed me very much, and I was so surprised at my instant attraction to him. At 72, he was strong, sensual, and in excellent shape. He told me he worked out regularly and took very good care of himself. His long, sensuous fingers stroked my arm as I nervously reached for my vodka and tonic, sending chills throughout my body once I was able to sip the cool, bitter-sweet elixir. And he inched closer and closer, even pulling my bar stool into him, so that when he spoke to me it was in a hoarse whisper, his hot breath stinging my ear and causing the hairs to stand up on the back of my neck. I was trapped, shackled and locked into this new, wonderfully sexy man like a gigantic magnet.

J held my left wrist in his hand firmly against his chest as he told me of the things he planned to do to me. People were looking, as this pale, ancient gladiator seductively snared his prey. I was spellbound as he went on to tell me how he would have me crawl naked across his cold floor in search of my prize while he flogs me mercilessly; the way he would display me in his window, for all of his neighbors across the courtyard to witness as I present my bare backside to him for punishment; and still, how he would take me violently, at will, only after, and only maybe, I beg him for it, telling him in graphic detail what I wished him to do to me.

Over a shared plate of chicken quesadillas, I did beg him, whispering back into his ear, as he pressed me into the bar; I begged him to please take me home with him that night, and I begged him to let me realize this dream. Momentarily he breaks; but just for a second, taken aback that I actually requested he invite me to his lair. Perhaps he was bluffing? No, not a bluff, at all, but a pleasant surprise – for us both.

Seconds later, in the warm September moonlight, he walks me to my car, holding my elbow gently, carefully guiding me in his gentleman way. My car is parked on a residential street behind the pub, and we stand in the darkness, on the curb. A mere 10 feet away, a family sits quietly on their stoop watching guardedly, as the aged European and the dark, sultry woman stand talking intently, their words inaudible to them. J’s hands reach up in an instant, and slide stealth-like under my bra, shoving it up quickly in the dark, grabbing my nipples roughly in his slender fingers, pinching them so hard I think I will scream. Those steel blue eyes lock onto my amber ones, his mouth barely parted, he squeezes even tighter. I am in agony and rapture simultaneously as he twists and pulls my rock hard nipples and I sway against him, taking in the cool scent of citrus through his Irish wool sweater. He does not let go, but pulls me against him even closer, tugging gently, firmly until I feel the warmth seep moistly through my warm lips, snug between my fleshy thighs. With my head thrown back, a moan gurgles through my throat as his teeth fastens against my left nipple, gnawing, chewing, pulling, sucking me so hard, so quickly, I unexpectedly cum in one terrific shift of the earth – I cum – standing there on the sidewalk – my thighs twitching convulsively as his strong arms hold me steady against him.

J rocks me gently, soothingly, kissing the side of my face tenderly as we cling together on the quiet street. In the darkness, through the slits of my eyes, I see the glowing embers of three cigarettes on the stoop so close to us. Its occupants quietly watching the scene in silence. Without a word, J turns on his heel and heads up the block and around the corner to his own car, leaving me standing there to straighten my clothing, and recompose myself. Finally, sitting in my car with the interior light blasting my embarrassed identity to the world, I look down at my shaking fingers as I slowly turn the key in the ignition. Moments later, headlights pass me swiftly, and I realize it is J, and I pull out of the space swift as a meteor, and follow him to his apartment downtown.

The night was made for a newbie Sub and her primordial Dom.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

I’m sexually submissive, but NOT passive. My sexuality is complex. I can't explain it, and it's not something I have indulged in with many people, including, my ex.

It is something I've always felt, and I had been in touch with myself this way. It's very, very personal, and the person I am going to be with has to want it even more than I do. Otherwise, I cannot submit, surrender, humble myself and feel totally conquered. This, for me, is highly erotic. Few relationships go to that level because you both have to be on the same page; some aren't even in the same book. It’s an understanding. It's foreplay in a sense – sometimes - sometimes more.

I love the anticipation; the apprehension; not knowing …

So, I've met this young man, and I have told him of my delicacy (I don't really like the word 'fetish,') and now he knows. He believes he can fill the bill. Suppose we'll just have to see.